The Magician's Wife

by Brian Moore

  ‘You did!’ Deniau said. ‘Congratulations, my dear fellow. But how did you do it? Amazing! You must tell us.’

  ‘No, no,’ Lambert said, chuckling to himself in delight. ‘A miracle cannot be explained. As the marabout said, “Everything comes from God.” ’

  Now, officers and the few wives who had accompanied them to this distant outpost crowded around Lambert, offering their praise. Army orderlies appeared bearing trays of champagne. Emmeline, forgotten in the rush of congratulations, stood slightly outside the circle, watching as Lambert smiled at his admirers. This man who, moments ago, walked like Satan among innocent Africans is what my father always said he was, a charlatan. She thought of Bou-Aziz, of his grave, dignified speech, of his resolve to pray for God’s guidance. And in that moment in the courtyard of a French fort surrounded by illimitable desert she remembered the Emperor’s study in Compiègne, the Emperor with his waxed moustaches and his lecher’s smile, puffing on his long cigar. ‘I have great plans for Algeria. In the spring, I will bring our armies to Africa, subdue the Kabylia region and complete our conquest of the entire country.’ But this conquest that the Emperor desired would not ‘civilize’ these people as he promised but instead bring more forts, more soldiers, more roads, more French colonists to profit from Algeria’s trade and crops. And more mahdis, more jihads, more repression.

  A luncheon gong sounded. Lambert, breaking away from his admirers, came to her, taking her arm and leading her into the dining hall of the fort where a festive celebration was about to begin. A major-domo seated them, her husband on her right and Colonel Deniau on her left. As in Compiègne, where the Emperor and Empress had occupied the centre seats at the long table, so, this morning in far-off Milianah, she and Lambert were given the place of honour.

  As the first course was brought in, Deniau turned to them and said, ‘Of course you realize that things have changed. We have been deprived of our triumphant exit.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that,’ Lambert said.

  ‘He’s not the paramount marabout for nothing. What else could he do? He has to buy time, to save face, to plan some action he hopes will devalue this morning’s miracles. I don’t think he’s going to succeed, but we mustn’t help him by disappearing from the field of combat.’

  ‘But this period of “meditation” could take weeks, Lambert said. You told us we have to get back to Algiers before the rains. Before the end of the month.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Henri. I’m sorry, Emmeline. We can’t leave now. But I hope this “meditation” won’t last more than a few days. He can’t prolong it. These sheikhs and marabouts are important people in their own communities. They don’t want to wait around in Milianah.’

  ‘But what if the rains come? What if we miss the steamer?’

  ‘We’ll deal with that problem when we come to it. In the meantime it’s important that you be seen in the streets of the city. That you and your powers remain fresh in their minds. We’ll arrange a further reception for the sheikhs at which you, of course, will be present. You are Bou-Aziz’s nemesis. Already, I’m sure there’s doubt among many of the sheikhs that he is the promised Mahdi. He’ll have to dispel that doubt by some great feat. And what can he do? His “miracles” aren’t so much miracles as faith-healing and this unproven legend that he is the chosen one of the prophet. Those things can’t compete with what the sheikhs saw here in the past two days. I’m very hopeful. Very!’

  ‘Hopeful?’ Emmeline said. ‘What is it you hope for? That Henri’s performance has discredited Bou-Aziz and that his following will desert him? Or that he will renounce the idea of a holy war?’

  ‘In truth,’ Deniau said, smiling, ‘I don’t really want him to lose his following. I hope that he’ll put off a decision by some ruse such as an interior jihad. It’s been used in the past by would-be Mahdis to give them time to rally support.’

  ‘An interior jihad?’ Lambert said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Instead of calling for a holy war, he’ll tell them that they need to turn inwards towards prayer and work to strengthen their faith. That would fit our plans perfectly. We know that General MacMahon is already assembling the forces he’ll need to land here in the spring. Once our armies disembark in Algiers, that will be the end of it.’

  When he said this Deniau tapped his knife on the edge of his glass, calling for attention. He then rose and proposed a toast to: ‘A patriotic Frenchman who this morning risked his life and displayed his genius in the cause of France’s mission to civilize these lands and make them an important link in our chain of empire. I give you Monsieur Henri Lambert.’

  Chairs were pushed back as the company rose for the toast. Emmeline saw her husband smile and bow his head in mock humility. Of course he’s happy to stay here for a few more days. He knows no ‘miracle’ Bou-Aziz can perform will equal what he did today. There’ll be receptions and dinners in his honour. But when this is over, what’s going to happen? He’ll no longer be content with his paid performances in theatres. Today is the high point in his life.

  Deniau turning to her as the first course was served put his fingers gently on her arm in an effort to re-establish that air of covert complicity which excluded her husband. ‘And you, dear Emmeline, how do you feel about staying on longer? I must confess I dread the day when I’ll stand on the quay at Algiers and wave farewell to the Alexander as it steams towards Marseille.’

  He smiled, tilting his head sideways, almost coquettishly, waiting her answer.

  ‘When are they going to bury Jules?’

  ‘Jules? Oh! Henri’s man. Is he . . .? Of course. When did it happen?’

  ‘Early this morning.’

  ‘Then it’s possible that they may have buried him already. With cholera, they like to get the bodies out of sight. The men fear it, and of course they’re right. In Algeria cholera has killed more of our soldiers than all of the battles of the past forty years.’

  ‘Cholera? No one told me it was cholera.’

  Deniau shrugged. ‘We didn’t want to alarm you.’

  ‘But you knew he was going to die?’

  ‘It wasn’t certain, it never is. If they don’t die after three days it runs its normal course and by the seventh day they begin to recover. One never knows. Besides, I wanted to spare you.’

  ‘Spare me?’

  ‘And spare your husband. Knowing his assistant was about to die might have made it difficult for him to perform. I may seem heartless but believe me there would have been no point in telling either one of you.’

  She put her napkin on the table and, turning from him, said to her husband, ‘He tells me that Jules may already be buried. I’m going to find out. If there’s to be a funeral, of course we must attend it.’

  ‘Wait,’ Lambert said. ‘Let Charles find out. We’re the guests of honour today. Please?’

  But she stood up and left the room. Outside in the inner courtyard of the fort the heavy wooden doors leading to the main square were barred. Zouave sentries came to attention as she approached. A sergeant saluted.

  ‘Madame is going out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is a crowd outside in the square,’ the sergeant said. ‘We tried to remove them after the performance but they refuse to leave. They say they’re waiting for your husband. Are you sure you want to go out, Madame?’

  ‘Yes. I must go to the infirmary.’

  ‘I will go with you. You may need an escort.’

  The heavy doors opened. When she stepped outside accompanied by the sergeant, a frieze of faces greeted her, a great throng of men and women dressed in the worn and ragged garments of the Kabyle peasantry. At first they turned away from her, disappointed that the newcomer was a woman and not the sorcerer, but then, as she made her way through the mass of people filling the square, she was recognized as the sorcerer’s wife and at once was surrounded by people calling out questions she did not understand.

  ‘What do they want? Do you know?’ she asked the sergeant.


  The sergeant turned to listen to the cries. ‘Some of them are asking if the Roumi sorcerer can heal the sick. And some are saying he is the devil. Pay no attention, Madame. The Kabyles hate us, they have always hated strangers. But these are not dangerous. Come.’

  They had reached the door of the infirmary.

  ‘Shall I wait for you, Madame?’

  ‘Thank you. No.’

  When she entered the infirmary she was at once confronted by the sight of seven soldier patients wearing long nightshirts queued up at a desk in the corridor where an army doctor, wearing a white coat over his tunic, was giving injections.

  The doctor, who recognized her from yesterday’s luncheon, at once abandoned his patients, coming towards her with a smile: ‘Good afternoon, Madame. I hear this morning was an enormous success. I had hoped to be there for the celebration, but as you see, I have work to do. May I ask what brings you here?’

  ‘My husband’s assistant, you remember he had cholera. He died earlier today. I wanted to know about his funeral.’

  At the word cholera, the doctor gave her a warning look, then, taking her arm, led her down the corridor, away from his waiting patients. ‘Sergeant?’

  A swarthy medical orderly who had been assisting in the giving of injections came hurrying towards them. ‘Sir?’

  The doctor, momentarily abandoning Emmeline, went off to whisper something in the orderly’s ear. The orderly turned to Emmeline: ‘The body is no longer here, Madame. Father Benedict came for it about an hour ago. Monsieur Guillaumin will be buried in the Jesuit cemetery, just a few streets away.’

  ‘But when? Why did no one tell us?’

  ‘The Colonel signed the authorization early this morning. He did not leave instructions that you or Monsieur Lambert were to be informed. The priest came for the body about an hour ago.’

  ‘I am sorry about this,’ the doctor said. ‘Of course you should have been told. But perhaps Colonel Deniau didn’t wish to upset your husband before this morning’s event?’

  ‘Where is the cemetery? You said a few streets away?’

  ‘Yes, Madame. It is attached to the Jesuit church.’

  ‘Would you like to go there?’ the doctor asked. ‘I can send someone to show you where it is.’

  The building that housed the Jesuit mission and the cemetery differed only from its neighbours by the fact that a stone cross had been erected on its roof and by an ornamental plaque affixed to the archway of its front entrance:

  Mission de Milianah

  Compagnie de Jésus

  The Zouave soldier who had accompanied Emmeline pushed open the gate, revealing a large courtyard, with at its centre a statue of the crucified Christ. ‘The church is that building over there,’ the soldier said. ‘The cemetery is at the rear. Father Benedict is probably there now. We brought the corpse here about an hour ago but they have to dig a grave. This way, Madame.’

  He led her through the small church, out into an area surrounded by a high blank wall. Small paths criss-crossed a little field of rough headstones. At the far end of this place a horse and cart waited, its driver, a Zouave soldier, dozing on his seat. Two Kabyle grave diggers laboured in a muddy trench. Watching them was the Jesuit priest she had seen last night. At first she did not realize it was the priest, for he wore a burnous over his cassock and had covered his head with a fez. He was reading his missal and when he saw her he closed it and came over. ‘I am Father Benedict,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t introduce myself last night. Will you stay? It will not be long. The grave is ready.’

  As he spoke she saw the Kabyles come up out of the trench and toss their spades aside. They went to the cart, removing the tailboard to let them slide out Jules’ body which had been sewn into a rough sack. They stepped over the heap of freshly dug earth and rolled the body down into the trench of the grave. At that, Father Benedict nodded to her and together they walked towards the open pit. The Kabyle grave diggers picked up their spades. The driver of the funeral cart now joined the soldier who had accompanied Emmeline, both men removing their caps, to stand respectfully behind the priest who opened his missal and in a droning voice began to read in Latin which Emmeline did not understand. In the distance she heard a cry, the mid-afternoon chant of a muezzin calling to the faithful from the minaret of a central mosque. At once the Kabyle grave diggers, as though alone in this place, knelt on the edge of the grave, heads touching the ground, prostrate in prayer.

  Emmeline, turning slightly, saw the two French soldiers, cap in hand, waiting patiently for the Latin to end so that they could return to their barracks. They did not pray. She looked again at the prostrate Kabyles on her right. Prayer, said by millions of these people, kneeling, heads bowed, prayer five times each day for each day of their lives, prayer not of petition but of acceptance.

  Everything comes from God.

  While we stand uneasily by this grave, listening to words we do not understand, we who have not known a faith as strong as theirs, we who cannot accept death, who fear hell and only half believe in heaven. What is God to us? What is the meaning of this priest’s words as he reaches down and throws a handful of dirt over the corpse in the grave?

  The grave diggers, their devotions ended, stood up and lifting their shovels set to work filling in the pit. As they did, the soldiers put on their caps and with a nod to the Jesuit went towards their cart. The soldier who had brought Emmeline here turned, as though remembering.

  ‘Madame? Would you like to come back with us?’

  She shook her head.

  Chapter 12

  ‘There will be an escort,’ Deniau said. ‘It will consist of a troop of Arabs, armed, on horseback. The Sheikh tells me the first part of the escort will arrive at the fort, shortly after sunrise. Can you both be ready by eight o’clock?’

  Lambert looked at her. ‘Whatever you wish, my darling. Will that be all right or would you prefer to stay here?’

  ‘I will be ready,’ she said.

  Earlier, when she returned from the graveyard, he had asked about Jules. She said she did not want to talk about it and so they went into dinner in hostile silence. Now, joined by Deniau and Hersant for a discussion of the plans for tomorrow, Lambert was anxious to conceal their rift.

  ‘I think you will enjoy it,’ Deniau said. ‘Bou-Allem is the leading Aga in this region and the fact that he has invited us to a special feast is quite significant.’

  ‘In what way?’ Lambert asked.

  ‘Our spies inform us that in a recent meeting of the sheikhs and marabouts in Algiers he tried to discount the claims of Bou-Aziz. We are told he warned them that even though the French presence in Algeria is a calamity, endorsing a false prophet, even one who seeks to eliminate the infidels, is equally disastrous. And so, your triumph yesterday played into his hands. By inviting you to a feast tomorrow he is signalling to the other sheikhs that he doesn’t believe that Bou-Aziz is the Mahdi.’

  At eight o’clock the following morning Emmeline and Lambert saw, circling below in the courtyard, four horsemen: Deniau, Hersant and two young lieutenants of a Zouave regiment. Two additional horses were held by grooms, waiting their arrival. Once mounted their procession trotted out into the streets of Milianah. There, ten Arab riders, wearing red burnouses and armed with rifles, moved in as escort.

  ‘Bou-Allem’s men,’ Hersant said. ‘And this is only the beginning.’

  When they reached the gates of the town, a further twenty armed Arabs dressed in red burnouses joined the cortège. Two hundred yards further on a third escort surrounded them and as they reached the open plain yet another twenty riders joined them. At once, the entire Arab escort, now numbering seventy horsemen, started off at a gallop, leaving them behind. About six hundred yards further on they reined their horses to a sudden stop, dividing and forming four troops. The Arabs of the first troop wheeled around and galloped full tilt towards Deniau’s party, holding high their rifles and shouting war-like cries. Faster and faster they came on, until
it seemed they would crash into the Europeans. At the last moment, suddenly, in unison, they fired their rifles over their heads, reined their horses to a plunging stop, the animals rising on their hind legs as they wheeled around and raced back. The moment they regained the main body of red-mantled Arabs, a second troop rushed towards the Europeans, repeating the dangerous manoeuvre at the same breakneck speed. Troop after troop came on, until the entire seventy-man escort had discharged their guns. Then, suddenly silent, they drew up as in a parade ground and fell in, in orderly ranks behind their guests.

  Deniau, reining in beside Emmeline, said with a pleased smile, ‘That, dear Emmeline, is what the Arabs call a fantasia. A surprise, a special welcome. Magnificent, no? And you were marvellous. I watched you. You didn’t, even for a moment, flinch.’

  Ahead on the plain, shimmering like a mirage in the noon sun, Emmeline saw an encampment of tents grouped around a large, high-domed, gaily pelmeted central structure. Camels, horses, sheep and goats were enclosed in a sort of paddock, guarded by armed horsemen. Deniau, now riding between Emmeline and Lambert, told them that the Aga would be waiting to receive them. ‘Even when he is travelling, as he is now, he moves with a large entourage of warriors, wives and servants. As you can see, this is no ordinary encampment.’

  Several hundred yards away, a rider came out from the huddle of tents, moving at a slow trot towards the Europeans and their escort. As the rider came close, the escort troop raised its rifles and fired in the air as a signal of greeting. Emmeline now saw that the rider was dressed in the high turban and embroidered waistcoat of a sheikh. He was a man of middle years, light-skinned, bearded, with cold appraising eyes. Reaching their party, he reined in his horse, nodding first to Deniau. He then bowed respectfully to Lambert and said something in Arabic which Deniau translated as: ‘Be you welcome, you who have been sent by God.’