What the day owes the nigth by Yasmina Khadra

Author:Yasmina Khadra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: William Heinemann
Published: 2010-05-26T16:00:00+00:00

13

SPRING WAS gaining ground. The dew on the hills shimmered in the dawn light like a sea so inviting you wanted to strip off, dive in and swim until, exhausted, you found a shady tree where you could lie and dream, one by one, of the things the good Lord had made. Every intoxicating morning was a miracle, every stolen moment a fragment of eternity. In the sunshine, Río Salado was a marvel. Everything the sunlight touched turned to dream; nowhere in the world had my soul ever found such peace. News of the outside world filtered through as garbled rumours that did nothing to disturb the pleasant rustle of the vines. We knew Algeria was at war, that a seething anger festered among the people, but the villagers in Río Salado seemed to care little about this. They built high walls around their happiness; walls with no windows on the outside world. They were content to gaze at their handsome reflections in the mirror, then head off into the vineyards to harvest the sunshine.

Río Salado was unperturbed. The burgeoning harvest promised good wines, a dazzling whirl of dances and fruitful marriages; the ominous thunderclouds gathering elsewhere could not be allowed to darken a sky of such pure, perfect blue.

Often, after lunch, I would sit in the rocking chair on the veranda for half an hour so I could gaze out over the dappled greens of the plains, the ravines of ochre clay and the many-coloured mirages rising in the distance. The view was almost otherworldly in its serenity. I would gaze out across the fields and doze. Sometimes Germaine would find me, head thrown back, mouth open, and would tiptoe away so as not to wake me.

Río Salado was waiting expectantly for summer. We knew time was on our side, that soon the beaches and the grape harvest would breathe new life into us the better to enjoy the feasting and the riotous bacchanalia. Already summer loves blossomed in the idle hours like flowers in the sunlight. Girls strolled down the main street, dazzling in their summer dresses, flaunting bare arms or a flash of tanned shoulder. The boys on the café terraces were wont to fly into a rage if someone began delving into their secret sighs and fantasies.

But the very things that made some hearts beat faster becalmed others. Jean-Christophe and Isabelle broke up. The whole village gossiped about their turbulent relationship. I watched as my friend shrivelled. Usually Jean-Christophe was always quick to call attention to himself; he loved to shout to people across the street, to stop traffic, to yell to a barman for a beer. He had always been self-centred and self-seeking, proud to be the centre of his own universe. Now he could not bring himself to look people in the eye, pretended not to hear when some called to him from across the road. He could be tortured by an innocent smile and would analyse the least comment for some malicious implication. He became quick-tempered, distant, and half mad with heartache.

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