Harraga (19 page)

Here comes Mustafa, appearing from a dark alcove in baggy breeches, wearing a
saraoul
and a fez, his features mottled, one claw-like hand clutching an Aladdin’s lamp, the other a scimitar for decapitating elephants. This is how I see him, this is how he appears, that’s fine by me.

As-salam alaykum
, Mustafa! What’s new since Algiers was captured by the Infidels?

‘. . .’

‘Well, yes, it’s had its low points.’

‘. . .’

‘Well, if you’d wanted to, you could have gone back to Turkey with the Dey. You might be haunting some palace on the Bosphorus instead of being bored stiff here in Rampe Valée, this place is the pits.’

‘. . .’

‘A disaster? Who are you telling? There’s no question I’d go home if Kabylia were a free and independent country – and if it had nuclear warheads to guarantee its safety from the Arab League.’

‘. . .?’

‘Sort of a cannonball that makes holes the size of the Mediterranean.’

‘. . . ! . . .’

‘Hmm, yeah, it would take about two or three thousand mules to haul the bombard, but mules aren’t the only thing we’re short of.’

‘. . . . . . . . . . . .’

‘Oh, no, no, my friend, you’ve got that all wrong! The Ottoman Empire isn’t part of the Arab League or the European Union, it floats between heaven and earth, between the Mediterranean and the Black Sea! I should probably mention that there’s not much left of the empire, a couple of acres around the Bosphorus, your brothers have all left to go and work in Prussia just as ours went to France.’

‘. . .’

‘As you say, interesting times.’

‘. . .’

‘It’s true, exiles have an understanding, but don’t forget you died so my grandfather and I could live, I can’t tell you the trouble it caused. Bye then.’

I can’t believe the Turks! Here’s Mustafa, the ghost of a nineteenth-century colonial officer, trying to give me advice! ‘As long as the Sultan lives, be patient and pay all tributes on time,’ he told me. Actually, like any good
Mussulman
tickled by his moustaches, he can’t imagine a common woman getting involved in politics and military science.

Even so, we have fond memories of the Turks. We owe them the recipes for
chorba
, for dolmas, for shish kebabs and Turkish delight, thanks to which we acquit ourselves honourably during Ramadan, our month of widespread famine. We bear them no grudge for colonising us, oppressing us, fleecing us and leaving us the legacy of their barbarous customs: scheming, freebooting and a taste for extermination. Muslims have a deeply-held tradition of letting bygones be bygones, the principle being that faith inspires the same convictions and the same abnegations in everyone. Which is probably why their countries spend most of their time justifying themselves. In religion, time does not matter, only fervour counts.

Mustafa was clearly not hidebound by his faith. We have his travel diaries, we didn’t need to read them, he travelled all over the place, the swine. It doesn’t matter, he left us this confounded house, where he obviously did more than sleep. I don’t know why, but he designed it to be gloomy and byzantine, an immense whole that is the sum of minuscule parts, tortuous in layout, extravagant in ornamentation, absurd in appearance. It’s a pity we cannot fathom the mysteries that drive people. They’re devious, the Turks.

It goes without saying that no piece of modern furniture has any place in this house. It would be impossible to get it inside – the doorways and casements let in a gentle breeze, a ray of sunlight, but nothing more. We had a terrible time furnishing the place. Papa nailed up planks and shelves which Maman variously named wardrobe, sideboard, dresser, and two shelves in my room on which I set my small collection of books and my alarm clock. Later, it was Tonton Hocine’s turn to nail up timbers while I took over the naming of the planks. Everywhere in this vast house feels cramped.

As children, we loved it. Playing hide and seek and ‘you’re getting warmer!’ in such an intricate warren was heaven. You can easily end up lost. Louiza and I left the best of ourselves in its mazes and its alcoves. Those things we hid, our choicest secrets, are there to this day, shrivelled, irretrievably lost. Poor, dear Louiza, she was incapable of hiding anything, of finding anything, she trotted after every breeze, panting a little foolishly. ‘Can I put it here, lift me up so I can hide it here,’ she would say with a sigh, ‘. . . but don’t look!’ We made the most of this house. God, how I miss my beloved little Carrot Cake! How have I lived without her?

I spent the day in the attic,
el groni
, Papa called it – in his Kabyle accent, he spoke Arabic as if it were French and vice versa. This twofold solecism is the dialect we call
pataouète
. Here in the attic, two centuries of life lie piled beneath a shroud of thousand-year-old dust. I don’t remember whether we fought wars of attrition, or whether it was simple neglect, but the space has long since been overrun by the pitter-patter of mice. I always intend to go through everything, but I never find the time. Sometimes I come up and rummage through a trunk, a basket, a crate, I ferret around upsetting the mice, panicking the cockroaches, exasperating the spiders who hate to have their gymnastics disturbed. A mantle of fur and hair and glowing eyes suddenly skedaddles. Over there is an old daub, a full-length portrait depicting the master of the house in ceremonial regalia, I have summoned Colonel Louis-Joseph de la Buissière, alias Youssef the Moor, the Christian convert. His gaze speaks volumes about the dignity of imperial wars. I have to admit he’s a handsome man, tall, thin, with reddish hair and bushy sideburns one can guess are dear to his heart, a gold-rimmed monocle magnifies his right eye and a richly engraved sabre hangs by his side. A helmet adorned with feathers and a cockade. The pose is intended to be distinguished, the shoulders are thrown back, one hand is balled into a fist at the hip, the other grips the pommel of the sword. I have to confess this is the sort of escort with whom I would gladly have galloped through forests or boated on a lake under the watchful gaze of my chaperone. I can just see my red hair fluttering in the breeze making the crystal waters of the lake iridescent. In the background of the scene, dark forest that looks wet with dew and, hence, the silence, the scent of mildew, the play of shadows, the military bearing of the subject, you can picture a castle filled with State secrets nestled in a misty valley just beyond the horizon. In the canvas you can almost hear the whispered conversations, see the long marches far from safety where heroism is the concern of soldiers and property that of the men in tailcoats and opera hats. All at once I hear a revolutionary air and feel an urge to take on the hero. Let’s have it out, Viscount!

‘Tell me, Sire . . .’

‘. . .’

‘Oh, you know, I say Sire, but I could just as easily have said ‘‘you there’’, ‘‘monsieur’’ or ‘‘Toto’’.’

‘. . .?’

‘No, it’s not that I object to people correcting me, but never mind. So tell me, my dear neighbour, was it such a good idea to enlist in the army?’

‘. . .’

‘Really?’

‘. . .’

‘Just like here . . . imam or soldier, there’s no other choice.’

‘. . .’

‘You did both, did you not, colonel, you served in the 8th Dragoons and the 6th infantry regiment if my records – I mean your files – are accurate, only to become something of a holy man after your bizarre conversion?’

‘. . .?’

‘The way I see it, anything that can’t be explained is bizarre. In your shoes, I would have taken up music, it soothes the savage breast. No prophets, no preachers, no holy wars and hence no worries for the children.’

‘. . .’

‘Me, anti-Islam? Don’t be ridiculous! I am just weary of the Truth!’

‘. . .’

‘Sometimes you find yourself on the other side.’

‘. . .’

‘I’m nervous, Chérifa has left.’

‘. . .’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘. . .’

‘I gave her everything, I love her, I need her, I feel so alone . . .’

‘. . .’

‘Really? And why exactly would Allah will such a thing?’

‘. . . . . . . . . . . .’

‘Well if he carries on being mysterious and we determinedly carry on being patient and humble, where does it end, you tell me that?! Actually, you can explain it to me some other time, there’s no hurry. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.’

I didn’t need a fatalistic philosopher, I needed someone prepared to weep courageously with me. At least Mustafa was good enough to suggest I mutiny. It’s not the answer I was looking for, but at least he was on my side. I’m hardly likely to spill my guts to a former Catholic – or Protestant – who converted to Turkish voodoo. I’m perfectly happy to be serious, but not when I’m suffering.

Next!

Daoud the Sephardi, whom I bumped into in a secret hiding place, listened to me at length, his face lined with grave concern, then, out of the blue, he suggests an amazing business deal: sell the house for ten times what it’s worth and buy it back a week later for next to nothing. I’m on board.

‘Interest. Quick, tell me how to go about swindling the sucker, I could do with some money!’

‘. . . . . . . . ., . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ! . . .?’

‘Well, how do you like that!’

‘. . . . . . . . .’

‘It gets better and better.’

‘. . . . . . !’

‘Let me see if I’ve got this straight: I spread a rumour that King Solomon’s treasure is hidden in the house, then, after I sell it, you haunt the new owner, terrify him so much he comes back and begs me to take it off his hands for peanuts?’

‘. . . . . . . . . . . . !’

‘Yes, yes, a lot of gold. And diamonds, too, we could say it was loot belonging to Mustafa’s cousin Barbarossa.’

‘. . .’

Carpatus, who was standing by the wall listening, understood the colonel’s pain. It was no accident that the real-estate market was bullish on the day he first set foot in Algiers. This was going to be a bumpy night. Let’s say no more about him.

In what once was the doctor’s surgery, I ran into the ghost of Doctor Montaldo busy treating an invisible patient. Still working his fingers to the bone, the good doctor, clearly his vocation did not end with death. Hardly had he spotted me than he said:

‘You’re clearly not a well woman! Just look at the bags under your eyes.’

These were the magic words, immediately I felt weak, exhausted, shattered. I tried to downplay things.

‘No, I’m fine . . . Just a little low . . .’

‘. . .?’

‘Sleep? Well I manage to get some sleep but . . .’

‘. . .?’

‘Actually, my tongue is a little furred.’

‘. . .?’

‘I brood, I blame myself . . . Chérifa . . .’

‘. . .’

‘I don’t think I could stomach any more herbal tea.’

‘. . .’

‘And where exactly am I supposed to find fresh air?’

‘. . .’

‘Really? That far?’

‘. . .’

‘Thank you, doctor. How much do I owe you?’

‘. . .’

‘That doesn’t matter, treatment is treatment even if it’s virtual.’

What can you expect of the dead? Vague advice, antiquated observations, a new hash of old broken dreams, pointless suggestions, out-of-date medications. I can’t help but be sceptical of such spirits.

I’m very fond of my ghosts, but only when everything’s fine. Right now, I find them tiresome. And upsetting. Not one of them asked about Chérifa, or barely. She is a stranger to this house, she has no roots within these walls, they cannot feel her presence and so on and so forth. Forty-two days she spent here, that’s two days more than the official period of mourning. One of these days I’ll call in the undertakers and good riddance to them all – bone idle, the lot of them. And chauvinist to boot! Where are their wives, their children, their sisters, their mistresses, the maids? Don’t they have the right to come back and haunt me too?

I rushed to Papa, to Maman, to Yacine. I opened up to them. Were they sympathetic? No, they blamed me for letting Sofiane leave and for taking in some girl off the streets. Papa doesn’t like the way I look at things, he’s a true Kabyle, meaning he’s obtuse. All Maman ever does is sigh, Papa speaks for both of them. And Yacine doesn’t give a damn, just like when he was alive. I reminded them how Maman used to take in stray cats, and always the ones with mange or consumption, how Papa was constantly searching for the comrades he’d lost during the war and afterwards, poring tearfully over the newspaper, how Yacine’s only love was a clapped-out old banger . . . It was a waste of breath, a streetwalker is a streetwalker.

I am alone; truly, horribly alone.

Dear God, what has become of Chérifa’s father? I suppose his witch of a wife has finally got him under her thumb, or turned him into a filthy Islamist. He probably doesn’t think any more. Poor man, he has lost his daughter, lost his dignity.