The Magician's Wife

by Brian Moore

  In the desert, riding on camels, sleeping in tents. And here in Algiers he lives up there in the native quarter. Emmeline looked again at those white buildings. Why am I thinking every moment of him, this man I hardly know, this man who may have paid me compliments and given me those meaningful looks simply as part of his scheme to bring my husband here? Why do I think of him now, even more than in Compiègne? Is it because I’m in Africa, where I never thought to be and he is part of the spell of this place, how can I say it, there are no words, from the moment I stood on deck this morning and saw this city on a hill, what was it Henri said just now? ‘I feel as if all of my life has led up to this visit.’ I can say that too, but I have no mission here, no reason to say it or feel it. Yet I do feel it. I do.

  Chapter 6

  ‘I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you,’ Madame Duferre said. ‘Alas, our visit to the bazaars must be for another day. We have just had word that the Maréchal will be returning this afternoon and not tomorrow. Monsieur de la Garde has us all on our toes preparing for a reception this evening for the Maréchal and the officers who accompanied him. We will be hosts to the entire diplomatic corps of Algiers, such as it is, and also to certain Arab dignitaries. Of course, you and your husband will be present.’

  But Emmeline heard only that Deniau would be here tonight. At once she thought of herself as she had been in Compiègne and as he would see her now, no longer wearing those elegant gowns, without the services of that old maid who had so wonderfully arranged her hair, no longer sitting by special invitation next to the Emperor at table, but instead returned to the ordinary, the magician’s wife who, now that the magician had been won over and put to work, was no longer someone Deniau must woo. And late that afternoon as she sat in the unfamiliar dressing room of their apartments, trying over and over again to arrange her hair in the manner of Compiègne, she felt her eyes wet with tears. How have I let myself get into this state, I didn’t want to be a part of that society at Compiègne and I can never be a part of this world of Africa. I am Lambert’s wife, that’s who I am, the wife of someone sent here to trick these Arabs. What does it matter if I am dowdy and my hair is badly done. No one will notice.

  But for the fifth time she let down her hair and tried again.

  ‘We will assemble in the central court at seven,’ an aide-de-camp told Lambert. ‘Maréchal Randon will arrive at approximately seven-twenty. Those who will be attending this evening are the spiritual and temporal leaders in Algiers and in the regions immediately surrounding the city. The marabouts and sheikhs from other, more distant regions will not be arriving until next week. So, although this is a reception in honour of the Governor-General’s triumph in Kabylia, it is also a rehearsal of your presentation to the Muslim élite. Because of that, and because in the Arab world the marabout is a personage more highly regarded than any sheikh or temporal ruler, Colonel Deniau has suggested that you be the first guest of the evening to be presented to Maréchal Randon. Consequently, in Arab eyes, you will be seen as our leading marabout, a figure of great power.’

  And now, at seven-twenty precisely, Emmeline stood beside her husband facing the colonnaded archways through which she could see the Governor-General and his staff approaching, a group of ten officers in dress uniforms wearing decorations followed by several aides-de-camp, and then by the senior French diplomats led by Monsieur de la Garde. The Governor-General, Maréchal Randon, was, Emmeline saw, a short spare man in his late fifties with the air of an administrator rather than a highly decorated soldier. She felt Henri come to attention beside her, felt his tension as he prepared to step on stage in a role different from any he had played before. But at that moment she saw Deniau, walking a little to the left of the Maréchal but with the air of someone of equal rank to the Governor-General himself. And in that moment he raised his head and looked directly at her. He smiled, gave a slight bow and kept on looking at her as the Maréchal’s cortège reached the spot where she and Henri stood. He had not looked at, or acknowledged, her husband and she, for her part, was so transfixed by his gaze that in the moment of being presented to the Governor-General she almost forgot to curtsy. Randon, for his part, bowed in her direction and then, almost theatrically, made a sort of reverence in greeting her husband. Lambert, ever the actor, received this false tribute with a certain solemn dignity, befitting his role of marabout. The Governor-General then passed on down the receiving line, pausing to speak to an old sheikh and to three high-turbaned holy men who had been pointed out earlier as revered marabouts of the Algerine plain. A military band struck up a triumphal march as the Governor’s cortège made a leisurely circle of the colonnaded court. At this point Deniau was lost to Emmeline’s view behind the plumes of water rising from the central fountain. She stood, impatient, as aides-de-camp brought up various sheikhs to exchange greetings with her husband and, as soon as the presentations ended, hurried across the courtyard, pretending to look for someone, but in reality moving directly to the spot where Deniau stood chatting to an imposing figure who was wearing a richly embroidered waistcoat and a red fez.

  Suddenly embarrassed, she hesitated and was about to withdraw when Deniau broke off his conversation, came to her, took her hand and kissed it, saying, ‘Madame, good evening. How happy I am to see you here in Africa. May I present Effendi Selim who is the representative of the Dey of Turkey?’

  The stout gentleman in the red fez bowed to her, and speaking in a language Emmeline did not understand, said something and laughed, a rich chuckling laugh. Deniau smiled politely and answered in the unknown tongue, upon which the stranger again bowed to her and withdrew, leaving them alone.

  ‘What did he say?’ Emmeline asked, watching as the Turkish gentleman made his way slowly towards the refreshments being offered at the central fountain.

  ‘Turks have a vulgar sense of humour,’ Deniau said. ‘His remark, while a compliment to you, is not fit for a lady’s ears. But he is right. You are looking particularly beautiful this evening. How was your sea voyage? I was mortified that I was not able to greet you at the dock. I wanted to be the first friendly face you saw when you arrived in Africa.’

  ‘I missed you,’ she said and blushed. ‘I mean . . . I didn’t know that you were off fighting a war.’

  ‘No more wars,’ he said. ‘At least not until we French decide to fight the next one. In the meantime we are counting on your husband to keep the peace. Apropos! Come with me while I pay my respects to the great marabout.’

  But as he led her through the robed, exotic throng, passing the knot of dignitaries surrounding the Governor-General, Emmeline turned his phrase over in her mind. ‘You are looking particularly beautiful this evening.’ Am I? Even in this dress? Even with my hair as it is? Or did he say it because that fat Turk made some vulgar remark? And why did I tell him that I missed him, why was I so gauche? Once again he’s my escort as he was when we walked down the great hall in Compiègne and once again I am proud to be seen with him. People bow to him. He’s treated as someone of great importance. He is the chief of the Bureau Arabe.

  Now as they came up to the group of diplomats and Arabs surrounding her husband she did not want to lose Deniau as her escort. She stopped. He turned to her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But tell me something. Madame Duferre says you spend half your life in the desert. Is that true?’

  ‘Did she say that? How odd. But, it’s true that in some mysterious way the desert is the place where I feel most at home. It’s beautiful in its stillness, its emptiness. Soon, I hope to show you what I mean by that. After the celebrations here next week I’ll be travelling with you and your husband in the Sahara, the region they call the South. That is the real Algeria. I hope it will interest you.’

  ‘I know it will,’ Emmeline said. ‘I have been here for less than two days, but it’s love at first sight.’

  He took her hand and held it. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said and then looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Ah! He ha
s seen us. Your husband.’ He released her hand and went towards Lambert.

  ‘Monsieur Lambert, welcome to Africa.’

  ‘Colonel! How went the battle? A great success, we hear.’

  ‘Not a battle, Monsieur, far from it. A minor show of force, that’s all. Perhaps the most important part of our expedition was that we had a meeting with the marabout. We hope we’ve persuaded him to attend your performances next week. But we can’t be sure. In any case, as I have just been telling your wife, we plan to take you on tour after the celebrations here. You may meet him then. In the meantime I’d like to invite you and Madame Lambert to lunch tomorrow. I have an apartment in the Kasbah, in the heart of the city’s native quarter. You might find it interesting.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s most kind,’ Lambert said. ‘But I am afraid if I am to be properly prepared I will have no time for sightseeing or social life before the celebrations begin. However, I am sure Emmeline would be delighted to see the – what did you call it – the Kasbah.’

  ‘And I will be delighted to show it to her. Madame? Could you be ready at, say, midday? I warn you, the streets are too narrow for carriages. You can, however, travel on muleback. Do you ride?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  At noon, from their high towers throughout the city, muezzins raised the white flag of faith, calling believers to prayer. Emmeline, who had spent most of the morning preparing herself for this luncheon, now ran out on to her balcony, hoping to catch a glimpse of these Muslim devotions. But as she stood searching the adjoining rooftops the maid assigned to her quarters came to tell her that a messenger from Colonel Deniau was waiting at the main gates of the residence. When she went down through the central courtyard past the Zouave sentries who saluted her as they held open the gates she saw, standing in the street outside, a Negro, so tall he was almost a giant, his ashen grey skin giving him the look of a corpse. He wore an orange burnous and a red fez, and was holding the reins of a small mule which had been fitted with a sidesaddle. On seeing her he bowed and knelt, cupping his hands in a stirrup with which he lifted her lightly on to the saddle. He then took the reins and guided the mule, walking beside her as they moved along the dark narrow street which wound uphill under stone archways and overhanging balconies that completely shut out the hot noonday sun. This street, like a turn in a maze, led to yet another dark narrow lane and then another and as they progressed the ascent became steeper, the mule carefully picking its way, guided by the black giant who, when the animal hesitated, slapped its flanks with the flat of his huge hand, the palm of which was white as a lady’s glove. In these narrow lanes when Arab pedestrians came towards them, the presence of the mule forced them to take refuge in a doorway or turn sideways as they eased past. But apart from these passersby the city seemed empty of people. The façades of the buildings were uniformly plain, their infrequent windows small, grated holes which gave no view of the interiors. And yet, as her ear became attuned to the jumble of sounds, Emmeline heard, behind these façades, the murmur of female voices, the cries of children and, once, the disconsolate braying of an ass.

  At last, after some twenty minutes of halting ascent, the Negro ducked his head under a low archway and, signing her to do likewise, led the mule through a narrow corridor out on to a small square baked by sunlight. Opposite was a building no different from those they had already passed, its heavy wooden doorway ornamented with iron bolts and a shuttered iron grille. As they approached this door someone within opened to admit them to an interior hall supported by white marble columns. The Negro giant dropped the reins over the mule’s head, cupped his hands and knelt. Emmeline again put her foot in this human stirrup and when she had alighted saw coming towards her an elderly Arab, sepulchral in a dun-coloured burnous, his head shaven except for a long topknot of grey hair. He bowed, beckoning her to follow him into a second larger courtyard, also paved with white marble and enclosed by colonnades which admitted the sunlight from above. In the middle of this hall was a small grove of orange trees, a fountain and a lighted iron hearth at which, squatting over smoking earthenware cooking utensils, were two Negresses, one old and stout, one tall, young and slender, her face a handsome oval mask which she now turned briefly in Emmeline’s direction. The elderly Arab servant passing by these women approached a staircase ornamented with bright pottery designs, leading to an upper colonnade which encircled the entire hall.

  ‘Welcome, Emmeline. In my Moorish house, may I call you by your Christian name?’

  At the head of the stairs, Deniau stood, wearing a long Arab robe of the finest white wool, his ankles bare, his feet in red leather sandals, and at his belt, which was ornate and embroidered in gold, a small curved ceremonial dagger. He smiled and beckoned her to come up. When she reached the head of the staircase he kissed her hand.

  ‘Your house is beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘I am glad you like it. In fact, it’s a typical Algerian apartment. Come, let me show you.’

  He led her into a room covered with luxurious carpets, its only furniture a large vase filled with rosewater and two carved and painted wooden chests, similar to those in the rooms of the Governor-General’s residence. But as they went through to a second room and then a third she saw that, unlike the furnishings in the residence, here there were no beds, tables or chairs. And when he led her into the large central room, spread along one wall was a profusion of silken cushions with, in front of them, two long painted trays spread with sweetmeats, fruits, a crystal decanter and glasses. Deniau sat cross-legged on the cushions, inviting her to join him. He poured wine from the decanter, saying, ‘Alcohol, of course, is not permitted in a Moorish house. But then, we are not Muslims, thank God.’

  He handed her a glass.

  ‘Remember Compiègne? Our Brüderschaft toast? Shall we?’

  She did not want to do this but did not know what to say and so, taking her silence for consent, he eased towards her on the cushions, holding his glass aloft then entwining his arm in hers, bringing them close, their faces inches apart as their glasses touched in the toast.

  ‘To our friendship,’ he said.

  In the ritual of the toast they must drink at the same moment and as she drank a lock of her hair fell forward, spilling against his brow. Their eyes met. He lowered his glass.

  ‘Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no. It was . . .’ She hesitated, trying to think of a polite phrase.

  ‘Gauche?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Yes it was. I apologize. Forgive me.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said again, desperately embarrassed by now. ‘Compiègne, yes. Our picnic. I remember.’

  He stood up. ‘A wonderful afternoon, wasn’t it? I’ll never forget it.’ He held out his hand, raising her up. ‘Now. Let me show you the view from my roof.’

  As she put down her glass she had a feeling that she was being watched. She turned and saw in the doorway a handsome, light-skinned Arab boy, his face still as an image in a photograph. He stood, leaning against the lintel, his slight graceful body draped in faded pink silken robes. His eyes stared into the room as though they saw something beyond her. Deniau spoke to him in Arabic. The boy bowed and withdrew.

  ‘That is Si Abeldesselem, one of my servants who will play for us at luncheon. A strange boy, but, as you will see, his music has charm.’

  The roof on to which Deniau now led her was sheltered from the midday sun by a stone arcade running around the parapet. He pointed to an irregular mass of white buildings at the very top of the hillside. ‘That is the Citadel. It was the residence of the Princes of Algiers. If you look at those loopholes in the walls you’ll see where their huge cannons once dominated the city. The Citadel was where the Turkish ruler held court. Over there to the left were the private apartments where he lived with his wives. And then, one morning, almost forty years ago, walking on his rooftop he looked down and saw our fleet approaching these shores. That was the end of Turkish rule.’

  �
�And now, what is it used for?’ she asked.

  ‘Barracks, and storehouses. All of its treasures have disappeared, the furnishings looted by our troops. The great cannons were shipped back to France as trophies. I’m told they’re on display in the Invalides.’

  He walked to the edge of the parapet and stood looking down as though he were alone. After a moment of silence, he turned back to her.

  ‘So here you are, in Algiers. I hope by bringing your husband here I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You want to stop them going to war against France, don’t you? If my husband can help you, then of course it’s right.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. Remember, when we were in Compiègne, how the Emperor talked of France’s mission to civilize these people and improve their lives. But the truth is, next year we’ll complete our conquest of this land. In doing so we’ll open new trade routes to the rest of Africa. It is we, not the Arabs, who will benefit. And I ask myself: what will happen to their way of life?’

  ‘There is something about this place, something I would not like to change,’ she said.

  He smiled and, leaning across the cushions, touched her hand lightly. ‘If you had come here today with your husband I would not have worn Arab dress. He wouldn’t have understood. But you – you’re different. You could fall in love with Africa, as I have. Don’t misunderstand me. I love my country. I will fight for France as I have fought for her in the past. And yet Africa has changed me. As I suspect, it will change you.’