The Magician's Wife

by Brian Moore

  The crowd of spectators now began calling up to the ship’s Arab passengers who crowded the Alexander’s lower decks supervising the Negro porters who carried their trunks and boxes. Followed by the porters, the Arab passengers came ashore to be greeted by bowings, embraces and a round of what seemed to be formal compliments. Breaking into this scene, a troop of French soldiers marched on to the quay, preceded by a young officer in dress uniform, a military band, and a standard-bearer holding aloft the French tricolour. The soldiers, but not their officer, carried long rifles and wore the colourful oriental uniforms of the regiment of Zouave. Now, with military precision, they lined up in a row below the principal gangway. At this point some French passengers who were about to disembark were held back by the Alexander’s sailors. Colonel Marmont appeared at Emmeline’s side. ‘Come, Madame. We are ready for you.’ Quickly, he led her to the principal gangway where, impatient, Lambert waited. At a nod from Marmont, Lambert walked alone down the gangway. The military band struck up ‘La Marseillaise’. As Lambert stepped on shore, the young officer, who wore an aide-de-camp’s lanyard, snapped his hand up in salute, then, drawing his sword, escorted Lambert along the ranks of the Zouave honour guard.

  Colonel Marmont, giving Emmeline his arm, led her down the gangplank and over to a waiting landau. Lambert was already seated in the carriage. The military band struck up a drumroll, the honour guard presented arms and, accompanied by the aide-de-camp who sat opposite them in the landau, they drove slowly past the watching Arab crowds.

  As they passed through the gateway to the port they came into a street just wide enough to permit the passage of two carriages. ‘This is Rue de la Marine,’ the-aide-de-camp informed them. ‘It leads to the central market-place. There are only three streets of this width in the whole of Algiers. So our use of carriages is limited.’

  He then told them that this was the European quarter and that most of the houses here were new. Emmeline saw that the new houses had vaulted arcades in the style of the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. Intersecting the Rue de la Marine were dozens of dark alleys less than four feet in width where passersby must turn sideways to avoid someone coming from the opposite direction. These glimpses of a city hidden behind the new European houses, a warren of windowless buildings, their upper storeys projecting over the lower floors in a way which made the alleys dark and ominous even in the noonday sun, filled Emmeline with a sense of foreboding. How could people living in these obscure menacing mazes be impressed by the man who sat beside her, anxiously questioning the aide-de-camp about the safe transport of his magician’s paraphernalia through these narrow lanes?

  ‘The theatre that is being put at your disposal, Monsieur, is in the Rue Bat-Azoun, which, as I’ve mentioned, is one of the three principal thoroughfares of Algiers. It’s large and easy of access. As for your exhibitions outside the city, you’ll find that camel trains can carry luggage even of the most awkward type.’

  ‘It is not that my luggage is awkward,’ Lambert said in an irritated voice. ‘But it is delicate. It must be transported with great care.’

  Now, as they continued to drive past the Parisian arcades of the Rue de la Marine, Europeans and Arabs walking on the shaded pavements turned to look up at their carriage. Several of the Europeans saluted, the men tipping their hats, the ladies inclining their heads under their parasols. At once, as though he were an official dignitary passing in procession, Lambert waved to the crowd. Emmeline looked at the aide-de-camp. The ghost of a smile appeared on the young man’s face. When he saw that she had noticed, he pointed ahead as if to distract her.

  ‘Here we are, Madame. The Governor’s mansion. Maréchal Randon isn’t in residence at the moment. He has gone to the South with some troops. There is a disturbance in Kabylia.’

  ‘What sort of disturbance?’ Lambert asked

  ‘A minor uprising. The Kabyles have not yet been colonized. But by next year, when our troops arrive from France, they will be.’

  Emmeline, half listening, stared ahead as the carriage approached an impressive Moorish building surrounded by a rectangular garden of orange trees. The tricolour flew prominently on its roof. Zouave sentries presented arms as their carriage passed through ornamental iron gates and into a spacious closed courtyard flanked by Moorish arches. Emmeline looked up. Above her, the startlingly blue sky formed a vault over colonnaded halls, the intense sunlight cast a golden hue on veined marble paving, ornate carvings, porcelain walls and, in the centre of the court, flecked the gushing waters of a large fountain with iridescent light. She felt suddenly exhilarated as though she had been transported into the pages of a storybook. This enchanted building did not belong to France, no matter that the French flag flew over it. This sunlight, this courtyard, was Africa; Moorish, magical and strange. Her exhilaration was the intoxication of delight. She no longer saw the alleys of Algiers as dark and ominous. Suddenly, she wished that Africa were her home.

  Arab servants came forward to take them to their quarters. An Arab major-domo answered Lambert’s enquiries about the arrival of their luggage, saying it would be delivered within the hour.

  ‘I must have a storeroom for certain pieces,’ Lambert told him. ‘It must be kept locked, and I alone am to have the key.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur. It will be as you wish.’

  The apartments that had been set aside for them were spacious, high-ceilinged and cool, their white marble walls adorned with large plates of painted pottery. The floors were also of white marble, bare except for a few simple mats of plaited palm leaves. In each room there were two beautifully carved, brightly painted chests, and vases filled with rosewater. Amid these simple Arab furnishings, the European bed, dressing table and chairs seemed ugly and out of place. Emmeline went at once to the windows and opened the shutters which gave on to a long balcony with a view of surrounding flat rooftops and, two storeys below, the mansion’s garden with its small grove of orange trees. She heard the major-domo whisper obsequiously, ‘This is the ambassadorial suite, Your Excellency. I hope it is to your liking. Is there anything you wish for? May I perhaps have some coffee and sweetmeats brought to you now?’

  The coffee, which arrived within minutes of the major-domo’s departure, was strong and sugared, with a heavy residue of sediment, offered in small china cups, set on a painted tin tray. Beside the cups sat a plate of dates and tiny cakes and a long red earthenware pipe filled with tobacco. As they sat on the balcony, looking down on the courtyard, they could hear in the distance a monotonous unfamiliar music played on a violin, punctuated by the flat beat of a drum.

  At 11 a.m. when they had washed and changed, a servant appeared to tell them that they were invited to luncheon with the Governor-General’s principal secretary, Monsieur de la Garde. The meal was served in a shuttered dining room cooled by fans, wielded by Negro servants. The food was French and in addition to Monsieur de la Garde there were present three senior diplomatic officers and their wives. The conversation, after some initial welcoming pleasantries, turned quickly to Maréchal Randon’s absence.

  ‘I received a message from him this morning,’ Monsieur de la Garde told the company. ‘As you know this latest disturbance was confined to the region of Souk el Arba. But it seems that three days ago the Maréchal held a meeting with the rebel leaders and, fortunately, a sheikh who spoke for the entire group has declared a temporary truce. It seems this sheikh was told by the marabout, Bou-Aziz, that God has not yet given the command for the peoples of Arabia to rise. And so, our luck holds. Maréchal Randon and Colonel Deniau are on their way back to Algiers. I expect them to arrive the day after tomorrow.’

  Emmeline, listening, heard only that Deniau was absent and would be returning soon. She had dressed especially for this luncheon and on entering the dining room had looked anxiously to see if he was present. Now, Madame Duferre, the lady on her left, turned to her and said, ‘I believe you and your husband have met Colonel Deniau. You must see his apartments here. They are up in the Arab quarter near the c
itadel. Quite extraordinary, my dear.’

  ‘Is he . . .?’ Suddenly, Emmeline was afraid. ‘Is the Colonel married? I never thought to ask.’

  ‘No, no. He is very much a bachelor. One can see why.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘The head of the Bureau Arabe must spend half of his life travelling in the desert. His is the opposite of a domestic existence.’

  Monsieur de la Garde turned to Lambert. ‘I should explain, Monsieur, that this early return is excellent news for all of us because we have already invited the country’s leading sheikhs and marabouts to attend the autumnal ceremonies here, two weeks from now. At that time we hope to show them your special powers. If the disturbance in Kabylia had spread we would have had to cancel the festivities. I hope, Monsieur, that two weeks will give you time to make your preparations?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Lambert said. ‘I believe you have arranged a theatre for me?’

  ‘Indeed, we have. It is in the Rue Bat-Azoun and the façade is particularly handsome. I believe you will be pleased.’

  ‘By the way, your theatre is a former mosque,’ one of the officials said. ‘There were many, too many, mosques in Algiers when we took over the city. Some, we have converted to other uses.’

  ‘I had forgotten that it was once a mosque,’ Monsieur de la Garde commented. ‘It might be useful to remember it. The Arabs certainly will. And so, Monsieur Lambert, your performance might well take on the tone of a religious ceremony. A touch of the miraculous, perhaps.’

  The luncheon guests laughed at this. Lambert, smiling, raised his glass in toast. ‘To miracles,’ he said. ‘French miracles.’

  That same day, shortly before sunset when long shadows fell on the rooftops of the buildings adjoining their apartments, Emmeline saw Arab women walking on the airy terraces, glancing around as they talked. When they saw her they stared back openly, but when Lambert appeared behind her they turned away, raising muslin handkerchiefs to cover their faces. Then, as though this were a game, they giggled and glanced back slyly at the foreign male.

  ‘It’s cooler now,’ Lambert said to Emmeline. ‘And Lieutenant Lecoffre has invited us to go with him to a café and watch the evening parade. Would you like that?’

  In the huge central courtyard of the mansion Lieutenant Lecoffre, the aide-de-camp who had accompanied them that morning, greeted her with a bow, then led them along the Rue de la Marine to an Italian café, where, sheltered under covered archways, they sat on the pavement eating ices and watching the kaleidoscope of passersby.

  Emmeline sat entranced, as at a play. Even in Paris she had never seen so many different costumes and complexions.

  ‘But who are they?’ she asked Lecoffre. ‘It’s like being in several countries at once.’

  The Lieutenant was amused. ‘Well, let’s see,’ he said. ‘You can tell from their dress which group they belong to. The Arabs, you’ll know from their beards and moustaches. The ones in green turbans have made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca. Those two men in gold-embroidered waistcoats and wide trousers are Moors.’

  ‘And who are those light-skinned ones?’ Emmeline asked.

  ‘They are the ones who are giving us so much trouble. They are not true Arabs but Kabyles, Bedouin people from the South.’

  He then pointed to a group of Negroes in Arab dress. They seemed different from Negroes Emmeline had seen in France. Their complexion was ashen rather than black. ‘Many are slaves, brought here from Southern Africa,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘And that man sitting behind us is a Turk. And those “Arabs”, the ones in black burnouses with dark stockings, are not Arabs but Jews. In former times they were forced to wear black and they continue to wear black as a mark of pride. Black is despised by Arabs and is the colour they assign to infidels.’

  ‘But we French are infidels,’ Emmeline said.

  ‘Yes, but we are the conquering infidels, Madame. Not like the Jews. The Jews are the most despised and maltreated of the races in the Arab world. Yet for myself I find their women beautiful. Look. Those two girls are Jewesses.’

  Emmeline stared at two young women who were indeed pretty, wearing long silk robes, silk scarves tied around their hips and embroidered silk shawls loosely tied around their heads. The Lieutenant then pointed to some men who passed, deep in discussion. ‘Kuruglis. They control many of the stalls in the bazaars. They are a race apart, a result of the intermarriage of Arab and Turk. You must visit the bazaars, Madame. There are trinkets there that you might like to bring back as souvenirs.’

  Mixed in this throng were many Europeans and Emmeline quickly became aware that several of the men looked at her with interest. Lieutenant Lecoffre also noticed and turned to Lambert with a man-to-man smile. ‘I must warn you, sir, with a wife as pretty as yours it’s wise to be on your guard here. We have too many unmarried men in Algiers. Italians, Portuguese, Germans, Russians and Poles.’ He smiled flirtatiously at Emmeline.’ And, of course, we French.’

  Lambert chose to ignore this comment. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How many of these Arabs, Kabyles, or whatever you call them, are Muslim?’

  ‘All, except, of course, the Jews. Even the Negroes are Muslim. As you’ll see, Kabyles, Negroes, Kuruglis, Arabs, Turks, rich and poor, it makes no difference, all kneel together to pray five times a day when the muezzin calls.’

  ‘In the mosques?’ Lambert asked. ‘Every day?’

  ‘Every day and in any place. They will kneel in the sand in the silence of the desert, or in a filthy lane in a remote village. Anywhere, at any time, when the call to prayer is sounded. Their faith is profound.’

  ‘But don’t we try to convert them?’ Lambert asked. ‘Surely, we have missionaries here?’

  ‘Conversions? You should ask that question of the Archbishop of Algiers. I fear our priests haven’t had great success in this part of Africa. The Jesuits are working among the Kabyles and we are told they have made some progress. The Arabs are another story. They consider Jesus as a prophet and therefore as a figure entitled to their respect. But Muhammad is God’s great prophet and they revere no other. He has promised that a redeemer will lead them out of bondage and into paradise. They still await this redeemer, whom they call the Mahdi, the chosen one.’

  ‘The Mahdi? Isn’t that what they’re calling this marabout I’m facing?’

  The Lieutenant shook his head. ‘He has not yet been accepted as the Mahdi. That will only happen if he calls for a holy war.’ He turned to Emmeline. ‘I imagine political talk must be boring for you, Madame. Besides, we should be getting back to the residence. We dine at nine o’clock in the cool of the evening. That will give you time to change.’

  Change, yes, but the West toilette, designed for the French countryside in November, could not serve her in this African climate and so, coming later into the large dining room adjoining the central hall of the Governor-General’s residence, she wore a gown made for her by Madame Cott, her dressmaker in Tours, a dress which, she now realized, revealed her as a provincial Rouennaise, the wife of a man who could never be part of this colonial aristocracy of diplomats and high military officers. For she sensed that this mansion, the official residence of the Governor-General of Algeria, was, like Compiègne, a court, its ruler recently elevated by the Emperor himself to the highest military rank, that of a Maréchal of France.

  And yet, easing her discomfort, when she and Lambert entered the dining hall Monsieur de la Garde and his wife were waiting to welcome them and it was de la Garde himself, the senior diplomat present, who offered her his arm and led her to a place of honour at the dining table. The meal was served by Negroes and as soon as the guests were seated, strains of music were heard from the adjoining central courtyard. Emmeline could see the musicians, grouped around the great fountain. They wore Arab dress and were led by a very old man who handled his instrument, a three-stringed violin, with grave dignity, bowing from time to time in their direction.

  ‘The music,’ Monsieur de la Garde told her, ‘is a conce
rt in honour of your husband. This little orchestra is famous in these parts. That old man who leads it was the favourite musician of the last Dey, the Turkish ruler here in the days of the Ottoman empire. Tomorrow, in the coffee houses, it will be known that tonight he played for your husband, the great sorcerer. These things are not without significance in the Arab world.’

  She was grateful for the music. The strains of the violin mingling with the sound of pipes and guitars produced a soft monotonous sound which she found peaceful and lulling, allowing her, as in Compiègne, to appear to listen and therefore be excused from conversation. Lambert, on the other hand, was in his element as the company, interested in this guest from a world they had never known, kept him busy answering questions about his tours to the courts of Russia and England. Tonight he was the centre of attraction and so, at the end of the evening when they returned to their quarters, he stepped out on to the balcony, stretched his arms wide and, staring at the darkened Moorish rooftops all around him, said, ‘It’s a peculiar thing, but I feel that all of my life has led up to this visit. This, above anything else I have ever done, is what I was put on earth to do.’

  She did not answer and after a moment, as though irritated by her silence, he went back into the sitting room and said, ‘Tomorrow, I have arranged to go early to the theatre. The Lieutenant tells me that Madame Duferre has offered to take you on a tour of the native markets. That should be interesting for you.’

  He took her in his arms and, as so often at home, perfunctorily kissed her good night. ‘Sleep well. Till tomorrow, then.’

  As usual, when they did not have separate beds, she did not undress and lie down beside him until he had had time to fall asleep, or at least pretend it. Now she walked up and down on the long terrace of the balcony, hearing the night sounds of this strange city: voices calling to each other in an unknown language, the distant beat of a flat-sounding drum. She looked up at the ascending rows of white tomb-like buildings, at the dark veins of narrow alleys winding uphill to the Arab quarter beneath the Citadel, where Deniau had his apartment, that apartment Madame Duferre had characterized as, ‘Quite extraordinary. Of course he is rarely there. The head of the Bureau Arabe must spend half his life travelling in the desert. His is the opposite of a domestic existence.’