If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,
with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart’ri, an amiable,
rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a
little local girl called Baia.
This Sidi ben Tart’ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with
a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master
she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in
which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a
word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative
Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of
which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet’s pharmacy or Costecalde
the gunsmith’s shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was
something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing
only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the
gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
Smoking, the Turkish bath and “l’amour” occupied his time. They went out
little. Sometimes Sidi Tart’ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,
went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had
bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down
to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its
bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the
ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in
particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely
satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe’s.
In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
“Teurs” as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with
Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke
of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
After they had left, Sidi Tart’ri and his faithful spouse would finish
the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed
the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them
a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below
the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great
clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a
handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the
deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a
splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and
with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For
as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic
St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.