The Magician's Wife (21 page)

‘Dear Madame!’ Deniau said, smiling in amusement. ‘You constantly amaze me. And now . . .’ He opened his briefcase, taking from it a white cotton headdress and a veil of white lace which he handed to her. ‘Here is your Muslim disguise. I tried to find a pretty veil. Now Henri, we will start to seat the various sheikhs and goumier companies shortly after one. Bou-Aziz and his attendants will be the last to arrive. When he is seated I will begin my introduction. You will appear only after I finish. I would like you to walk past the ranks of sheikhs and marabouts ignoring them, and go up on to the stage turning to face the entire audience. Bow and then begin. I think that will be very effective.’

Lambert slid his ivory-tipped baton out of his sleeve with the ease of a master conjurer and touched it to his forehead in a mock salute. ‘At your orders,
Mon Commandant
.’

‘And I, what shall I do?’ Emmeline asked.

‘I’m afraid I want you to take up your position hidden in the wings, shortly before one. I know it will be an hour’s wait there, alone, behind the stage. I apologize. But it is one way of ensuring that Henri’s entrance has the maximum effect.’

‘Before we start,’ Lambert said, ‘I must warn you, Charles, that my performance today will not be as elaborate as that evening in Algiers. We will not perform the trick of having an Arab disappear as Emmeline would not be strong enough to help me carry the table on which he stands. I shall also omit the punch bowl which dispenses supplies of coffee. I have decided that today’s performance must hinge on my two most convincing illusions, the heavy box and my invulnerability to bullets. These Kabyles are unsophisticated men of the desert. I suspect that they are not, like an Algiers audience, willing to be entertained. Fear is the weapon I must use on them.’

At one o’clock in the arid midday heat, Emmeline, wearing the long grey dress Lambert had chosen for her and carrying the headdress and veil given her by Deniau, came down from the apartments and, unnoticed by the workmen who were putting the last benches in place at the rear of the square, entered the makeshift room in the wings to the left of the stage. There in a corner were the electric levers she must pull, the cornucopia she must hand to her husband, the feather plumes he would scatter on the floor for her to pick up, the bonbons and favours which she must offer to the audience. She sat at a small mirror, first covering her hair with the headdress, then fitting the veil over her face so that only her eyes and forehead were visible. When she had done this a masked Arab woman stared at her through the mirror as though by this simple act of disguise Emmeline Lambert was no more. Minutes later, from the streets outside, she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves, the shouted cries of camel drivers, the distant firecracker sound of rifles. Turning to look through the slats of the dressing room she saw the first of the Arab companies arriving in the square of the fort. An unseen French military band struck up a martial air as below her vantage point a colourful mass of Arab men, wearing white, red or blue burnouses, many carrying old-fashioned rifles, some with swords and daggers, came strolling through the aisles where French soldiers and a handful of interpreters waited to show them to their seats. There were no women in this audience. She looked again at the veiled female in the mirror. She looked at the levers, those black handles which she must pull to inflict pain. Today, Henri depends on me. He will not forgive me if I fail.

Time passed. The music changed, the military band switching to operetta airs. Suddenly the music faltered, trailing off as a hubbub of voices rose from the packed benches below. Emmeline, rising from her seat, peered through the peep hole at the side of the wings. Slowly, bowing this way and that, in humble acknowledgement of the greetings and salutations offered him from every side, Bou-Aziz came down the centre aisle on the arm of his daughter. Ahead, Deniau, wearing decorations and sword, stood below the stage, waiting to show the marabout to his place in the front row. As soon as Bou-Aziz had taken his seat, Deniau signalled to the conductor of the military orchestra. A roll of drums and a fanfare of trumpets were followed by the strains of ‘
La Marseillaise
’. Deniau raised his arm over his head for attention. ‘Today, to the sands of the Sahara, to the fiefdom of the Kabyles, comes the greatest marabout in all of France. I give you Henri Lambert.’

Emmeline did not see her husband come down the aisle because on his instructions she must now move into the wings. When she reached the place where he had told her to stand she saw that he was already on stage. He bowed to the audience, a signal that she should appear. She stepped out into the sunlight and walked to the table at the rear of the stage taking up the top hat that sat there. Coming downstage she handed it to Lambert, then retreated, continuing to face the audience as Jules did when assisting his master. Now, Lambert, his back to her, wearing not his usual frock coat, cravat and linen waistcoat but dressed as though for a boating excursion on the Seine, in an open-necked white shirt and trousers, passed his ivory-tipped baton over the hat and reaching into it produced, in turn, three heavy cannon balls which he dropped with a thump on to the stage floor. As in Algiers this opening gambit at once fixed the attention of his audience. They watched in awed silence as again he reached into the hat and this time pulled out two doves which he let fly up into the arid desert sky. This was, she knew, the signal for her to bring him the papier-mâché cornucopia which he accepted without deigning to notice her presence. He opened its side hinge to demonstrate to the audience that it was empty. He closed it, then turned it upside down, spilling out a dozen bonbons, and other small favours which she must crouch to pick up and offer to the audience. But when, trembling, nervous, uncertain, she advanced to the front of the stage and handed the favours to interpreters who at once offered them to those in the front rows, Emmeline saw only one face. The marabout, leaning forward, his turban a crown framing his high forehead, his thick grey beard streaked yellow by the desert sun. His eyes, clouded yet intense, closed on Emmeline, locking her in his gaze. Transfixed, she stood, statue-still, as an interpreter took from her hands the last few favours to be distributed among the audience. In that moment she saw, not the marabout she had met last evening, but a face, mysterious and strange as the bruised visage of the crucified Christ imprinted on the shroud of Turin.

Now, in gentle dismissal, the marabout bowed his head, releasing her from the spell of his eyes. She turned back to Lambert who, displaying to his audience the empty cornucopia, passed his baton over it then drew from it with agile conjurer’s fingers first, one feather plume, then many, scattering them at her feet on the stage floor. And now as she began to scoop them up and place them in a basket, Lambert, stepping down from the stage, went among the front rows of the audience, plucking from the ear of one sheikh an egg, from the nose of another a five-franc coin. He picked up an empty slipper which one of the sheikhs had cast off and holding it aloft suddenly showed that it was filled with five-franc coins which he tossed out among the spectators. This manoeuvre seemed to delight the audience who cried out, ‘
Douros
!’ which the interpreters translated as a request for more five-franc pieces. Lambert, carefully avoiding the place where Bou-Aziz and his daughter were seated, then walked, smiling, along the aisle, producing again and again ‘
Douros
’ from the noses and ears of the astonished audience. This manoeuvre eventually brought him back to the steps from which he had stepped down. There, he held up his baton to still the cries and applause.

At last, when there was silence, he re-mounted the stage, turning to face the audience. He glanced briefly at Emmeline, reminding her that this was the moment when she should retire. She, her arms full of the feather plumes, still confused and moved by her encounter with the marabout, was slow to respond to Lambert’s covert signal. As she went past him, he whispered angrily, ‘Be ready!’ then walked to the rear and took from a table the small, solidly built wooden box adorned with iron handles. Holding it lightly in one hand he came back to the centre of the stage.

And now Emmeline heard him begin to give the speech he had given in Algiers, boasting that: ‘Through the powers granted me by the Almighty I will show you that I can deprive the strongest man of his strength and restore that strength at my will. I ask anyone who thinks himself strong enough to try this experiment to come forward now.’

On hearing this, she abruptly dropped the bundle of feathers and went shakily towards the black levers. A young Kabyle chieftain, his fair hair worn long, a small Greek cross tattooed between his eyes, mounted the stage.

Lambert bowed in welcome and asked, ‘Are you very strong?’

Smiling, the chieftain nodded.

‘You are wrong. In an instant I will rob you of your strength. You will become as weak as a woman.’

In Algiers, Emmeline remembered, her husband had said ‘as weak as a little child’, and the audience had reacted with amusement. But here, when his remark was translated, the word ‘woman’ seemed filled with insult. In the packed benches which filled the square there was a sudden hostile silence. But the Kabyle chieftain did not seem offended. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and gestured towards Lambert as if asking him to continue.

‘Now,’ Lambert said. ‘Lift this box.’

The young man bent and easily picked up the box, balancing it in one hand as Lambert had done earlier. He looked at the magician and again shrugged his shoulders.

‘Put it down, please,’ Lambert said.

The young man put down the box at Lambert’s feet. Lambert raised his hands making a pass in front of the young man’s face. He paused, then looked out at the audience. ‘From this moment on, he will be weak as a woman.’

He turned to the young chieftain. ‘Now. Try to lift the box.’

As he spoke, Lambert looked past the chieftain, staring into the wings in a pre-arranged signal. Emmeline, jerky as an automaton, at once pulled back the first of the black levers. The young man reached down, took hold of the box by its iron handles and gave it a savage tug. But the box, held by the magnetic force of the lever, did not move.

The young chieftain straightened up, panting, half turning in Emmeline’s direction. Although she knew he could not see her she felt herself stiffen and draw back from his gaze. Beads of sweat on his forehead moistened the tiny cross tattooed between his eyes, eyes which now, in bewilderment, stared into the darkness in which she hid.

From the benches in the square, half a dozen men rose to their feet. The young chieftain nodded and waved to them as if to say he understood. Bending down he tried again, shifting his feet as he straddled the box, straining and straining until, at last, defeated, he let go of the handles.

Lambert stood, tapping his ivory-tipped baton against his trouser leg, like an animal trainer about to signal a new trick.

‘Now. One last try?’ he said.

The interpreter repeated his words in Arabic, whereupon four or five Kabyle leaders rose again from their seats, urging the young chieftain not to give up. Emmeline, distracted by their cries, looked out at the audience, something that Lambert had forbidden her to do. In the front row, Bou-Aziz sat quietly with his daughter, his gaze fixed not on the chieftain but on Lambert himself. Emmeline, nervous, looked out at her husband, just in time to see him give her his second covert command.

The young man bent once again and took hold of the trunk’s iron handles. Trembling, closing her eyes as though it were she who would suffer the pain, Emmeline pulled down the second black lever. Above it was the clock with which she would measure the thirty seconds of agony. The young chieftain, his hands suddenly glued to the box, trembled violently but, despite the shock of electricity which surged through his body, he did not cry out. Her eyes blurred with tears. Convulsively, she reached for the lever to shut off the current but remembering her husband’s strict injunction at the last moment she waited, looking out at the stage. Lambert, whose timing was impeccable, moved forward at the precise moment that the clock’s second hand registered a thirty-second advance. She pulled the lever. Lambert waved his baton over the box. The young chieftain, released from the current, his face still contorted in pain, stood swaying unsteadily, staring at the sorcerer.

Emmeline had been told by Lambert that if the victim was still in shock from the electricity it was her duty to come on stage and help him back to his seat. Now, with a tiny gesture, Lambert summoned her to re-appear. But when she stepped out into the cruel sunlight and went towards the Kabyle, putting her hand on his arm, he turned, as if struck, and shook her off. In the silence which had come down like a cloud on the audience, the young Kabyle went to the edge of the stage and, ignoring the steps, jumped down on to the sand, falling as he landed, almost at the feet of Bou-Aziz. The marabout rose, lifted him up and putting his hands on the young chieftain’s face, said something which no one except the young man heard. The young chieftain then took the marabout’s hand and kissed it. Together they went to the marabout’s bench where Bou-Aziz’s daughter moved aside to make room for them to sit together.

While this took place Lambert stood, looking straight ahead at the tricolour which flew on the ramparts of the fort. Emmeline, as instructed, moved back into the wings to wait for his next command. In the shadows, standing beside the levers, she pulled aside the covering of the peep hole and, filled with shame, looked down at the place where Bou-Aziz sat, his face grave and still, eyes clouded, withdrawn as in a state of trance. Beside him, the young Kabyle chieftain seemed recovered and at peace, while behind them, sheikhs and marabouts turned to each other, whispering uneasily, fingering their beads and staring from time to time at the enigmatic, quietly alarming figure on stage.