The Magician's Wife (25 page)

‘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 for 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?’

‘You did!’ Deniau said. ‘Congratulations, my dear fellow. But
how
did you do it? Amazing! You must tell us.’

‘No, no,’ Lambert said, chuckling to himself in delight. ‘A miracle cannot be explained. As the marabout said, “Everything comes from God.” ’

Now, officers and the few wives who had accompanied them to this distant outpost crowded around Lambert, offering their praise. Army orderlies appeared bearing trays of champagne. Emmeline, forgotten in the rush of congratulations, stood slightly outside the circle, watching as Lambert smiled at his admirers. This man who, moments ago, walked like Satan among innocent Africans is what my father always said he was, a charlatan. She thought of Bou-Aziz, of his grave, dignified speech, of his resolve to pray for God’s guidance. And in that moment in the courtyard of a French fort surrounded by illimitable desert she remembered the Emperor’s study in Compiègne, the Emperor with his waxed moustaches and his lecher’s smile, puffing on his long cigar. ‘I have great plans for Algeria. In the spring, I will bring our armies to Africa, subdue the Kabylia region and complete our conquest of the entire country.’ But this conquest that the Emperor desired would not ‘civilize’ these people as he promised but instead bring more forts, more soldiers, more roads, more French colonists to profit from Algeria’s trade and crops. And more mahdis, more jihads, more repression.

A luncheon gong sounded. Lambert, breaking away from his admirers, came to her, taking her arm and leading her into the dining hall of the fort where a festive celebration was about to begin. A major-domo seated them, her husband on her right and Colonel Deniau on her left. As in Compiègne, where the Emperor and Empress had occupied the centre seats at the long table, so, this morning in far-off Milianah, she and Lambert were given the place of honour.

As the first course was brought in, Deniau turned to them and said, ‘Of course you realize that things have changed. We have been deprived of our triumphant exit.’

‘I was going to ask you about that,’ Lambert said.

‘He’s not the paramount marabout for nothing. What else could he do? He has to buy time, to save face, to plan some action he hopes will devalue this morning’s miracles. I don’t think he’s going to succeed, but we mustn’t help him by disappearing from the field of combat.’

‘But this period of “meditation” could take weeks, Lambert said. You told us we have to get back to Algiers before the rains. Before the end of the month.’

‘I’m sorry, Henri. I’m sorry, Emmeline. We can’t leave now. But I hope this “meditation” won’t last more than a few days. He can’t prolong it. These sheikhs and marabouts are important people in their own communities. They don’t want to wait around in Milianah.’

‘But what if the rains come? What if we miss the steamer?’

‘We’ll deal with that problem when we come to it. In the meantime it’s important that you be seen in the streets of the city. That you and your powers remain fresh in their minds. We’ll arrange a further reception for the sheikhs at which you, of course, will be present. You are Bou-Aziz’s nemesis. Already, I’m sure there’s doubt among many of the sheikhs that he is the promised Mahdi. He’ll have to dispel that doubt by some great feat. And what can he do? His “miracles” aren’t so much miracles as faith-healing and this unproven legend that he is the chosen one of the prophet. Those things can’t compete with what the sheikhs saw here in the past two days. I’m very hopeful. Very!’

‘Hopeful?’ Emmeline said. ‘What is it you hope for? That Henri’s performance has discredited Bou-Aziz and that his following will desert him? Or that he will renounce the idea of a holy war?’

‘In truth,’ Deniau said, smiling, ‘I don’t really want him to lose his following. I hope that he’ll put off a decision by some ruse such as an interior jihad. It’s been used in the past by would-be Mahdis to give them time to rally support.’

‘An interior jihad?’ Lambert said. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Instead of calling for a holy war, he’ll tell them that they need to turn inwards towards prayer and work to strengthen their faith. That would fit
our
plans perfectly. We know that General MacMahon is already assembling the forces he’ll need to land here in the spring. Once our armies disembark in Algiers, that will be the end of it.’

When he said this Deniau tapped his knife on the edge of his glass, calling for attention. He then rose and proposed a toast to: ‘A patriotic Frenchman who this morning risked his life and displayed his genius in the cause of France’s mission to civilize these lands and make them an important link in our chain of empire. I give you Monsieur Henri Lambert.’

Chairs were pushed back as the company rose for the toast. Emmeline saw her husband smile and bow his head in mock humility. Of course he’s happy to stay here for a few more days. He knows no ‘miracle’ Bou-Aziz can perform will equal what
he
did today. There’ll be receptions and dinners in his honour. But when this is over, what’s going to happen? He’ll no longer be content with his paid performances in theatres. Today is the high point in his life.

Deniau turning to her as the first course was served put his fingers gently on her arm in an effort to re-establish that air of covert complicity which excluded her husband. ‘And you, dear Emmeline, how do you feel about staying on longer? I must confess I dread the day when I’ll stand on the quay at Algiers and wave farewell to the
Alexander
as it steams towards Marseille.’

He smiled, tilting his head sideways, almost coquettishly, waiting her answer.

‘When are they going to bury Jules?’

‘Jules? Oh! Henri’s man. Is he . . .? Of course. When did it happen?’

‘Early this morning.’

‘Then it’s possible that they may have buried him already. With cholera, they like to get the bodies out of sight. The men fear it, and of course they’re right. In Algeria cholera has killed more of our soldiers than all of the battles of the past forty years.’

‘Cholera? No one told me it was cholera.’

Deniau shrugged. ‘We didn’t want to alarm you.’

‘But you knew he was going to die?’

‘It wasn’t certain, it never is. If they don’t die after three days it runs its normal course and by the seventh day they begin to recover. One never knows. Besides, I wanted to spare you.’

‘Spare me?’

‘And spare your husband. Knowing his assistant was about to die might have made it difficult for him to perform. I may seem heartless but believe me there would have been no point in telling either one of you.’

She put her napkin on the table and, turning from him, said to her husband, ‘He tells me that Jules may already be buried. I’m going to find out. If there’s to be a funeral, of course we must attend it.’

‘Wait,’ Lambert said. ‘Let Charles find out. We’re the guests of honour today. Please?’

But she stood up and left the room. Outside in the inner courtyard of the fort the heavy wooden doors leading to the main square were barred. Zouave sentries came to attention as she approached. A sergeant saluted.

‘Madame is going out?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is a crowd outside in the square,’ the sergeant said. ‘We tried to remove them after the performance but they refuse to leave. They say they’re waiting for your husband. Are you sure you want to go out, Madame?’

‘Yes. I must go to the infirmary.’

‘I will go with you. You may need an escort.’

The heavy doors opened. When she stepped outside accompanied by the sergeant, a frieze of faces greeted her, a great throng of men and women dressed in the worn and ragged garments of the Kabyle peasantry. At first they turned away from her, disappointed that the newcomer was a woman and not the sorcerer, but then, as she made her way through the mass of people filling the square, she was recognized as the sorcerer’s wife and at once was surrounded by people calling out questions she did not understand.

‘What do they want? Do you know?’ she asked the sergeant.

The sergeant turned to listen to the cries. ‘Some of them are asking if the Roumi sorcerer can heal the sick. And some are saying he is the devil. Pay no attention, Madame. The Kabyles hate us, they have always hated strangers. But these are not dangerous. Come.’

They had reached the door of the infirmary.

‘Shall I wait for you, Madame?’

‘Thank you. No.’

When she entered the infirmary she was at once confronted by the sight of seven soldier patients wearing long nightshirts queued up at a desk in the corridor where an army doctor, wearing a white coat over his tunic, was giving injections.

The doctor, who recognized her from yesterday’s luncheon, at once abandoned his patients, coming towards her with a smile: ‘Good afternoon, Madame. I hear this morning was an enormous success. I had hoped to be there for the celebration, but as you see, I have work to do. May I ask what brings you here?’

‘My husband’s assistant, you remember he had cholera. He died earlier today. I wanted to know about his funeral.’