“He’s no right to wear uniform; he’s a subaltern on the reserve.”
“He doesn’t give a damn about that and I don’t altogether blame him. Good night, I’m going to bed. In a few hours from now there’ll be some fine fun and games, a real Algerian showdown—a chouchouka.”
“And as usual,” said Malistair, “they’ll break the windows of the American Information Centre. Every revolution in the world, whether it’s left wing or right, begins like that. We’re the victims of misfortune. And yet nothing could be kindlier than the heart of an American who lives abroad.”
“Why does it happen, then?” asked Pasfeuro.
“The American is kind-hearted, but he is not equipped for living abroad. He is too well conditioned to his own country.”
* * * *
Corporal Xavier Fortanelle, who was with his squadron at Bouria, had been given forty-eight hours’ leave, valid for the department but excluding the town of Algiers.
He was a handsome lad, whose fair moustache lent his rather colourless face a certain air of adventurousness. A native of Clermont-Ferrand, employed as an accountant at the Michelin factory, the only son of well-to-do parents who owned a small house and a few vines on the hill of Chanturgue, he had before him the prospect of an uneventful easy-going life. But, ill-equipped for such a passion, he had fallen in love with Paulette Lopez, a little Spanish girl from Bab-el-Oued. He had got nothing out of her; his blood caught fire every time he was anywhere near her. The little hussy had noticed this and kept telling him that she was an honourable girl and wasn’t going to lose this honour of hers—no, not for anything!—until she had complied with both the civil and religious formalities. He had therefore asked her to marry him.
The betrothal feast was due to be held at midday on 13th May. The Lopezes had prepared a gigantic paella, to which they had invited their family and part of the neighbourhood. Paulette Lopez had wanted to show how magnanimous she was towards her former girl-friend Conchita Martinez and had asked her as well. This was much to her credit, for Conchita had behaved like an absolute whore. To the knowledge of the whole street she had spent several nights away from home with a jeep driver who was not even young and had passed himself off as a paratroop colonel.
Moreover, Conchita still maintained, and her family likewise, that he really was a colonel, that he was even Colonel Raspéguy, the one who had his photo in the papers so often. Anyone could have seen him when he came to say good-bye to Conchita before going off to Egypt.
“He was no more real that day than on any other day,” Montserrat Lopez had declared.
And, in support of her contention, the fat old shrew had produced that morning’s issue of the Echo d’ Alger with a photograph of Colonel Raspéguy in Cyprus.
This photo business had made Conchita Martinez’s honour and that of her family a subject for laughter and ribald jokes. To make amends, one of her brothers had even had to volunteer for the paratroops, like any Frenchy bumpkin from the depths of the country.
Feeling slightly uneasy because his leave was not authorized for Algiers and because he had put on civilian clothes, Xavier Fortanelle made his way to the Lopezes’, hugging the walls.
It was eleven o’ clock in the morning. They reproached him violently for having abandoned his uniform, “as though he was ashamed of it!.” He quietly explained, in that drawling accent of his home town, that when one got married it was for life, that it was therefore normal, at one’s betrothal as on one’s wedding day, to wear the clothes one was going to wear for the rest of that life. For he did not intend to make the army his career.
“And if you were a fireman?” asked one of the Lopezes, who found Xavier’s argument hard to follow. “I mean, of course, if you were a professional fireman.”
“I should report to the church and the town hall in my brass helmet,” the corporal imperturbably replied.
In an unimaginable din the whole household was making ready for the feast. The men in their shirt-sleeves were scraping their chins with old cut-throat razors, the women were tending the pots and pans, dressing the children, cuffing their ears and searching the bottoms of drawers for collar-studs, alternately cursing and giving instructions for the cooking.
On being introduced to all sorts of Lopezes, Hernandezes and Martinezes, Xavier was embraced first by the men, then by the women, and finally, half suffocating, handed back to his fiancée, who was sitting on a chair having her hair dressed by Conchita Martinez.
To this fiancé, who was not even a paratrooper, Conchita displayed a hint of condescension, which irritated Paulette, who forthwith gave evidence of exaggerated affection and smeared Xavier’s face with her lipstick.
Then a taxi driver turned up who was wearing a white singlet over his hairy chest. He gave himself great airs and accepted an anisette . . . but “just a quick one, because don’t forget the demonstration this afternoon,” and what a job it was to arrange the whole business, never in his life had he seen anything to beat it.
With his glass in his hand, perched on one buttock only so as to show what a rush he was in, he gave vent to certain disclosures.
“This time, my friends, it’s a real show-down. Just you mark my words. Even Raspéguy’s paratroops are turning up to lend us support.”
Conchita abandoned her friend’s hair and, through clenched teeth, said:
“Then you’ll see if he’s a driver, Paulette.”
In spite of her desire to take revenge on the whole neighbourhood, she was frightened of seeing the big colonel again. She had not heard from him, but she knew that if he turned up and asked her to come back to him she would feel a tremor in her guts and in her legs, and she would obey him. If that happened her father would throw her out of the house. He had warned her.
Xavier Fortanelle, like many of his comrades, had resigned himself ages ago to understanding nothing more about this Algerian business, these disputes between Arabs and Frenchies, these parades, these demonstrations, all this fuss and bother punctuated by the “Marseillaise,” flags and sometimes the explosion of bombs or grenades. He was serving his time, and nothing more, in a little town where everything appeared to be quite calm at the moment. As in civilian life, he totted up figures, filled in forms and, occasionally, drove a lorry. But he was badly paid and had to wear a uniform that was too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter. He had gone bathing at Tighzirt a couple of times. Not bad. However, he preferred the icy lakes of his mountains to the warm, smarting water of the sea.
Now that he was engaged he might be able to ask Paulette to grant him all that a man can demand from his wife, and then he would be perfectly happy. During the meal he thought of nothing else.
Once or twice he stroked his fiancée’s thighs and she did not object: that was a good sign.
The rice, cooked in saffron and oil and mixed with fish, red peppers and chicken, had given him a thirst and he gulped down several glasses of a heavy, full-bodied la Trappe wine. Everyone round him was talking about a demonstration. But the sounds, the words, reached his ears as though from a great distance, like echoes.
At half past two processions began to assemble from every direction and move off towards the Boulevard Lafarrière. Puydebois had arrived with his old truck, in the back of which he had piled his henchmen, who had unfurled a huge tricolour flag on which was inscribed “Honour, Goodwill, Country”: the flag of the Great Day.
Behind their banners the veterans marched off, with their decorations hanging askew on their chests. The students advanced in small groups up the Rue Michelet; just as Malistair had predicted, they smashed in the windows of the American Information Centre with stones. Algiers was spewing out its inhabitants like water from a sponge being squeezed.
Boys and girls on motor-scooters, trailing flags behind them, sped off to mysterious rendezvous, happy to be young, happy that it was a fine day and that the atmosphere vibrated with that intox
icating buzz that precedes the swarming of bees or a revolution in a Latin country. Cars and scooters kept hooting “Al-gé-rie-Fran-çaise” in a deafening din.
“Yes,” said Françoise, “everything belongs to the young in Algiers, there’s almost nothing left for the adults: even this revolution, whether it succeeds or fails, will be theirs, just you watch.”
“I’m very fond of adult countries,” said Pasfeuro, “but I’m condemned to women who will be adolescent all their lives and to countries in a perpetual state of puberty.”
“Look,” said Malistair, “they’re bringing their children with them to the demonstration.”
A group of people passed them near the post office, with their snotty-nosed brats dressed up in their Sunday best, the women with baskets dangling from their arms, the girls giggling shrilly as though they were having their bottoms pinched.
The men walked ahead, heatedly discussing the latest football match.
At half past three the Lopez family and their guests decided to go to the demonstration.
They had to wake Xavier, who had fallen asleep at the table, his head resting on his arms, fuddled by the over-rich food and wine.
“It’s good for the digestion,” the imposing Montserrat woman had said, “and, besides, we promised.”
But by the time everyone was ready, and Paulette had changed her blouse three times, and Conchita had gone home to put on another dress, and the brats had been gathered together with imprecations and cuffs on the ear, a good hour had elapsed.
The Lopez family and their guests tagged on to the procession of veterans coming from Guyotville, who had been driven up in lorries as far as the front door. Many Moslems had joined them, with their turbans, their medals and their sticks. Joyfully, they marched off at a light-infantry pace and called everyone “Lieutenant.”
A loudspeaker yelled:
“Europeans, Moslems, shoulder to shoulder, as in the front line. . . .”
This was greeted by a roar of enthusiasm. The excitement was mounting and the crowd was ready to applaud any slogan.
“We want a Public Safety government,” the loudspeaker yelled again.
“Yes, a Public Safety government,” Pablo Lopez shouted back, louder than the others.
Then he turned to his future son-in-law, who had his arm round Paulette and was taking advantage of the jostling to stroke her breasts.
“Hey, you, soldier-boy! Do you know what it means, a Public Safety?”
“No,” Xavier woefully replied. “At Clermont I didn’t go in for politics.”
“It isn’t politics, you nitwit, it’s for French Algeria!”
Mingling with the war veterans, the Lopez family, who had lost no more than two or three kids and a grandfather, arrived in front of the war memorial.
The road and stairways leading to the Government General were black with flag-waving crowds which overflowed on to the terraces of the buildings and clung to the iron railings.
Xavier felt deafened and stunned by the strident cry of “Al-gé-rie-Fran-çaise” emitted by the motor-horns. He would have liked to be sitting on a bench in the cool shade of an oak- or chestnut-tree at home, and doing what all fiancés do on the day of their betrothal, holding Paulette’s hand, kissing her, talking to her about the future. From desire he was veering to sentiment.
There was a violent surge forward and the young couple found themselves separated. Generals Salan, Jouhaud, Allard, Massu and Admiral Auboyneau had just arrived to lay a wreath of red roses. A passage had to be cleared for them through the crowd. General Salan looked flushed, “as though he had just been popped into a stockpot,” Xavier thought to himself.
The crowd started yelling: “Up the army!”
A bearded man in paratrooper’s uniform was perched on the base of the memorial.
“Where does that chap come from?” Xavier asked a young man in shirt-sleeves with a tricolour band round one arm.
“Don’t you know him? That’s Lagaillarde.”
And suddenly distrustful:
“But what about you, where do you come from? From France? You ought to be in the army.”
“I’ve been playing at soldiers for the last eighteen months; that’s a long time.”
And suddenly furious:
“With all this bloody silly business of yours I’ll still be at it three years from now. And what about you?”
The young man with the armband replied, in a rather embarrassed manner:
“My call-up’s been suspended, but I’m going to volunteer.”
“You haven’t by any chance seen a girl with black hair and a red polka-dot blouse?”
“There must be thousands of girls with black hair and polka-dot blouses out in the street today. Look, there’s one.”
“That’s not the one I mean.”
“She’ll do as well as any other!”
* * * *
Boisfeuras clutched Esclavier by the arm.
“Look! The Tojun is up to one of his tricks.”
Still standing on the base of the memorial, Lagaillarde was bending down towards the Commander-in-Chief who had just laid his wreath. Salan nodded his head, then made a sign of acquiescence and murmured: “Don’t overdo it.”
The bearded man jumped down and gave a signal to some youths, one of whom was carrying a flag which hung down to his heels, then they all raced off up the stairway in the direction of the Forum.
The veterans started putting away their banners prior to going back home. Better get a little rest: tomorrow was the big day.
Some tear-gas bombs exploded, emitting a thick smoke which affected eyes and throat.
Esclavier caught the eye of Colonel Puysanges, who was standing behind the C.-in-C. He gave the captain a mocking grin. Esclavier leant towards Boisfeuras:
“We’ve got to warn Glatigny. Where is he?”
“In the Rue d’Isly, with the Vigilance Committee. But we’ll never be able to get through this crowd. It’s hemming us in. Who chucked the tear-gas bombs?”
“The C.R.S.”
The crowd gave a long wail:
“Down with the C.R.S.!”
Boisfeuras bumped into Adruguez who, in espadrilles, was setting off up the stairway with his team.
“Where are you going?”
“They’ve already come to blows up there. The C.R.S. are being pelted with paving-stones and are falling back.”
“Christ Almighty!” said Esclavier. “And my company’s in reserve behind the Government General!”
“What are your orders?” Boisfeuras enquired.
“Only one: don’t fire, whatever happens.”
The two captains fell into step with the student. The tear-gas was spreading in a thick cloudy sheet; they had to put handkerchiefs over their mouths. Boisfeuras chuckled:
“Just as though we were off to rob a bank! Try and get through to Glatigny from the Government General.”
“Nothing ever turns out as planned.”
“If it did it wouldn’t be a revolution!”
The captains came out into the Forum, where the C.R.S. were taking cover from a hail of stones behind their trucks. Forgetting he was in civilian clothes, Xavier had followed the two officers. In this disturbance they still represented for him a certain form of law and order. He noticed with some pleasure that he was not frightened, but he was anxious to find Paulette. “She must have gone back home. I’ll tell her what happened.”
The C.R.S. fell back behind the railings, but a few minutes later they broke out and, with more tear-gas bombs, succeeded in clearing part of the Forum which had been invaded by the demonstrators. Then, once more, they withdrew behind the shelter of the railings.
Boisfeuras and Esclavier took advantage of this to race over to their men, who were leaping out of trucks, short-butt rifles or sub-machine-guns in their
hands.
Xavier Fortanelle had lost them. He found himself, spitting and coughing, in the midst of the over-excited youths who once again surged forward in a fresh assault.
“Come on, chaps, the paratroops are with us!”
“Up the army!”
The demonstrators were now thrusting against the paratroops who gently held them off.
“Well, what do we do now, sir?” Sergeant-Major Pieron asked Esclavier. “With a few blows of a rifle-butt we could soon make this lot pipe down.”
“We must let them through,” Boisfeuras replied.
Esclavier protested:
“You’re mad, Julien!”
“We’re a day or maybe only a few hours ahead of schedule, but what difference does it make? If we don’t bring it off today, tomorrow the crowd’s enthusiasm will have subsided. Puysanges and the Tojun have double-crossed us, but we can forestall them. Quick, run up to one of the offices and ring up Glatigny. I’ll stay below and take command of the company.”
The C.R.S. opened a gap in the railings to let Esclavier slip through. He raced up the great marble staircase, taking four steps in each stride, and opened at random the door of an office in which two typists lay cringing in an armchair, crying their eyes out.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought everyone was on strike.”
One of the typists gave a great sob which sounded more like a neigh.
“We’re under contract; they told us if we didn’t turn up we’d be sacked.”
Esclavier grabbed the telephone and tried to get through to the Rue D’Isly. But there was no one on the switchboard.
One of the typists disentangled herself from the armchair.
“Captain, there’s a direct line in the office next door.”
A stone shattered the window-panes. Esclavier was already in the other room. Through a large bay-window he could see the sun-drenched Forum which the crowd was beginning to invade. But between it and the small groups of Lagaillarde and Adruguez, who were hesitating in the face of the paratroops, there still remained a wide empty space.
The Praetorians Page 20
