What the day owes the nigth

by Yasmina Khadra

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you look like you’re about to have a heart attack.’

  Simon was joking. What I felt for Madame Cazenave wasn’t love but a profound admiration. My feelings towards her were entirely honourable.

  At the end of the week, she came into the pharmacy. I was behind the counter helping Germaine fill a pile of prescriptions that had come in as the result of an epidemic of gastritis. When I looked up and saw her, I almost fainted.

  I expected her to take off her sunglasses, but she kept them perched on her pretty nose, and I could not tell if she was staring at me or ignoring me.

  She handed Germaine a prescription, proffering her hand as though to be kissed.

  ‘It might take a little while . . .’ Germaine said, struggling to decipher the doctor’s scrawl. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment.’ She nodded to the packages on the counter.

  ‘When do you think it might be ready?’

  ‘This afternoon, hopefully, but it won’t be before three.’

  ‘That’s all right . . . but I won’t be able to come back to pick it up. I’ve been out of town for a while and my house needs some serious spring cleaning. Would you mind having a messenger bring it round? I’ll happily pay.’

  ‘It’s not a question of money, Madame . . . ?’

  ‘Cazenave, Madame Cazenave.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Do you live far?’

  ‘Just behind the Jewish cemetery. The house is set back from the marabout road.’

  ‘Oh, I know where you mean . . . It’s no problem, Madame Cazenave, I’ll have the prescription delivered to you this afternoon sometime between three and four.’

  ‘Perfect!’

  As she left, she gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

  I could barely sit still as I watched Germaine struggle to fill the orders in the back office. The hands of the clock hardly seemed to move; it felt as though night would come before the delivery was ready. At last came my hour of deliverance, like a great lungful of air after too long underwater. At exactly three p.m., Germaine emerged from the back office with a vial wrapped in brown paper. I did not even wait for her to give me directions, but tore it from her hands and leapt on my bicycle.

  Gripping the handlebars, my shirt billowing in the wind, I was not pedalling, I was flying. I cycled around the Jewish cemetery, took a short cut through the fields and, weaving between the potholes, raced along the marabout road.

  The Cazenaves lived in an imposing mansion perched on a hill some distance outside the village. It was a large whitewashed house that faced southward, overlooking the plains. There were stables, now derelict, but the house was still magnificent. A steep, narrow driveway lined with dwarf palms led up from the road. Wrought-iron gates leading to a courtyard hung from a low wall of finely chiselled stone on which a climbing vine vainly tried to get purchase. The pediment, supported by two marble columns, had the letter ‘C’ carved into the stone, and underneath, as though supporting the initial, was the date 1912, the year in which the house had been built.

  I ditched my bicycle by the gates, which creaked loudly as I pushed them open, and stepped into the small courtyard with its fountain; there was no one there. The gardens had fallen into decline.

  ‘Madame Cazenave?’ I called out.

  The shutters on the windows were closed; the wooden door leading inside was locked. I stood by the fountain in the shade of a stucco statue of Diana the Huntress, clutching the bottle of medicine. There was not a living soul in sight. I could hear the breeze rustle through the vine.

  After having waited for a while, I decided to knock on the door. My knocking echoed through the house; it was clear there was no one home, but I refused to accept that fact.

  I went back and sat on the edge of the fountain, listening for the rasp of footsteps on the gravel, eager to see her appear. Just as I was about to give up, I was startled to hear her cry, ‘Bonjour!’

  She was standing behind me wearing a white dress, her broad-brimmed hat with the red ribbon pushed back over the delicate nape of her neck.

  ‘I was down in the orange grove. I like to walk there; it’s so quiet, so peaceful . . . Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I just got here.’

  ‘I didn’t see you as I was coming up the drive.’

  ‘I’ve brought your medication, madame,’ I said, handing her the package.

  She hesitated before taking it, as though she had forgotten her visit to the pharmacy, then, gracefully, she slipped the bottle out of its wrapping paper, unscrewed the lid and delicately inhaled what appeared to be some cosmetic preparation.

  ‘It smells wonderful, the salve. I just hope it eases my stiff joints. The house was in such a state when I got here that I’ve been spending all day every day trying to get it back to how it used to be.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need carried or repaired, I’d be happy to do it for you.’

  ‘You’re very sweet, Monsieur Jonas.’

  She nodded to the wicker chair by the table on the veranda, waited for me to sit down, then took the seat facing me.

  ‘I expect you’re thirsty, with all this heat,’ she said, proffering a jug of lemonade. She poured a large glass and pushed it across the table towards me. The movement clearly hurt her, and she winced and bit her lower lip with exquisite grace.

  ‘Are you in pain, madame?’

  ‘I must have pulled a muscle lifting something.’

  She took off her sunglasses, and I felt my insides turn to jelly.

  ‘How old are you, Monsieur Jonas?’ she asked, gazing deep into my very soul.

  ‘I’m seventeen, madame.’

  ‘I expect you’re already engaged.’

  ‘No, madame.’

  ‘What do you mean, “No, madame”? With a pretty face like yours, and those eyes, I refuse to believe you don’t have a whole harem of girls pining after you.’

  Her perfume intoxicated me.

  Once again she bit her lip, bringing a hand up to her neck.

  ‘Is it very painful, madame?’

  ‘It is painful.’

  She took my hand in hers.

  ‘You have beautiful hands.’

  I was embarrassed that she might see the effect she was having on me.

  ‘What do you plan to be when you grow up, Monsieur Jonas?’

  ‘A chemist.’

  She considered this for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘It is a noble profession.’

  A third twinge in her neck almost bent her double with pain.

  ‘I think I need to try the balm right away.’ With great dignity, she got to her feet.

  ‘If you like madame, I can . . . I can massage your shoulder for you . . .’

  ‘I’m counting on it, Monsieur Jonas.’

  I don’t know why, but for an instant, something broke the solemnity of this place. It lasted only a fraction of a second, for when she looked at me again, everything returned to how it had been.

  My heart was beating so hard that I wondered whether she could hear it. She took off her hat and her hair tumbled on to her shoulders, and I was all but rooted to the spot.

  ‘Follow me, young man.’

  She pushed open the door and gestured for me to follow her inside. The hall was lit by a faint glow, and I had a sudden sense of déjà vu. I felt certain I had seen the corridor ahead somewhere before, or was I imagining things? Madame Cazenave walked on ahead of me. For one searing instant, I mistook her for my destiny.

  We climbed the stairs, my feet stumbling on each step. I held on to the banister, seeing only her body swaying before me, magnificent, bewitching, almost dreamlike in its gracefulness. As we came to the landing, she stopped in the dazzling radiance of a skylight, and it was as though her dress disintegrated and I could see every detail of her perfect figure.

  She turned suddenly and found me in a state of shock. She quickly realised that I was incapable of following her much fa
rther, that my legs were about to give out under me, that I was like goldfinch in a trap. Her smile was the coup de grâce. She came back towards me, her step light, floating, and said something I did not hear. Blood was pulsing in my temples, making it impossible for me to think. What’s the matter, Monsieur Jonas? She placed her hand on my chin and lifted my head. Are you all right? The whisper of her voice was lost in the throbbing uproar of my temples. Is it me that has you in this state? Perhaps she was not saying these things, perhaps it was me, though it did not sound like my voice. Her fingers moved over my face, I felt the wall at my back like a barricade obstructing any attempt at retreat. Monsieur Jonas? Her gaze swept over me, conjuring me away as if by magic. I was dissolving in her eyes, her breath fluttered about my breathless panting. When her lips brushed against mine, I thought I would shatter into a thousand pieces; it was as though she had obliterated me, only to refashion me with her fingers. It was not a kiss, but a glancing, hesitant touch – was she testing the waters? She took a step back, and it felt like a wave rolling away, revealing my nakedness, my confusion. Her lips returned, more confident now, more assertive; a mountain stream could not have slaked my thirst as she did. My lips surrendered to hers, melted into hers to become a flowing stream, and Madame Cazenave drank me down to the last drop in a single, endless draught. My head was in the clouds, my feet on a magic carpet. Frightened by the intensity of this pleasure, I must have tried to draw away, because I felt her hand hold me hard. I let her pull me to her, offering no resistance, feverish, willing, astounded by my own surrender, my body joined to hers by her invading tongue. With infinite tenderness, she unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the floor. My every breath now was her breath, my heartbeat was her pulse. I had the vague sensation of being undressed, being led into a bedroom, of being laid on a bed deep as a river. A thousand fingers exploded against my skin like fireworks; I was light and joy, I was pleasure at its most intoxicated; I felt myself dying even as I was reborn.

  ‘Could you come back down to earth a bit?’ Germaine scolded me. ‘You’ve broken half the crockery in the house in the past two days.’

  I realised that the plate I had been rinsing had slipped from my hands and shattered at my feet.

  ‘Your mind is elsewhere . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  Germaine looked at me curiously, wiped her hands on her apron and put them on my shoulders.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jonas?’

  ‘Nothing, the plate just slipped.’

  ‘I know . . . the problem is, it’s not the first one.’

  ‘Germaine!’ My uncle called her from his room at the far end of the corridor.

  I hardly recognised myself. Since my encounter with Madame Cazenave, my mind was elsewhere; it was sounding the depths of a euphoria that seemed endless and eternal. This was my first experience of being a man, my first taste of sexual discovery, and I was intoxicated by it. My body was tight as a bow; I could still feel Madame Cazenave’s fingers moving over my skin, her caresses like a thousand tiny cuts gnawing at the fibre of my being, trilling through my body, becoming the blood pulsing in my temples. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel her breathless gasps, and my whole being was flooded with her intoxicating breath. At night, I did not sleep a wink; the memory of our lovemaking kept me restless until dawn.

  Simon found my change of mood infuriating, but though Jean-Christophe and Fabrice fell about laughing at his jokes, his jibes could not touch me. I was like marble. I watched them laugh, unable to understand what was funny. How many times did Simon wave a hand in front of my face to see if I was awake? At moments like this I would come alive for a moment, only to sink back into a sort of trance, the sounds of the world outside suddenly dying away.

  On the hill, in the shade of the olive tree or on the beach, I was now an absence among my friends.

  I waited for two weeks before summoning the courage to go back to the big white mansion on the road to the marabout’s house. It was late; the light was failing. I left my bicycle by the gates and stepped into the courtyard . . . and there she was, crouched beneath a shrub with a pair of secateurs, tending to her garden.

  ‘Monsieur Jonas,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  She set the secateurs down on a mound of pebbles and wiped the dust from her hands. She was wearing the same hat with the red ribbon, the same white dress, which, in the light of the setting sun, faithfully described the charming contours of her body.

  We stared at each other, neither of us saying a word.

  I found the silence oppressive; the drone of the cicadas seemed loud enough to split my eardrums.

  ‘Bonjour, madame.’

  She smiled, her eyes wider than the span of the horizon.

  ‘What can I do for you, Monsieur Jonas?’

  Something in her voice made me fear the worst.

  ‘I was just passing,’ I lied, ‘so I came up to say hello.’

  ‘How very sweet.’

  Her brusqueness left me speechless. She stared at me as though waiting for me to justify my presence; she did not seem to appreciate my intrusion. It was as though I was disturbing her.

  ‘You don’t need to . . . I just thought . . . I mean, if you needed help with carrying things?’

  ‘I have servants to do that.’

  Having run out of excuses, I felt foolish, felt that I had ruined everything.

  ‘Monsieur Jonas, you shouldn’t turn up at someone’s house unannounced.’

  ‘I just thought—’

  She brought a finger to my lips, interrupting me.

  ‘You shouldn’t think.’

  My embarrassment turned to a sort of dull rage. Why was she treating me like this? How could she behave as though nothing had happened? Surely she knew why I had come to see her.

  As though reading my mind, she said:

  ‘If I need you, I will let you know. You must learn to let things happen, you understand. To rush things is to ruin them.’

  Her finger gently traced the line of my lips, then parted them and slipped into my mouth, lingering for a moment on the tip of my tongue before returning to rest on my lips once more.

  ‘There is something you need to understand, Jonas: with women, these things are all in the mind. They are only ready when their thoughts are in order. They control their emotions.’

  Not for a moment did she take her resolute, regal eyes from mine. I felt as though I was a product of her imagination, a plaything in her hands, a puppy she might order to roll over so she could tickle its tummy. I had no intention of rushing things, of ruining any chance I might have. When she took her hand away, I realised it was time for me to leave . . . and to wait for a sign from her.

  She did not walk me back to the gates.

  I waited for weeks. The summer of 1944 was drawing to a close. Madame Cazenave no longer came down to the village. When Jean-Christophe called us all together and Fabrice read his poems, all I could do was stare out towards the white mansion on the hill. Sometimes I thought I could see her working in the courtyard, could make out her white dress through the heat haze on the plains. At night I would go out on to the balcony and listen to the howl of the jackals, hoping it might fill the yawning silence of her words.

  Madame Scamaroni regularly took us to the apartment on the Boulevard des Chasseurs in Oran, but I have no memory of the movies we saw or the girls we met. Simon was getting tired of my distracted state. One day, on the beach, he tipped a bucket of water over me to get my attention. If Jean-Christophe had not been there, the joke would have turned into a brawl.

  Worried by my sudden change of mood, Fabrice came to my house to ask me what was wrong. He got no answer.

  Finally, tormented by the waiting, I jumped on my bicycle one Sunday at midday and raced down to the white house. Madame Cazenave had hired an old gardener and a housekeeper, and I found them having lunch together in the shade of a carob tree. I waited in the courtyard, clutching my bicycle, trembling from head to foot. Madame Cazena
ve gave an imperceptible start when she saw me standing by the fountain. She glanced around for the servants, saw that they were at the far end of the garden, turned back to me. She stared at me in silence; behind her smile, I could tell she was furious.

  ‘I couldn’t wait,’ I said.

  She came down the small flight of steps and walked towards me.

  ‘But you have to,’ she said firmly.

  She beckoned me to follow her back to the gates, and there, without worrying whether it was indiscreet, as though we were the only two people in the world, she slipped her arms around my neck and kissed me hard. The passion of her kiss was such that I knew that this was the end, that this was goodbye.

  ‘You were dreaming, Jonas,’ she said. ‘It was just a young man’s dream.’

  She took her arms from round my neck and stepped back.

  ‘Nothing ever happened between us, not even this kiss.’

  Her eyes forced me to retreat.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ I heard myself mumble.

  ‘Good.’

  She patted my cheek, a brisk, maternal gesture.

  ‘I knew you were a sensible boy.’

  I had to wait until it was dark before I went home.

  11

  I HOPED for a miracle; it never came.

  Autumn arrived, stripping the trees of their leaves, and I realised I had to face facts. It had all been a dream. Nothing ever happened between Madame Cazenave and me.

  I went back to my old life, to my friends, to Simon’s antics and Fabrice’s feverish idealism. Jean-Christophe had found a way of dealing with the demanding Isabelle Rucillio. With any compromise, he would say, the important thing was to make sure you got something out of it. Life was a long-term investment, he insisted, and fortune smiled on those who played the long game. He seemed to know what he wanted, and if his theories came unburdened with any actual proof, we were more than happy to take him at his word.

  With 1945 came a stream of contradictory stories and rumours. Gossiping over a glass of anisette was the favoured pastime in Río Salado. The smallest rumour would be wildly exaggerated, embellished with daring feats attributed to people who for the most part had nothing to do with it. Everyone on the café terraces had a theory about the war. The names Stalin, Roosevelt, Churchill rang out like trumpets announcing the final assault. One joker, noting that General de Gaulle looked undernourished, suggested sending him a fine Algerian couscous to fatten him up, thereby making it easier for us to trust him, since Algerians invariably associate power with a pot belly. Everyone laughed and drank, then went on drinking until every passing donkey looked like a unicorn. The mood was optimistic. Jewish families who had left the town when news came of the mass deportations in France began to return home. Slowly, surely, things were getting back to normal. The grape harvest had been exceptional and the end-of-season ball was glorious. Pépé Rucillio married off his youngest son, and for seven days and seven nights the whole district rang to the sound of the guitars and castanets of a famous troupe of troubadours shipped in from Seville. We were even treated to an extravagant display in which the finest horsemen in the region were pitted against the greatest warriors of the Ouled N’har.