Horses of God Read Online Free

deliberate fire I was lucky enough to witness from beginning to end was the police-station fire. After the police had left a young dealer for dead, the decision was unanimous. Boys brought gas cans and set fire to the building. They were raging against “the Doberman,” a corrupt detective, a brute, a piece of filth washed up among us, who bullied people and sucked their blood. That scumbag lorded it over the anthill of small-time dealers and other thieves who made their living in Sidi Moumen. No van filled with hashish or smuggled goods could get inside the wall without his taking a cut. He also had an efficient network of informers, so nothing escaped him. He knew the innards of all the shacks and had detailed files on all of us. If some poor wretch attempted to complain, he’d confront him with the crimes of his closest friends or family, because most of Sidi Moumen’s inhabitants have skeletons in their cupboards. As the years went by, people’s resentment grew fiercer, swelling like the waters of a stream about to burst its banks. So, that night, in a surge of anger, the street caught fire like a powder keg. Omar the coalman’s son had got hold of the gas and the mob made its way to the police station, with Hamid my brother at its head: a procession of flaming torches snaked from the dump, chanting murderous threats, fulminating against “the Doberman.” Luckily for him, the creep was somewhere else and escaped theconflagration, which we danced round like demons in a trance. Some boys threw stones or spat blasphemies into the air, while others pulled out their dicks and pissed at the flames; the spectacle was never to be forgotten. The caretaker was spared, because he was a local kid. All the same, he was stripped naked and his uniform suspended from a stick, which we hoisted like a macabre flag, uttering cries of victory before flinging it on the fire. If he’d been there, “the Doberman” would have been lynched. We’d have ripped his stinking fat belly to shreds. We’d have smashed the jaw that spewed such bullshit, releasing the aggression built up over a decade. Still, the outcome was decisive, since we never saw that bastard’s sinister face again. Or, in fact, any uniforms at all. The police station never got rebuilt and no one was too bothered. From then on, differences between people were resolved either through the elders’ mediation or by a fistfight at the dump. And by and large, life in Sidi Moumen picked up and carried on its own sweet way.

5
    CONTRARY TO APPEARANCES , Ali was white. Like his coalman father, he couldn’t get rid of the dark complexion that went with the job. He’d grown used to it, and to the nickname “Blackie” he’d been saddled with from a young age—unjustly, given that he was only intermittently black. On Fridays, when he left the hammam, he’d cover up his temporary natural color, which he found almost shameful, since many people didn’t recognize him. Of all my friends, Ali was Yemma’s favorite—and for good reason. He’d hardly ever come round empty-handed: he always had a small bag of coal he’d swipe from the shop, claiming it was a present from his father. Which was a lie as fat as a watermelon. Knowing Omar the coalman, it was unlikely that that skinflint would do anyone a favor. He spent his life cloistered in his little booth, his shoulder bag tucked under an unflinching arm, guarding hisstash in the hollow of a damp, hot armpit. You scarcely knew he was there, so completely had he merged with the mountain of coal over which he reigned, a true king of the fire, as he was called. And don’t imagine for a moment he’d add a little extra when it came to the weighing, as shopkeepers normally do. Omar monitored the balance of the scales as if he were selling gold nuggets. But people didn’t hold it against him, and many found it funny. In any case, they