The Magician's Wife

by Brian Moore

  ‘But I am here only for a short visit,’ she said. ‘In a month or two I will be back at home in Tours.’

  ‘I envy the Arabs,’ he said. ‘They have a word – mektoub. You will hear it on their lips, time and time again. It means ‘It is written’. They believe that everything is written beforehand and the destiny of each of us is the will of God. Perhaps it was written that you should come to Algeria. Perhaps it was written that it will change you.’

  He offered her his arm. ‘Come, let’s go in. Our luncheon will be ready.’

  He led her back into the central room and sat beside her on the cushions. Somewhere within the apartment a bell sounded and through the doorway the giant black servant appeared, encumbered with a sort of leather harness on which he balanced an assortment of small jars and pots. The giant deposited these objects on the painted trays in front of Emmeline, then, bowing, withdrew.

  ‘Who is he?’ Emmeline whispered. ‘I’ve never seen so tall a man.’

  ‘He’s Senegalese,’ Deniau told her. ‘We call him Kaddour. But I bought him as a slave so I don’t know his real name.’

  ‘A slave?’

  ‘Yes, many of the Negroes here were brought from Southern Africa as slaves. He is very loyal. A good soul.’

  ‘But he is your slave?’

  Deniau nodded and reached for the pots on the tray. ‘Today my servants have prepared an Arab meal. I thought it might interest you to see it served in traditional fashion. These are just amuse-gueules. The little round cakes are warm, a sort of buttered crêpe. Those are dates from a southern oasis. This is ewe’s milk, although I think we will prefer to drink wine. My cooks will bring the main course at any moment.’

  She ate one of the cakes and bit into a sweet date but her mind, filled moments ago with the things he had implied and said about her, now echoed dully with one word: slave. And as she put down the half-eaten date, the bell sounded again and the two women she had seen in the courtyard below entered, carrying large earthenware pots which they placed in front of Deniau. They then stood, heads bowed, hands joined as in prayer, waiting. Emmeline looked up, first at the older woman and then at the other, tall, young and slender, her eyes now downcast as in submission. Was she, too, his slave?

  At a sign from Deniau, the older cook began to serve food from one of the pots. ‘This is couscous, a sort of pilaff, the base of any Arab feast. Today my women have made it in two versions, one with mutton and the second a sweet version with sugar and spices.’ He gestured to the young girl who, kneeling in front of Emmeline, served the second couscous.

  At a further nod from Deniau both women rose and withdrew.

  ‘Slaves?’ Emmeline looked at him in fear of his answer. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘No, they are my prized cooks, among the best in the city, I’m told.’

  ‘Do they live here?’

  ‘Yes, they are house servants.’

  ‘The young girl is beautiful.’

  ‘She is, isn’t she? The older woman is her aunt. Like Kaddour they are devoted to me. I am very lucky.’ He handed her a plate. ‘The Arab eats with his fingers. They use only the right hand.’

  She ate a mouthful of the food but, later, she could not have told what was its taste. For at that moment she heard behind her a thin, high music and turning saw the Arab boy, sitting cross-legged in the rear of the room, playing a small flute, the music monotonous and strange but with a rhythmic cadence. As he played the boy stared at his flute as if he were alone in the room, but when, putting down his instrument, he began to sing in a soprano tone, he looked first at Deniau and then at Emmeline, his look changing from a shocked stare when he sought to lock eyes with his master, to a look of scorn and hatred when he sang to her as audience.

  Deniau, eating, listening, lay back on the cushions and from time to time turned to look at Emmeline and smile as though inviting her to share his enjoyment of the singing.

  The boy ended his chant, took up his flute, then, graceful as a girl in his faded silken robes, bowed to his master and withdrew.

  ‘Haunting song, don’t you think? It’s a traditional lament.’ Deniau poured wine from the decanter. She did not pick up the glass.

  ‘What does he do, that boy? Is he a house servant?’

  She saw Deniau hesitate. ‘Yes. He keeps my accounts, deals with tradesmen and supervises the other servants. I am away a lot. I need a reliable person to look after things.’

  ‘He looked at me as if he hated me.’

  ‘Did he?’ Deniau laughed. ‘Ignore it. Boys of his sort do not like women.’

  Boys of his sort. Henri once had an assistant like that. She knew about them. But for Deniau to have one in his house, there was something – she looked at Deniau now as he lay back on the cushions eating the Arab food delicately with his fingers, she looked at the fine white robe that covered his body, at the curved dagger in his ornate belt, at his bare feet in the red sandals, at his sun-darkened face, this man who made allusions which could lead to an affair but who knew his Brüderschaft toast had been a mistake and would not embarrass her further at this luncheon. And as these thoughts rushed around in her head, the women came back into the room and now, as they replenished the dish of couscous, she looked at the younger one, head bowed, submissive as a slave. I am not beautiful. She is. I wish I hadn’t come.

  The women withdrew. After some minutes, the Senegalese, Kaddour, re-entered the room, carrying small bowls of water and towels. The meal had ended and as she dried her hands on the towel Emmeline saw Deniau watching her as if he knew her thoughts.

  ‘In Algiers after luncheon, the city sleeps,’ he said. ‘A very civilized custom. I cannot offer you a proper bed here. Cushions, yes. But perhaps you would prefer it if Kaddour took you back to the residence?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’

  Chapter 7

  It was Deniau and not her husband who showed her the theatre in the Rue Bat-Azoun. She stared up at the elegant façade.

  ‘I could believe I was in Paris.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s a copy of the Variétés. However, as you’ll see, there are differences. Because of the hot climate the stairs, passages and boxes are more spacious than in a theatre in France. Usually, the performances are given by opera or drama companies imported from Marseille or Nice. Last week we cancelled the current performances and we’re paying the opera company to stay idle for the period of your husband’s rehearsals and performance. The company manager is not at all pleased. But, of course, your husband may have told you all this?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve hardly seen him since he started to rehearse. And he rarely talks about his work.’

  ‘But his secrets, his illusions, you must be one of the very few people to know them?’

  ‘I don’t. He believes those are things a magician should not discuss.’

  ‘Not even with his wife?’

  ‘Not even with his wife.’

  When they entered the theatre Emmeline saw that Jules was on stage helping Henri and in the background were assembled the cornucopia, the ‘inexhaustible’ bottle and the glass box which he used for transference of the five-franc pieces. At one end of the stage, sinisterly, was the small copper hinged box which he had used in performances in Spain and Russia. She knew at once that while it would be produced later in the performance to frighten and impress the Arabs, the cornucopia, the bottle and the glass box were opening gambits with which he would puzzle and please them. Now she watched Deniau vault lightly on to the stage and heard him describe to Lambert where the various members of the audience would be seated.

  ‘The Arab leaders, particularly those from the desert regions, have never been seated in a building like this one and it’s not their custom to sit in chairs as we do. You must take this into account when you’re performing in front of them. There may be a certain amount of fidgeting and inattention.’

  ‘And the Governor-General, where will he sit?’ Lambert asked.

&n
bsp; ‘Maréchal Randon with his family and suite will occupy those two boxes to the right of the stage while the Prefect and other civilian authorities will sit exactly facing him. The sheikhs, caids, agas, bash-agas and other leading Arabs will be given a place of honour. They will be seated in the dress circle.’

  ‘And the marabouts?’

  ‘We expect that four will attend and we will seat them in the very front of the parterre, facing the stage so that they will have the closest view of your performance. But I must warn you, at the moment we doubt that Bou-Aziz will journey to Algiers. You will have to perform for him at a later date, probably somewhere in the South.’

  ‘We should not use the word “perform”,’ Lambert said.

  ‘Of course. You’re quite right.’

  Deniau then turned to Emmeline.’ I brought Madame Lambert with me to show her the theatre. Perhaps you’d let me offer you both a light luncheon at the Aleppo Café?’

  She saw Henri look down at her and smile in the guilty way he had when he was about to refuse something. ‘Hello, my darling. What do you think of the theatre?’

  ‘It’s very handsome,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘By the way, you will have an excellent view,’ Deniau told her. ‘You will be sitting in the Governor-General’s box.’ He turned to Lambert. ‘And our luncheon, Henri?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lambert said. ‘I must go on working. However, Emmeline might enjoy it.’

  Suddenly she decided that Deniau must not be allowed to manipulate her so easily. ‘I think, in that case, I’ll stay here with Henri. We could have some food sent in.’ She looked at Deniau. ‘Is that all right, Colonel?’

  ‘Of course, Madame. Although I will miss your company.’ He touched his fingers to his kepi, making her a mock salute. ‘Well, until Sunday, then.’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Henri hasn’t told you? The Governor-General requests that you both accompany him and his party to next Sunday’s service in the cathedral. It will be a High Mass in celebration of our recent victory in the South.’

  François du Chatel, Archbishop, a gross, towering presence in his white episcopal robes, waited under a parasol held by an acolyte on the steps of the cathedral at the entrance to Rue Divan. At the sound of trumpets which announced that the Governor-General’s party had entered the street, a double row of French officers lined up behind the Archbishop came to attention and drew their sabres to form a ceremonial arch. Emmeline, disembarking from her carriage with the official party, stood beside her husband, waiting, as the Governor-General kissed the episcopal ring and was led inside to the surprising accompaniment of an overture from an Auber opera, played by an army band positioned in a side aisle of the church. Fanning themselves in the noonday heat, the congregation made up of diplomatic representatives, the Prefect and his staff, the leading French, German and Syrian merchants, French army officers, nuns and priests from the diocese’s convents and seminaries, waited for the Mass to begin. In this former mosque, columns fifty feet high supported the cupola which was lit from above by stained-glass windows. The altar was on the north side, decorated by a painting of the Virgin which had been presented to the cathedral by the Pope. Yet above this painting in prominent relief was a series of ornate, interlaced sentences from the Koran which had not been erased despite the fact that they proclaimed in Arabic that there is only one God and Muhammad is his prophet. Even stranger than this juxtaposition was the Mass itself. As priests and acolytes filed out on to the altar the gay martial music continued. Ranks of soldiers in full regimentals stood before the tabernacle and as the service got under way and the sacramental bell rang to announce the miracle of transubstantiation, the noise of twenty drums thundered under the cupola. At the command of their officer the soldiers presented muskets, at the same time bending the right knee and bowing their heads towards the ground. The thundering drumroll continued until the priest finished his prayer.

  Emmeline saw at once that the congregation was inattentive: a few prayed, some listened to the music, while many of the men walked about, staring curiously at the younger women who knelt in pretended devotion, their heads and faces veiled in the Spanish fashion.

  When the Mass ended, Archbishop du Chatel rose from his episcopal chair on the right side of the altar and walked down to the gate of the communion rail. At once the entire congregation came to attention in a manner not evident during the religious ceremony. A regimental colour-sergeant marched up the central aisle carrying a flag which, kneeling, he offered to the Archbishop for a blessing. Holy water was sprinkled on the flag, the Archbishop mumbled an inaudible Latin prayer and accepted the colours, raising them aloft for the congregation to see, then handing them to a colonel of Zouave who marched to a side altar and hoisted them to a position of honour beside other, now faded, military flags. Drums thundered; the military band struck up the national anthem as a thousand voices were raised in patriotic chorus.

  And now, in this Muslim mosque transformed into a place of Christian worship, Emmeline was transported back to the hurried Sunday Mass in the Emperor’s chapel in Compiègne. Here in Algiers, in an outpost of Louis Napoleon’s dominions, again, the religious ceremony had been no more than a formality. Today’s true devotion was reserved for the flag, symbol of recent victory, displayed not as an act of Christian piety but in a gesture of triumph in the temple of a conquered race. She searched the faces of the official party until she found Deniau who stood among the most senior officers, left hand on his ceremonial sword, his eyes on the newly raised colours, his voice chanting the patriotic verse. Was this the man who, two days ago, lay on silken cushions wearing an Arab robe and telling her that Africa had changed him? Yes, it was. She remembered what he had said: ‘I will fight for France as I have fought for her in the past.’ He was not here to help the Arabs preserve their way of life. He was here to destroy it. Staring at him now, drawn by his looks, his manner, his charm, knowing that she was half caught up in secret anticipation of an affair, she was, at the same time, filled with the uneasy feeling that by bringing her to Compiègne and now to Algiers he had cast her adrift.

  In the next few days, gradually at first, Algiers and its environs began to fill up with thousands of Arab tribesmen, bringing with them horses, camels, sheep, goats, cooking pots, families, children and women camp followers, erecting a warren of tents and huts on the plain of Hussein-Dey just outside the city. This great space in sight of the sea and under the shadow of the hill of Mustapha adjoined the city’s hippodrome where in a fête organized and presided over by the Governor-General, Arab and Kabyle leaders had been invited to take part in a demonstration of riding skills, followed by three days of horse racing.

  Madame Duferre, who had appointed herself as Emmeline’s mentor in social matters, now arranged that she accompany the official party to the hippodrome for the opening day of these festivities. That evening at a dinner party in the Governor-General’s residence Emmeline sat silent, pretending to listen to the conversation of her neighbours but in reality lost in a confusion of the sights she had just seen: four hundred Arab horsemen, wheeling and galloping across the hippodrome, uttering strange cries as though on the battlefield, firing muskets, whirling sabres, in a wild and daring display of warrior skills. And this for the benefit of Randon, a Maréchal of France, fresh from his victories in the bloody Crimean campaign, who sat surrounded by his staff, smiling in false approbation of this reckless display of valour, then rising from his seat in the reviewing stand to salute these desert savages whose leaders he would soon bring to subjugation under the rule of France. But, for now, all was festive; a holiday spirit ruled Algiers. That evening Emmeline slipped out of the residence to roam the newly crowded streets and squares, passing stalls filled with the smells of boiling coffee and hot cakes baked in fat, listening to the oriental twang of guitars, the thin monotonous music of reeds, the beat of strange flat drums, making her way through crowds of jugglers, musicians, beggars and pedlars, stepping past the rings of gamblers hunche
d in circles, intent on play. And then as the sun set above the Citadel, the stalls were struck, the music ended. Vendors and musicians rode out of the city on mules, camels and horses to camp in the vast huddle of tents below the hippodrome, leaving a deep night silence in the city itself.

  At the residence, a Zouave guard opened the gates to re-admit her. The cool marble corridors of the great courtyard were quiet as a cemetery at dusk. When she let herself into their private apartments she saw her husband asleep on a daybed in the alcove. He wore a long white nightshirt and, as always before a performance, he had washed his hair and tied it up in a hair net. He lay on his back, arms crossed over his chest as though to protect himself from a blow. She approached and stood looking down at him, filled with a sudden pity for this man who made his livelihood standing on a stage, smiling at strangers, hoping to deceive them. She looked at his hands, white, supple, slender, trained to conceal and reveal, to misdirect and charm, at his mouth skilled in its patter of falsehoods, at his eyes, now closed, eyes trained to see that person in his audience who could be used as an innocent foil. This man, still as a cadaver under his night shroud, his dignity destroyed by the humble hair net which circled his brow, was at once the most famous magician in all of Europe, her husband and, as her father had said, a charlatan. Who tomorrow would try to alter history through a series of magic tricks.

  But in that moment of looking down at him, her pity turned to shame for he was also a man who loved her as much as he was capable of love, loved her despite her failure to give him the son he wanted, loved her although he must know she did not love him.

  Tears came. She bent and kissed him on the lips. He woke.

  ‘What’s wrong, my darling? Why are you crying?’

  She shook her head, unable to answer.

  ‘Did you just come home? How were the celebrations? I heard great noise in the streets.’