The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  He got up, came and sat down beside her on the camp-bed and took her arm; he felt he was on fire.

  “Come along now, Aicha, be reasonable and let’s have done with this. At least tell me your name; our job’s unpleasant enough as it is.”

  “Then why don’t you leave us and go home?”

  “This is our home, just as much as it is yours. If you like, we could have dinner together this evening and forget all this unpleasantness. Now then, your name and address.”

  “Captain Boisfeuras wanted to find out if I knew Si Millial and, to do so, he would have tortured me. What you want is to sleep with me in order to ask me afterwards if I know Si Millial. The secrets of the bedchamber . . . a well-known police method!”

  Anger brought the blood rushing to Glatigny’s cheeks.

  “I’m an army officer, not a policeman. I’m married, a Catholic, and faithful to my wife. I only want to get you out of this mess in which your thoughtlessness and silly pride have landed you.”

  “I live with a friend, a European woman, Christiane Bellinger, a lecturer at the Algiers Faculty. You can ring her up if you like.”

  Glatigny rose to his feet. He had gone as white as a sheet.

  “We arrested Si Millial at Christiane Bellinger’s last night. He would only have given the address of this hide-out to someone utterly reliable and close to him.”

  Boisfeuras came in.

  “Youssef the Knife came clean at once,” he said, “an old habit with him. He’s just an underling, but not her. Your little girl-friend, Glatigny, is one of the chief organizers of terrorism in Algiers. I think you’d better hand her back to me; this is getting serious, she must certainly know the whereabouts of the bomb dumps and workshops. You’re liable to get your hands dirty; mine already are . . .”

  Aicha felt overwhelmed with fear each time the captain with the rasping voice came near her. He frightened her even more than Youssef; there was nothing to Youssef, he simply wanted to sleep with her; but in Boisfeuras Aicha felt she inspired nothing but a purely professional interest.

  With a look of entreaty in her eyes she turned to the major:

  “No, I’m staying with you!”

  “Boisfeuras,” said the major, “I’ve been behaving like a fool. I think it would be better if you took her off my hands.”

  Aicha became furious:

  “Major de Glatigny leaves the dirty work he daren’t do himself to others; but all the same he was the one who helped me carry my bag and got me through the road-blocks.”

  She suddenly realized, but too late, that she had gone much too far.

  “What were you carrying in that bag?” the major asked in a toneless voice.

  He slapped her across the face twice and repeated the question:

  “What were you carrying in that bag?”

  “Detonators.”

  Boisfeuras gave a sarcastic chuckle:

  “I see you can manage all right. I’ll leave her to you.”

  He strode off, swinging his shoulders slightly. Glatigny felt he was beginning to hate him for that chuckle of his.

  Aicha crouched on the camp-bed, weeping. Her rage was mingled with a strange feeling of impotence, the same sensation she had felt when Youssef had embraced her in the house in the Rue de la Bombe before Amar intervened.

  She cast a sidelong glance at the major who was sitting back in his chair; she hated him as she had never hated a man before and hoped he would strike her again, that he would cease being that puppet with the bloodless face, mechanical gestures and toneless voice who was saying:

  “Go on. Who were the detonators for?”

  She insulted him first in French and then in Arabic and, since he still did not react, she scrambled to her feet and came and spat in his face.

  He struck her in the face and the gold signet-ring on his finger scored her cheek. She fastened her claws into him and they tumbled on to the narrow bed together.

  For the first time Glatigny experienced the fury of desire, a raging torrent which swept away his beliefs, his honour and his faith like so many floating corpses.

  The girl went on struggling but more and more feebly. He crushed his mouth against her burning lips, against her cheek streaked with blood and tears. He squeezed her swelling breasts and her thighs now opening to receive him.

  Aicha gave a loud scream and clumsily returned his kisses.

  “I love you and hate you,” she said to him a little later on. “You’ve raped me and I’ve given myself to you; you are my master and I shall kill you; you hurt me terribly and I want you to start all over again.”

  “I’ve got to go off to a meeting,” he said, “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Don’t go. I’ll tell you everything I know, everything, the whereabouts of the bomb dump and the address of Khadder the Vertebra who makes them.”

  “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t go. The dump is in the Rue de la Bombe. It’s behind a cupboard . . .”

  “Draw me a plan.”

  She got up half naked and made a rough sketch of the dump on a clean sheet of paper.

  He took her again, in a welter of torn clothing, blood and tears, and to his horror he heard himself saying he loved her.

  It was then she told him her name: Aicha ben Mahmoudi ben Tletla, the daughter of Caid Tletla, a former lieutenant-colonel in the French Army, the sister of Captain Mahmoudi who had been taken prisoner by the Vietminh in Indo-China. It was her brother who, on his return, had bought her the watch.

  Glatigny went back into the “schoolroom.” He flung the sketch of the bomb dump down on Boisfeuras’s desk.

  “Send some men over. The bombs are there.”

  “What shall we do with the girl?”

  “Aicha’s never planted a bomb herself, and she’s Mahmoudi’s sister.”

  “Have you known this for long?”

  “No, I’ve only just found out, but the job was already done.”

  “What if you had known?”

  “It wouldn’t have altered a thing. I can’t help thinking I must have been born with that girl in my blood. I’m an utter swine.”

  “Like me.”

  “Far worse. I see myself as a dirty little bastard who can only think of his loins.”

  “My father used to say that in love one must stake one’s soul in the same way as one stakes one’s life in war, and if he had known about the war we’re fighting now, he would have added: one’s honour.”

  “I’ve lost my honour and I’ve lost my soul, but at least it might lead to something! Go and collect the bombs. There are twenty-seven all ready to be planted.”

  As he went out Glatigny ran into Dia who was wandering about with his hands in his pockets.

  “There are some things here I don’t like,” he said in his deep voice. “It’s not very pretty, men in their shirt-tails with their hands in the air, and women in tears.”

  “And bombs exploding, is that pretty?”

  “No, that isn’t pretty either. I’d like to get away from here.”

  “Look, Dia. I want to make a confession.”

  “There are plenty of priests in Algiers, in white robes, in black robes, and even some in uniform who swear like troopers and dream of a holy war.”

  “You’re the only one who will understand, Dia.”

  “Come along to the infirmary; I’ve got some brandy there; come and make your confession to the bottle.”

  Seated on a packing-case which had not yet been opened, in a sort of cellar lit by a large skylight enclosed in a grille, Jacques de Glatigny described what had just happened to him.

  “Dia, in my dishonour I experienced the greatest pleasure in my life.”

  “Only pleasure?”

  “No, the greatest joy as well. All the time I was wallowing in horror, fan
fares were sounding in my head. All my past life collapsed like a wooden fence devoured by termites. There was nothing left but this girl next to me. A huge void, a desert, and this girl held tight in my arms, this monstrous love . . .”

  “Have another drink. What about her?”

  “Everything collapsed for her as well: the Front, the independence of Algeria . . . she betrayed her friends to me, she’s in the same desert as I am.”

  “You know, that’s not a bad story! It’s rather like what happened to Esclavier in the hospital at Camp One. All this hatred, the screams of women and children disembowelled by the bombs, and of men being killed and tortured, the even greater despair experienced by the torturers, all this has once again given birth to love.”

  “A strange sort of love, Dia, which reeks of fire and brimstone, which reminds me of some obscene stories I once read in my adolescence . . .”

  “No, get that idea out of your head. Don’t you see that this is yet another victory for life, life in all its sexual greatness and serenity, which doesn’t give a damn for man’s beastliness, thoughtlessness or stupidity . . .”

  “I happen to be married.”

  “Which doesn’t give a damn if a man is married or fights his fellow man, which doesn’t give a damn for causes and independence, races and hatred, because the destiny of man is love and all the rest is worthless.

  “I don’t care for cold, calculating minds, but when something so magnificently spontaneous as your adventure occurs, then I’m reassured and I drink and I feel warm and comfortable.”

  “But Aicha is Mahmoudi’s sister!”

  “All the better! When you and Mahmoudi were slogging side by side along the tracks of the Haute Région, that merry, openhearted god already knew that one day he would bind you a little closer together by a virgin’s tears. I think he loves us all, that round-bellied god, who is always willing to stretch out a helping hand to prevent us from sinking into despair. By the way, I’ve just had a letter from Lescure. He’s marrying the cousin who used to tease him so much. He must have hooked her like a fine silver fish with a little tune on his flute.”

  “Dia, you’re the only one who can save us. This girl, Aicha, I want you to look after her, because of Mahmoudi and because of me. We can’t ever release her now.”

  “Because she wouldn’t want it, and nor would you.”

  “Maybe. She’s a third-year medical student.”

  “I’ll take her on. I’ll make her look after her own people, and like that, by being good and generous with them, she’ll forget that, for having earned the right to love, she was forced to be disloyal to them. Then I’ll tell her about Mahmoudi and his friend Merle, and she’ll understand that since he was one of us, she is as well. Go and fetch her. This evening we’ll all eat together and she’ll have the place of honour. She’s entitled to it; she’s Mahmoudi’s sister.”

  “Will Boisfeuras be coming?”

  “I don’t think so; he needs to be alone, all alone to do what he has to do or thinks that he has to do. He’ll be leaving us soon, and so will Marindelle if he goes on feeling so miserable.”

  • • •

  The briefing that evening at divisional headquarters was a triumph for Colonel Raspéguy. He had discovered a dump of twenty-seven bombs, arrested one of the leaders of the rebellion and captured all his documents.

  The general wanted Si Millial transferred forthwith to G.H.Q. Raspéguy telephoned to Boisfeuras:

  “The general wants Si Millial to be brought here at once; I want our bird here within the next ten minutes. See that he’s well guarded.”

  “It’s too late, sir.”

  “What? Did he get away?”

  “No, he’s just cut his wrists in his cell with a piece of glass.”

  “Couldn’t you have stopped him?”

  “Min was meant to be keeping an eye on him.”

  “A pity,” said the general, “they would have been glad to see him in Paris. What about the strike, Raspéguy?”

  “I think Boisfeuras has a plan in mind.”

  “He sometimes has extremely odd plans in mind, that Boisfeuras of yours!”

  • • •

  Since his return Esclavier had spent almost every night with Isabelle in a small flat in the Bouzareah which she had borrowed from a girl-friend. He was just going off to join her there, when Boisfeuras rang him up:

  “Among the men you rounded up,” he asked, “is there anyone called Arouche, a dentist, 117 Rue Michelet?”

  “Yes, but of no interest to us; I’m planning to release him tomorrow morning, with apologies: a completely assimilated Kabyle, who studied in France and whose clients are all European.”

  “Arouche is responsible for the bomb network of Algiers. At least all the information that’s just this moment come in leads me to think so. Tomorrow morning, at the moment the general strike is declared, fifteen bombs are due to go off in various European shops in the town. These bombs mustn’t go off whatever happens, and Arouche knows exactly where they’ve been planted.”

  “Well, what shall I do with him? Bring him along to you?”

  “No, I’ve got the strike to attend to; you’ll have to deal with him yourself.”

  “How?”

  “That’s your business.”

  Esclavier repeated his question:

  “How?”

  And his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the telephone.

  Boisfeuras had rung off.

  In the villa where Esclavier was living, there was no heating and it was bitterly cold. He lit a cigarette and coughed; he had been smoking a lot to allay the anxiety amounting almost to fear which he had felt ever since the first Jeeps of his company had driven off to round up the suspects.

  Esclavier shouted for a runner and told him to bring in Arouche.

  He had installed his office in the small drawing-room of the villa. There were seats and arm-chairs upholstered in white, an upright piano and, on the chimney-piece opposite, an ornamental brass clock supported by dolphins. Its hands now pointed to a quarter past nine.

  There had been the same sort of clock at Rennes, in the office of the Gestapo chief, with the same ridiculous design, the same gilt face, the same Roman figure in black. Perhaps it was this clock which made Esclavier feel so apprehensive.

  Arouche was pushed into the room by the runner. He had a thin, pale face, deep-set eyes, and a camel-hair overcoat over his clothes. He had not had time to put on a tie, but had buttoned up his shirt collar.

  When he talked his lips curled back, revealing snow-white teeth as pointed as those of certain primitive African tribes.

  “So you’ve decided to release me at last, Captain. That won’t stop me bringing a charge against your arbitrary conduct.”

  “Where are the bombs, Arouche?”

  “Doctor Arouche. What did you say?”

  Esclavier noticed this reaction of vanity but reminded himself that many dentists in France had it as well.

  “The fifteen bombs which are due to go off at nine o’clock tomorrow morning in the European shops which will have just opened up for the day, where are they?”

  Arouche gave a little start as though he had been pricked, then pulled himself together.

  “You must be confusing me with someone else. There are many Arouches in Kabylie.”

  “But only one Arouche who’s a dentist at 117 Rue Michelet.”

  The telephone rang. It was Boisfeuras again.

  “This time,” he said, “it’s certain. He’s a short little fellow, narrow face, he has a scar on his jaw, the little finger of his left hand is deformed; thirty years old at the most.”

  “That’s him all right.”

  “While you’re about it, ask him about a certain Khadder the Vertebra. And don’t forget: the bombs are due to go off tomorrow morning, just when all th
e clients who haven’t been able to shop at their usual retailers’ are pouring into the food departments of the Prisunic and Monoprix. You must make him tell you in which shops they’ve been planted and for what time they’ve been set. As soon as we have the information, I’ll send along four bomb disposal squads; they’re already standing by.”

  Esclavier put down the receiver.

  “Arouche, some squads are standing by to dispose of the bombs; out with it now, and be quick about it. After that we’ll talk about a certain Khadder the Vertebra.”

  Arouche had risen to his feet and was twisting his hands to prevent himself from shouting out his hatred in the paratrooper’s face.

  “Have you finished squirming about?” the captain asked him drily. “I’m in a hurry.”

  Arouche sneered:

  “A girl waiting for you?”

  “Exactly, a woman.”

  “While Algeria is going up in flames, that’s all you can think about—fornicating like a pig. But tomorrow, the whole of Algiers is going up, and maybe your girl-friend with it.”

  Esclavier had to make an effort to master his anger and not strike the little dentist in the face.

  “The bombs?”

  “No. I’m the only one who knows. You may as well go off and join her now. Your bomb disposal squads can spend all night searching the shops of Algiers, they won’t find a thing. You can kill me, torture me, I’ll die with pleasure in your hands, because tomorrow . . .”

  “I could easily make you talk . . .”

  The clock struck ten, emitting a faint tinkling sound like an old music box.

  “. . . But I shan’t make you, Doctor Arouche; it’s against all my principles. You have your reasons for fighting, I have mine, but that has nothing to do with bombs which go off and kill women and children.

  “Once you have talked, I’ll hand you over to the police; you can then settle matters with them, but you can call your lawyer beforehand and I’ll see to it personally that nothing irregular occurs.”

  “No.”