The African Equation by Yasmina Khadra Page A

armed adolescent stood guard. He was a short boy with stunted legs, his forehead riddled with pustules. He was wearing a dirty pair of trousers and a torn vest. The giant spoke to him in a local language, pointed to a hill and dismissed him. We retraced our steps over several kilometres. From time to time, we glimpsed the sea. I tried hard to memorise the places we were going through because I had only one idea in my head: to seize the first opportunity that presented itself to Hans and me to escape … Poor Hans! He limped in front, his shoulders sagging, his face distorted by his swollen eye. A trail of blood stuck his shirt to his back. He kept moving forward like a sleepwalker, his chin on his chest.
    We reached a cave oozing with damp and filthy with excrement and the traces of meals. It was a dark, fetid hole, its uneven roof covered with bats’ nests, its bumpy floor strewn with trails of wax as if thousands of candles had melted on it. There were rusty iron rings on the walls, some still with age-old chains through them, their joints eaten away by time and sea salt. Here and there, leftover food had blackened in the midst of crushed cans, tattered cloths and assorted rubbish. A sickly-sweet odour emanated from the corners of the cave, depleting the air. Disturbed by our arrival, flies rose in a buzzing fury and began attacking us in close-packed contingents.
    The giant ordered his men to chain us. Too exhausted to do anything, Hans let them. He could barely stand. I tried to resist the arms crushing me; some kind of handcuff rapidly closed over my wrists and I was thrown to the ground.
    ‘This is your hotel now,’ the giant announced.
    ‘You can’t leave us here,’ I protested.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘My friend is hurt. This place is unhealthy and may make him worse. Can’t you put us somewhere else?’
    ‘Yes. I can tie you to a tree, or plant you in the sand, but you won’t find a better place to see Africa from up close. That’s what brings you here, isn’t it? Exoticism, wild spaces, nostalgia for lost empires …’
    ‘We aren’t tourists.’
    ‘Of course not. In Africa, there are no tourists, only voyeurs.’
    He ordered his men to follow him outside. Immediately, the flies took possession of the place again; their buzzing made the stench of the cave even more oppressive. I was nauseous, but there was nothing left in my empty belly to spew up. Hans lay down on the shit-stained ground and tried to sleep. His giving up worried me as much as his eye.
    ‘You have blood on your back,’ I said.
    ‘I was cut with a sabre as I tried to go up on deck. I wanted to throw a lifebelt to Tao.’ His face creased at the memory of the scene on the yacht. ‘When I think of Tao,’ he said, ‘you don’t know how angry I am with myself.’
    ‘There’s no point feeling guilty. We have to keep our spirits up. The sea isn’t far. We need to know where we are. I have no intention of rotting here.’
    ‘Shhh!’ said the boy with the lensless glasses, still standing guard over the entrance to the cave.
     
    Night fell like the blade of a guillotine. I had drifted off to sleep. Outside, there wasn’t a sound; the boy who had been mounting guard had disappeared. I listened out: apart from the noise of the sea, nothing. At that precise moment, while a cold sweat froze my back, I became fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
    ‘Have they left?’ I asked Hans.
    Hans didn’t reply. I nudged him with my knee; he didn’t react. For a second or two, I thought he was dead. I bent over him, pinned my ear to his side; he moaned and rolled over.
     
    I was racked with hunger and thirst, but I didn’t care. A tension I had never known was choking me. There was nothing inside me but dark thoughts and dread. I sensed that I was in danger. I didn’t want to go back to sleep: I wanted to look into the darkness and assume it was night, a moonless, starless night like those I had known in Frankfurt in winter; I wanted to