_Notes from the Voyage._
This time, I am going to take you away to spend a day a very long way
from the windmill in a pretty little Algerian town.... It will be a
nice change from the tambourines and cicadas....
... There's rain in the air; the sky is grey; the crests of Mount
Zaccar are enveloped in fog; it's a miserable Sunday.... I'm in my
small hotel room, lighting one cigarette after another, just trying to
take my mind off things.... The hotel library has been put at my
disposal. I find an odd volume of Montaigne between a detailed history
of hotel registrations and a few Paul de Kock novels. Opening it at
random, I re-read the admirable essay on the death of La Boétie.... So,
now I'm more dreamy and gloomy than ever.... A few drops of rain are
starting to fall, each one leaving a large star in the dust accumulated
on the windowsill since last year's rain.... The book slips out of my
hands, as I stare hypnotically at the melancholy star for some time....
The town clock strikes two on an old _marabout_ whose slender, high,
white walls I can see from here.... Poor old marabout. Thirty years
ago, who would have thought that one day it would have a big municipal
dial stuck in its solar plexus, and on Sundays, on the stroke of two,
it would give a lead to the churches of Milianah, to sound their bells
for Vespers?... There they go now, ringing away.... And not for a brief
spell, either...
Without doubt this room is a miserable place. The huge, dawn spinners,
known as philosopher's thought spiders, have spun their webs
everywhere.... I'm going out.
* * * * *
I'm on the main square, now. Just the place for the military band of
the Third Division, not put off by a bit of rain, which has just
arranged itself around the conductor. The Brigade General appears at
one of the Division windows, surrounded by his fancy women. The
sub-prefect is on the square and walks to and fro on the arm of the
Justice of the Peace. Half a dozen young Arabs, stripped to the waist,
are playing marbles in a corner to the sound of their own ferocious
shouting. Elsewhere, an old Jew in rags comes to look for a ray of
sunshine he left here yesterday and looks astonished not to find it....
"One, two, three...!" the band launched into an old Talexian mazurka,
which Barbary organs used to play, irritatingly, under my window last
year. But it moved me to tears today.
Oh, how happy are these musicians of the third! Their eyes fixed on the
dotted crochets, drunk on rhythm and noise, only conscious of counting
beats. Their whole being was in that hand-sized bit of paper vibrating
in brass prongs at the end of their instruments. "One, two, three...!"
They have everything they need these fine men, except they never play
the national anthem; it makes them home sick.... Alas, I haven't much
of a musical ear and this piece irritates me, so I'm off....
* * * * *
Now, where on earth would I be able to have a nice time, on a grey
Sunday like this? I know! Sid'Omar's shop is open. I'm going there.
He may have a shop, Sid'Omar, but he is no shopkeeper. He is a prince
of the blood line, the son of a former Dey of Algeria, who was
strangled to death by Turkish soldiers.... When his father was killed,
he sought refuge in Milianah with his adored mother. He lived there for
several years like a fine gentleman philosopher with his greyhounds,
falcons, horses, and wives in this attractive and refreshing palace,
amongst the orange trees and fountains. Then the French came; we came.
Sid'Omar was our enemy at first and allied himself with Abd-el-Kader,
but then he fell out with the Emir and surrendered to us. While
Sid'Omar was away from Milianah, the Emir took revenge by pillaging his
palace. He flattened his orange trees, made off with his horses and
wives; and killed his mother, cruelly crushing her throat under the lid
of a large chest.... Sid'Omar's anger knew no bounds: within the hour
he had enrolled himself in the French army, and we had no better,
fiercer soldier, for as long as our war with the Emir lasted. Sid'Omar
returned to Milianah; but even today at the merest mention of
Abd-el-Kader, he grows pale and his eyes light up.
Sid'Omar is sixty now, and despite his age and the smallpox, his face
has stayed rather handsome. He has long eyelashes, with an appealing
look and a charming smile; very prince-like. The war ruined him, and
all he has left of his former opulence is a farm in the plain of Chélif
and a house in Milianah, where he lives a bourgeois life with his three
sons, who are being brought up under his aegis. The local bigwigs hold
him in some veneration. If a dispute breaks out they are only too happy
to let him arbitrate; and his judgement usually carries the weight of
law. He seldom goes out; you can usually find him every afternoon next
door in a shop which opens onto the road. It is not opulently
furnished; the walls are whitewashed, and there are a circular wooden
bench, cushions, long pipes, and two braziers.... This is where
Sid'Omar gives his audiences and dispenses justice. Hey! Solomon in a
shop.
* * * * *
Today is Sunday and there is a good turn out. A dozen leaders, each in
their burnous, are squatting all around the room, a large pipe and
small fine filigreed eggcup full of coffee to hand. I go in; nobody
moves.... From where he is, Sid'Omar gives me his most charming smile
by way of a greeting and beckons me to sit next to him on a large
yellow silk cushion. He puts a finger to his mouth to indicate that I
should listen.
The case is between the leader of the Beni-Zougzougs and a Jew from
Milianah, who are having a dispute about a plot of land. The two
parties had agreed to put their differences to Sid'Omar and to abide by
his judgement. The meeting is set for this very day, and the witnesses
are assembled. Surprisingly, it is my Jew, and he is having second
thoughts and has come alone, without witnesses, declaring that he would
prefer to rely on the judgement of a French Justice of the Peace than
on Sid'Omar's.... That was where things stood when I arrived.
The Jew--old, greying beard, brown jacket, blue stockings, and velvet
cap--raises his eyes to the sky and rolls them, kisses Sid'Omar's silk
slippers, bows his head, kneels down, and clasps his hands together,
pleadingly.... I have no Arabic, but from the Jew's miming and from the
words _Joustees of the peace, Joustees of the peace_, which he keeps
repeating, I get the gist of what he is saying.
--I have no doubts about Sid'Omar, Sid'Omar is wise, Sid'Omar is
just.... But, the Joustees of the Peace would be more suitable for our
business.
The audience is indignant, and yet remains impassive as Arabs do....
Stretched out on his cushion, his eyes blurred, the amber book to his
lips, Sid'Omar--that master of irony--smiles as he listens. Suddenly,
at the height of his pleas, the Jew is interrupted by an energetic
_caramba!_ which stops him. Dead. The voice belongs to a Spanish
colonial, who has come as a witness for the leader, and who then leaves
his place and approaches the Judas Jew, and pours a bucketful of
imprecations in all tongues and shades of blue over his head--mixed
with other French expressions too gross to repeat.... Sid'Omar's son,
who understands French, reddened on hearing such words in front of his
father and leaves--keeping up an Arabic tradition. The audience is
still impassive, Sid'Omar still smiling on. The Jew stands up and backs
towards the door, trembling and scared, and babbles on about his
everlasting, _Joustees of the Peas, Joustees of the Peas_.... He
leaves. The Spaniard, furious, is at his heels and meets up with him in
the road before hitting him; twice; full in the face.... the Jew falls
to his knees, with his arms covering his face. The Spaniard, a little
ashamed of himself, comes back into the shop.... As soon as he is
safely inside, the Jew gets up with a shifty look at the motley crowd
surrounding him. There were people of many races and colours
there--Maltese, Minorcans, Negroes, and Arabs, all united--for once--in
hating the Jew and loving to see him so maltreated.... The Jew
hesitates a while, then grabs an Arab by his burnous:
--You saw him ... Achmed, you saw him ... you were there!... The
Christian hit me ... you shall be a witness ... yes ... yes ... you
shall be a witness.
The Arab frees his burnous and pushes the Jew away.... He knows
nothing; he's seen nothing; he was looking the other way....
--How about you, Kaddour, you saw him.... You saw the Christian strike
me ... shouts my unfortunate Jew to a big Negro who is impassively
peeling a Barbary fig....
The Negro spits his contempt and moves away, he hasn't seen a thing.
Neither has the little Maltese, whose coal-black eyes glisten viciously
under his biretta; nor the rust-coloured girl from Mahon who, placing a
basket of pomegranates on her head, laughs it all, and him, off....
No matter how much the Jew shouts, pleads, demeans himself ... no
witnesses! Nobody saw anything.... By chance, just then a couple of
fellow Zionists pass by. They are humiliated, and cower by a wall. The
Jew spots them:
--Quick, quick, brothers. Quick, to the consultant! Quick to the
_Joustees of the Peas_!... The rest of you, you saw him.... you saw him
beat the old man up!
As if they'd seen him!... I don't think so.
... Things are getting lively in old Sid'Omar's shop.... The proprietor
refills their cups, and relights their pipes. They chat on, and they
laugh fit to burst. It's such a pleasure to see a Jew beaten up!... In
the middle of the hubbub and smoke, I slip out quietly; I want to
wander in the Jewish quarter, to see how my Jew's coreligionists, are
taking their brother's outrage....
--Come to dinner tonight, m'sier, the good old Sid'Omar shouted....
I agree and thank him. I go outside. In the Jewish quarter, there is
turmoil. The matter has already attracted a lot of attention. Nobody is
minding the store. Embroiderers, tailors, and saddlers--all Israel is
out on the street.... The men in their velvet caps, and blue woollen
stockings fidgeting noisily in groups.... The women, pale, bloated, and
unattractive in their thin dresses and gold fronts, have their faces
wrapped in black bandages, and are going from group to group,
caterwauling.... As I arrive, something starts to move in the crowd.
There's an urgency and a crush.... Relying on their witness, my
Jew--hero of the hour--passes between two rows of caps, under a hail of
exhortations:
--Revenge yourself, brother, revenge us, revenge the Jewish people.
Fear nothing; you have the law on your side.
A hideous dwarf, smelling of pitch and old leather, comes to me
pitifully, sighing deeply:
--You see! he said to me. We're hard done by, we Jews. How they treat
us! He's an old man. Look! They've practically killed him.
It's true, my poor Jew looks more dead than alive. He goes past me--his
eyes lifeless, his face haggard--not so much walking as dragging
himself along.... Only a huge compensation looks likely to make him
feel any better; after all, he is going to the consultant, not to the
doctor.
* * * * *
There are almost as many consultants in Algeria as there are
grasshoppers. It's a good living, I'd say. In any case, it has the
great advantage that you can just walk into it, without passing
examinations, or leaving a bond, or being trained. In Paris you become
a lawyer; in Algeria a consultant. It's enough to have a bit of French,
Spanish, and Arabian, and to have a code of conduct in your saddle bag;
but above all else, you need the right temperament for the job.
The agent's functions are very varied: he can be in turn a barrister,
solicitor, broker, expert, interpreter, money dealer, commissioner, and
public scribe; he is the Jack of all trades of the colony. Only
Harpagon has a single Jack of all trades; the rest of the colony has a
surfeit, and nowhere more than Milianah, where they can be counted in
dozens. Usually, to avoid office expenses, these gentlemen meet their
clients in the café in the main square and give their
consultations--did I say give?--between the appetiser and the after
dinner wine.
The dignified Jew is making his way towards the café in the main
square, with the two witnesses at his side. I will leave them to it.
* * * * *
As I leave the Jewish quarter, I go past the Arab Bureau. From outside,
with its slate grey roof and French flag flying above, it could be
taken for the village town hall. I know the interpreter, so I go in and
have a cigarette with him. In between fags, this sunless Sunday has
turned out quite well.
The yard in front of the Bureau is packed with shabbily dressed Arabs.
Fifteen of them, in their burnouses, are squatting there along the
wall, turning it into a sort of lobby. This Bedouin area--despite being
in the open air--gives off a very strong smell of human flesh. Moving
quickly past.... I find the interpreter occupied with two large,
loud-mouthed Arabs, quite naked under their filthy blankets, madly
miming some story or other about a stolen chain. I sit down on a mat in
a corner and look on.... The Milianah's interpreter's uniform is very
fetching, and how well he carries it! They are made for each other. The
uniform is sky blue with black frogging and shiny gold buttons. With
fair tightly curled hair and a light-skin, he cuts a fine figure, this
hussar in blue, and is full of fun and strange tales. He is naturally
talkative--he speaks many languages, and is a bit of a religious
sceptic; he knew Renan at the Oriental School!--a great amateur
sportsman, he is equally at ease in an Arab tent or at the
Sub-prefect's soirées. He dances the mazurka as well as anyone, and
makes couscous better than anyone. To sum up, he's a Parisian, and he's
my sort of man. No wonder the women are mad about him.... He is a sharp
dresser, and only the Arab Bureau's sergeant is in the same league, the
sergeant--who, with his uniform of fine material and mother of pearl
buttoned leggings, causes envy, and despair, in the garrison. Our man
is on attachment to the Bureau, and he is excused fatigues and is often
seen in the streets, white gloved, his hair freshly curled, and large
files under his arm. He is admired and he is feared. He is
authoritative.
To be sure, this story of the stolen chain threatens to become an epic.
Bye-bye! I shan't wait for the end.
The Bureau area is in uproar as I leave. The crowd is crushing round a
tall, pale, proud, local man dressed in a black burnous. A week ago,
this man fought a panther in the Zaccar. The panther is dead; but the
man has lost half his left arm. In the morning and at night he comes to
have his wounds dressed at the Bureau, and every time, he is stopped in
the yard and has to re-tell his story. He speaks slowly, with
beautifully guttural voice. From time to time he pulls his burnous to
one side and shows his left arm, strapped to his chest and wrapped in
bloody blankets.
* * * * *
The moment I come into the street a violent storm breaks. Rain,
thunder, lightning, sirocco.... Quickly, I take shelter in the first
available doorway, and fall amongst a bunch of bohemians, crowded into
the archways of a Moorish courtyard. It adjoins the Milianah mosque,
and is a regular refuge for the Muslim destitute. They call it the
_Courtyard of the Poor_.
Large, emaciated, lousy, and threatening, greyhounds range around me.
Backed up against the gallery pillars, I try to keep control of myself
and don't talk to anyone, as I try to look unconcernedly at the rain
bouncing off the flagstones. The bohemians are lying about carelessly.
Close by me is a young woman, almost beautiful, with her breasts and
legs uncovered, and thick iron bracelets on her wrists and ankles. She
is singing a strange tune consisting of three melancholic, nasal notes,
while she is breast feeding a naked, reddish-bronze child, and fills a
mortar with barley with her free arm. The wind-blown rain sometimes
soaks the arms of the nursing woman and the body of the child. The
bohemian girl completely ignores this and keeps singing during the
gusts, while still piling up the barley and giving suck.
The storm abates and gives me a chance to leave the courtyard of
Miracles and make my way towards dinner at Sid'Omar's, now imminent....
As I cross the main square, I run into my Jew of recent memory again.
He is leaning on his consultant; his witnesses are following happily
behind him, and a bunch of naughty, little Jewish boys skip around
him.... They are all beaming. The consultant is taking charge of the
affair; he will ask for two thousand francs compensation from the
tribunal.
* * * * *
Dinner at Sid'Omar's is sumptuous. The dining room opens onto a Moorish
courtyard, where two or three fountains are playing.... It's an
excellent Turkish meal, whose highlights are _poulet aux amandes,
couscous à la vanille_, and _tortue à la viande_--a bit heavy, but a
gourmet meal nevertheless--and biscuits made with honey called
_bouchées du kadi_.... For wine--nothing but champagne. Sid'Omar
managed to drink some despite Muslim law--while the servers were
looking away.... After dinner we go into our host's room where we are
served with sweetmeats, pipes, and coffee.... The furnishings of this
room are sparse: a divan, several mats, and a large high bed at the
back scattered with gold embroidered red cushions.... A Turkish
painting of the exploits of a certain Hamadi hangs upon the wall.
Turkish painters only seem to use one colour per canvas. This canvas is
decidedly green. The sea, the sky, the ships, even the admiral himself,
everything is green, and deep green at that!... Arabs usually retire
early, so, once I have finished my coffee and smoked my pipe, I bid
goodnight to my host and leave him to his wives.
* * * * *
Now, where to round off my evening? Well, it's too early for bed, the
spahi soldiers haven't sounded the retreat on their bugles, yet.
Moreover, Sid'Omar's gold cushions were dancing fabulous farandoles
round me and making sleep impossible.... I'm outside the theatre, let's
go in for a moment.
The Milianah theatre is an old fur store, refurbished as far as
possible to make a stage and auditorium. The lighting is made up of
large oil lamps which are refilled during the interval. The audience
stands; only the orchestra sits, but on benches. The galleries are
quite swish with cane chairs.... All around the room there is a long,
dark corridor with no wooden flooring.... You might as well be in the
street, it has absolutely nothing in it. The play has already started
when I arrive. The actors aren't at all bad, the men at least; they get
their training from life.... They are mainly amateurs, soldiers of the
third division, and the regiment is proud of them and supports them
every night.
As for the women, well!... It always is and always will be the same in
small provincial theatres, the women are always pretentious,
artificial, and overact outrageously.... And yet, among the women there
are two very young Jewesses, beginners at the drama, who catch my
eye.... Their parents are in the audience and seem enchanted. They are
convinced that their daughters are going to earn a fortune on the
stage. The legendary Rachel, Israeli millionaire, and actress, has an
orient-wide reputation with the Jews.
Nothing could be more comical and pathetic than these two little
Jewesses on the boards.... They stand timidly in a corner of the scene,
powdered, made-up, and as stiff as a board in low cut dresses. They are
cold and they are embarrassed. Occasionally, they gabble a phrase
without understanding its meaning, and as they speak, gaze vacantly
into the auditorium.
* * * * *
I leave the theatre.... I hear shouting in the surrounding blackness
from somewhere in the square.... Some Maltese settling a point, no
doubt, at the point of a knife....I return slowly along the ramparts to
the hotel. A gorgeous scent of oranges and thujas wafts up from the
plain. The air is mild and the sky almost clear.... At the end of the
road, yonder, an old, walled phantom reaches upwards--the debris of
some old temple. This wall is sacred. Every day, Arab women come to
hang ex-voto gifts, bits of haiks and foutas, long tresses of red hair
tied with silver wire, and bits of burnous.... All this dances about in
the warm breeze, lit by a narrow ray of moonlight....