J'avais dit oui, sans y penser. Peut-être comme un jeu. Pour me venger de la vieille Mme Barine ? De l'indifférence de Paul ? De mes études fichues ? Par compassion pour Lakdar ?

J'avais dit oui, c'est tout.

Rien ne changeait pour autant. Lakdar se réinstalla dans son rôle de grand seigneur. Soumis à dur régime, le matériel se détériorait mais notre mécano venait parfois à bout de quelques réparations. Il passait le plus clair de son temps dans le hangar, n'en sortait, enduit de cambouis, que pour nous toiser de son importance.

Paul se montrait distant. Il semblait me tenir rigueur de l'épisode qui m'avait opposé à sa grand­mère, et souvent son regard me fouillait. Il songeait surtout à son départ en vacances, assurait qu'il préparait ses bagages, ce qui l'autorisait à s'enfermer dans la Maison Rose sans me donner d'explications. A Tichy, il avait fait la connaissance d'une fille. Ils se verraient durant le mois d'août et le rêve meublait ses journées. Paul était amoureux. Il écrivait des lettres qu'il n'expédiait pas, faute d'adresse, bâtissait des projets idiots, inventait des poèmes insensés, composés de vers puisés au hasard des livres.

-Maria... elle s'appelle Maria Beauchemin, me dit‑il en me tendant une photo. Ici, elle est à Biskra, avec sa grand-mère. Elle est si belle… hein, qu'en penses-tu ?

Je distinguais, de part et d'autre d'un dromadaire couché, les formes floues de deux femmes agrippant la bosse de l'animal. Les visages surexposés étaient des taches blanches.

-C'est laquelle ? fis-je, incapable de dissimuler mon dépit.

-Pauvre pomme ! jeta Paul en me reprenant la photo. Mon p'tit père, ta fichue jalousie te perdra.

Il s'intéressait moins au ménage de Zohra et, par contrecoup, s'intéressa moins à moi. Nos routes divergeaient. La sienne menait au lycée Albertini, la mienne bifurquait et rejoignait le groupe des ouvriers musulmans. Ainsi, désœuvré et solitaire, je pris plusieurs fois le train en marche jusqu'à Sétif, où je m'ennuyais tout autant. Je descendais et remontais deux ou trois fois l'artère principale et aboutissais immanquablement place Joffre, au pied de la fontaine. Là, je passais le temps à écouter les sempiternels récits des inactifs. Ils étaient jeunes, misérables, parlaient des filles du bordel et surtout des fortunes qu'ils amasseraient un jour, en France. Paul surprit mes escapades dangereuses mais n'avertit pas son père.

Jean Paul Nozière, Un été algérien, 1990.

I had said yes, without thinking. Perhaps as a joke. Or in order to get my own back on old Mme Barine? Or to take revenge on Paul for his indifferenece? Or to make up for my failure at school? Or out of pity for Lakdar?

I had said yes, anyway.

But it didn't make any difference at all. Lakdar started lording it over us again. The equipment was under pressure and it was becoming more and more unreliable but our mechanic sometimes managaed to carry out a few repairs. He spent most of his time in the shed, and when he did come out, covered in oil, it was only to look down on us and show us how important he was.

Paul kept his distance. He seemed to bear me a grudge over the argument I had had with his grandmother, and I often caught him staring at me intently. He could think of nothing but his forthcoming holidays and he maintained that he was getting his things ready, which meant he could shut himself away in the Maison Rose without giving me any explanation. While he was in Tichy he had met a girl. They were to see each other in August and he spent all day long dreaming about that. Paul was in love. He wrote letters but did not send them - for he had no address for her - concocted ridiculous plans for the future and made up crazy poems composed of odd lines he had gleaned from various books.

"Maria...her name's Maria Beauchemin," he said, handling me a photo. "Here you can see her with her grandmother at Biskra. She's so beautiful...isn't she? Don't you think so?"

I could see a sitting dromedary with the blurred outlines of two women standing on either side of it and holding on to its hump. Their faces were overexposed and appeared as two white blotches.

"Which one is her?" I asked, unable to hide my annoyance.

"You poor fool!" snapped Paul as he took the photo away from me again. "You know, mate, your damned jealousy will be your downfall."

He was less interested in Zohra and her family now, and consequently he showed less interest in me. We were going our separate ways. His path led him to the Lycée Albertini, mine branched off and led me to the group of Moslem labourers. And so, on several occasions, when I felt lonely and at a loss what to do, I jumped onto the train and went to Sétif, where I was just as bored. I would walk up and down the main street two or three times and inevitably find myself at the Place Joffre, by the fountain. There I would spend my time listening to the endless tales told by the idle. They were young and penniless, and they talked about the girls from the brothel and especially about the fortunes they would make one day when they got to France. Paul found out about my dangerous escapades but did not tell his father about them.

Jean Paul Nozière, Un été algérien, 1990.