The Magician's Wife (14 page)

At last, after some twenty minutes of halting ascent, the Negro ducked his head under a low archway and, signing her to do likewise, led the mule through a narrow corridor out on to a small square baked by sunlight. Opposite was a building no different from those they had already passed, its heavy wooden doorway ornamented with iron bolts and a shuttered iron grille. As they approached this door someone within opened to admit them to an interior hall supported by white marble columns. The Negro giant dropped the reins over the mule’s head, cupped his hands and knelt. Emmeline again put her foot in this human stirrup and when she had alighted saw coming towards her an elderly Arab, sepulchral in a dun-coloured burnous, his head shaven except for a long topknot of grey hair. He bowed, beckoning her to follow him into a second larger courtyard, also paved with white marble and enclosed by colonnades which admitted the sunlight from above. In the middle of this hall was a small grove of orange trees, a fountain and a lighted iron hearth at which, squatting over smoking earthenware cooking utensils, were two Negresses, one old and stout, one tall, young and slender, her face a handsome oval mask which she now turned briefly in Emmeline’s direction. The elderly Arab servant passing by these women approached a staircase ornamented with bright pottery designs, leading to an upper colonnade which encircled the entire hall.

‘Welcome, Emmeline. In my Moorish house, may I call you by your Christian name?’

At the head of the stairs, Deniau stood, wearing a long Arab robe of the finest white wool, his ankles bare, his feet in red leather sandals, and at his belt, which was ornate and embroidered in gold, a small curved ceremonial dagger. He smiled and beckoned her to come up. When she reached the head of the staircase he kissed her hand.

‘Your house is beautiful,’ she said.

‘I am glad you like it. In fact, it’s a typical Algerian apartment. Come, let me show you.’

He led her into a room covered with luxurious carpets, its only furniture a large vase filled with rosewater and two carved and painted wooden chests, similar to those in the rooms of the Governor-General’s residence. But as they went through to a second room and then a third she saw that, unlike the furnishings in the residence, here there were no beds, tables or chairs. And when he led her into the large central room, spread along one wall was a profusion of silken cushions with, in front of them, two long painted trays spread with sweetmeats, fruits, a crystal decanter and glasses. Deniau sat cross-legged on the cushions, inviting her to join him. He poured wine from the decanter, saying, ‘Alcohol, of course, is not permitted in a Moorish house. But then, we are not Muslims, thank God.’

He handed her a glass.

‘Remember Compiègne? Our
Brüderschaft
toast? Shall we?’

She did not want to do this but did not know what to say and so, taking her silence for consent, he eased towards her on the cushions, holding his glass aloft then entwining his arm in hers, bringing them close, their faces inches apart as their glasses touched in the toast.

‘To our friendship,’ he said.

In the ritual of the toast they must drink at the same moment and as she drank a lock of her hair fell forward, spilling against his brow. Their eyes met. He lowered his glass.

‘Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. It was . . .’ She hesitated, trying to think of a polite phrase.

‘Gauche?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Yes it was. I apologize. Forgive me.’

‘No, no,’ she said again, desperately embarrassed by now. ‘Compiègne, yes. Our picnic. I remember.’

He stood up. ‘A wonderful afternoon, wasn’t it? I’ll never forget it.’ He held out his hand, raising her up. ‘Now. Let me show you the view from my roof.’

As she put down her glass she had a feeling that she was being watched. She turned and saw in the doorway a handsome, light-skinned Arab boy, his face still as an image in a photograph. He stood, leaning against the lintel, his slight graceful body draped in faded pink silken robes. His eyes stared into the room as though they saw something beyond her. Deniau spoke to him in Arabic. The boy bowed and withdrew.

‘That is Si Abeldesselem, one of my servants who will play for us at luncheon. A strange boy, but, as you will see, his music has charm.’

The roof on to which Deniau now led her was sheltered from the midday sun by a stone arcade running around the parapet. He pointed to an irregular mass of white buildings at the very top of the hillside. ‘That is the Citadel. It was the residence of the Princes of Algiers. If you look at those loopholes in the walls you’ll see where their huge cannons once dominated the city. The Citadel was where the Turkish ruler held court. Over there to the left were the private apartments where he lived with his wives. And then, one morning, almost forty years ago, walking on his rooftop he looked down and saw our fleet approaching these shores. That was the end of Turkish rule.’

‘And now, what is it used for?’ she asked.

‘Barracks, and storehouses. All of its treasures have disappeared, the furnishings looted by our troops. The great cannons were shipped back to France as trophies. I’m told they’re on display in the Invalides.’

He walked to the edge of the parapet and stood looking down as though he were alone. After a moment of silence, he turned back to her.

‘So here you are, in Algiers. I hope by bringing your husband here I’ve done the right thing.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You want to stop them going to war against France, don’t you? If my husband can help you, then of course it’s right.’

‘It’s more complicated than that. Remember, when we were in Compiègne, how the Emperor talked of France’s mission to civilize these people and improve their lives. But the truth is, next year we’ll complete our conquest of this land. In doing so we’ll open new trade routes to the rest of Africa. It is we, not the Arabs, who will benefit. And I ask myself: what will happen to their way of life?’

‘There is something about this place, something I would not like to change,’ she said.

He smiled and, leaning across the cushions, touched her hand lightly. ‘If you had come here today with your husband I would not have worn Arab dress. He wouldn’t have understood. But you – you’re different. You could fall in love with Africa, as I have. Don’t misunderstand me. I love my country. I will fight for France as I have fought for her in the past. And yet Africa has changed me. As I suspect, it will change you.’

‘But I am here only for a short visit,’ she said. ‘In a month or two I will be back at home in Tours.’

‘I envy the Arabs,’ he said. ‘They have a word –
mektoub
. You will hear it on their lips, time and time again. It means ‘It is written’. They believe that everything is written beforehand and the destiny of each of us is the will of God. Perhaps it was written that you should come to Algeria. Perhaps it was written that it will change you.’

He offered her his arm. ‘Come, let’s go in. Our luncheon will be ready.’

He led her back into the central room and sat beside her on the cushions. Somewhere within the apartment a bell sounded and through the doorway the giant black servant appeared, encumbered with a sort of leather harness on which he balanced an assortment of small jars and pots. The giant deposited these objects on the painted trays in front of Emmeline, then, bowing, withdrew.

‘Who is he?’ Emmeline whispered. ‘I’ve never seen so tall a man.’

‘He’s Senegalese,’ Deniau told her. ‘We call him Kaddour. But I bought him as a slave so I don’t know his real name.’

‘A slave?’

‘Yes, many of the Negroes here were brought from Southern Africa as slaves. He is very loyal. A good soul.’

‘But he is your
slave
?’

Deniau nodded and reached for the pots on the tray. ‘Today my servants have prepared an Arab meal. I thought it might interest you to see it served in traditional fashion. These are just
amuse-gueules
. The little round cakes are warm, a sort of buttered crêpe. Those are dates from a southern oasis. This is ewe’s milk, although I think we will prefer to drink wine. My cooks will bring the main course at any moment.’

She ate one of the cakes and bit into a sweet date but her mind, filled moments ago with the things he had implied and said about her, now echoed dully with one word:
slave
. And as she put down the half-eaten date, the bell sounded again and the two women she had seen in the courtyard below entered, carrying large earthenware pots which they placed in front of Deniau. They then stood, heads bowed, hands joined as in prayer, waiting. Emmeline looked up, first at the older woman and then at the other, tall, young and slender, her eyes now downcast as in submission. Was she, too, his slave?

At a sign from Deniau, the older cook began to serve food from one of the pots. ‘This is couscous, a sort of pilaff, the base of any Arab feast. Today my women have made it in two versions, one with mutton and the second a sweet version with sugar and spices.’ He gestured to the young girl who, kneeling in front of Emmeline, served the second couscous.

At a further nod from Deniau both women rose and withdrew.

‘Slaves?’ Emmeline looked at him in fear of his answer. But he laughed and shook his head. ‘No, they are my prized cooks, among the best in the city, I’m told.’

‘Do they live here?’

‘Yes, they are house servants.’

‘The young girl is beautiful.’

‘She is, isn’t she? The older woman is her aunt. Like Kaddour they are devoted to me. I am very lucky.’ He handed her a plate. ‘The Arab eats with his fingers. They use only the right hand.’

She ate a mouthful of the food but, later, she could not have told what was its taste. For at that moment she heard behind her a thin, high music and turning saw the Arab boy, sitting cross-legged in the rear of the room, playing a small flute, the music monotonous and strange but with a rhythmic cadence. As he played the boy stared at his flute as if he were alone in the room, but when, putting down his instrument, he began to sing in a soprano tone, he looked first at Deniau and then at Emmeline, his look changing from a shocked stare when he sought to lock eyes with his master, to a look of scorn and hatred when he sang to her as audience.

Deniau, eating, listening, lay back on the cushions and from time to time turned to look at Emmeline and smile as though inviting her to share his enjoyment of the singing.

The boy ended his chant, took up his flute, then, graceful as a girl in his faded silken robes, bowed to his master and withdrew.

‘Haunting song, don’t you think? It’s a traditional lament.’ Deniau poured wine from the decanter. She did not pick up the glass.

‘What does he do, that boy? Is he a house servant?’

She saw Deniau hesitate. ‘Yes. He keeps my accounts, deals with tradesmen and supervises the other servants. I am away a lot. I need a reliable person to look after things.’

‘He looked at me as if he hated me.’

‘Did he?’ Deniau laughed. ‘Ignore it. Boys of his sort do not like women.’

Boys of his sort. Henri once had an assistant like that. She knew about them. But for Deniau to have one in his house, there was something – she looked at Deniau now as he lay back on the cushions eating the Arab food delicately with his fingers, she looked at the fine white robe that covered his body, at the curved dagger in his ornate belt, at his bare feet in the red sandals, at his sun-darkened face, this man who made allusions which could lead to an affair but who knew his
Brüderschaft
toast had been a mistake and would not embarrass her further at this luncheon. And as these thoughts rushed around in her head, the women came back into the room and now, as they replenished the dish of couscous, she looked at the younger one, head bowed, submissive as a slave. I am not beautiful. She is. I wish I hadn’t come.

The women withdrew. After some minutes, the Senegalese, Kaddour, re-entered the room, carrying small bowls of water and towels. The meal had ended and as she dried her hands on the towel Emmeline saw Deniau watching her as if he knew her thoughts.

‘In Algiers after luncheon, the city sleeps,’ he said. ‘A very civilized custom. I cannot offer you a proper bed here. Cushions, yes. But perhaps you would prefer it if Kaddour took you back to the residence?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’

Chapter 7

It was Deniau and not her husband who showed her the theatre in the Rue Bat-Azoun. She stared up at the elegant façade.

‘I could believe I was in Paris.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s a copy of the Variétés. However, as you’ll see, there are differences. Because of the hot climate the stairs, passages and boxes are more spacious than in a theatre in France. Usually, the performances are given by opera or drama companies imported from Marseille or Nice. Last week we cancelled the current performances and we’re paying the opera company to stay idle for the period of your husband’s rehearsals and performance. The company manager is not at all pleased. But, of course, your husband may have told you all this?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve hardly seen him since he started to rehearse. And he rarely talks about his work.’

‘But his secrets, his illusions, you must be one of the very few people to know them?’