The Dictator's Last Night. Yasmina Khadra

      ‘Bring it to me here.’

      ‘It would be better to have it in the room next door. We have blacked out the windows and lit candles there. In here any glimmer of light would betray your presence. There may be snipers in the buildings opposite.’

       1

      The orderly walks ahead of me into the next room. In the candles’ unsteady light, magnified by the tarpaulins that have been put up to black out the windows, the place is even more depressing. A cabinet lies on its side, its mirror splintered; a slashed banquette has the stuffing coming out of it; drawers lie broken on the floor; on the wall there is a portrait of the head of the family in a sorry state, riddled with bullets.

      It was my son Mutassim, responsible for the defence of Sirte, who chose a disused school in the middle of District Two as my troops’ headquarters. The enemy imagine me holed up in a fortified palace somewhere, unable to adapt to spartan conditions. It will never cross their minds to suspect I might be in an awful place like this instead. When did they forget that I am a Bedouin, lord of the meek and meekest of lords, who knows how to be at ease with the most frugal resources, comfortable on a bare dune of sand? As a child I knew what hunger was, what it meant to wear patched trousers and old shoes with holes in them. For years I walked barefoot over burning stones. Misery was my element. I skipped every other meal and always ate the same food, tubers when rice happened to be in short supply. At night, with my knees pressed into my stomach, I would sometimes dream of a chicken leg so intensely that my mouth could not stop watering and I would nearly drown in my saliva. Since then, if I have lived in splendour it has been only in order to disdain it, and to prove by doing so that nothing that has a price is worthy to be called sacred, that no grail can elevate a mouthful of wine to the status of a magic potion, that whether a man is dressed in silks or rags he is only ever himself … and I am Gaddafi, sovereign, as happy sitting on a milestone as a throne.

      I do not know whose house this was, next to the school, where I have been living for several days – probably a loyal compatriot, otherwise how can one explain the ruined state into which it has fallen? The signs of violence are recent, but the building already looks like a ruin. Vandals have ransacked it, looting anything of value, smashing what they could not take with them.

      The orderly has gone to extraordinary trouble to brush an armchair clean and lay a table worthy to receive me. He has draped sheets over both to camouflage their scars. On a tray salvaged from who knows where a china plate offers a semblance of a meal: bully beef in jelly, sliced with care, a square of processed cheese, hard biscuits, some slices of tomato and a peeled and chopped orange in its juice at the bottom of a bowl. Our supply lines have been cut, and the standard rations are scarcely enough to feed my praetorian guard.

      The orderly invites me to be seated and stands to attention, facing me. His solemnity would be absurd among all this mess if his weather-beaten features did not speak of his sacrosanct loyalty to me. This man loves me more than anything in the world. He would give his life for me.

      ‘What is your name?’

      He is surprised by my question. His Adam’s apple twitches in his craggy throat.

      ‘Mustafa, Brotherly Guide.’

      ‘How old are you?’

      ‘Thirty-three, Brotherly Guide.’

      ‘Thirty-three,’ I repeat, moved by his youth. ‘I was your age an eternity ago. It is so far away now, I can hardly remember those days.’

      Not knowing whether he should reply or not, the orderly starts wiping the table around the tray.

      ‘How long have you been in my service, Mustafa?’

      ‘Thirteen years, sir.’

      ‘I do not believe I have seen you before.’

      ‘I’m filling in for the others … I used to look after the car park.’

      ‘Where has the other one gone, the redhead? What was his name?’

      ‘Maher.’

      ‘No, not Maher. The tall red-headed one, who lost his mother in a plane crash.’

      ‘Sabri?’

      ‘Yes, Sabri. I haven’t seen him lately.’

      ‘He’s dead, sir. A month ago. He was caught in an ambush. He fought like a lion. He killed many of his attackers before he died. A rocket hit his vehicle. We couldn’t bring his body back.’

      ‘What about Maher?’

      The orderly bows his head.

      ‘Is he dead too?’

      ‘He surrendered three days ago. He took advantage of a resupply operation to give himself up.’

      ‘He was a good boy. Funny, bursting with energy. We are surely not talking about the same person.’

      ‘I was with him, sir. We saw a rebel roadblock, and as our truck turned back Maher jumped out of the cab and ran towards the traitors with his hands up. The sergeant fired at him but he missed him. The sergeant says anyhow Maher’s got no chance. The rebels don’t take prisoners. They torture them then stiff them. Maher’ll be rotting in a mass grave right now.’

      He does not dare raise his head.

      ‘What tribe are you from, my boy?’

      ‘I was born in … Benghazi, sir.’

      Benghazi! Just the sound of the name makes me want to throw up so violently I would set off a tidal wave that would flatten that damned city and all the villages round it. It all started there, like a devastating pandemic that infected the people’s souls like the Devil himself. I should have flattened it, on the first day of the insurgency, I should have hunted down its renegade insurgents alley by alley, house by house, and skinned them alive in public to bring every ill-intentioned citizen to his senses and make him draw back from suffering the same fate.

      The orderly senses the fury welling up inside me. If the earth were suddenly to open up at his feet, he would not hesitate to leap into the chasm and be swallowed up.

      ‘I’m very sorry, sir. I’d prefer to have been born in a sewer, I would, or on a felucca. I’m ashamed to have come into the world in that city of ill omen, to have sat at the same café tables as those traitors.’

      ‘It is not your fault. What does your father do?’

      ‘He’s retired. He was a postman.’

      ‘Have you heard from him?’

      ‘No, sir. All I know is that he has fled the city.’

      ‘Any brothers?’

      ‘Only one, sir. He’s a warrant officer in the air force. I heard he was wounded in a NATO air raid.’

      His head is bowed so far that his chin is about to disappear into the hollow of his neck.

      ‘Are you married?’ I ask him, to spare him any more embarrassment.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      I notice a leather strap around his wrist, which he hastens to conceal under his sleeve.

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘A Swahili charm, sir. I bought it in the African market.’

      ‘For its talismanic properties.’

      ‘No, sir. I liked its red and green plaited strands. I wanted to give it to my elder daughter. She didn’t like it.’

      ‘One does not refuse a gift.’

      ‘My daughter doesn’t see me very often, so she sulks at my presents.’

      ‘How many children do you have?’

      ‘Three girls. The eldest is thirteen.’

      ‘What