Tuareg Read online

  The following night, half walking and half crawling, he managed to get to the nearest fountain, where he washed with some difficulty but succeeded in removing the bandages that had almost become part of his skin.

  Four days later, anyone who had dared go into the burnt-out old church would have been horrified by the sight of a ghostly, unsteady, skeleton of a man, dragging himself up and down the nave. Gazel Sayah was making an almost superhuman effort to overcome his tiredness and nausea, to regain his balance and return to the land of the living. He knew that each step took him further away from death and a little closer to the desert that he loved so much.

  He gave himself another week to fully recover his strength, until he had nothing left to eat and he knew that the time had come for him to abandon his refuge forever.

  He washed his clothes and himself in the fountain, in the darkness and solitude of his quarter. Then, the following morning, when the sun was already high in the sky, he set off, with only his heavy revolver, the one that had belonged to Captain Kaleb-el-Fasi, in his leather pouch, leaving his sword and his gandurahs, that were now in rags, reluctantly behind him.

  He stopped in the kasbah, where he ate until he was about to burst and drank some strong, sweet, hot, tea. He felt the strength slowly start to return to his body and he bought himself a new shirt in electric blue, which made him feel momentarily happy.

  Feeling much better he set off once again, stopping only briefly to look at the steps, where he had been shot and at the marks that the bullets had made in the wall.

  He came out on to the wide avenue once again and was surprised by the amount of people gathered there on the pavements and when he tried to cross over the road towards the station, a policeman in uniform stopped him:

  ‘You can’t cross,’ he said. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the President is about to pass by.’

  He did not need to see it because he could already feel its presence. The gri-gri of death was back. Where it had come from, or where it had been hiding all that time, he had no idea, but there it was, clinging to his shirt once again and laughing at him for thinking that, even for one minute, he might have been free of it.

  He had forgotten about the President. He had forgotten that he had sworn to kill him if he did not return his family to him. But now, as the station appeared before him and just one hundred meters stood before him and his return to the desert, it was as if fate had come to play one last mocking hand and make fun of his good intentions. The gri-gri of death was back to play one last tragic trick on him, as it dawned in him that the man who was responsible for all of his problems, for all of his wrongdoings, from beginning to end, was about to pass by in front of him.

  ‘Insh.Allah!’

  If that was His will, then he had to fulfil his oath to kill him. He would kill him because he, Gazel Sayah, despite being a noble Imohag from the blessed Kel-Talgimus people, could not stand in the way of the will of the heavens.

  ‘Insh.Allah!’

  If He had decided that on this day and time, his enemy would come between him and the life he had chosen to return to once again, then it could only be because the powers from on high would have this enemy destroyed and that Gazel Sayah was the man, the chosen instrument, to make this happen.

  ‘Insh.Allah!’

  Two motorbikes went by with their sirens on and almost simultaneously the crowds at the top of the avenue started to clap and cheer.

  Oblivious to anything but his mission, the Targui put his hand into his leather pouch and felt for the handle of his weapon.

  More motorcyclists, this time in formation, appeared from around the corner and then another ten meters behind them, a huge, slow, black saloon car appeared, which almost hid another open-top car behind it. In the back of that car, sat a man waving at the crowds.

  The policemen struggled to hold back the cheering and clapping crowds and the women and children threw flowers and coloured paper out of the windows.

  He gripped his gun tightly.

  The station clock chimed twice, as if inviting him one last time to forget everything and go, but its echo was lost in the midst of the sirens, the cheers and the applause.

  The Targui felt like crying, his eyes misted over and he swore out loud at the gri-gri of death. The policeman, who had his arms outstretched in front of him, turned to look at him, surprised by his words that he had not understood.

  The squad of motorcycles passed by in front of them, the noise of their engines blocking out all the other noises, then the big black car and then at that moment, Gazel dropped the large leather bag, pushed the policeman sharply aside and leapt forward. In just two strides he was only three meters away from the open-top car, his revolver pointing towards it, ready to fire.

  The man who had been waving to the cheering crowds saw him immediately and a look of terror crossed his face. He held up his hands to protect himself and cried out in horror.

  Gazel fired three shots and was confident that the second one had gone through his heart, but looked him in the face still, just to make sure from his expression that he had died. Then he stopped, as if he had been struck by a divine ray of lightening.

  A machine gun went off and Gazel Sayah, inmouchar, also known by his own people as ‘the Hunter’ fell onto his back, dead, his body destroyed and an expression of chaos on his face.

  The open top car speeded up sharply, its sirens wailing in an attempt to clear the way as it sped off to hospital, in a vain attempt to save the life of President Abdul-el-Kebir, on that glorious day of his triumphant return to power.

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