‘That’s not my story.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Why not? Mine was better. More detailed. And my photos were good.’
‘Yeah, they weren’t bad. But your story was crap. Sentimental. And anyway, Jim at the CFA phoned through his report. More accurate.’
‘You still could have used a photo.’
‘No I couldn’t. The story’s not big enough. Lucky it even got a mention. For Christ’s sake, girly, it’s nearly summer – bushfire season. People don’t want to know about every little flare up. They’re only interested in the big ones. They want to read more important news.’
‘Like a bloody horse race.’
‘Yes, a bloody horse race – the whole nation wants to know every detail. That’s news. You want me to print your photos, bring me something big. Real big.’
‘Like what?’
‘If I knew, it would already be published. Use your brain, girl. Trust your gut. But make it big.’
#
28 November 1978. Algiers. Boumedienne sinks once more into coma. Possible recuperation no longer possible. Prof Waldenström confirms leader of State suffers chronic lymphatic leukaemia. Condition irreversible.
Nicolette re-read the telex with growing excitement. Ever since being told to find ‘something big’, she’d been coming to work even earlier in order to read the night’s telexes. She was hoping to find the germ of a big story, something that appeared minor at the moment, but that had the possibility to grow into something bigger. And she wanted to find it before anyone else realised its potential. That Algeria’s President Boumedienne was in a coma, and appeared to be dying, may not be big news in Australia, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another story there somewhere. She tried to remember what she knew about Algeria’s current situation. Nothing. Was that because nothing newsworthy was happening, or was it simply that Australia wasn’t interested in Algeria? She went to the morgue, as they called the library, and though she found a few overseas cables regarding Algeria, no corresponding write-up had appeared in The Herald. Once more she reread what little she’d found, trying to read between the lines, searching for a potential story. She knew Boumedienne had joined the rebel forces prior to Algeria’s independence, becoming Chief of Staff of the National Liberation Front’s – or FLN’s – military wing. Then, when Algeria gained its independence, he’d effected a coup against the then President Ben Bella to install himself as president. There had been an attempted coup against him a couple of years later, but since then, it seemed things were reasonably quiet in Algeria.
Still Nicolette read – imposed state control on oil industry; risked war with Morocco when trying to gain access to the Atlantic via the Sahara; juggled independent relations with both Western countries and the Soviet Bloc. And on a domestic level, it seemed Boumedienne ruled by decree, with government censorship and police surveillance by the powerful Sécurité militaire, or Military Security, being the norm.
So what was likely to happen when Boumedienne died? Would not all those people, those groups who may have opposed Boumedienne’s laws, now see this as their opportunity to be heard? Was that where the story lay? The more Nicolette thought about it, the more it seemed she was on to something. She was sure of it. Now all she had to do was convince the foreign-news editor.
10
Eighteen ninety-nine brought the beginning of the Boer War, and Captain Dreyfus, the young French artillery officer whose incarceration for charges of treason on Devil’s Island these past five years had ripped French society apart, was finally pardoned, owing greatly to J’accuse, Émile Zola’s vehement open letter published in L’Aurore the previous year. And somewhere in Paris, French President Faure suffered a heart attack during a tryst with the wife of the painter Steinheil. He died later that night, but the French of Aïn Azel barely took note – France now seemed such a long, long way away…
The end of the century also brought many changes to Marius’ life. He had applied for a further land grant a year after arriving, buying an extra fifty hectares adjoining his property, and the one-roomed house had grown, first to three rooms then to nine.
The large original room was now a lounge room, with a proper dining room and a kitchen next to it. A long corridor lead to a courtyard at the back of the house. To the right of the corridor were Marius’ office and bedroom, as well as a guest bedroom. To the left, over a large cellar that ran the length of the house, were the other bedrooms and a bathroom. Water was pumped to holding tanks by the house, and the property even had a name – Asif mellul, after the words Berbers used to describe the river when it ran white as it tumbled over rocks in winter. Close to the house were other buildings – a forge, stables for the horses that had replaced the mule, which had been given to Merzoug, and a number of cottages for Arab and Berber employees.
One of these employees was Imez. With each visit the young man had shown a keen interest in the way Marius worked the land, asking more and more questions each time, until Gwafa agreed to let his son work for Marius. But though he was officially employed as a farm hand, Imez quickly became more useful as a translator.
Jean – Marius’ eldest son – and his wife Madeleine had joined them a few months previously. They had twin boys, Bernard and Jerôme, who were forever escaping their mother’s care to toddle after Louis or, if he was not available, Merzoug.
Marius had hoped that in time Fernand and Bernadette would also come, accompanied by Gustave, but these young people showed no interest in leaving Sablières, and if he were honest with himself, Marius could see there was nothing here for Gustave. So he contented himself with sending postcards, and if he thought the postcards depicting Algeria were but a romanticised European version of what he saw, he also realised that it was unlikely Gustave would ever know the difference.
Marius had become highly respected in the area – his reputation had been established the day he had not reported the stolen mule to the authorities. No one realised that it had been more a matter of distance than fairness, but nevertheless this had the effect of earning him the reputation of a just man, and many locals now came to ask him to intervene on their behalf with the French authorities, or to borrow money. It had earned him the nickname of the Kherznadji, or cashier.
Merzoug now lived in the original gourbi, but this had been restored, and now had a proper floor and a fireplace. He still carried the parasol, bleached of any colour and now somewhat tattered. Merzoug, they had learnt the next time Imez and Gwafa passed through, was not a slave as they had thought, but a serf – his father had been a Tuareg, his mother a slave. And because he had Tuareg blood, he considered himself better than the others who worked for Marius, and so had elected himself supervisor of the field hands. Out of respect for his age all indulged him, and he spent his days riding the mule as he patrolled the perimeters of the paddocks with his parasol held high, often with the twins running close behind. He would inspect the wheat and barley fields, and yell out instructions that were always acknowledged but forgotten as soon as he’d passed – everyone answered to Marius always, and to Louis occasionally.
There had been many changes in the area as well. The presence of the military had encouraged many more colonists to settle, and Aїn Azel was now called Ampère, with a market every Friday to which everyone would go to trade and catch up on news.
#
Marius listened to the raised voices coming from the kitchen – one of the household staff must have offended Madeleine yet again. He sighed and wiped the dirt from his hands – it seemed to him that not a day went passed without some sort of drama involving Madeleine and the staff. He went to investigate.
Madeleine was leaning against the kitchen table, her face flushed, her belly heavy with child. On the floor at her feet Fatima, the little Arab girl who helped with the laundry, was crying. In the sink was an upturned soup pot, the contents still steaming, blocking the drain.
‘What’s going on?’
‘She spiced the soup
.’
‘What? Fatima? But she doesn’t do the cooking.’
‘I realise that, Papa. I specifically asked her mother not to add spices to the food anymore – in my condition, it upsets my digestion. But this girl went behind my back and spiced the soup anyway.’
Marius squatted to the level of the child and gently removed her hands from her face. He could see the imprint of his daughter-in-law’s hand across her cheek. ‘Did you add anything to the soup?’ he asked. The girl nodded. ‘Why?’
‘It was tasteless, M’sieur.’
Marius helped her up. ‘Go find your mother. Go on, go.’
‘You’re not going to reprimand her? Again? I would have her whipped. You’re too soft with them, Papa. You let them get away with everything.’
Marius nodded but didn’t bother answering – he’d heard this accusation before. And though he’d never say so, he thought Madeleine had forgotten her origins, thought herself too superior – too much of what she called a ‘lady’ – just because they were now better off. But a lady wouldn’t slap a child for such a small thing, of that he was sure. He had known a real lady – his Pauline – and she would never have treated the girl this way. She may not have had much, but she was proof that class had little to do with how much money you had. Only the fact that Madeleine was soon to give birth prevented him from telling her what he thought of her behaviour. He decided to talk to his son instead.
‘It’s because she wants to live in town,’ Jean explained. ‘She hates it here. She wants us to move to Ampère, to be around other French women.’
Marius nodded, though he didn’t think it was just a matter of country versus town. ‘And what about you? What do you want?’
Jean turned from his father and pretended to scrutinise the fence before him.
‘There’s a shop for sale in the main street. Madeleine thinks it would be a good business proposition. The town’s growing, Father – there are more and more houses being built. Madeleine says a more exclusive shop than what there is there now would do well – we could import quality goods.’
Marius nodded, but didn’t comment.
‘But we can’t really afford it. I have a bit of my savings left, which I can put towards the shop, but we’d need money to get settled as well. A house, of course, and a housekeeper to clean, and a girl to look after the children. And maybe someone to help me in the shop…’
Marius noticed that Jean had avoided answering his question, and by the sound of things, it seemed these two had planned asking him for money for a while.
‘How much?’
‘Just a few thousand francs. I have the figures in my room.’
Marius struggled to hide his disappointment; he hadn’t raised his sons to be like that. Initially, when Jean and his family had arrived, he’d thought Jean wanted to join him on the land, but Jean had quickly dissuaded him of that idea. And whilst he had to admit that his son had worked hard when living in France, since coming to Algeria he had done very little, other than lording it over Marius’ workers. It pained Marius to think this, but he realised he no longer wanted Jean or his arrogant wife on this land. A few thousand francs would be well worth the peace it would bring.
‘Show me your figures after dinner. I’ll get the bank to make a transfer.’
Marius’ prediction proved correct – when Jean and Madeleine left for Ampère shortly after, life at Asif mellul quickly resumed its previous peaceful rhythm.
#
If Marius was disappointed in Jean, in Louis he found only hope. At fifteen, the lad had an affinity to this land and its people that was uncommon in one so young. While some of the new colons tut-tutted and whispered, Louis and Imez had become inseparable, to the point where Louis refused boarding school – preferring a tutor instead – but only because he was then able to cut his lessons short and escape with Imez to roam the surrounding valleys and gorges. Marius had tried to encourage his son to study harder by suggesting that Imez join him in his lessons, but this had resulted in the tutor handing in his resignation – he didn’t believe in teaching ‘savages’. In the end Marius agreed to forget about tutors, but told Louis that, instead, he would now have to take over some of the responsibility of running the property. Louis couldn’t have been happier.
And just as Louis and Imez had developed a strong friendship, so too did Gwafa and Marius, as they discovered in each other a similarity of values, and the two men would spend many an evening playing chess under the shade of the oak in summer, or by the fire in the dining room in winter, whenever Gwafa was passing through. And over time Gwafa’s French improved, and Marius learned Gwafa’s dialect, so that they would spend hours discussing local developments and the problems of the indigenous population.
11
The winter sun painted the buildings of the Vieux Port into a pale golden canvas, and the people of Marseille shook off their afternoon slothfulness. Shutters opened to let in the light, street urchins appraised tourists’ vulnerabilities, sea gulls screeched. From a radio inside a café along the Quai du Port, Barry Manilow sang about the Copacabana, and the fresh pungent aroma of olive oil, garlic and simmering tomatoes escaped into the streets to mingle with the smell of brine and the ancient fragrances of resin and myrrh. The city stretched. Yawned. In the harbour pleasure-crafts bobbed gently next to fishing boats where leather-skinned men mended nets and smoked Gauloises, and argued the validity of the current rigged elections. Street vendors gathered their wares for their evening’s shift, and behind the Joliette Docks a pimp slid a stiletto across his favourite girl’s throat to teach her a lesson. The city shrugged. The clock in the Sauveterre Tower marked the hour.
Nicolette warmed her hands around the large cup of steaming coffee. A week ago, she’d suprised herself by refusing to take a ‘no’ from The Herald’s foreign-news editor. She’d insisted that she would go to Algeria with, or without, his permission. She’d resign, she’d told him. Go freelance. Sell her photos to Reuters. In the end, he’d agreed to let her go, but he had conditions.
‘First, you do this on your annual leave. And second, you’d better do a travel piece on your way back. Go to Marseille. Sicily. I don’t know – think of somewhere exotic. I have to have something I can print.’
‘So you’re paying? Plane tickets? Hotels?’
‘Don’t stretch your luck – airfares only. Pay for your own accommodation – you’ll be on holidays, remember?’
News travelled fast at The Herald, and that afternoon Ted Boyd had stopped by her desk.
‘Give this guy a ring – mate of mine. Lives in Marseille part of the year. At least he can write, and he might be covering Boumedienne – I dunno. But if he is, he might agree to team up. You could get lucky,’ and he’d handed her a piece of paper with a phone number and the name ‘Steven Morris’ written on it. ‘Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.’
Nicolette blew on her coffee to cool it a little and took a sip. She’d been surprised that Ted, who until then had done nothing except kick her out of Pictorials whenever he found her there, should bother to give her a contact. But at least it had decided her on which city to base her ‘travel piece’.
Now that she’d met Steven Morris, however, she wasn’t sure she should have contacted him.
He was as charming as Ted was gruff, but he’d managed to make her feel like a complete neophyte almost as soon as they’d met. She’d asked around about him before leaving Australia, and from what she’d gathered, he was known for his controversial coverage of civil conflicts, especially Vietnam, so she hadn’t expected things to be easy. But when she’d rung him, he’d surprised her by saying that yes, he intended covering Boumedienne, and yes, she could ‘tag along’. But let’s get one thing straight, he’d told her, you’re accompanying me, not the other way around. Her initial reaction had been to protest, but a little voice deep inside told her keep quiet. After all, this was her first overseas assignment – she could always dump him if she didn’t like the way things were going.<
br />
They’d agreed to meet for the first time in the restaurant attached to her hotel, and he’d guessed straight away how inexperienced she was. She knew what had given her away – the passports, of course. But no one had ever told her about extra passports.
‘You’ve got a spare passport, right?’ he’d asked as he’d sat down. Nicolette had looked at him blankly. ‘Christ, another bloody amateur! Show me your passport.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
When she’d handed it to him, he hadn’t bothered looking at it, pocketing it instead.
‘How much cash have you got on you?’
‘What?’
‘Cash, woman! How much have you got on you now?’
‘I don’t know. I—’
‘Probably not enough. Never mind, you can owe me,’ and he’d looked at his watch, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her around the tables, meal forgotten. ‘Come on, before they close.’
He’d taken her to a fishing tackle shop where the man behind the counter had nodded his recognition and allowed them to go through the back door to an alleyway and up a flight of steps.
Steven had tapped on the door. ‘Keep your mouth shut and don’t ask any questions.’
Inside a small room that smelt of stale cigarette smoke, at a red laminex table, an old man had been sitting playing Patience. Steven had nodded to him, and great deal of money had changed hands. The man had said something Nicolette hadn’t understood. He’d disappeared behind a doorway and had come back with a camera, indicating Nicolette should sit on a stool. When he’d taken her photo, Steven had handed him her passport and the man had disappeared behind the doorway once again.
‘What’s—’
‘I said be quiet.’
‘But—’
‘Will you just shut up, woman? I’ll explain when we’re out of here.’ He’d lit a cigarette and looked out the small window. Time had passed.
That Devil's Madness Page 8
