The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  Kaci jumped to his feet and, as if the child was a wild animal, approached him with care. Once he was sure the boy wouldn’t run off he crouched down beside him.

  ‘Zaki is a very wonderful name,’ Kaci said softly. The boy turned away from him, his face in his hands.

  ‘A powerful name.’ Kaci placed his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. ‘Do you know what it means?’

  Zaki lifted his head from his hands, curiosity stilling his emotion. He nodded. ‘It means “clever”.’

  ‘Oh, it is so much more than that, Zaki,’ Kaci said with a large smile. ‘It means the owner is so smart he could rule the world one day.’

  The boy’s eyes widened as if struggling to contain such a notion.

  ‘The world?’ he asked.

  ‘A boy with this name is so smart he can understand every story his wise uncle could tell him.’

  ‘You are going to tell me a story?’ Zaki swivelled on his little bottom until he was facing Kaci. All Berber children loved to hear a story and the word hung in the air above Kaci’s head as if pinned their by Zaki’s excitement. Like butterflies to the sweetest scented flower, the other children gathered around Kaci’s feet with a clamour of bare feet and dust.

  Looking around at the small faces tuned in to hear his words, Kaci told them his favourite fable. The very story his own father told him the day after the Frenchman had shot his dog.

  ‘Many years ago there was an orphan child wandering about upon the earth. He was very sad as he had no father and no mother. Nobody would talk to him, or pay him any attention. Nobody cared why he was so sad. Despite his anguish, the boy was unable to weep as tears had not yet entered the world.’

  Ten little faces each formed a pout of consideration as they assessed this news.

  ‘There were no tears?’ Zaki asked.

  Kaci nodded. ‘No tears. This night, the moon noticed the distraught orphan boy and felt great compassion towards him. The moon left the heavens, slid down from the sky and came to lie upon the earth before the orphaned child. He addressed the boy: “Weep, sad child! But you cannot let the tears drop to the earth, as it would make it unclean for people who get their food from it. Rather, let your tears fall onto me. I will then carry them back with me up into the sky.” The orphan child obeyed. For who could ignore the moon? The oceans can’t. The wolves can’t. So he began to weep. The first tears ever to fall, rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto the moon.

  ‘The moon gave the lonely child a blessing, saying: “From now on, every person shall love you.” When the child could weep no more, the moon returned to the heavens. Thereafter the orphan became happy and people would give him all that he needed and all that would make him rejoice. Every time you look at the moon’s face, you will be able to see the stains left by the tears of the orphan child, the first tears ever shed.’

  The children gasped in concert and as one they all craned their necks up to look at the great silver ball in the sky.

  ‘Uncle Kaci?’ asked Zaki. ‘Does that mean that it is always okay to cry? If the little boy in the story was given permission to cry by the moon, then how can it be wrong?’

  ‘Zaki, you are a very clever boy to work this out.’ Kaci reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder. Zaki beamed a smile, whirled to the side and ran away whooping with joy. He was quickly followed by a whirlwind of children that formed and swooped around him.

  Kaci could only laugh as he watched them all begin a new game. He settled down under the tree and allowed his eyes to roam around the area as he regarded his clan at rest. This was his favourite time of the day. Everyone in the family was relaxed after a hard day’s work and they could look forward to some chat and music before nightfall and a well-earned sleep.

  He was feeling good about his efforts on behalf of the family. He had recently been given work at the mayor’s office as an administrator and as such was one of the few men in the family who was bringing in hard currency. At his young age this was a major achievement, but one that he wore with humility. He was in a unique position because of the gifts Allah had given him. Why should he not take advantage of them? And why should he allow this to make him feel better than anyone else? He had a duty to his tribe and the only pride he would allow himself was that he carried this duty out to the best of his abilities.

  Thoughts of his family had him turn and look over his shoulder towards the houses. There were four buildings, low to the ground, made of mud and stone and thatched roofs. Homes where his father, his uncles and aunts and all their twenty-two offspring thrived despite the best efforts of the French.

  He heard the footfall of an adult, turned to the other side to see the squat and muscular shape of his cousin Arab. Kaci couldn’t help but be flattered by the attentions of the man. He was more than twice his age, yet he sought out the words of an inexperienced youth like himself.

  His father had warned him about Arab. Muttered something about ‘not to be trusted’ and ‘a danger to us all’. There had been an argument. Threats were issued. And then everything died down. After all, thought Kaci, we are Berbers. We are family. Nothing is more sacred to Berbers than family. And loud voices were nothing new. His was a boisterous family and always the loud voices were talked down from their position of anger with humour, and soon there were grins all around the room.

  He watched Arab as he folded his legs and sat beside him.

  ‘You treat them too soft, boy.’ Arab’s eyes were black in the moonlight, picking up only the tiniest glint from the distant fire. ‘Life is difficult for an Algerian. We must toughen them up. Not tell them fanciful tales.’

  ‘Ach, you are a hard man, Arab. We should let the children be children for as long as we can. Life will be difficult soon enough.’

  Arab’s answering laugh was loud and harsh. A sound that could often clear a room.

  ‘Mohand OuYahia, Saoudi the Sage,’ Arab said, his voice dripping with mockery. ‘How old are you, boy?’

  ‘Old enough.’ Kaci bristled. He would not be bowed by this man.

  ‘Yes, I heard that my young cousin was to become a man.’ Arab’s teeth were displayed in a smile. His voice was softer now. The change was so abrupt that it threw Kaci from his defensive tone.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a little more relaxed, warmed by the thought and yet nervous of his impending marriage. ‘Seventeen is a good age to take a wife, don’t you think?’

  ‘A wife is good for a man,’ Arab said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Helps to keep his blood cool.’

  Kaci fought to control his blush. Although he was a virgin, he had some experience with girls and he had overheard men talk.

  * * *

  The task of finding a wife was normally the role of a mother, but for Kaci and his brother Amar it had fallen to his father and Hana Addidi. Hana was the Berber word for ‘dearest’ and this lady that Kaci would love to his dying day had adopted the maternal role after his own mother died. She had eight children of her own, but it was clear to anyone who had a pair of eyes in their head that she favoured Kaci above her own.

  And now he was to be married. In the absence of a mother, Hana Addidi was given the task of finding both of the young Saoudis a bride. Eventually, for Kaci, she suggested a girl from her extended family. She was thirteen years and six months old. Hana Addidi assured him that she was dark and she was lovely and she had a sweet temperament. Such was his trust for this kindest of women, that her words were good enough for him.

  The process of agreeing this match took almost as long as the prospecting. For the girl to qualify as being worthy of this position as his wife, his father had to make enquiries into the status of her family. If the family were of the same status as theirs, they would approach them and a dowry would be agreed.

  The boy and girl would not see each other before the night of the wedding. They were young. What did they know about picking a mate for life?

  Amar was marrying a cousin from a branch of the family that lived nearby. Kaci’s future wife was ca
lled Saada and Amar’s was called Messaouda. A double celebration was prepared.

  * * *

  Kaci and Amar fought to out-do the other as they both struggled to appear cool and unaffected by the preparations for the big event. They alternated between elbowing each other in the ribs and then staring with inscrutable expressions into the distance. Then they would fall into giggles, excited by the attention of those around them and the thought that they would soon become men.

  Kaci was as pleased for Amar as he was for himself. Life had been difficult for his older brother and it was wonderful to see something good happen to him. It had happened too long ago for him to remember much, and he was only a child himself at the time, but he remembers mucus streaming from one of Amar’s eyes. An extended stay in bed. Lots of moaning. Some screaming and then silence. Eventually his brother emerged, with one glass eye. Which was endlessly fascinating to Kaci as a child. Amar was also in a much weaker state, tired easily and never seemed to grow into his shoulders the way other boys did.

  The soon-to-be men were given time out from their normal duties and, unsure what to do with all this free time, they loitered around the house, listening to the chatter and songs of the women.

  Amar soon tired of the women’s talk and wanted to go walking in the mountains. Kaci was torn between performing a more manly pursuit and eavesdropping on the women’s conversation. He stood at the door, leaning on the frame, eyes focused on the trees outside while his ears strained to hear.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Amar pulled at his sleeve.

  ‘Sssh,’ Kaci hissed at him. ‘We are about to have wives, shouldn’t we try to learn something about women?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Amar, straining for understanding, looking into Kaci’s eyes as if his brother’s body had been taken over by a mad stranger.

  The women were talking about the ‘Night of the Henna’. They were saying that the girls were changing their status from children in their father’s house to wife and potential mother in their husband’s. They would be praying for an abundant life. Henna was used to stave off the ‘evil eye’.

  Drought, disease and barrenness were ever-present threats to the Algerian people at that time. What the women prayed for was prosperity, health and growing families. Henna painted on to the feet and hands of the new wives would avert the djinns that might bring withered crops, bodies and hopes.

  Kaci learned that good quality henna was mixed with lemon juice to help set the mixture. Black tea was added to strengthen the henna stains.

  He was open-mouthed when he heard that the application of the henna pattern was performed in a ritual that took up to three hours. And once painted, the bride-to-be couldn’t disturb the painted area. She must cover it with cloth and let it set overnight.

  Eeee, thought Kaci, how is it possible to sit still for all that time while someone paints your hands and feet? Then the same again while the pattern stained deep into the skin.

  ‘People would have to bring you food and drink,’ he whispered to Amar. ‘But who would do all your chores?’

  ‘And how would you take a piss?’ asked Amar.

  Their giggles drew the attention of the women. Their aunt drew them a glare.

  ‘What are you boys doing hanging around the women?’ she demanded.

  ‘Perhaps they would like some henna painted on their hands,’ another woman said. Yet another said that they should be out hunting, eating fresh meat. They had duties to perform soon as new husbands. They should put some fire in their bellies beforehand. Then they all laughed. Blushing, the young men were chased from the house by cat-calls and ribald comments that questioned their manliness.

  * * *

  Those relatives who lived nearest started arriving early to help with the preparation and soon donkeys, mules and horses were attached to fig trees everywhere around the house. Most of the men were dressed in clean, traditional Berber clothing: a white baggy trouser, with a long piece of cloth hanging between the legs; a white shirt; a waistcoat and a turban made from a long white cloth, which tradition dictates must be wound around the head thirty-three times. They were also wearing a burnous.

  This is something that every Berber man should own, but not everyone could because of the cost. It is a hooded cloak made from camel wool, not usually worn during the summer months, but the status it conveys means that it should be worn at weddings. Most of the men also carried a rifle, with its strap over their shoulders, for it is said that in Berber culture, two things must not be lent out: the wife and the gun.

  The first day was reserved mainly for the close family to celebrate together and prepare for the big wedding the next day. That evening, after a lavish dinner of couscous flavoured with herbs and chunks of melt-in-the-mouth lamb, a small group of selected members of the family visited the bride’s home. There they took part in the Night of the Henna and joined in the celebrations with music and dance. Early next morning, the women started cooking the wedding feast.

  By midday, two horses for the brides were prepared with colourful ribbons and halters. A group was formed to collect Saada with one horse and Messaouda with the other. A time and a place was arranged where they should meet before forming a procession to the home of their waiting grooms.

  When they met, Hamadache, the uncle of both grooms, was so excited about the future prosperity such a pair of unions might bring to his family that he fired his gun in the air. The loud noise caused Saada’s horse to panic. It reared and she fought to hold onto the reins before she fell to the ground. Once the horse recovered from its fright, everyone could see that poor Saada was trembling.

  Another uncle remonstrated with Hamadache: ‘You old fool. The poor girl is terrified. How is she supposed to go to her groom in such a state?’

  ‘Put both girls on Messaouda’s horse. It’s more even-tempered,’ another said, with a glare aimed at Hamadache. ‘Then we should be able to get them to the wedding safely.’

  Hamadache simply grinned. Nothing could spoil his good humour on this most special of days. He simply bided his time and once the house was in sight he aimed his rifle into the clear blue sky and set off a volley of bullets.

  The call of his rifle was answered by those relatives waiting outside the house: the air was filled with the smell of cordite, and eardrums were rattled by gunfire.

  Rifles were fired in the air for a good ten minutes and then a mixture of sweets and nuts were thrown to the crowd. All you could see was the cloud of dust, smoke from the guns and the bare heels of children running after the sweets. The air was ripe with joy.

  These were hard times, thought Hamadache, and a reason for celebration was welcome by everyone.

  The two grooms were nowhere to be seen. A crowd of people waited with Hadj Yahia before the house. It was his duty, as father of the grooms, to welcome the two brides to his family. As the horse approached, Hamadache stopped it with a great meaty hand. With as little effort as a shepherd picking up newly born lambs, he plucked the girls from their seat on the horse and, turning with a girl in each arm, he walked toward Hadj Yahia.

  ‘Brother, here are your two daughters.’

  The brides were fully covered with the traditional colourful Berber material and with many small mirrors, which were thought to turn evil away, sewn in to bright red headdresses that all but obscured their vision. It was Hana Addidi’s job to guide the girls towards the house, to a room that had been specially prepared for them.

  By now, invited guests were arriving in good numbers. They were all fed while sitting on brightly coloured, handmade Berber carpets under the huge tree in front of the house. Laughter and happy shouts filled the air. Men celebrated together outside with some traditional games like ‘ring under the cups’, cards or dominoes, while the women were inside, where they sang and danced all night.

  * * *

  On the third day of feasting, people started to leave. The young people would now get a chance to be together. As was customary, the mother would not sleep that night until she witnesse
d the blood on the sheets to prove the girl was a virgin. This was a crucial test of a girl’s honour, and the power and respectability of her family.

  On this occasion, Hana Addidi took the role of the boys’ mother. In the morning she waved the two sheets in the air, each stained with hymenal blood, and with the support of the brides’ mothers they made a loud Berber noise, Asliloui, an ululation that filled the air so that everyone could hear that the marriages were consummated successfully.

  As Hana sang this ancient song, she looked to the heavens, trying to hide the pride that swelled her heart. In the eyes of the world, her boy was now a man.

  THREE

  A Gun

  Some months after the wedding, Hadj Yahia was approached in town by a colon called Henri Lapoque. He was an industrialist in wood and properties who owned many hectares of land stolen from the indigènes. ‘Theft’ wasn’t the word that Lapoque would have applied to the re-appropriation of land formerly owned by native Algerians. For him, the colonists were simply improving on the historic and, quite frankly, outdated practices of the natives. That the French had to take the land over to do so was absolutely necessary.

  He wanted to cultivate wheat or barley on different parcels of his land. Hadj Yahia was a man that Lapoque admired. A man who knew the land and the people. A man who could get the job done.

  Yahia did as he was bid. He organised everything and completed the job effectively and on time as requested by the colon.

  On the allotted day he rode to Lapoque’s farmhouse on his mule to collect his dues. He rode past field upon field ripe with potatoes and beans, and orchards of apples, pears and apricots, while the heat from the sun pushed against his head and shoulders. Hadj Yahia stifled his feelings about the bounty that surrounded him. All of this produce would be shipped across to France, while many families around him were only able to eat a poor mash of barley, flavoured with dried beans and chilli powder.