Free The African Equation by Yasmina Khadra Page B

angrier I got. Everything about them disgusted me – their filthy language, their single-mindedness, their absence of humanity – while here I was, reduced to a mere piece of merchandise with an uncertain fate, chained up, depersonalised and forced to lick my cold soup out of a disgusting can. The whole universe appeared to me devoid of logic, lacking in purpose, vile and absurd, something almost to be renounced. Frankfurt seemed light years away, belonging to a period suspended between mirage and sunstroke. Had I really been a doctor? If I had, was it yesterday or in a previous life? … I had become nothing overnight – worse, a piece of junk, a contraband product to be traded on the black market, a hostage playing Russian roulette with his own future … It was appalling! I was ashamed of my complaints, my indecision, my hollow fury that had nothing to hold on to, no resonance, that turned round and round in a void like a simulated belch, too improbable to come out into the open air … And I was angry with myself … I was angry with myself for every pain that afflicted me, every question that tormented me, every answer that refused to come … I was angry with myself for suffering the blows of fate without being able to react, as resigned and wretched as a sacrificial lamb …
    Four days and four nights! … How did I manage to hold out?
     
    Headlights lit up the cave. I twisted my neck to see what was happening. Two pick-up trucks and a spluttering jeep had just come to a halt in the yard. Armed men jumped to the ground, yelling in loud voices. Orders were given.Our guards came running. The campfire projected their turbulent shadows on the sand. Doors slammed, then the lights and engines went off. I made out the chief from his silhouette. He was carrying an automatic rifle across his shoulder. Joma approached him and asked him if everything was all right. The chief pointed to a form lying on a stretcher and joined the rest of his men, who had disappeared inside a tent.
    A few minutes later, they came to get me. I found it hard to stand up. My bones felt weak, and my knees stiff. I was frogmarched to see a sick man laid low with fever. He was very thin, with a muddy complexion. Lying in a fetal position on the stretcher, his neck straining back and his hands stuck between his thighs, he was moaning and shivering, insensitive to the water-soaked cloth that a boy was pressing to his forehead. From the smell he gave off, I realised he had urinated on himself.
    The chief was walking up and down inside the tent, his hands on his hips. He appeared very bored. Standing at a slight remove, Joma was holding a storm lantern at arm’s length. He paid no attention to me. The chief at last consented to notice that I was there. He clapped his hands in embarrassment, approached me, and was surprised to see me in such a bad state. He looked to Joma for an explanation. Joma didn’t react.
    ‘Are you in pain, doctor?’
    I found his question absurd, almost cynical. If I’d had any strength left, I would have thrown myself at him. He pointed to the patient.
    ‘He has malaria. Try to do something for him. He’s a great guy.’
    In my mind, I refused to approach the patient, feltreluctant even to touch him. My aversion squirmed inside me like a reptile, sharpening my senses and what remained of my fighting instinct. I was shocked, outraged even, that they should call on my services after what Hans and I had been put through. I looked at the chief and found him as pitiful as his patient. I wasn’t afraid of him, felt only disdain for his authority, disgust for the paranoid monster hiding behind his lantern, and cold hatred for this whole gang of degenerates who had been released into the wild like virulent germs in a pandemic …
    Curiously, by some kind of professional reflex, I crouched, took the patient’s hand, felt his pulse, examined him: he was in a bad way.
    ‘Do you have any quinine?’ I asked.
    ‘Not even so much as an