by Marie Laval
Yasmin came in and gestured to follow her. Marie-Ange wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and walked, unsteady, towards her.
‘Has my little boy left for Kouba? Did you see him? Was he all right?’ she asked, clinging to the young woman’s arm as her voice choked with tears.
Yasmin nodded. ‘Yes, he was. Don’t cry. Aicha’s sister is good with children. My girl is there, too. She says Salima treats the children well.’
Marie-Ange swallowed her tears and let go of Yasmin. ‘You have a daughter? How old is she?’
Yasmin counted on her fingers. ‘My girl is eight. She’s called Baya. Come now. It is time.’
The corridor was full of women talking and laughing, some of them just young girls. They swirled around in their colourful dresses. Tonight the doors and curtains were wide open, and Marie-Ange peered inside the small bedrooms as she walked past. The women were readying themselves for the clients, clasping chains around their necks and shiny bangles on their wrists and ankles, lining their dark eyes with khôl pencil and reddening their cheeks and lips with rouge. Marie-Ange wondered what they were talking about. They sounded like exotic birds, chirping away, happy and cheerful. Yet they were prisoners here, their bodies abused night after night. How could they stand it?
She entered a hot, steamy room.
‘We have a hammam,’ Yasmin said, disappearing behind the scorching hot mist. She instructed Marie-Ange to undress, and then picked up her gown and undergarments before pointing to a bench where Marie-Ange sat down. She felt dizzy and the heat didn’t help.
‘You lie down.’ Yasmin rubbed scented oil into Marie-Ange’s shoulders and back in light, long strokes. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it was like being prepared for a sacrifice.
‘Go in the bath now.’
Yasmin handed her a large piece of cloth and gestured for her to follow to the next room. Two women were reclining in a large bathtub. Yasmin spoke to them in Arabic and argued for a couple of minutes before the women reluctantly stepped out of the tub. They glanced at Marie-Ange with hostility. One of them made a sign with her fingers. Yasmin shouted at her and put her hand in front of her face, palm out, several times.
‘What did she do?’
Yasmin shook her head and muttered. ‘She’s a bad woman. She sends evil eye.’
Marie-Ange washed and then rubbed rose-scented ointments on her body and oil in her hair. She would do everything Aicha wanted. She would lie with a man tonight, and every night after that. Tomorrow she would start learning about the layout and the running of this place, about the habits of the guards and the other women. She would bide her time. The following week, she would be able to see Lucas. And then, she would escape. There had to be police authorities she could turn to in Algiers. Perhaps even Monsieur Deval, the French consul if he was still in post, or representatives of the French army.
She dressed in a flimsy, transparent, red dress Yasmin supplied and slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers.
‘You have beautiful hair,’ Yasmin said, looking admiringly at Marie-Ange’s golden curls which lay thick and shiny on her shoulders and down to the middle of her back.
She took a stick of rouge and brushed some on Marie-Ange’s lips with her finger, and a little on her cheeks, too. Then she stepped back, looking pleased with her efforts.
‘We go now.’
They walked down to the ground floor and across several reception rooms where women sat around on large, colourful cushions, drinking and smoking a long pipe which reminded Marie-Ange of Uxeloup Malleval’s opium smoking contraption. They finally reached a room with two dozen chairs and armchairs dotted around.
‘You go and stand over there, but first, you drink this.’ Yasmin handed Marie-Ange a small glass of tea. She gave her a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
Marie-Ange drank the whole glass. It tasted of mint and something else—something exotic and spicy. She hoped it was drugged, so all her senses would be annihilated and she would feel no shame and no fear. She followed Yasmin’s instructions and stood facing the chairs. Almost immediately she heard men’s voices outside. They were here. They would watch and bid for her and then…
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had to go through with it, for her son’s sake. She kept her eyes shut tight as the men came in and took their places on the chairs. Then, Aicha greeted her clients.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘We start our auction now. I want the lucky bidder to have a full night’s enjoyment of our new lady.’ She tugged at Marie-Ange’s dress. ‘Open your eyes,’ she ordered sharply.
The room was full of men. Some wore European clothing, some French or English uniforms. Others wore Arabic clothing. But all had their eyes fixed on her. Bottles and glasses were handed out as well as cigars and pipes. Marie-Ange felt strangely detached from the scene now, as if she was watching it from above.
As she skimmed over the audience, she recognised the small, dark-haired man who was on the Maltese ship. The man she had seen in Catania. He was still wearing his cheap grey suit and was staring at her from his seat, a smug grin on his face. She frowned. Who was he and why did he keep following her? And why was he not with the other hostages?
She swayed and several men laughed.
‘What did you give her? I hope she won’t fall asleep in bed!’ One of them shouted.
Aicha started the bidding at three hundred dinars. Hands shot up, voices called higher prices, cigars were lit and more bottles of liquor consumed. A shrewd businesswoman, Aicha circled around Marie-Ange incessantly, lifting her dress to expose an ankle, then a thigh; patting her bottom through the transparent dress; pulling the fabric onto her shoulder to bare one breast, tease a nipple; touching her hair and toying with her curls.
The atmosphere heated up as the bidding reached one thousand dinars. The room was getting very hot. The men’s faces became blurred and disappeared in a fog of tobacco smoke. It was hard to breathe. Marie-Ange blinked and shook her head, then put her hand on her throat. She felt sick.
A tall, dark-haired man dressed in a black suit came in through the back door. She must be dreaming now, she thought, as she watched him lean forward and talk to someone in the audience. Although she couldn’t see his face through the thick tobacco smoke, everything about him, from the colour of his hair to the way he moved reminded her of Hugo.
‘Two thousand dinars, but I want her at my house,’ the man called. Dear God, it was his voice.
Her heart stopped. Gasping with shock, burning with shame, she put her hands up to hide her face. As she struggled to breathe, she felt she was falling and everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘I’ll take over. Get your hands off her. I don’t want her all bruised and damaged.’
It was his voice, again. He lifted her into his arms, and instinctively she rested her head against his chest. Her cheeks scraped the metal buttons from his jacket. The dream felt so real she didn’t want to wake up.
‘Monsieur, I want to up your bid to two thousand-five hundred dinars,’ another man urged with insistence. He had a strong Italian accent.
‘Too late. The bidding is closed and I believe I won.’
‘Three thousand…you can get all the whores in Algiers for that price.’
‘Let me through,’ he ordered.
She felt his arms hold her more tightly against him.
‘I don’t usually allow women out of my establishment. Make sure you bring her back by eight tomorrow morning. Any longer and it will cost you.’ Aicha’s shrill voice was right next to her.
Marie-Ange shook her head and sighed loudly. She didn’t want Aicha in her dream. Just him.
‘Yes, of course. Now move out of my way, both of you.’
She was lifted into a carriage. The door closed and she heard him give an order in Arabic. His arms were still around her. She felt his lips kiss her hair.
‘Everything’s fine, don’t worry, my angel,’ he whispered in he
r ear. The stubble of his cheeks prickled her skin. This was the best dream she had ever had. A smile on her lips, she drifted back to sleep.
There was water nearby, a fountain maybe or a waterfall. A light breeze rustled tree leaves and tall grasses and carried their fragrance into the night. A woman laughed close by and hummed to the soft cords of a zither. A blue moonlight bathed the large bedroom that opened onto a garden. Marie-Ange touched the white muslin curtains floating around the bed. Her throat was parched and the crystalline sound of water nearby was so enticing it was almost torture. She tried to get up but her head spun too much, and she lay down onto the bed again. She wanted to sink back into her wonderful dream but she knew she must wake up. Whoever had taken her to this house would soon be back and demand what they had paid for.
She heard footsteps. The shadow of a man stood in the doorway. Her heart started beating wildly.
Hesitantly, the man walked over to the bed and Marie-Ange recoiled, covering herself with a sheet.
‘Marie-Ange, are you awake?’
It was his voice. Was she still dreaming?
‘I’m not sure…’ She replied with hesitation, staring wide-eyed as he approached the bed.
He sat next to her on the bed. ‘You’re safe now. It’s over.’
She pressed her hands to her heart. ‘So I am awake? It’s really you?’
His face was partly in the shadows but his eyes shone in the moonlight. He smiled and leant forward to touch her hair.
‘Never, in my wildest dreams would I have imagined we would meet again, here in Algiers.’
Her heart leaped into her chest. Then she remembered something he had once said, a lifetime before. ‘You said you never dreamed.’
He shrugged. ‘I said a lot of bloody stupid things.’
She bent her head. ‘How did you know I was there? In that…place?’
‘Pure luck. I happened to be at the Dey’s palace tonight for a briefing when the guards came into the courtyard with a group of women. One of them reminded me so much of Sophie I had to go over and take a look. It was her indeed. She was badly shaken and barely coherent, but she managed to tell me your ship had been captured and you had been taken to some woman called Aicha.’
He paused. ‘I know of Aicha and her establishment. It has a certain notoriety here in Algiers. I hope I got there in time, before…?’ His eyes were full of questions.
‘Just about. Where is Sophie now? What about my aunt and my cousin? They were taken, too.’
He looked surprised. ‘I did not know you had relatives with you. Like I said Sophie was barely coherent.’
Marie-Ange explained how she happened to be on the Maltese ship with Agata and Giulia.
‘I’ll deal with them tomorrow. The Dey has a lot to answer for. He is in blatant violation of the peace treaties he signed. He obviously thinks they are not worth the paper they’re written on.’ He took her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘You will stay here with me from now on. We’ll get Sophie and your family out in the morning.’
‘No. I must go back to Aicha.’
He frowned. ‘Whatever for? If you have left any of your belongings there, I promise I will replace them for you.’ He sounded impatient.
‘No, you don’t understand. If I don’t go back, Aicha will…’ Now that the time had come to tell him, she didn’t know if she would be able to. She could hardly breathe.
‘She will harm my son—our son.’
He withdrew his hand. ‘What?’
She inclined her head and swallowed hard. ‘He is almost two and a half years old. His name is Lucas.’
The silence between them was filled with tension.
‘You are telling me I have a son,’ he said at last.
She nodded.
He pulled back and narrowed his eyes. ‘And you didn’t think I had the right to know about him before now?’
‘Well, I…’
‘Did you bring him up as Norton’s son?’ He clenched his fists on his thighs.
‘No, I did not,’ she protested. ‘I left Christopher long before Lucas’ birth.’
He seemed to relax a little. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you write to me, for God’s sake?’ The intensity of his stare made her shudder.
‘I was going to tell you,’ she started to explain.
He stood up abruptly. His eyes were hard. ‘We’ll talk later. Let’s go and get the boy now. I won’t have my son spend another minute in that place.’
‘Lucas isn’t at Aicha’s. She sent him to her sister in a place called Kouba.’
Hugo took a deep breath. ‘I know it. It’s a village about ten miles from town. We need someone who can get us inside the woman’s house, someone she knows. The last thing I want is to create a commotion in the middle of the night, alert villagers or even guards.’
‘Yasmin might help. She has been looking after me. Her daughter lives there too,’ Marie-Ange explained.
‘We will fetch her first then. Get changed while I sort things out. I think there are clothes in there.’ He pointed to a wardrobe in a corner of the room and disappeared into the garden.
Marie-Ange found an ankle-length skirt and a stripy white and blue blouse which she slipped over her flimsy red dress. She wondered who the clothes belonged to. Maybe they belonged to the woman who was laughing and singing in the room across the courtyard? She tried not to think about Hugo’s reaction to her news. He was angry, very angry. She hoped he didn’t despise her, or worse. She couldn’t bear it if he hated her. For now she must focus on getting Lucas back.
She walked across the patio in the moonlight. The night sky glittered—black velvet pricked with thousands and thousands of stars glittering like diamonds. She had never seen a night sky so beautiful. She stopped at the fountain to cup some water in her hands and drank until her throat was no longer parched. Then she washed her face. She heard men’s voices. A curtain was pulled back and Hugo came out of a room followed by a young man in dark blue trousers and tunic.
‘Marie-Ange, this is a friend. Sheikh Zentar. He’s going to help us.’
The man bowed deeply in front of Marie-Ange. ‘We will take the calash for the women,’ he said.
‘Thank you Zentar. I won’t forget this.’ Hugo nodded sternly.
His friend stepped forward and clasped his hand on his shoulder. ‘This is nothing, Ahar. I’m glad I can help.’
A few minutes later, they were on their way to the lower town and Aicha’s establishment. Hugo and Marie-Ange waited outside the brothel while Zentar entered to fetch Yasmin. The young woman’s eyes opened wide with surprise when, a short while later, she stepped into the calash and saw Marie-Ange.
‘We’re going to Kouba to get Lucas,’ Marie-Ange explained. ‘Can you help us?’
‘You want to get your boy now? Aicha will be angry.’ Yasmin shook her head, making all the charms and medals pinned to her veil jingle. Then she sat back and added wistfully. ‘She will be very angry with me, too.’
Marie-Ange realised what she was asking Yasmin to do would put her and her daughter in danger. ‘Then why don’t we get your little girl, too? You don’t have to go back to that place ever again,’ she told her.
Yasmin joined her hands together. ‘I can stay with you? And Baya stays, too?’
Marie-Ange nodded and the two women linked arms. The truth was she had no idea if Hugo would agree to help Yasmin and her daughter. She didn’t even know what would happen to Lucas and her.
They stopped on the outskirts of Kouba. It was only a small place. A few streets lined with flat-roofed houses, a square with palm trees, a fountain and a washbasin. The minaret of a mosque was barely visible in the darkness. A few dogs barked close by, but there was no light in any of the houses. Yasmin leant forward and spoke to the driver of the calash in Arabic, pointing to a side street. Marie-Ange jumped out and gestured to Hugo, who rode over to her.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ he asked, bending down slightly towards her.
‘We
are getting Yasmin’s little girl too,’ she said, standing on her tiptoes and putting her hand on his leg.
‘But…’ A deep frown creased his forehead.
‘Please. She’s only eight. We can’t leave her there. You know as well as I do what will happen to her. And Yasmin will not be able to go back to Aicha’s if she helps us.’
He straightened up and nodded.
Salima’s house was tucked away behind a line of palm trees at the end of the village. Zentar and Hugo slid down from their horses. The calash driver jumped down, drew his pistol and walked around the house to guard the back door.
‘I’ll keep watch from here,’ Zentar whispered.
Hugo helped the two women step down from the carriage, and then spoke to Yasmin. ‘We’ll try a soft approach first. Offer the woman money, hopefully, we won’t need to use anything else.’
Yasmin looked terrified as she knocked on the door. Even though she smiled to reassure her, Marie-Ange too was anxious. A woman’s voice answered from behind the door. Yasmin said something in Arabic and the woman replied with a harsh voice.
‘She doesn’t want to open the door.’ Yasmin turned to Hugo.
‘Then we’ll use a little persuasion.’ Hugo shoved a few gold coins into Yasmin’s hand. ‘Tell her she can have fifty dinars if she lets you see your daughter now.’
Yasmin nodded and spoke again. The woman behind the door laughed. There was a brief silence, followed by some clinking noises as the door was unlocked. A suspicious face peered in the doorway. Yasmin showed her the coins she held in the palm of her hand and Aicha’s sister opened the door wider, enough for Hugo to stick his boot in. He pushed the door open and walked into the house. Then he put his hand over the woman’s mouth and spoke a few sharp words in Arabic. Her eyes opened wide, and he released her.
‘Go with Yasmin and get the children,’ he told Marie-Ange. ‘Madame and I are waiting here.’
Yasmin took a candle that had been left burning on the table and led the way to a back room where a half-a-dozen children of all ages were sleeping on mattresses on the floor. Marie-Ange knelt down and carefully lifted the thin blankets to peer at the children’s faces. Yasmin pulled a girl out and lifted her into her arms. Marie-Ange looked again, fear tightening her chest like a fist. Lucas wasn’t there. She ran back to the front room.
