The Magician's Wife Read online

  ‘And what if I fail?’ Lambert said. ‘I know I had a great success in Algiers. But I spent days preparing my performance and it was given in a proper theatre. There is a magic to performances in a theatre, a magic which can be greatly diminished when I perform in some desert fortress, surrounded by Arabs who see me as an enemy.’

  ‘My dear Henri, I don’t understand your hesitation,’ Deniau said. ‘A magician of your talents will always make the rest of us believe he has some supernatural power. Even in Paris, before a sophisticated audience, your feats produce uneasiness and bewilderment. That is why we brought you to Africa. Most of the so-called “miracles” of these native marabouts are circus tricks – playing with serpents, eating pounded glass, walking on red-hot coals, etcetera. You’ve told me yourself that you know the origin of such tricks. But they, or we, do not know the secret of your illusions.’

  As he finished speaking Deniau looked briefly in her direction, as though trying to gauge her reaction. It was no longer the complicit, amused look he had exchanged with her in the past but the appraising stare of a participant in discussion. And in that moment she remembered the closed door of last night’s reverie. Was it possible that the attraction she assumed they both felt was, for him, part of his plan to make her his ally?

  Lambert, his confidence restored by Deniau’s remarks, now turned to Dufour. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant – this marabout, Bou-Aziz – you know him well. What sort of man is he?’

  ‘Well, first of all he is, perhaps, sixty years of age. His wife is dead and he lives with his daughter Taalith, who is herself a saintly woman and his interpreter because in her youth she learned our language. Bou-Aziz is not war-like, rather, I should say he is a scholar, a peacemaker, who works to prevent acts of violence within the Kabyle community. I have seen him, at the risk of his life, step between two men who were about to kill each other. At sight of him their swords are lowered and peace is made. What is also relevant is his background. Traditionally, the Mahdi will come from the South, from the Sahara, as does Bou-Aziz. And when he proclaims himself the Madhi, he will take the name Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah. All of the would-be Mahdis have used this name. But none has succeeded in ridding the country of us infidels. That’s why, even now, with his great prestige, many of the sheikhs doubt that he will be the new saviour of Islam.’

  ‘And, as I told you, every one of them will doubt it when they have seen Henri’s performance,’ Deniau said.

  ‘And now – ’ He turned to Emmeline. ‘This lady has not had her breakfast. ‘Come with me, Madame. Let us eat and be on our way.’

  At that he put his hand on her arm, his fingers increasing then decreasing their pressure on her bare skin in a touch which brought back the ecstasy of last night’s reverie. Lambert, Dufour and Captain Hersant followed them to the stone slab on which the food was laid. Jules, Lambert’s servant, came forward, offering her a dish of dates. She saw that his hand shook, and that his fair French skin was blistered by the sun. ‘How are you, Jules?’ she asked. ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘I don’t know, Madame. I may have a touch of fever.’

  ‘We’ll give you tablets for that,’ Deniau said. ‘Kaddour, fetch my medicine box.’

  He turned to her. ‘We must take good care of him. He will be needed for the performance.’

  The performance. Always, the performance. She watched Deniau open a leather satchel, intent on picking out the tablets from an array of medicines. Again, she had been forgotten. She watched as Kaddour poured water from a pitcher and Jules swallowed the pills. She saw Deniau go over to Lambert, and heard him ask, ‘What if your man becomes ill? Will you be able to carry on without him?’

  ‘He is not ill, is he?’ Lambert said, alarmed.

  ‘A touch of dysentery, perhaps. Those tablets will help. But, tell me. If you had to, could you manage without him?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I need someone on stage, someone who knows what I am doing and when I will need assistance.’

  She saw Deniau lean towards her husband and whisper. Lambert turned and looked back at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s just hope that your tablets work.’

  The road to Milianah was a desert track, monotonous under a burning sun. As the day wore on, Deniau, riding around the fringes of their caravan, kept urging the camel drivers to whip up their beasts, afraid that their party might not arrive before nightfall. And then towards sunset, after a day of Saharan solitude, Emmeline saw coming towards them an extraordinary assemblage of sheep and dromedaries guarded by horsemen armed with long rifles. Other armed men were on foot leading the dromedaries, some of which were loaded with folded tents made of animal skins wrapped around long tent poles, others swaying under the weight of huge brown-and-white-striped sacks which, Hersant told her, contained the furniture and provisions of these nomadic people. But it was the dromedaries loaded with palanquins which caught her attention, for as they came towards her she saw that the palanquins were closed in front with a black cloth which was suddenly drawn aside to reveal women and children, laughing and chattering excitedly as they pointed to her, the children waving as though she were one of them. The women, of all ages but mostly young, were unveiled. Many of the younger women were handsome. They wore white wool tunics, held at the shoulder by a clasp, belted at the waist and opening on one hip. Their turbans of camel hair were carefully arranged to display long black locks which framed their cheeks. At each movement a multitude of bracelets, some iron, some silver, jangled on their necks and arms. Enclosed in their palanquins peering out at her, they reminded her of actors in a puppet show, exaggerated and vivacious and, as their caravan receded into the desert dust amid a hubbub of bleating sheep, the shouts and crackling whips of the men and the yelping of their pack of starveling dogs, it came to her that she knew no more about this country than on the first day of her arrival and that in a few days, following Deniau’s plan, she would be forced to leave Africa, never to see again these people who travelled with all their worldly goods in a few bundles, who daily knelt prostrate in prayer before a god whose decisions, terrible or merciful, were met by them with the acceptance of total faith.

  And now, as the nomad caravan disappeared over the horizon, Emmeline heard a sudden shout behind her. Turning, she saw Deniau and Lieutenant Dufour wheel their horses around and leap from the saddles. A riderless horse cantered past her, reins loose over its neck. The camel drivers brought their animals to a kneeling position and it was then that Emmeline saw Jules, lying face down in the sand. Deniau and Kaddour lifted him up and placed him on the back of a camel, where he was supported in a sitting position by one of the camel drivers. His head lolled. She rode over to Lambert who was speaking to Deniau.

  ‘What happened? Did his horse bolt?’

  ‘It’s probably the dysentery,’ Deniau said. ‘I’m afraid he is quite ill.’

  ‘This dysentery,’ Lambert said. ‘What form does it take?’

  ‘Generally, it moves towards a crisis,’ Deniau said. ‘If it’s what I think it is, the crisis comes within three days. Or, if it is less severe, in seven days.’

  Lambert turned to her and with a slight movement of his head indicated that she should follow him. As they rode side by side, he said, ‘Now what? What am I going to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The performance is the day after tomorrow. These sheikhs and marabouts are coming from all over Algeria. We can’t postpone it.’

  ‘But what Jules does is not so difficult,’ she said. ‘Someone else could help you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ask Deniau. He’ll find someone.’

  ‘He suggested you,’ Lambert said. ‘He said you would be the perfect person. If it was one of his men it would not have the same effect. Besides, how can I train a stupid soldier in less than two days? Darling, you’ve seen me perform. I can show you what to do. And as you know, if I succeed we’ll save thousands of lives.’

  She stared ahead at the camels, their rumps bobbing up a
nd down, their large splayed feet delicately picking their way through the trackless sands. It was Deniau who told him to ask me. Deniau has convinced him that I’m the one he must use. Deniau who uses him, who uses me, with compliments and flattery. Deniau is the magician. We are his marionettes.

  She saw her husband whip his horse to make it keep pace with hers. When she ignored his presence, he said quietly, ‘Darling, you know I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important.’

  Angry, she stared ahead. At last, she said, ‘Deniau always has his way, doesn’t he? All right. Tell him I’ll do it.’

  As she knew he would, Lambert chose to ignore her anger. ‘Thank you, darling. Thank you! With your help, I know I won’t fail.’

  Minutes later, the roofs and minarets of a small city came into view and as they came closer Emmeline saw underneath its walls a profusion of tents spread out to form a sprawling nomadic encampment. As they made their way through this crowded staging ground it became evident that these were the separate camps of different sheikhs, each with its tents drawn up in a circle to protect an inner corral of sheep, chickens, camels and horses from robbers and roving packs of dogs. Here and there among the drab goatskin shelters, stately circular tents rose up, topped with pelmets in bright colours, outside which men wearing the richly embroidered waistcoats and high yellow boots of caids sat in conversation, drinking small cups of coffee and passing around a communal pipe. Lieutenant Dufour, riding slightly ahead of Emmeline, reined back to answer her question.

  ‘The most elaborate tents belong to the marabouts. They are always the most impressive. But as you can see, Madame, sheikhs and caids have come from all over Algeria to witness your husband’s miracles. So many of them that Milianah cannot possibly hold them.’

  ‘But what about the performance?’ Lambert asked. ‘Surely we will have to limit the size of the audience?’

  ‘Of course. We have invited only the marabouts, the leading sheikhs and their relatives. To compensate for this we have arranged a series of banquets and receptions for those who have been excluded. But I must tell you that in the last few days the sheikhs have entertained us on a scale we could never match. There have been horse and camel races, displays of hunting skills, feats of daring, even military exercises. Arabs and Kabyles have that in common: they love such shows. Oh, by the way, the Bureau Arabe is giving a banquet tonight.’

  Dufour looked at Emmeline. ‘Men only, I regret to say.’

  Emmeline smiled. ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

  The French fort at Milianah was situated in the heart of the town, a three-storey building looming high above the warren of enclosed Arab dwellings. The walls and buildings of the fort enclosed a large military parade ground. Emmeline, looking down from her third-floor bedroom window, saw, in it, a scene of frantic activity as French soldiers laboured to build tiers of seating which would transform the square into an auditorium. In the centre, carpenters had already erected a stage some ten feet above the ground. On the left side of the stage an impromptu dressing room had been constructed with adjoining wings so that Lambert could appear and retire from sight, as in a normal theatre. Earlier, on their arrival, Lambert had accompanied Jules to the military sick bay and now in the moment before the sudden desert night, she saw him come from the sick bay, cross the square and climb up on to the makeshift stage, inspecting the floorboards, checking on the hidden space beneath the stage where his electrical devices would be placed. He had already told her that tomorrow morning she must be ready to run through at least two rehearsals so that there would be no hitch. The electrical switches which she would manipulate were simple levers but the timing must be accurate.

  ‘However, there’s no need for you to worry, my darling. You will be letter perfect when I begin my performance. By the way, Captain Hersant told me he is arranging that supper be sent up to your room tonight. They expect the banquet will continue to a latish hour. I’ll try not to disturb you when I come in. I want you to have a good night’s sleep.’

  Dawn, extinguishing the night’s stars, rose red in the sky to reveal like the horizon of a faraway ocean the desert hills surrounding the city of Milianah. Emmeline, already dressed, looked down into the courtyard of the Bureau Arabe’s fort where a young French corporal unbolted the door of the infirmary and brought out slop pails which he emptied into a gutter. Jules. Jules who, were she at home, would be coming upstairs with their breakfast, now lay behind that infirmary door.

  She looked back into the room where her husband slept, then, carrying her shoes so that she would not wake him, slipped out of their apartment and went down the stone staircase, hurrying past the new grandstands and stage assembled for the forthcoming performance. As she walked across the sand-dusted flagstones, the sun, freed of its red beginnings, shone with a clear golden light. From the ramparts above a bugle blared the sound of reveille. And then like an echo in its dying music she heard an older summons: from the towers of the city’s mosques, the call to prayer.

  When she entered the shadows of the infirmary, the young corporal she had seen earlier came towards her, his forage cap pushed back on his forehead, his uniform concealed by a long white apron, his arms bare, and wet from washing. ‘Madame? For Monsieur Guillaumin, yes? He’s in here.’

  He led her down a corridor past a small ward where six soldier patients lay sleeping and into a long narrow room marked Isolation Ward. There were two beds in this room but only one was occupied. Over the backs of each bed was a shelf holding a tin mug and a white spittoon, and above these objects, thumb-tacked to the wall, a printed notice:

  Milianah Military Hospital

  Rules for Health Service

  Civilian patients subject

  to disciplinary measures

  In the occupied bed Jules turned to face her, his eyes at first glazed as though he could not see. But then, suddenly, he struggled to sit up. ‘Madame? Madame? Where is Monsieur? I must speak to him.’

  His dark hair, wet with sweat, fell across his brow in black stripes, as though some unseen painter had tried to erase the face of the Jules she knew. She went to his bed, took his hand and held it in hers. In all the years he had worked for her and her husband she had never touched his hand except by accident. And now, when the corporal said the name Guillaumin she had not known at first that he meant Jules. Holding his wet and fevered hand, trying to think of words to comfort him, she was filled with shame. I am holding the hand of someone who brings my meals, orders my carriage, helps me in running the house and assists Henri in his work, someone who has lived for years under our roof, and yet, stricken with fever because we brought him here, he remains someone I do not know.

  ‘You mustn’t worry, Jules,’ she told him. ‘Lieutenant Dufour says your illness will pass. In a few days when Monsieur has given his performance and you’re feeling well again we will go home.’

  ‘But how can he?’ Jules lay back as though the effort to speak had exhausted him. ‘Who will work the levers? Who will know what he must be served and when?’

  ‘I’ll do it. You mustn’t think of that. Rest now and get well.’

  He closed his eyes as though to sleep but his hand gripped hers with sudden force. ‘Madame! I could die here. If I do, promise me you’ll bring my body back to France. Promise me I won’t be buried in these sands?’

  ‘You are not going to die.’

  ‘How can you say that, Madame? You don’t know. Promise me? Please?’

  She looked at his imploring eyes. ‘Yes, yes. I promise.’

  His hand went slack, releasing hers. The young corporal standing by the door nodded to her to follow him. They went outside.

  ‘This illness,’ she said. ‘Is it contagious? Why is he in the isolation ward?’

  ‘It could be. But he’s there because it’s where we put the ones who might die in the night. If the other patients wake in the morning and see a corpse – ’ The corporal shrugged.

  ‘So he might die?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We must wait
and see.’

  ‘But he – are the tablets working –?’

  ‘You must speak to the doctor, Madame. He’s not here at present.’

  She went out into the sunlight of the courtyard. Soldiers were beginning to assemble the last tiers of seating. On the stage, army carpenters were erecting the wings to which she and Lambert could retire at certain parts of the performance. Seeing her, the sergeant in charge of this work invited her to join his men for coffee and a slice of the flat Arab bread. ‘Monsieur will be here shortly,’ the sergeant told her. ‘Everything is ready as he requested.’

  As she sat drinking coffee from a tin mug Emmeline saw, through the main archway of the fort, a commotion of camels in the streets outside. She watched their drivers make them kneel by tapping them with sticks just below the knees. Other drivers shouted to each other over a sea of camel backs, the camels’ heads swaying this way and that, as swollen packs, planks, canteens, and crates bearing Arabic lettering were unloaded and heaped in large bundles on the flagstones.

  And then, suddenly, the shouting ceased. The drivers stood silent beside the grey and brown flanks of their animals as a small troop of Arab riders cantered past, clearing the way for two horsemen who now moved slowly up the street. On the leading horse, a tall, thin, white-bearded man, dressed in green silken robes, his head high-turbaned in the manner of a marabout. Behind him a younger rider, wearing a grey burnous. This rider, passing the courtyard where Emmeline sat, turned to look in at her. Despite the burnous and the male pose astride in the saddle, the rider was a woman, small and frail, her face wasted as if from years of fasting.

  The sergeant foreman, sitting near Emmeline, rose and ran to peer through the archway. The camel drivers, no longer silent, called out to each other excitedly as the riders and their escort disappeared from sight. The sergeant came back from the archway, nodding his head. ‘I was right,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘The marabout has come. Our Colonel will be pleased.’ He looked at Emmeline. ‘And Monsieur Lambert, he will be pleased, very pleased. Eh, Madame?’