The Magician's Wife Page 13

  At that moment, to her relief, Lieutenant Lecoffre, sitting across the table, leaned forward and said to Deniau, ‘Colonel, isn’t it true that this performance was your idea? You are also to be congratulated. As you can see, you have a great success on your hands.’

  Deniau smiled at her as if in apology for the interruption, then told Lecoffre, ‘Thank you. It’s a success, yes, but we have only begun our task.’

  ‘How so, Colonel?’

  Emmeline realized that other guests had heard this exchange and now waited for Deniau’s answer. And Deniau knew it. Looking down the table and catching the eye of the Maréchal, he said, ‘As you know, Your Excellency, in two days’ time I will be travelling with Monsieur Lambert to the region where Bou-Aziz is rumoured to be the new Mahdi. Now, Monsieur Lambert must prove himself greater than Bou-Aziz and by doing so weaken his influence among the Arab and Kabyle chieftains. Not an easy task, I’m afraid. Even though I have the greatest faith in my friend Lambert we cannot promise success.’

  Randon smiled. ‘He has already had great success, Colonel. Yesterday after the performance I spoke with Sheikh Farhat who rules in Constantine. He said, “Our marabouts must now do very great miracles to astonish us.”

  ‘ “And do you think they will succeed?” I asked him.

  ‘ “My hopes are not strong,” he told me. “But, if Bou-Aziz is indeed the Mahdi, he must show that he is greater than your sorcerer.” ’

  The Maréchal smiled at the company. ‘And so I said to the sheikh, “Allah alone is great. And He will decide.” ’

  The Prefect clapped his hands in approbation. ‘An answer in his own coin, Excellency. Wonderful riposte! And He will decide. For Lambert – and for France!’

  Emmeline looked down the table at her husband. He sat, his head held high, smiling in a sea of smiles.

  Next morning, shortly after dawn, Emmeline and Lambert waited with Jules in the courtyard of the Governor-General’s mansion for Deniau’s arrival in a diligence which would take them on the first leg of their journey to Kabylia. But when the vehicle clattered into the courtyard there was no sign of him. Instead, the Arab boy who Emmeline had seen in Deniau’s apartments jumped down from a seat beside the coachman and in heavily accented French announced that his master had been delayed by ‘political duties’ and would join them with horses and camels for the second part of their journey in two days’ time, when the diligence would arrive at the town of Ain Sefra.

  ‘From Ain Sefra, Monsieur, there is no high road. You will travel on horseback. My master will do his utmost to join you there.’

  The boy then bowed to Lambert and opened the carriage door. Lambert turned to Emmeline indicating that she precede him, but the boy barred her path. ‘No, Monsieur,’ he said to Lambert. ‘You must go ahead of the woman. You are the marabout.’

  When Lambert climbed into the carriage the boy extended his hand to assist him with the step. But when Emmeline followed her husband the boy did not offer his hand. Instead he stared at her with that now familiar look of hatred and as he closed the carriage door behind her she heard him make a spitting sound with his lips.

  When their luggage, including Lambert’s theatrical boxes, was loaded and secured on the roof of the carriage Jules took his seat beside the coachman. The Arab boy bowed farewell to Lambert. Zouave guards came to attention, presenting arms as the heavy diligence rumbled out on to the Rue de la Marine. Within minutes they had left the city, the horses moving at a fast trot along a broad highway through outlying villages into a landscape dry as death. Emmeline, sitting beside her husband, who, as usual on a journey, busied himself with reading, stared blankly at the route ahead. She had dressed this morning with special care, rising before dawn to wash and set her hair, choosing a pink silk dress and white lace gloves as though she were going to a luncheon party instead of on a journey, using the stopper of her favourite perfume bottle to anoint her throat, the hollows behind her ears and the backs of her wrists with the delicate scent of muguet, for she would be sitting close to Deniau in the confines of the carriage. She did these things somnambulistically, refusing to think of what might happen in the days ahead, but on the arrival of the Arab boy with his news that there would be two days of travelling before Deniau would join them she was filled with a quick anger at the cavalier way he had delayed their meeting, mixed with anxiety in case ‘political duties’ might keep him from joining her. But because of the disappointment she felt at his absence, she at last permitted herself to imagine that if, in future, he chose to make advances she might not reject them.

  This absence, this longing for him, this uncertainty, made the next two days seem endless. Each night the diligence stopped at hotels run by French colonists where, to Lambert’s disgust, they were seated at a communal table with French commercial travellers and served indifferent European food. He, like she, worried that these mysterious ‘political duties’ might prevent Deniau from making rendezvous. But on the morning of the third day when the diligence trundled into the courtyard of the building which housed the Bureau Arabe in the town of Ain Sefra, there, bowing gravely as he opened the carriage door, was Kaddour, Deniau’s Senegalese slave.

  Emmeline’s face lit in a smile of pleasure as the giant cupped his hands to help her down. Moments later they were in the presence of Captain Hersant, the Bureau chief in Ain Sefra, who informed them that Deniau was already in the town arranging for the hire of camels and would join them at luncheon.

  Shortly after noon when the muezzins sounded the call for devotions Emmeline, looking down at the courtyard of their lodgings, saw, behind the field of Arab backs prostrate in prayer below her, the arrival of three camels through the main gates of the building. On the leading camel, sitting cross-legged and at ease, wearing a brown burnous over his military uniform, Deniau, who stayed the little caravan until the prayers had ceased. Then making his camel kneel, he gracefully slipped off its back and strode across the courtyard, looking up at her, waving his riding crop in welcome.

  ‘Henri, he’s here!’

  ‘Where?’ Lambert came to the window, looking down. But already Emmeline was at her mirror, anxiously rearranging her hair then turning, excited, to hurry downstairs to the main hall. And when Deniau entered the hall she went up to him, saying with obvious delight, ‘Oh, we were so worried. I kept wondering – but here you are!’

  It was a signal and he knew it. He took her hand, bent low to kiss it, then raising his head, looked into her eyes. ‘Yes, here I am.’ He smiled, released her hand and said softly, ‘Dear Emmeline.’

  In the next hour she sat in a state of euphoria, only half aware of the conversation at the luncheon table. But then, she heard Deniau tell Lambert that they should set out as soon as possible and keep up a stiff pace as their tour must end before the coming autumnal rains which made the routes impracticable and often dangerous.

  ‘But when do you expect the rains?’ Lambert asked.

  ‘Towards the end of the month. And so, it’s my aim to have you back here safe and sound, within a fortnight.’

  Emmeline stared at Deniau. A fortnight. Fourteen days . . . Then it will be over. We will be sent back to France.

  ‘But I have prepared four performances,’ Lambert said. ‘You will remember, that’s what we arranged.’

  ‘Unfortunately, when we made those arrangements in France I didn’t foresee that our Algerian festivities would be delayed by the Kabyle uprising. Now, I’m afraid we must risk everything on one great coup. That’s the reason I stayed behind when you left Algiers. I have sent messengers to all of the sheikhs and marabouts before whom you would have performed to invite them to one grand séance in the town of Milianah. We have a military fortress there with a large courtyard which can accommodate a sizeable audience.’ He smiled. ‘I think, in fact, that it will be the ideal venue. Particularly since there is electricity in the building.’

  ‘Is there? Excellent,’ Lambert said.

  ‘I think it’s particularly important, as your hea
vy box is already being talked about even by those who weren’t at your performance in Algiers. The news of that box has spread like – I was about to say wildfire – but perhaps like an electric current would be a more suitable metaphor.’

  Captain Hersant, who had been told the secret of the heavy box, smiled knowingly. But Emmeline saw that Lambert was not pleased.

  ‘The secret of magic is in its mystery,’ he told Deniau. ‘So I trust you will not mention electricity to any of our Arab friends.’

  ‘I apologize,’ Deniau said. ‘Of course, you’re right. The illusion must be presented to them as a genuine miracle.’

  Lambert nodded. ‘Good. Now – when will this performance take place?’

  ‘In four days’ time. Maréchal Randon has already received promises from most of the sheikhs and marabouts that they will attend. Mind you, it wasn’t difficult to secure these promises. You are already the object of fear and curiosity.’

  ‘And Bou-Aziz?’ Captain Hersant asked. ‘Will he be present?’

  ‘We have not yet received an answer, but if he stays away, it may be interpreted to his disadvantage. We, of course, would at once spread the rumour that he fears Henri’s supernatural powers. In any event we won’t wait for him. My plan is that we will start our return journey at dawn on the morning after your performance, leaving those who saw it dazzled by your skills.’

  Deniau now turned to Emmeline, his hand on her arm as if to attract her attention. ‘And so, Madame, if it is not too great a strain for you I would ask that you be ready to begin our journey at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘How shall we travel? On horseback? Or must I ride a camel?’

  Deniau laughed. ‘The camel is not a comfortable mount, dear Madame. I would not impose that on you. We’ll take six horses from Captain Hersant’s stable. We will have two Arab servants to ride the camels which will transport our baggage and two on muleback to wait on us. I must warn you, though. The road will be difficult.’

  Next morning as their caravan set out, the sun rose like a threat in the pale dawn sky. The road Deniau had spoken of was a trackless desert landscape with no sign of other travellers. Against the red background of the desert soil neutral shades stood out: their servants’ ochre clothing, the rust and beige of the camels’ hides, the black and brown coats of the horses; all of these dull colourings seeming to intensify the growing heat. Within two hours the sun became a punishment. She felt her hair grow wet. Rivulets of sweat trickled down between her breasts as she spurred her horse, moving ahead of Deniau, unwilling to let him see her heated face and disarrayed coiffure. Towards midday the desert’s rolling dunes changed to a series of steep ravines where her horse slithered and stumbled in a near vertical descent, threatening to tumble her on to the ground. Shortly after noon Deniau halted the caravan, the servants quickly erecting a goatskin lean-to, under which they laid out a frugal meal of dates, ewe’s milk and bread. Emmeline retired behind this shelter attempting with soap and a basin of water to make a hasty toilette before sitting down on the carpet where the meal was served. She heard Deniau tell her husband that they would lodge that evening in the house of a sheikh named Ben-Gannah where they would be served a proper meal. ‘Tomorrow we will travel on a less demanding road. The worst part of the journey is over.’

  Later that afternoon as she sat slack on her weary horse, the desert stretched before her, endless as an ocean, illimitable and dangerous, repelling all intruders. How could she, a few days ago, have dreamed of it as the setting for an illicit romance?

  Deniau rode up to ask if she would like to make a stop. She shook her head and said, ‘I just want to reach wherever it is we sleep tonight. To be inside, away from the sun. How big is this desert? It frightens me.’

  ‘The Sahara? Three hundred thousand square miles is the figure we have calculated. And yes, it can be frightening. But it is also a spiritual landscape. To enter it you must become, like it, a tabula rasa.’

  He spurred his horse, moving ahead of her. ‘Emmeline,’ he called back. ‘Believe me, it will change your life.’

  She looked to where Lambert rode in tandem with his servant, Jules. ‘And my husband,’ she asked. ‘Will it also change his?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Deniau said. ‘He is a great magician. But is there magic in his soul? What do you think?’

  She did not answer.

  Shortly before sunset she saw, ahead, a cluster of Moorish dwellings, rising like a ghostly castle in the surrounding wilderness. Within minutes, two Arab horsemen came galloping towards them, called out a greeting to Deniau, then, wheeling their mounts, reined up to Lambert and Emmeline and chanted something which Deniau translated.

  ‘They are saying, “Be you welcome, you who have been sent here by God.” This is Ben-Gannah, our host for this evening. The young man is his son.’

  An hour later, bathed and refreshed with perfumed rose-water, her hair arranged more or less to her satisfaction, Emmeline and the others were ushered into a large reception room where they sat facing their host on a carpeted floor as two servants, their feet bare as a mark of respect, served a meal of mutton and roast fowl which, in Arab fashion, was eaten without utensils. Afterwards, bowls of water with soap and towels were brought to allow them to wash their hands. When this operation was completed the sheikh rose and led Emmeline and Lambert to a small elegantly decorated room furnished only by two divans. He smiled and said something which Deniau translated as: ‘This is the room for our most honoured guests. May you sleep in peace under my roof.’

  The sheik withdrew. Deniau signalled to servants to bring in their luggage and then, as Lambert gave orders as to where the trunks should be placed, Deniau joined Emmeline on the balcony which looked down on an inner courtyard. He pointed to a balcony on the ground floor at right-angles to theirs. ‘That is my room.’ He smiled. ‘I hope you sleep well.’

  He turned and went back into the room. ‘Good night, Henri,’ he said to Lambert. ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘My bones ache,’ Lambert said. ‘I’ll be glad when we reach Milianah.’

  She heard Deniau’s footsteps on the stone staircase as he went down to the ground floor. She undressed, put on a nightgown and laid her dressing gown on the end of the divan. Lambert was already stretched out on the divan across the room. She lay listening to the night sounds within Ben-Gannah’s compound. Sheep and horses quartered inside the walls to protect them from raiders bleated and neighed as though disturbed. Camels uttered their hoarse complaints. After a time these noises diminished. She heard someone beat a flat drum, accompanying the high reedy music of a flute. Then there was silence. She lay, drowsy, remembering Deniau’s words. ‘That is my room.’ An invitation? If she were to go outside now looking down into the moonlit courtyard, would he come from the shadows inviting her to run down the stone staircase and join him? He would be wearing the white robe he wore in his apartment in Algiers. He would lead her past the squatting figure of his giant slave who, guarding the door of his room, would close it behind them, shutting them in. Then in the half-shadows Deniau’s arms would encircle her waist. His mouth would find her lips, his hand baring her shoulder as, moving down from her neck, his tongue licked the nipple of her breast. And then as she strained against him he would lift her up and carry her to a divan, laying her down on its cushions, smiling as he let drop his robe. Then, avid and reckless in the drunkenness of passion, she would be his willing partner in what he did to her until at last, sated, she lay by his side on the divan. Smiling, he would retrieve her nightgown and place it on her naked body. When she had put it on, he would rise and walk with her to the door, opening it to reveal the great sloping back of Kaddour who, bowing, would lead her back across the courtyard to the stone staircase which led to this, her room.

  She lay, her body soaked in sweat. She looked across the room to where her husband slept, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual posture. She turned her face to the wall.

  Chapter 9

  Shortly after dawn she he
ard a sound of knocking on the door, then her husband’s voice as he spoke to someone in the corridor. She could not hear what was being said but soon he came to her side, asking if she was awake, telling her they must dress and go downstairs.

  ‘Deniau wants to see me,’ he said. ‘It seems there is trouble brewing in Kabylia. An officer from the Bureau Arabe in Milianah has just arrived here after riding through the night. Captain Hersant says the situation has grown dangerous. They will tell us more at breakfast. Can you be ready soon, my darling?’

  Coffee, dates, flat loaves of bread and a jar of honey had been laid out for breakfast in the central courtyard below. The meal was served by Deniau’s servants. The sheikh and his son were not present. As Emmeline walked into the courtyard accompanied by her husband, Deniau, Captain Hersant and a junior officer rose to greet them. ‘Good morning,’ Deniau said. ‘May I present Lieutenant Dufour? He has come from Milianah with, I am afraid, disturbing news.’

  The young lieutenant smiled and bowed. She looked, not at him but at Deniau who returned her look with one of bland, friendly neutrality as, with a flick of his wrist, he signalled Kaddour to bring a tray on which were tiny cups of Arab coffee. The black slave went first to her. When she took the coffee, he turned to Lambert who, as usual, took a spoon and heavily sugared his cup. As he did this he asked Deniau, ‘Disturbing? How? I hope my performance has not been cancelled?’

  ‘On the contrary, Henri,’ Deniau said. ‘Your performance may be the only way to avoid what looks like serious trouble. We are told that certain sheikhs who will be attending your soirée have urged Bou-Aziz to call for a holy war to start next month. Lieutenant Dufour who knows them well, as, indeed, he knows Bou-Aziz, tells us that your performance in Algiers greatly alarmed them and they now fear that your feats in Milianah will convince the native populace that you are a greater sorcerer than any of theirs. If you succeed, then Bou-Aziz may not be obeyed if he asks the country to rise against us.’