The Magician's Wife

by Brian Moore

  ‘How was your excursion?’ he asked, as he came into the room. ‘Did you ride out into the desert?’

  ‘How was your luncheon?’

  ‘Strange, very strange.’ He removed his linen jacket and sat down on the room’s solitary sofa stretching out his arms and staring up at the ceiling. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I learned something today. In Europe when I perform an illusion my audiences are in awe of what I’ve done. But they don’t think of it as evil because in some way they sense that they’re being tricked. And so they don’t hate or fear me as those Arabs did at luncheon. It’s a very unpleasant, almost frightening feeling. Believe me, I’ll be glad when all this is over.’

  She watched as he got up, stripping off his shirt and, with his back to her, washed his face and neck in a basin. She could see the bald spot which he combed over carefully before each performance. With his bent slightly stooped shoulders and narrow chest, he seemed a humble figure, a servant, not a seigneur. The fame he had courted, the dream he held of his importance, now seemed a pathetic delusion for, if what she had done today inspired Bou-Aziz to launch the jihad, he would be deprived of his greatest triumph, one in which his feats would have become legend and he a part of history.

  Now, having finished washing, he put on a robe and went out on to the balcony. She sat, sick with anxiety, her mind stumbling among a set of explanations, none of which could possibly deflect the anger and outrage she expected. For she could not use the lie of silence. She must tell him the truth.

  Slowly, like an ill person, she rose and went out on to the balcony. At that moment a soldier ran up the stone steps leading from the courtyard below and handed Lambert a folded sheet of paper, saluting as he did. ‘Sir, shall I wait for a reply?’

  She saw Lambert unfold the note and read it. ‘Thank you. No reply.’

  The soldier, again saluting, ran back down the steps, his boots loud on the stone. Lambert stood staring at the note as though reading it over and over again. Then, seeing her standing nearby, he held up the sheet of paper and said, ‘It’s from Charles Deniau. Bou-Aziz has called a meeting of the sheikhs in the courtyard of the grand mosque tomorrow morning. He has asked that we be present, Charles, myself and, I don’t know why, he also wants you to attend.’ He looked again at the sheet of paper. ‘Charles believes that tomorrow we’ll have our answer one way or another. But, it’s odd. Why would the marabout ask for you?’

  She stood, silent, looking at him. ‘It is too warm to stay outside,’ she said. ‘Come. I have something to tell you.’

  When they entered the inner chamber he went to the buffet and poured himself a glass of water. ‘Well? What is it?’ He seemed preoccupied, half listening. But when she began to speak he stood transfixed, his back to her, his hands still holding the glass of water and the pitcher.

  ‘This morning I went to see the marabout in his sanctuary in the hills. I spoke to him and to his daughter. I told him why you have been sent here. I told him the truth about the heavy box and the false bullets. I told him about the offensive next spring. He listened to me, then said that he would not betray my confidence, that no one would know what I had told him. But even if that’s true, I can’t hide what I have done from you. I won’t even tell you that I’m sorry. I know that this is probably the end of our marriage. But I had no choice. I don’t believe that we should be the conquerors of these people or that we should try to make Frenchmen of them, or use their country for our gain. I did not want to be a part of it.’

  She watched as he put down the glass and pitcher then turned to face her. The anger she had expected was absent from his face. Instead, he seemed to be puzzling over something, as though trying to discover a trick behind what she had told him. At last he said, ‘So he knows. Interesting. It annoyed me to have to play the role of one of those saintly fools, a simple vessel used by a divine power. Now he must realize that I have perfected skills which ignorant marabouts like him could never master. Good! But how do I deal with this? I must think about the next move.’

  With that, he went back out on to the balcony, leaving without a look in her direction. She saw him pace up and down, his head bent, sometimes nodding to himself, sometimes shaking his head in disapproval. He stopped walking and stood, his hands gripping the rail of the balcony as he stared down at the open-air stage below. At last he came back inside.

  ‘He said he wouldn’t betray your confidence and that no one would know what you told him. Tell me. Do you believe him or do you feel he was lying?’

  ‘I believe him,’ she said.

  ‘Very well. Why would he tell you that? I think I know the answer. Because the hundreds of people who watched me perform my “miracles” believe what they saw and it would be difficult for him to prove that I tricked them. The secret of the heavy box and the false bullets are my secrets. He’d have to demonstrate how they work and he cannot do that. That’s why he will keep quiet about what you said. And I think we should also keep quiet. You mustn’t tell Deniau about this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there is nothing he can do to change the situation. Besides, why should I let the world know that you went behind my back in an effort to destroy me? If, tomorrow, Bou-Aziz declares a holy war, my actions here will be forgotten. If, on the other hand, he steps down, then tomorrow is the day of my triumph, a triumph which will last for the rest of my life. Bou-Aziz now knows that my “miracles” are the victory of science over superstition. I hope that knowledge will work in my favour.’

  He came towards her holding up his hands in his odd manner, as though to show he had nothing to conceal. And now she saw at last that he was moved and upset, that he was asking for something, something he had difficulty in putting into words. ‘Emmeline,’ he said. ‘One more question. And may I have an answer, even if it goes against me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A moment ago you said that this is probably the end of our marriage. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No.’ She said it without thinking, thinking only that he had misunderstood her.

  He came closer and put his hands on her shoulders. His face was strained as though he were afraid. ‘I am grateful for that,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t lose you. I know I’ve made mistakes in the past. I saw what happened to you in Compiègne where you were fêted and admired. It was wrong of me to shut you up in Tours. We must travel more. I’ll take an apartment in Paris where you can see friends and amuse yourself. You must know, you are everything to me.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes. I have only you and my work.’ When he said this he bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Captain Roualt and his wife have invited us to attend a small supper party in their quarters. Deniau will not be present as he is dining with some sheikh. It might be pleasant. What do you think?’

  ‘I think there is something you should know,’ she said. ‘I am not sorry for what I did today. You must remember that.’

  ‘Of course. My darling, you don’t need to feel sorry. I don’t understand your point of view but I respect it. Besides, I love you and because I do I’d forgive you anything. Anything!’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your forgiveness,’ she said. ‘What time is the supper party?’

  Chapter 13

  Deniau, riding ahead, made a path for them through the crowd of Kabyles who filled the streets outside the courtyard of the grand mosque. French Zouave grooms took charge of their horses as they dismounted at the main entrance.

  ‘You must go first,’ Deniau told Lambert. ‘We will act as your entourage. Walk towards the orange trees in the centre of the court. Under these trees is the basin where the faithful wash their hands, feet and faces before entering the mosque itself. That courtyard is where Bou-Aziz will deliver his verdict. I don’t know how you will be received. They may try to kiss the hem of your clothing as a mark of reverence. On the other hand they may spit at you. More likely, they’ll draw back, as they did yesterday. You are the infidel sorcerer. They fear you. Ignore them. Stare s
traight ahead.’

  Emmeline walking between Captain Hersant and an army interpreter heard the uneasy clamour of the crowd milling around in the yard like a great herd of animals in a pen. Ahead of her, walking alone, Lambert moved past a frieze of white marble columns and was suddenly recognized. A murmur passed through the crowd, signalling that the Roumi sorcerer had arrived. She walked, imitating Henri, staring straight ahead, aware of the burning scrutiny of these dark bearded faces. In front of her she saw the orange trees. Waiting at the fountain beneath them were the Aga Bou-Allem, their host of two days ago, and Sheikh Ben-Amara, who had fired the pistol in an attempt to kill her husband. The Aga bowed in welcome. Ben-Amara nodded coldly to Deniau, ignoring Lambert.

  ‘The Mahdi is here,’ he told Deniau in Arabic. ‘He is at prayer in the mosque and will join us soon.’

  ‘The Mahdi?’ Deniau said. He looked at Lambert and translated. ‘Is that our answer, I wonder?’ He turned to the Aga. ‘So Bou-Aziz has decided to proclaim himself the Mahdi? Does that mean the jihad? If so, why were we asked to come here? To be spat upon?’

  ‘Colonel, I have not been informed of the marabout’s decisions,’ Bou-Allem said. ‘Sheikh Ben-Amara may know them better than I. In any case we do not have long to wait. Listen.’

  As he spoke, Emmeline heard a chanting start up behind her. She turned to her interpreter. ‘Madame, they are saying Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah comes. The Master of the Hour is here.’

  She looked at Lambert, and saw him stare ahead as he had been told to do, but, no longer able to sustain his role, his body slack with disappointment. Everything he had planned and executed with such skill was wasted: worse, it had caused Jules’ death. The visit to Compiègne, the Emperor’s commission, the hopes he had entertained for medals and praise, all of that was over. There would be an insurrection in which Arabs, Kabyles and French soldiers would die, but now it might be a war the Arabs would win.

  Standing by her husband’s side, Emmeline saw the crowds again part to make way, but in reverence, men touching the hem of the marabout’s robe, fingering their prayer beads as in supplication, chanting over and over again: ‘Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah,’ the Mahdi’s name. Bou-Aziz, nodding in acknowledgement, made his way slowly towards the fountain, as always on the arm of his daughter. As they came up to Lambert’s group the marabout greeted the Aga and Sheikh Ben-Amara, then Deniau, Hersant and, at last with a low bow, Lambert.

  Sheikh Ben-Amara, his face creased in a triumphant smile, turned towards the waiting throng, raising his arms to catch their attention.

  ‘Silence for Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah.’

  Bou-Aziz moving away from his daughter now stood alone, his back to the fountain, facing the crowd. As he began to speak the interpreter huddled close to Emmeline and Lambert, translating in hurried whispers.

  ‘My brothers, I have meditated and asked God’s orders. I have accepted the new name that God has given me, the name of Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah, the name of the Mahdi. But I do not claim to be the redeemer who will lead Islam to the triumph of the true religion and the end of that humiliation which our subservience to unbelievers has brought upon us. My claim today is that I am God’s messenger and the message God gives me is that our triumph will come only when we face the truth. The truth is that we have strayed from the right path. Reform and regeneration of our faith is now the duty of us all. This is a time for prayer, for a spiritual, not a war-like, jihad. To conquer our enemies, we must first increase our obedience to God and to the Prophet. If we do, one day our faith will be so strong that the Christian world will be powerless against it and the infidels will pass for ever from this land.’

  As these words were spoken, Emmeline heard a murmuring of disbelief and anger from Ben-Amara and the other sheikhs. But the vast crowd was silent and attentive. The marabout continued.

  ‘Brothers, I am the messenger of God. In these last days he has given me access to the invisible world. Because of that I know that the unbelievers will be driven from this land, that the way of Islam will triumph and that the passage of the French through our country is temporal: it will not last. In the end it is in the mosques and zawiyas that we will find our victory. Everything comes from God.’

  Bou-Aziz then turned to Lambert. ‘For now, you are the strongest. You have shown us miracles beyond any we have ever seen. Our eyes were never before dazzled by such prodigies. But are they miracles as we know them?’

  At this, Bou-Aziz paused and looked past Lambert at Emmeline, his eyes fixed on her as if seeking some bond. And then he said, ‘No matter. For they come from God. Everything comes from God. And so he has thrown you down among us like a bolt of lightning to prove that for now, none but He, the Almighty, can oppose your will.’

  As he finished speaking, Bou-Aziz held up his hands as if to signal that he had finished speaking. Taalith at once came forward and said to Lambert, ‘My father thanks you for your visit and wishes you a safe journey to your home.’ Then, small and frail, she went to Emmeline stretching up like a child to put her arms around Emmeline’s neck, her soft face touching Emmeline’s cheek as she whispered, ‘My father knows he has made the right choice. He thanks you for helping him decide.’

  At this point Deniau joined them, his face not concealing his delight. ‘Come. We must leave now.’

  As they walked away from the fountain, a muezzin was heard high above in the minaret, chanting the call to devotions. Among the vast throng in the square, all eyes followed the marabout and his daughter, as, moving among the marble columns, they entered the mosque.

  Suddenly Emmeline felt herself pushed aside by Hersant in a quick convulsive movement. She saw the crowd ahead of her draw back to reveal at fifty paces a young man, in the high turban of a caid brandishing a pistol which he now pointed at her. The gun exploded.

  Lambert, walking a few feet ahead of her, stopped and stood staring at the assailant. In a terrible silence, the young caid stared back, then dropping his pistol, turned and flung himself into the crowd. Lambert did not look to see if she had been injured, but having paused momentarily, continued to walk towards the gates. And in that moment, from the awestruck stares of the surrounding crowds, she realized that the assassin had fired not at her but at her husband and that he had not missed. She ran forward, coming up beside him. He stared straight ahead and said, ‘Don’t touch me. We are leaving. Keep walking.’

  The bullet had entered his body just below his right shoulder. A stain of blood spread like a dark rose on his white linen jacket. But he did not falter in his walk, nor show the slightest weakness or pain. Deniau, coming up beside her, gave her a warning look. ‘Emmeline, do as he says.’

  All around them, staring frightened faces, as the sorcerer, seemingly unharmed, reached the gates of the courtyard where the French grooms waited with their horses. She saw Lambert brace himself and for a moment tremble in pain as he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, using his left hand to grip the pommel. Quickly, Deniau and Hersant followed suit, the grooms helping Emmeline into her saddle. Then, with Lambert’s horse in the lead, they rode out into the dusty, crowded streets, the horses, impeded by the narrow lanes and staring pedestrians, moving at a slow walk, Lambert, gripping the reins in his left hand, his right arm slack by his side.

  Emmeline, in panic, kicked at her horse’s sides and moved up beside him. ‘Henri, Henri?’

  She saw his face contort in anger or in pain. ‘Pretend!’ he said. ‘Pretend!’

  The French fort was three streets away from the mosque. Spurring his horse Deniau rode past her, saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. I’ll get the doctor. We’ll be there in a moment.’

  And then, turning his head, he called back to Lambert, ‘Hold on, Henri. Hold on! You were wonderful!’

  The Zouave sentries rolled open the gates as Deniau cantered up. ‘Close them again, the moment we are inside,’ he shouted.

  Captain Hersant, riding beside Lambert, dismounted in the yard and reaching up took Lambert in his arms
, lifting him from the saddle. ‘Good man, good man! We’re home. You’ll be all right.’

  But at that moment Lambert fainted. Deniau, already at the infirmary door, shouted orders and at once two soldiers came running across the courtyard with a stretcher. Emmeline saw the blood seeping in a dark clot across the chest of her husband’s soaking jacket. She ran beside the stretcher, leaning over him, calling his name. But when the stretcher bearers entered the infirmary Deniau came over and took her arm. ‘The doctor is here and is ready to operate. It will be all right, it will be all right. Sit now, sit.’

  He seated her on a bench in the corridor beside the intensive-care room where Jules had died. Across the hall she could see two doctors in white robes and masks going into a room marked SURGERY: Deniau and Hersant hurried out into the courtyard as though on their way to an important meeting. A white-aproned orderly passed her and went into the surgery, carrying what seemed to be a tray of instruments. She sat, numb, her mind shuffling and jumbling broken images as in a dream: Henri walking through the courtyard of the mosque without flinching, Henri, fainting, falling into Hersant’s arms, the dark rose stain on his linen jacket, Henri, hunched over a desk, pricking his thumb to draw blood for the false bullet he used in his performance, the young assassin firing, his eyes dilated in insane concentration, the Jesuit cemetery with its freshly dug grave into which the rough sack containing Jules’ body rolled, the electric gates of the Manoir des Chênes in Tours opening to admit a carriage in which she sat, dressed in widow’s weeds.