The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  The girl hugged her bag tightly, as though she was frightened it would be snatched away.

  “You, a paratroop major, are asking a little Moorish whore to sit at your table?”

  “Please.”

  She looked at him, hesitated, then sat down next to him, but ostentatiously moved her chair away from his. She ordered an orange juice and began to look a little more composed.

  “That student who jostled me,” she said, “has failed his first-year medical exams twice. He’s a fool. I started at the same time as he did and now I’m in my third year . . .”

  “My name’s Jacques de Glatigny,” the major gently told her.

  “And I’m Aicha . . .”

  She almost gave her surname, but suddenly stopped.

  “I’m also from a ‘big tent.’”

  The expression brought a smile to the major’s lips but it appealed to him. To him racialism and exaggerated nationalism were due to the middle class and parvenus and he felt close to “big tent” people, no matter what their country, their religion or the colour of their skin, for in them he found the same reactions as his own. Aicha was twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers and gazing at it pensively.

  “They say,” she said, “that the lizards have caused a lot of bloodshed up in the mountains.”

  “It’s a painful, unfortunate war . . .”

  “Mere repression, that’s all, with guns, tanks and aircraft against bared breasts. The revolutionaries of 1789 wouldn’t be very proud of you.”

  “You know, Aicha, those revolutionaries of 1789 went to a lot of trouble over my family, but only in order to cut their heads off. Would you like a cigarette?”

  She took one, but he could see she was not used to smoking. Her lips made the paper wet, the tobacco came apart between her teeth, and she kept coughing.

  Aicha was as beautiful as the fruit they had had for breakfast that morning up at the Balcon de Saint-Raphael, highly coloured and luscious, with firm, youthful breasts and naturally scarlet lips. He pictured her firm, sunburnt thighs under her light dress and was ashamed of the thought.

  “I must be off,” she suddenly said.

  She assumed a saucy manner which did not suit her at all.

  “Would you go so far as to see me home?”

  “Of course.”

  “I live in the Kasbah.”

  He settled the bill and took her by the arm; her skin was soft and downy. He hailed a taxi.

  “Rue Bab-Azoum,” she told the driver, “yes, that’s right, at the entrance to the Kasbah.”

  The driver, who was a European, pulled a face.

  Just before they arrived, a patrol stopped the taxi. Aicha hugged her bag tightly. Seeing Glatigny, the sergeant saluted and waved them on.

  The entrance to the Kasbah was sealed off by a network of barbed-wire entanglements and guarded by steel-helmeted Zouaves with their fingers on the triggers of their submachine-guns. They had the tense expression and drawn features of men who are frightened.

  Glatigny stepped through a gap in the barrier, still holding Aicha by the arm.

  “Is the lady with you, sir?” asked a fat captain in a uniform that was too tight for him. His eyes were alert but his voice was friendly.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  He waved the young girl on, but stopped Glatigny.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go any farther. You’re not armed, I should have to detail a patrol to escort you . . .”

  Aicha turned round with a mischievous grin on her face.

  “I should like to see you again,” said Glatigny.

  “Tomorrow, at the same time, at the same place, Major Jacques de Glatigny . . . And thank you for my bag.”

  She started off up a stairway, her skirt swirling round her thighs.

  The Zouave captain, who was bored, tried to start up a conversation. He said to Glatigny:

  “There are still a few Europeans and quite a number of Jews living in the Kasbah. I wonder how long it’ll last . . .”

  So the captain thought Aicha was Jewish or European. Glatigny saw no reason to disillusion him. He asked:

  “It’s as bad as that, is it?”

  The captain threw up his arms:

  “Even worse. We’ve got absolutely no control over the hundred thousand Arabs in the Kasbah. We need a platoon escort just to move a few yards . . . So, like rabbits in a hutch, we’ve wired them in. It’s dotty. We’re simply mounting guard over the F.L.N. headquarters. Yes, sir, that’s what it has come to.”

  Glatigny did not enjoy his red mullet and squid, and the rosé wine seemed to taste of vinegar.

  • • •

  Aicha went up the stairs at a run, putting to flight the cats which were feeding on the refuse outside some heavy, studded doorways with brass knockers. The ruins of an old moucharabieh overhung the lane; behind a little window with iron grilles a curtain was raised, then lowered again. But Aicha knew she was now out of danger. Since March French law had ceased to apply in the Kasbah. The Front was in complete control. All the stool-pigeons had been liquidated or were working for the F.L.N.: the last M.N.A. dissident had been killed the previous day and the police inspectors behind their sandbags received no more callers. The police were waiting in terror for the killer gangs which would one day come and cut their throats.

  Aicha was proud to belong to this organization, to be a militant working for the cause, instead of wasting her time over pointless studies. Later on she would take them up again, when the green and white flag fluttered above Algiers.

  At the corner of the Rue de la Bombe and the Rue Marmol she came across the whore Fatimah leaning against a wall. Fatimah was wearing the heavy silver ear-rings of a tribal girl, a yellow scarf and a fluffy white sweater; she had the attractive, brittle face of a girl who has seen a lot of life.

  Fatimah gave her a friendly wink and murmured:

  “God be with you, sister Aicha.”

  Fatimah was aware of the young girl’s role and dangerous work; she too belonged to the Front, like everyone, like the whole of Algeria. Its members addressed one another as brother and sister. And Aicha’s heart swelled with pride, she felt she was doing something really worthwhile. She stopped for a moment to stroke a child whose head was covered in ringworm, who stared at her in astonishment.

  At 22 Rue de la Bombe, she knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice again. She wondered what the paratroop major would have said if she had told him:

  “In my bag I’ve got the wherewithal to blow Algiers and its rich modern quarters sky-high and I’m going to 22 Rue de la Bombe, where there are some men who will know how to use it.”

  An old woman with hennaed hands opened the door. She looked at the young girl with disdain. Old Zuleika still observed the laws of Islam and considered Aicha a shameless wench for not wearing a veil and for dressing like a European woman.

  But Aicha knew that once the Front had conquered the settlers, it would make every woman shed the veil, forbid polygamy, and put men and women on equal terms, as in the West.

  The major had treated her like a lady, he had picked up her bag for her, the bag containing the detonators that the Communist woman had just handed over to her; he had opened the door of the taxi for her and had bowed as he said goodbye. The major had a slim, distinguished figure and his eyes were gentle and full of tenderness . . .

  “Well, don’t stand there gaping,” Zuleika shouted in her strident Arabic, “come in.”

  She went down a series of passages, up some stairs and across an outdoor terrace, then up some more stairs and down some more passages, where men and women whistled or signalled to one another as she passed. The whole of Amar’s bodyguard was in position. So it was he who was waiting for her.

  The old woman still led the way. She was extremely quick on her feet in spite of her advanced age. S
he was said to be the mother of Youssef the Knife. As though that dirty dog could ever have had a mother!

  Zuleika opened a door adorned with a partly obliterated black hand of Fatmah. In the little room beyond stood Youssef the Knife and one of his henchmen; they were both armed with Mat submachine-guns which they had seized from some French soldiers they had killed.

  “Come in, little sister,” said Youssef.

  He motioned to her with a hand loaded with heavy rings. He was trying to behave like a man of the world and was puffing at a long cigarette-holder, but he still looked like the pimp he was.

  “Did you get the stuff?”

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s in my bag. The European woman gave it to me.”

  Youssef’s cold, cruel little eyes surveyed her from head to foot, pausing at the buttons and zip-fasteners of her dress, delving into her breasts and between her thighs. He ran the tip of his long, obscene tongue over his lips, while his acolyte gave an inane snigger.

  Aicha handed the bag over to Youssef; he put it down on the table and seized her by the arm exactly as the major had done, but this contact repelled the young girl whereas she hadn’t minded the officer’s touch at all.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “Where is brother Amar?”

  She could hear how unsteady her voice sounded.

  “You’ll be seeing him. Aren’t you touchy, my little gazelle? The daughter of Caid Abd el Kader ben Mahmoudi doesn’t like being touched, at least she doesn’t like being touched by Youssef because Youssef was born in the gutter. Is that it?”

  He shook her, while his acolyte smirked all the more inanely. Aicha suddenly felt weak, defenceless and infinitely vulnerable, and Youssef embraced her more closely. The pimp’s lips brushed her hair.

  The young girl shuddered with disgust and tried to snatch her arm away. Amar came into the room; he was a frail, nattily dressed little man. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and his hands were as chubby as a child’s. He looked fragile and disarming. His voice was soft and gentle.

  “Take your hands off her, Youssef.”

  “It was only in fun, brother Amar.”

  “Take your hands off her and don’t ever do that again, otherwise the Front will have to get rid of you.”

  Youssef took a step back; his strength and virility were of no avail against this little man who, they said, had never touched a woman and for over ten years had been hunted by the police. If he was expelled from the Front, Youssef knew he would die . . . perhaps even before being told he had been expelled . . . like Lou Costello, the mobsman who controlled all the girls in the Kasbah, all the tchic-tchic players and kif-sellers. He was known as Costello because he was so tubby, like the American comedian, but his real name was Rafai and he was a killer whom everyone feared. A machine-gun burst through his body had taught him he was no longer the master.

  Youssef was in France at the time because of some trouble over a woman. On his return he had been summoned to this very room. He had been ordered to put his hands up and, “to purge himself,” had been forced to swallow a big bowl of salt. Then Amar had told him about Costello’s death and demanded that he work for the Front with the rest of his gang.

  Amar had spoken in his usual gentle voice, while behind him one of his henchmen had prepared a garrot with which to strangle the pimp in the event of his refusing the offer.

  Youssef had that little strumpet Aicha in his blood; she came and inflamed it in his dreams, but he was still keener on saving his skin.

  “Come along, sister Aicha,” said Amar.

  He was the one who had suggested that they call one another brother and sister. Youssef thought the whole thing was ridiculous but never dared to laugh about it.

  Amar led Aicha across a passage into a slightly cleaner room which had just been freshly whitewashed. Its only furniture was a wooden table, a camp bed, and two wicker chairs. On the table stood a portable typewriter, on one of the walls hung the F.L.N. flag.

  Amar made Aicha sit down on the bed and the young girl embarked on her report, while he paced to and fro with astonishing litheness, making no more noise than a cat: a habit he had developed in the cell in which he had spent five years.

  When Aicha started talking about the group of the Algerian Communist Party with whom she had made contact, Amar asked her for detailed information and made her describe every one of its members. He was wary of them because they were mostly Europeans or Jews who had proved their efficiency and had a doctrine and methods which had been put to the test in the rest of the world. Amar was a nationalist, “a Maurras type of nationalist,” as he had once been told by his cell companion at Lambèze, a former lieutenant in the L.V.F. As a Moslem, Amar had a deep aversion to renegades and pimps but he was already making use of the Algerian underworld and was quite prepared to co-operate with the Communists. He needed bombs and the Communists alone knew how to make them . . . so far. When they had served their purpose he would get rid of them in the same way as those who had joined the Tlemcen guerrilla band: Guerrale, Laban, Maillot, Bonalem . . .

  “Let’s take them one by one, Aicha,” he said. “What’s this man Percevielle like? Do you know if he takes kif, or drinks, or has a weakness for women?

  “You say they’re willing to take on two of our men in their workshops and teach them how to make explosives? What do they want in return? To belong to the Front? We could only accept them on an individual basis, provided they’re prepared to resign from the A.C.P. We’ll see about that . . .

  “Tell me, do you ever see your brother, Captain Mahmoudi? He’s serving in Germany at the moment? Give me his address, will you. No, don’t be frightened, we don’t wish him any harm . . . None at all . . . Rather the reverse, in fact. We regard him as one of us. Not everything that France has done out here has been entirely useless; she’s provided us with some very fine soldiers . . . Like your brother . . .”

  The Vincents had invited about twenty guests to dinner, all people of quality, at least they thought so.

  Juliette Vincent counted them off on her fingers, wrinkling her brow as a rebellious fly kept buzzing just above it. Four army men: the general commanding the sub-division and his chief of staff—the general was paying court to her slightly more than mere politeness demanded—Jacques de Glatigny, for whom she had had a soft spot ever since 1945, and his friend Captain Esclavier; a professor of geology from the Faculty who was just back from the Sahara where, so everyone said, he had made some wonderful discoveries . . . anyway he was all the rage that month; and his wife whom she had never seen, whom no one had ever seen. There are women like that, whom no one ever sees anywhere. That accounted for six of the guests—the foreigners, so to speak.

  Then came the Algerians, those who were exclusively from Algiers and did not own a country estate handed down to them by their ancestors. First of all, Dr. Yves Mercier with his wife and Geneviève, his sister-in-law, who was reputed to be his mistress; the three of them were always asked out together. After that, Bonfils and Maladieu, two big Public Works contractors who were established on both sides of the Mediterranean and dealt in millions. They had important political connexions and were lavish with their inside information. Bonfils had married a girl from the upper-crust of Algiers whose first husband had been killed in Italy. Dear little Yvonne still made a great show of being a war widow. She was also worth about fifteen hundred acres of the finest land. Maladieu was coming with a young actress who had a leading role in the company which was presenting Bal de Voleurs at the Grand Theatre—“My God, what have I done with the tickets?” she suddenly thought—Maître Buffier and his two daughters. People were saying that since he became a widower, the lawyer sought consolation among his youngest secretaries; his daughters, Monette and Loulou, were very much in the swim; they were to be seen at every ball, at every surprise party. They were both looking for husbands, preferably from metropolitan France. Juliette already knew that the two
Buffier sisters would throw themselves at Glatigny and Esclavier. When they discovered the major was married they would quarrel over the captain. Loulou would get him, as usual, and Monette would come and weep on her shoulder. Juliette had a certain affection for poor little Monette. At one time, in order to hang on to a possible fiancé, she had surrendered to him entirely, which had been unwise and useless. Luckily only a few close friends knew about this.

  Then Isabelle Pélissier, her husband and their follower. That was what Juliette called Bert, “a follower.” The Vincents, the Pélissiers, the Bardins and the Kelbers belonged to the same clan: the big settler overlords of the Mitidja and the Chelif. Isabelle was a Kelber and Juliette a Bardin.

  Things weren’t going very well between Paul and Isabelle; yet they were childhood friends. What a curious girl, that Isabelle, Juliette reflected. She was considered flighty and flirtatious and whenever she disappeared for several months from Algiers, every one thought she was having an affair. But in point of fact she had gone off to stay with old grandpa Pélissier on his farm which he had sworn never to leave again.

  Before the troubles the old man used to spend six months of the year in France; since November 1954 he had not set foot in Algiers.

  “Whatever happens,” he had said, “I shall only leave the farm as a corpse—having died from old age” (he was eighty years old) “or because the fellaghas have killed me or because we have lost Algeria and I have put a bullet through my head.”

  They said he still drank a litre of rosé wine at breakfast.

  There would be no one from Government House at the dinner. The Vincents had fallen out with the Resident Minister.

  Isabelle was the first to arrive, in a very simple grey dress.

  “It suits you perfectly,” Juliette told her, as she kissed her on the cheek.

  Isabelle knew that the compliment was sincere for it was slightly tinged with envy.

  “I’ve come to help you receive your guests,” she said. “Let’s see your table plan. You’ve put me next to old Colonel Puysange. He gives me the creeps; he’s as lecherous as an old curé. No, put me here, that’s right, next to this Captain Esclavier.”