The Magician's Wife Read online

  She leaned over the bed and lifted him to her, cradling his head on her breast as though he were a child. The sweet sickening smell of excrement came up in a wave and she saw that he had again fouled himself under the sheet. She could feel his fetid breath on her neck as he snuggled his sweating head under her chin. But she held him tight, held him until, minutes later, his body contracted in a rigid spasm and with a groan he pulled away from her and vomited. As she brought a basin and attempted to wipe his face, gradually his body slackened, his mouth fell open. With eerie certainty, she was in the presence of death.

  After a time she rose, turned down the lamp and drew a sheet over the dead man’s face. On the shelf above his bed she saw, again, the incongruous printed notice:

  Milianah Military Hospital

  Rules for Health Service

  Civilian patients subject

  to disciplinary measures

  She went out into the corridor. The orderly corporal saw her and came from the main ward.

  ‘Madame? How is he? Can I help?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I am so sorry, Madame. He was your servant. You’ll miss him, I know. These deaths are a terrible thing. I have seen so many go like that. Sometimes I think this country is accursed.’

  ‘No’ she said. ‘It’s we who are accursed.’

  The beaded curtain shielding the doorway to their quarters rustled like rain as she entered the darkened rooms. As she blindly felt her way towards the dressing table she stepped on a sheet of paper, anchored by one of her slippers. Picking it up, she went to the lamp and lit it, turning down the wick so as not to wake him. In his strange, almost medieval, handwriting, she read:

  My Darling,

  I have left instructions that on no account am I to be wakened before 7 a.m. I have taken a sleeping draught because it is essential that I be well rested. Otherwise my concern about what will happen to me tomorrow morning might weaken and distract me from the task ahead. I do not know where you have been and trust that you will return safely. But when you do, please let me sleep. I am hopeful but not yet confident that tomorrow I will succeed in this ultimate test.

  Sleep well,

  H.

  She went to the door of the sitting room and looked in, but in the darkness she could not see him. She went to the bed where she slept alone, turned off the lamp and stripping herself of her clothes, lay down, covering her naked body with a woollen blanket. She thought of the corpse. Where would it be buried? Not in France as poor Jules had wished but here in Milianah, in a French cemetery, far from home. Into her mind came a face she remembered imperfectly, the face of Jules’ wife, a Breton woman, who spoke no French, but the Gallic language of her region, a woman she could not converse with, a woman who, although she worked as their laundress, Emmeline barely knew. Jules’ child, a small dirty boy, sometimes rode a donkey around the manor pathways, beating it with a switch, shouting in mysterious joy. Mother and child were living out their lives tonight, not knowing that an hour ago those lives had changed for ever.

  At seven, as though an alarm had gone off, Lambert woke and came into her room. He went to her dressing table and peering in the mirror, removed his hair net and carefully combed his hair.

  ‘Jules is dead,’ she said.

  He did not turn round. He folded the hair net into a square. She could not see his face.

  ‘He died in the night. He asked us to take care of his wife and son.’

  ‘His wife and son? Yes . . . we must do what we can. Poor Jules.’

  ‘He asked for you.’

  Now, at last, he turned and looked at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said he asked for you.’

  ‘No. I meant what did you tell him? Did you tell him I have a crisis on my hands? He would understand.’

  ‘Understand?’ she said. ‘He was dying.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, you’re right. Poor Jules. I hope it’s not an omen.’

  She sat up on the divan and watched him as in the other room he began to dress in the clothes he had worn during yesterday’s performance.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I won’t need you on stage this morning. We will be using the sheikh’s pistols. He will hand them to me. Perhaps you had better stay here. If something goes wrong, I don’t want you to see it.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Deniau?’

  ‘Not yet. Why?’

  ‘He told me last night that if what you propose to do seems to him too dangerous he won’t allow you to proceed. He believes you should use your own pistols and not risk a disaster.’

  He stood staring out of the window, flexing his fingers as she had often seen him do before he performed a card trick. ‘I am not under Deniau’s orders. He mustn’t try to dissuade me.’

  ‘And if you don’t succeed?’ she said. ‘You’ll have made two widows in twenty-four hours.’

  He turned from the window and stared at her. ‘Two widows? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You have already made one,’ she said. ‘Madame Jules Guillaumin.’

  ‘My darling,’ he said, but his tone was one of irritation. ‘You will not be a widow, don’t talk nonsense. Listen? They are arriving.’ He went past her, pushing aside the beaded curtain and stepping out on to the balcony. She followed him outside. Below in the square the crowd of sheikhs, marabouts and caids who had attended yesterday’s performance were outnumbered sixfold by a multitude of Kabyles, men, women and children, crowding and pushing their way through the gates to witness the death of the infidel sorcerer. And now she saw Deniau and Captain Hersant come up the stone steps, Deniau saluting ironically as he approached her.

  ‘Will you take breakfast?’ Captain Hersant asked. ‘There is time. Bou-Aziz has not yet arrived.’

  Lambert looked at her. She shook her head.

  Deniau, staring at the milling mass of people in the square, said, ‘I’m sorry about this. We tried to keep the populace away but it was no use. The story of what happened yesterday and what might happen this morning has spread far beyond Milianah. This will be an historic occasion. And now, Henri, tell me, what is it you propose to do?’

  ‘You will see,’ Lambert said.

  ‘But I must know in advance. If you fail it will be a tragedy. But also it will be the end of everything we have worked for until now. So I have a right to know. What risk are you taking?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that,’ Lambert said. ‘But, believe me, I know what I am doing. In the meantime I have two requests.’

  ‘Please?’ Captain Hersant said. ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘Order champagne for lunch. We must celebrate when this is over. Can your doctor stand by, just in case?’

  ‘The doctor and stretcher bearers are waiting below,’ Deniau said.

  ‘Good. And now if you gentlemen will leave me, I would like to be alone with my wife.’

  Captain Hersant, looking out over the square, said, ‘Ah! That must be Bou-Aziz.’

  At the fort’s entrance three horsemen dismounted and made their way through the packed masses in the square. As they proceeded, the crowd pressed back to make a path for them, many bowing and reverently touching the green silken robe of the marabout who as always leaned heavily on his daughter’s arm. Preceding them was Sheikh Ben-Amara brandishing above his head the pistols he had displayed on the day before. At sight of his weapons, the crowd shouted out a hoarse welcome.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Lambert asked.

  Captain Hersant looked at Deniau as if for permission to translate.

  ‘They’re telling him to kill the Roumi sorcerer,’ Deniau said. ‘Sheikh Ben-Amara is the chief rabble-rouser hereabouts.’

  The sheikh, still brandishing his pistols, looked up at their balcony. Pointing a pistol barrel in Lambert’s direction he cried out in French, ‘Roumi, your time has come.’ He turned and made obeisance in the direction of Bou-Aziz. ‘Behold, the Master of the Hour has arrived. The kingdom of the just is at hand. The time is right!’


  But as the sheikh spoke, Bou-Aziz shook his head, as though weary of this boasting. Quietly acknowledging the greetings of the crowd who pressed around him, he made his way to the bench where he had sat the day before. A place was cleared at once for him and his daughter.

  Deniau looked at Lambert. ‘We will wait for you below. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lambert said. He took Emmeline’s arm. ‘Gentlemen. Give us five minutes.’

  Pushing aside the curtain he led her back to the inner room. ‘Darling, I’m sorry to put you through this. But I must tell you that it may not be possible for me to substitute the false bullet. I’ve never done it this way. I may fumble it or be unable to fit it in his barrel. Or he can simply shoot me in cold blood before I have time to prepare. I tell you this, not because I want to alarm you, but if things go wrong . . . What am I saying? They won’t go wrong. Give me a kiss. I must go.’

  ‘Henri. I’ll ask you one last time. Use your own pistols.’

  ‘Darling, I can’t back out now. I’d be disgraced.’

  ‘If you had a son, if you had a child, alive this morning, would you still do this?’

  Ignoring her words, he came to her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck. They’re waiting.’

  The beaded curtain rustled as he went outside. A moment later she heard the crowd utter a great moaning sound as he was sighted on the balcony. She felt herself tremble. He’s not properly prepared. He’s going to die. Where’s Deniau? He must stop him.

  She ran through the rooms, pushed aside the curtain and went out on to the sunlit balcony. Below her, flanked by Deniau and Hersant, she saw her husband walk slowly towards the stage, moving impassively through the milling mass of Kabyles and Arabs who, at sight of him, fell silent and drew back.

  And now, nodding to Bou-Aziz who sat in the front row of spectators, Lambert mounted the bare stage and stood, looking out at the thousands of faces below.

  ‘I am ready,’ he said.

  An interpreter repeated his words. Emmeline, high on the balcony, heard it as a knell. She saw the crowd make way for Sheikh Ben-Amara, who, bearded and moustachioed, wearing a white burnous, yellow high boots and gold-embroidered waistcoat, advanced, smiling, and again holding up his heavy cavalry pistols. Disdaining to use the steps, with one leap he bounded on to the stage and turning to face Lambert cried out in heavily accented French, ‘Now, sorcerer. Do you wish to inspect my pistols?’

  Lambert nodded and took the weapons in his hands. Looking down at the marabouts seated below, he said, ‘I need a volunteer to inspect these vents and see that they are clear.’

  One of the marabouts at once rose and came up on the stage. Gravely, like a performer in a play, he inspected the vents, holding the pistols up against the light.

  ‘Clear?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Clear,’ said the marabout.

  ‘Continue,’ Lambert said.

  The sheikh took from his pouch a charge of powder and drove the wad home, first in one pistol and then in the other.

  ‘You have your own bullets?’ Lambert asked.

  The sheikh, smiling, offered a leather case filled with bullets. Lambert chose one, held it up for the crowd to see, and loaded it into the pistol. He took up the second pistol, again choosing and loading one of the sheikh’s bullets. He held the pistols aloft then put them on a table beside the sheikh. When he had done this, he looked up as if searching the sky. Emmeline, watching from the balcony, saw that his eyes searched for her. She raised her hand and waved. He saw her and raised his right hand in salute. Had he succeeded? Or had he failed and was this his farewell? His face, impassive, told her nothing but in that instant panic filled her. He had failed and this was his goodbye.

  Like a duellist marking out his position he moved exactly fifteen paces across the stage, then stopped and turned round. In a silence so profound that in the streets outside the faint cries of morning commerce were heard by all, he looked directly at the sheikh.

  ‘I am ready.’

  Sheikh Ben-Amara took from the table the first pistol and, holding it steady, aimed directly at Lambert’s chest. His bearded face, grave until then, split in a ferocious grin. ‘The kingdom of the just is at hand,’ he cried out. ‘Roumi, your time has come.’

  He fired. The pistol exploded with shattering power. Lambert did not fall. He stood, swaying slightly, then pointed to his mouth. He was holding the bullet between his teeth.

  Emmeline, dizzy with relief, heard below in the square a vast collective intake of breath.

  Lambert removed the bullet from his mouth, held it up to the crowd, then walked quickly towards the sheikh, handing it to him for his inspection.

  Ben-Amara, agitated, looked at it, dropped it on the table, then reached for the second pistol. Lambert forestalled him, quickly taking up the weapon and holding it aloft.

  ‘You have not been able to injure me,’ he said. ‘No one can. But now you will see that my aim is more dangerous than yours. Look at that wall.’

  He turned to the whitewashed wall which formed the rear of the stage. He pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger. In the noise of the explosion, suddenly, a patch of red appeared on the whitewashed surface, besmirching the wall. A red liquid trickled down from the edge of the patch. Sheikh Ben-Amara stood, his head bowed as though he and not the wall had suffered this injury. He raised his eyes to face the sorcerer, awe and fear in his face. At last he turned and looked out at the crowd.

  Emmeline, on her balcony, went forward, her hands gripping the stone parapet. In that moment, so great was the silence in the square, she could hear the faint scuffling sound of her shoes on the ground. Motionless, as though frozen in the frame of a painting, the multitude of faces stared in terror at the red patch on the wall.

  In that moment of fear and panic, Bou-Aziz rose from his seat in the front row. Carefully, with the tread of an old man, he ascended the stage, went to the wall and, dipping his finger in the red liquid, raised it to his mouth and tasted.

  ‘Blood?’ Lambert asked.

  Bou-Aziz nodded. He then turned to face the staring, frightened eyes of a thousand witnesses. When he spoke, his voice was grave and quiet. The crowd seemed to gasp, their eyes shifting from him to Lambert. When he had finished speaking many in the crowd cried out:

  ‘Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah!’

  ‘Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah!’

  Bou-Aziz raised his hands as if to still the shouting. He then gestured to his daughter, who ascended the stage and spoke in French to Lambert and the assembled foreigners as Emmeline, high on her balcony, strained to listen.

  ‘My father says that in our time we have not seen, nor will we see a sorcerer such as you. Heaven has sent you like thunder and lightning to warn us of the power granted by God to those infidels who conquered us in the past. My father knows that many of our people, Arab and Kabyle, believe that he, Bou-Aziz, is the Master of the Hour, the chosen one of God. Because of this belief he has been asked to declare that the time is now. If the time is now, the jihad must commence. If the time is now and the prophecies are to be fulfilled, my father must be the true Mahdi, come at last, blessed by a baraka greater than any possessed by an infidel.

  ‘But he says that yesterday and today we have seen with our own eyes you, an infidel, perform miracles unknown to man. We have seen that you, without benefit of a talisman, have been shielded by God from what, for other men, would be certain death.

  ‘My father says: As always we know that God alone is great. Everything comes from Him. Everything, including the miracles you have performed today. Because of that, my father wishes to withdraw for a short time to a place of khalwa, a place of retreat. He will remain alone in prayer and meditation, asking God if, indeed, the time is now, or if, by sending us an infidel sorcerer possessed of such spiritual strengths, God is telling us that you are the strongest.

  ‘Lastly, my father asks that, for the period of his khalwa, the sheikhs, the caids, the agas here assembled, remain in Milianah and pray f
or an answer to this question: Will the reign of the impious now come to an end and the reign of the true believers begin? Has the time come for my father to take the true name of the Mahdi, Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah, the chosen one, who will drive the infidels from our land?’

  When Bou-Aziz’s daughter had finished speaking she took her father’s arm and helped him down from the stage. Together, they walked towards the gate where their horses waited. Sheikh Ben-Amara, taking up his pistols, followed. Emmeline heard over and over again the chant of ‘Muhammad b. ’Abd Allah’ from the crowd, who, despite their reverence for the marabout, kept glancing, even as they chanted, at the slight silent figure on stage.

  Lambert, with his unerring actor’s instinct, had not moved during the entire translation and now waited until Bou-Aziz had left the square before coming down from the stage and, walking with a slow solemn step, moving into the thick of the crowd, staring ahead as if they were invisible. As in Algiers, the sheikhs, marabouts and caids drew back as if unwilling to come within arm’s length of the sorcerer and again Emmeline heard the murmurings uttered in the theatre in the Rue Bat-Azoun.

  ‘Chitan! Chitan!’

  But now the word was spoken in terror. Her husband, Henri Lambert, an ordinary man, was for these people more than a saint. He was chitan, the devil incarnate.

  Then, as Deniau and Captain Hersant came forward to shake Lambert’s hand and congratulate him, Emmeline ran down the steps leading to the square, hurrying towards him, remembering that moments ago he had risked death to win this victory. When she ran across the square, crowds of Kabyles drew back to let her pass, staring in astonishment as she embraced the sorcerer, weeping, stroking his cheek.

  ‘It’s over, my darling,’ he said. ‘Take my arm. We must make our exit.’

  And so, confused and frightened by the hostile eyes of the Kabyles, she walked with her husband, Deniau and Hersant through the doorway which led into the main hall of the fort. When they went in a Zouave sergeant closed and barred the heavy wooden doors. Then, and only then, Lambert smiled and clapped his hands in triumph. ‘Well, gentlemen. Did we or did we not?’