The Magician's Wife (26 page)

At the word cholera, the doctor gave her a warning look, then, taking her arm, led her down the corridor, away from his waiting patients. ‘Sergeant?’

A swarthy medical orderly who had been assisting in the giving of injections came hurrying towards them. ‘Sir?’

The doctor, momentarily abandoning Emmeline, went off to whisper something in the orderly’s ear. The orderly turned to Emmeline: ‘The body is no longer here, Madame. Father Benedict came for it about an hour ago. Monsieur Guillaumin will be buried in the Jesuit cemetery, just a few streets away.’

‘But when? Why did no one tell us?’

‘The Colonel signed the authorization early this morning. He did not leave instructions that you or Monsieur Lambert were to be informed. The priest came for the body about an hour ago.’

‘I am sorry about this,’ the doctor said. ‘Of course you should have been told. But perhaps Colonel Deniau didn’t wish to upset your husband before this morning’s event?’

‘Where is the cemetery? You said a few streets away?’

‘Yes, Madame. It is attached to the Jesuit church.’

‘Would you like to go there?’ the doctor asked. ‘I can send someone to show you where it is.’

The building that housed the Jesuit mission and the cemetery differed only from its neighbours by the fact that a stone cross had been erected on its roof and by an ornamental plaque affixed to the archway of its front entrance:

Mission de Milianah

Compagnie de Jésus

The Zouave soldier who had accompanied Emmeline pushed open the gate, revealing a large courtyard, with at its centre a statue of the crucified Christ. ‘The church is that building over there,’ the soldier said. ‘The cemetery is at the rear. Father Benedict is probably there now. We brought the corpse here about an hour ago but they have to dig a grave. This way, Madame.’

He led her through the small church, out into an area surrounded by a high blank wall. Small paths criss-crossed a little field of rough headstones. At the far end of this place a horse and cart waited, its driver, a Zouave soldier, dozing on his seat. Two Kabyle grave diggers laboured in a muddy trench. Watching them was the Jesuit priest she had seen last night. At first she did not realize it was the priest, for he wore a burnous over his cassock and had covered his head with a fez. He was reading his missal and when he saw her he closed it and came over. ‘I am Father Benedict,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t introduce myself last night. Will you stay? It will not be long. The grave is ready.’

As he spoke she saw the Kabyles come up out of the trench and toss their spades aside. They went to the cart, removing the tailboard to let them slide out Jules’ body which had been sewn into a rough sack. They stepped over the heap of freshly dug earth and rolled the body down into the trench of the grave. At that, Father Benedict nodded to her and together they walked towards the open pit. The Kabyle grave diggers picked up their spades. The driver of the funeral cart now joined the soldier who had accompanied Emmeline, both men removing their caps, to stand respectfully behind the priest who opened his missal and in a droning voice began to read in Latin which Emmeline did not understand. In the distance she heard a cry, the mid-afternoon chant of a muezzin calling to the faithful from the minaret of a central mosque. At once the Kabyle grave diggers, as though alone in this place, knelt on the edge of the grave, heads touching the ground, prostrate in prayer.

Emmeline, turning slightly, saw the two French soldiers, cap in hand, waiting patiently for the Latin to end so that they could return to their barracks. They did not pray. She looked again at the prostrate Kabyles on her right. Prayer, said by millions of these people, kneeling, heads bowed, prayer five times each day for each day of their lives, prayer not of petition but of acceptance.

Everything comes from God.

While we stand uneasily by this grave, listening to words we do not understand, we who have not known a faith as strong as theirs, we who cannot accept death, who fear hell and only half believe in heaven. What is God to us? What is the meaning of this priest’s words as he reaches down and throws a handful of dirt over the corpse in the grave?

The grave diggers, their devotions ended, stood up and lifting their shovels set to work filling in the pit. As they did, the soldiers put on their caps and with a nod to the Jesuit went towards their cart. The soldier who had brought Emmeline here turned, as though remembering.

‘Madame? Would you like to come back with us?’

She shook her head.

Chapter 12

‘There will be an escort,’ Deniau said. ‘It will consist of a troop of Arabs, armed, on horseback. The Sheikh tells me the first part of the escort will arrive at the fort, shortly after sunrise. Can you both be ready by eight o’clock?’

Lambert looked at her. ‘Whatever you wish, my darling. Will that be all right or would you prefer to stay here?’

‘I will be ready,’ she said.

Earlier, when she returned from the graveyard, he had asked about Jules. She said she did not want to talk about it and so they went into dinner in hostile silence. Now, joined by Deniau and Hersant for a discussion of the plans for tomorrow, Lambert was anxious to conceal their rift.

‘I think you will enjoy it,’ Deniau said. ‘Bou-Allem is the leading Aga in this region and the fact that he has invited us to a special feast is quite significant.’

‘In what way?’ Lambert asked.

‘Our spies inform us that in a recent meeting of the sheikhs and marabouts in Algiers he tried to discount the claims of Bou-Aziz. We are told he warned them that even though the French presence in Algeria is a calamity, endorsing a false prophet, even one who seeks to eliminate the infidels, is equally disastrous. And so, your triumph yesterday played into his hands. By inviting you to a feast tomorrow he is signalling to the other sheikhs that he doesn’t believe that Bou-Aziz is the Mahdi.’

At eight o’clock the following morning Emmeline and Lambert saw, circling below in the courtyard, four horsemen: Deniau, Hersant and two young lieutenants of a Zouave regiment. Two additional horses were held by grooms, waiting their arrival. Once mounted their procession trotted out into the streets of Milianah. There, ten Arab riders, wearing red burnouses and armed with rifles, moved in as escort.

‘Bou-Allem’s men,’ Hersant said. ‘And this is only the beginning.’

When they reached the gates of the town, a further twenty armed Arabs dressed in red burnouses joined the cortège. Two hundred yards further on a third escort surrounded them and as they reached the open plain yet another twenty riders joined them. At once, the entire Arab escort, now numbering seventy horsemen, started off at a gallop, leaving them behind. About six hundred yards further on they reined their horses to a sudden stop, dividing and forming four troops. The Arabs of the first troop wheeled around and galloped full tilt towards Deniau’s party, holding high their rifles and shouting war-like cries. Faster and faster they came on, until it seemed they would crash into the Europeans. At the last moment, suddenly, in unison, they fired their rifles over their heads, reined their horses to a plunging stop, the animals rising on their hind legs as they wheeled around and raced back. The moment they regained the main body of red-mantled Arabs, a second troop rushed towards the Europeans, repeating the dangerous manoeuvre at the same breakneck speed. Troop after troop came on, until the entire seventy-man escort had discharged their guns. Then, suddenly silent, they drew up as in a parade ground and fell in, in orderly ranks behind their guests.

Deniau, reining in beside Emmeline, said with a pleased smile, ‘That, dear Emmeline, is what the Arabs call a fantasia. A surprise, a special welcome. Magnificent, no? And you were marvellous. I watched you. You didn’t, even for a moment, flinch.’

Ahead on the plain, shimmering like a mirage in the noon sun, Emmeline saw an encampment of tents grouped around a large, high-domed, gaily pelmeted central structure. Camels, horses, sheep and goats were enclosed in a sort of paddock, guarded by armed horsemen. Deniau, now riding between Emmeline and Lambert, told them that the Aga would be waiting to receive them. ‘Even when he is travelling, as he is now, he moves with a large entourage of warriors, wives and servants. As you can see, this is no ordinary encampment.’

Several hundred yards away, a rider came out from the huddle of tents, moving at a slow trot towards the Europeans and their escort. As the rider came close, the escort troop raised its rifles and fired in the air as a signal of greeting. Emmeline now saw that the rider was dressed in the high turban and embroidered waistcoat of a sheikh. He was a man of middle years, light-skinned, bearded, with cold appraising eyes. Reaching their party, he reined in his horse, nodding first to Deniau. He then bowed respectfully to Lambert and said something in Arabic which Deniau translated as: ‘Be you welcome, you who have been sent by God.’

Following the Aga’s prancing stallion, they entered the city of tents. Their escort riders reined in and waited as Deniau’s party rode through the confusion and noise of the encampment. Men, women and children ran out, clustering in a circle at the entrance to the Aga’s ceremonial tent as the visitors were ushered inside.

Inside the tent they were invited to seat themselves on a large carpet. Coffee was served and Emmeline remained in the rear of the group, largely ignored by the Aga and his sons as they offered pipes of tobacco to the male guests. After a half-hour of smoking and coffee drinking the Aga clapped his hands. Servants pulled wide the flaps of the tent and Emmeline saw, approaching, a procession led by two men carrying what seemed to be furled banners. But when they entered the tent she realized that the long poles they held aloft contained, not banners, but sheep roasted whole. The sheep bearers were followed by fifteen men, each of whom carried a dish which was to be a part of the feast. Roast fowls, different sorts of couscous, sweet cakes, dates and other dishes which she could not identify were placed before them as a head cook unspitted the sheep, arranging them in a great heaping dish which he and his assistants laid before the Aga and his guests.

In the midst of these festivities Emmeline thought of the sight she had just witnessed, the riders of the fantasia, their rifles held high, their pride in their horsemanship, their triumphant warrior stance. Into her mind came a memory of the
grands boulevards
of Paris, those immense straight thoroughfares where, some months before, thousands of soldiers marched past the Emperor in a celebration of his Crimean victories. On that day, she had seen the might of France’s army: gun carriages, cannons, regiments, foot soldiers, cavalry; flags and standards held high to commemorate wars fought and won against other great powers. In the spring that military might will send these Arab horsemen crashing to the ground like toy soldiers swept off a game board. In the spring, this Aga now courting Deniau and my husband will become the victim of a magician’s tricks. And what if my husband had not come here, what if these people’s belief had not been shaken by Henri’s ‘miracles’? What if Bou-Aziz could ignore them, call for a holy war and, with it, drive us from this, their land?

Deniau, leaning towards her, offered a strip of the roast mutton from the heap of meat. ‘It’s delicious,’ he said. ‘You must try it. I told you this would be a feast.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I have no appetite.’

‘You are not ill?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? We travelled with your husband’s servant. I believe we ate the same food and drank the same water. I don’t want to alarm you but we are still at risk.’

‘I am not ill,’ she said. She leaned forward, dipping her fingers into the heap of meat, and, as she had seen the others do, tore off a strip and began to eat it. ‘You see? You don’t need to be alarmed.’

‘Good. It’s delicious meat, don’t you think?’

As he said this, smiling, he turned from her to speak in Arabic with a young caid sitting on his left. It was, she knew, a subtle dismissal. Now that he had succeeded in his mission of bringing her husband to Africa and putting him through his performing tricks, this devious, handsome diplomat need no longer woo the magician’s wife. In a few weeks when we sail on the
Alexander
, he will remain here, planning, scheming, listening to his spies. A year from now he may not remember my Christian name.

As the luncheon proceeded, again she was largely ignored. And in her aloneness, shut out of the talk, she remembered Deniau’s warning.
Cholera
. It was, of course, something she had thought about, something frightening, but which in the guilt and grief of Jules’ dying, she had dismissed. Now, the memory of his wasted dehydrated body, his pinched face, the cheeks a bluish tint, his rapid breathing, his inaudible voice, the stench of excrement, the tearing retching noise as a drool of vomit spilled over the sheets, these sights, these sounds came back to her under this richly canopied tent, filled with voices, laughter and bowing servants offering a surfeit of food. It was as though Jules, no longer buried under a heap of dirt in the Jesuit cemetery, had come through the opened tent flaps to walk among the celebrating sheikhs and Frenchmen, the spectre at this feast whose deathly hand might at any moment touch her, Lambert, Deniau or Hersant.
We are all at risk
.

‘Did you hear that?’ Lambert said, leaning over to her.