That Devil's Madness (6 page)

‘Eh, well, it's not mine. Not my colour at all,' the rotund little man said with a laugh.

‘But it must belong to someone. They might need it.'

‘And just how do you want me to return it, hey, young man? Do you know how many people I have staying in that room of yours? Every day, someone new. They come, they go… How do you think I'm going to find this lady?'

‘I don't know.'

‘No, I don't either. Who knows where she is now. And anyway, if she can afford a parasol, she can probably buy another,
non
?'

Louis shrugged. He didn't know much about parasols.

‘Why don't you keep it, young man? You never know, you might meet a young lady one day. One who would appreciate such a thing, yes?'

Back in his room Louis considered the parasol; he would put it away with his watch-chain. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the chain, wanting to admire it beside the parasol, but saw the gold links were turning green, and the silver links black. He spat on the corner of his shirt and rubbed each link, but no matter how hard he rubbed, he couldn't make them shine. He remembered his father's comment in the market square – he'd known straight away the chain wasn't made of gold or silver. He must think Louis such a fool! And he
was
a fool, to waste what little money he'd had on such rubbish, when he didn't even have a watch. In one angry movement he threw the chain out of the window and curled into a ball on the bed.

#

It was dark when Marius returned and found Louis fast asleep. He felt the boy's forehead – it was cool, and there was colour back in the boy's cheeks.

‘Louis, wake up. Are you awake? Well, sit up. I have news.'

‘You have our land? What's it like? Is it far?'

Marius sat on the bed and opened up a package he'd brought, from which he took out two brown rolls and a small piece of cheese which he broke in half. He handed Louis his share. ‘Ha! The Government – they say they want to offer us land, want us to develop this country, but they're all a pack of liars. But first, how're you feeling?'

‘Much better, but what happened? Didn't they give you the land?' Louis took a bite of bread and of cheese. ‘Are we going back to Sablières?'

‘No, no, we're not going back. But I did refuse the land they offered me. Land, ha! More like a solid piece of rock. They must think we're stupid, but I told them – not even enough soil to grow weeds for goats, I said.'

‘So we
are
going back.'

‘No. I said no, didn't I? It so happens that there's better land just out of Aïn Azel, about 15 kilometres out of Sétif.'

‘Where's that?'

‘A few days east of here – about two hundred kilometres as the crow flies. But this land's not free – I had to buy it.'

‘But we don't have any money.'

‘We came to an agreement and I signed some papers. They're keen to settle that part of the country, but I'm not stupid – I checked around first. Asked people who'd been there. The land's all right. Rich, in fact. We agreed I'd pay for the land over the next fifteen years. We leave tomorrow morning. What's this?'

‘A parasol. I found it in the wardrobe. How will we get there?'

Marius opened the parasol. ‘It's in good condition. You should have taken it to the butcher.'

‘I did. He told me to keep it, but I don't want it. How are we getting there tomorrow?'

‘You don't want it? No, I suppose not. But we'll keep it anyway. We might be able to trade it for something.'

‘Father?'

‘Yes?'

‘Tomorrow. How will we get there?'

‘By boat. No, don't look like that – it's the only way. And it'll take more than just tomorrow. There are no roads to Sétif. The coaches are unwilling to travel such distances, so the only way is by sea, either to Bedjaia or Skida. But for our own safety, we're better off going to Skida, apparently. It's further – about three hundred and fifty kilometres from here – but there we'll be able to join a military party that's going to Constantine, to the south. From Constantine, we come back this way about a hundred and twenty kilometres to Sétif. Then another forty kilometres southward to Aïn Azel. I know, it sounds complicated, but I have to think of our safety. Don't worry, it won't be so bad. I met a Corsican fisherman who's going to Skida himself tomorrow – he's agreed to take us on board.'

Louis sighed; he doubted a fishing boat would be any better than
L'Arlésienne.

‘Fourteen hectares, Louis. Think of it! Fourteen hectares of rich land with a river running through. I think we were wise to come here after all.'

#

The trip to Skida was uneventful. The sea was calm and Louis found that he wasn't seasick as he'd been on the
Arlésienne
, and the Corsican fisherman told him tales of pirates that used the caves they could see along the coast to hide their treasures. At night he slept on deck looking up at the vastness of the sky. He saw a falling star one night and remembered the women of his village who would cross themselves whenever they saw one, because they believed it to be the soul of someone who'd just died, and he wondered if his mother was up there, looking down on him. Would he ever stop missing her so terribly?

By day it was easier because there was plenty to keep him busy. He helped the fisherman catch their evening meal, and once, when they caught a small shark, the fisherman cut off its tail and nailed it to the bow to ward off other sharks. But nights were different, because no matter what he thought about, his thoughts always came back to thinking of his mother, missing her, wondering what she'd say about this or that…

By the time they reached Skida on the fifth day, Louis felt himself an accomplished seaman. They found an army captain who took them to his camp, and for the next two days, while the military organised their provisions, Louis and Marius enjoyed military food and the shelter of a tent.

But soon it was time to move again, and they were given the use of a horse for the four-day trip to Constantine. Louis sat behind his father, holding tight, and by the end of the first day on horseback, he found he had difficulty walking. The soldiers teased him and offered to fill his pants with straw to ease the ache.

On they rode the next day through desolate clay hills sometimes covered with silver-barked pines, sometimes with prickly pear. They rode between mountains of slate with strata jutting at acute angles towards the sky, and occasionally they saw, on a hilltop, a small Kabyle village. They passed few people on this road – a shepherd or a villager who would stop and stare, and every so often they would see aqueducts or bridges, the remains of ancient Roman occupation.

On the fourth and last day of this leg of their journey they travelled uphill, up a road skirting deep gorges at the bottom of which a stream or river gushed over rocks, and past fields where storks stood on one leg and stared at them, just as the villagers had done earlier. When they reached Constantine that afternoon the army captain took them to a vantage point where, at six hundred metres above sea level, they could see the whole countryside below. He pointed to the sulphur springs where five arches formed the baths that were part of the aqueducts built by Justinian in the seventh century, and where every Wednesday Jewish and Arab women bathed and performed devotional rights. To the east deep rocky ravines protected half the circumference of the town, and the Roumel River tumbled over its rocky bed. Hawks and vultures circled and nested there, attracted by the discharge of sewers from the city above.

Marius turned towards the west where the view interested him more. Here the hills dropped abruptly to plains where orange groves and olive trees grew, as well as a variety of other fruit trees. The hint of an acrid odour drifted up and the captain told them of a tannery in the Arab quarter where the shoes and boots of the whole region were manufactured.

That evening Marius and Louis learned they would be attached to another military convoy for their journey to Sétif. This journey of one hundred and twenty-six kilometres would be done in one day, in five stages: Oued Athménia, Bir l'Arch, Tadjenen, Leâalma, and finally Sétif. They would rise before sun-up, and would only stop to change horses at each stage and for lunch. It would be hard on them, the captain told Marius, as they were not used to travelling such distances by horse, but he was confident they would manage.

‘You're lucky,' he said, ‘it's mostly downhill.'

#

To Louis, the trip to Sétif was nothing but a blur of hooves and dust. By the time they reached town it was dark, and they could see little, but Louis was glad that part of their journey was over, for his muscles ached and his backside felt numb. As soon as he lay down in the barracks he fell asleep and couldn't be roused for dinner.

Over a glass of Port with the officers, Marius learned his luck was holding – Aïn Azel was provided with supplies twice a month by convoy, and one was due to leave the next day; they wouldn't have to spend time in Sétif after all. Then talk moved to the indigenous population.

‘Now the Jews, you don't have to worry about them,' the captain explained. ‘We had them all become naturalised as French some time ago, and they're no trouble. It's the Muslims that you have to be careful of. We tried to get them naturalised, but they refused. Wouldn't give up their religion and become Christians.'

‘Does becoming naturalised make you a Christian? Did the Jews become Christians?'

‘No, no! No need for
them
to do that. We just made it a condition for the Muslims, but they refused…' The captain shook his head, perplexed as to why one would refuse such an opportunity. ‘You'll find them a strange lot, I think.' He refilled their glasses, then explained that the Muslims of Algeria were not one race, but could be divided broadly into Arabs, Turks and Berbers.

‘Now the Berbers, they divide themselves even further. Not like us French – if you're French, you're French, no?'

Marius nodded, unsure how to respond.

‘Not the Berbers, though – they're Kabyles, Berrabers, Tuaregs, Shawias. Some of them even have slaves and serfs, which complicate things further. Now I ask you, Monsieur, how are we to tell them apart?' He sipped his Port and continued. ‘There's been a bit of trouble with them lately. The Arabs, they're nomads, you see. And most of the Berbers too, though not the Kabyles – they live in the mountains. But anyway, Arab, Kabyle or Berber, they're all the same. Claim
they
own the land the settlers are trying to cultivate. Of course, they don't own it at all. They never stay in one place, so how could they own it? But it means trouble all the same. I'm told – though I've no proof, you understand – that Berbers are more intelligent than Arabs. But how do they know that, hey?'

Marius shrugged. He knew little of Berbers and Arabs.

‘The Tuaregs now, you
can
tell them apart. They wear blue, and it's the men who cover their faces – not the women. Why do you think that is, Monsieur de Dercou?'

But Marius had no idea. He wiped his lips with a serviette to hide a yawn. Then the captain gave him the address of Monsieur Honoré Bertin, the
bordj
or military administrator of Aïn Azel, responsible for receiving and distributing mail, generally organising the goings-on of the area, and giving newcomers directions to their land.

‘He's a good man, Bertin. He's done well. You can trust him.'

The next morning, with the sky barely lightening and the mountains still deep violet, Louis and Marius joined the convoy to Aïn Azel.

#

Louis sat on top of the sacks of flour that had been his nest these past two days, and scratched as he watched the people of Aïn Azel gather around the dray. Apart from the soldiers, only the builders on scaffoldings nearby seemed European.

‘Hey, young man, do you intend spending the whole night up there?'

Louis looked down amongst the crowd. Next to his father was a gentleman smiling up at him. Marius signalled at him to come down.

‘Monsieur Bertin, may I present my son Louis? Louis, Monsieur Honoré Bertin.'

Louis wiped his hand on his clothes and shook the outstretched hand.

‘Welcome to Aïn Azel, young man. I was just telling your father you must both stay with us for a day or so. In fact, I insist. Now, Monsieur de Dercou – you have baggage? Just that? Well then, no need to wait. Let's go.'

Louis followed the two men. He found it strange that a man such as this Monsieur Bertin, a man with a waxed moustache, pinstriped suit and starched collar, should befriend his father like this. But Marius didn't seem to think it strange.

‘Hey, Campetti,' called Bertin as they passed the builders packing up their tools for the night, ‘Come and meet our new settlers.'

A small dark-haired man dressed in sac-cloth trousers and singlet separated himself from the group and was introduced to Marius and Louis. He shook hands, then returned to his work.

‘Don't let his appearance fool you,' Bertin explained, ‘he's doing well, Campetti. He brought his team of men with him from Italy. Since then, he's built himself two houses –
two –
one of which he rents out. Then he built the only café-restaurant in the area. His wife and children run it. You may well ask, Monsieur, why a café-restaurant when there are so few of us here, and some months back, I would have agreed with you. But Campetti, he knew what he was doing – that café is earning him a small fortune. Always full of soldiers and Legionnaires; they get tired of barrack-food, you see. But that's not all – he also built some stables, and he made them large enough to house coaches that are sure to come in the future. He might just be a
petit blanc
at the moment, but I think he'll become a
grand colon
before too long. He's not stupid, that Campetti. No, not stupid at all…'