The Mysteries of Algiers (23 page)

Nothing is explicit but everyone knows that something will happen soon in this city. Few of the Arabs dare venture out of their quarters – Belleville, certain sections of the Bab el-Oued and, of course, the kasbah, a rotting piece of gruyère sliding down the hill (as General Massu put it). The fat white ladies no longer find it easy to hire agreeable Arab boys to carry their heavy loads of shopping home.
Pied-noir
men gather at street corners and talk. The men on the streets with machines for making
citron pressé
or
orange pressée
are distributing leaflets. I walk about and observe. The writing is, as they say, on the wall. ‘Death to de Gaulle’. ‘Victory to the
FLN
’, ‘Massu to Power’, ‘Long live death. Down with Intelligence’. Several times I spot painted eyes on the walls with great Vs underneath, like insomniac bags – the emblems of the Children of Vercingetorix. I walk about and I suppose that I am saying goodbye to the city. I could never have believed it, but it is a sad moment for me. I look in the windows of the shoe-shops, the shops selling sportswear, the pâtisseries that sell brioches and
pains au chocolat.
I see the Arab women in their gondourahs filling the European milliners like vengeful ghosts and the pretty young Algerian women in the hairdressers. I note the style of the buildings, the neatly trimmed hedges, even the little beer mats on the café tables and I am filled with sadness. As Marx says, ‘All the houses, in our times, are marked with a mysterious red cross. The judge is history, the executioner is the proletariat.’ I do not dispute that. Still it seems incredible to me that this French city, so very French, shall just perish and its former existence become no more credible than that of Atlantis. I am not without sentiment. I understand the point of view of the poor white inhabitants of this city. Only I reject it.

I spend a lot of time at the docks. When my mission shall have been accomplished I plan to leave this country. One misty morning when I am walking along the quay towards the offices of the Compagnia Transatlantique, the thing I have been expecting and yet was not expecting happens. An arresting hand falls on my shoulder. I spin round fast and the Tokarev in my pocket is out and pressed against the man’s heart. The man wears a long heavy overcoat of the sort that is worn only by tramps and by members of the Anglophile upper class. On his head he wears an old-fashioned trilby and his face is covered right up to his eyes by a scarf. There is something very odd about the face. Perhaps it is those liquid gleaming eyes. The hands rise in deprecating response to my gun.

‘Philippe, don’t you recognize me?’ The voice is muffled, but there is a weedling pleading tone to it. ‘Don’t shoot, my old friend, my old sparring partner. Don’t you recognize me?’

‘How can I recognize you with that fucking scarf around your face?’ And I reach up to strip it from him.

I wish that I had left the scarf where it was. What I see is hard to describe. It takes me a while to puzzle it out – those big eyes full of a pleading and a pitiful good will, much lower down a mouth with a couple of broken teeth and, between the eyes and the mouth, two big slits like a dog’s muzzle. There is something of a
memento mori
in this apparition, as if death had come down to the docks today to detain me with his hand. It is only when the head turns in shame to help my understanding that I realize what it is I am seeing. The man’s nose has been cut off.

‘Philippe, I am Raoul.’

If this were not Algiers, one might think the man to be the victim of advanced syphilis, but I have seen the victims of such operations before walking the streets of Algiers. In 1955 the
FLN
ordered all Muslims to abstain from smoking. They said that smoking only filled the coffers of the
grand-colon
tobacco companies. Some Arabs ignored the
FLN’S
command and kept on smoking. They were taken by the
FLN
and they had their noses removed. I believe that secateurs were used, of the sort that are normally used for heavy-duty gardening. Posters of the victims were circulated in France by General Massu’s propaganda department. I had seen such faces before, but, of course, it is worse when it happens to a European.

‘It is all up with me. I cannot dream any longer of practising at the bar. Obviously. After you left, Zora left with her children – I don’t know where – but I managed to get the rest of the needle out of my ear. Then Chantal arrived at last with Lieutenant Schwab. I tried to explain to him how it was that you escaped, but they would not believe me, or perhaps they did believe me, but they did not find it satisfactory. I don’t know. Anyway they did this to me. An accident in a way …’

Raoul goes maundering on. All the time I keep looking over my shoulder. It might be that Raoul is being shadowed by Vercingetorix ultras. It might be that Nounourse has come out this morning and is tailing me. I shudder to think how he might react if he discovers that Raoul is still alive. In any case I do not want to keep looking at Raoul’s face.

‘No, I’m not bitter. That is strange, isn’t it? The conclusion she came to was logical, logical but wrong. But no bitterness. I think it is time for the killings and the mutilations to stop. I’m glad I’ve found you, my friend. I enjoyed our debates. They gave me much to think about. Indeed, I think that they were the last moments of real happiness in my life. I knew you would come to Algiers in the end. I hoped we would meet again. I have been looking for you. Since that day, I’ve often wondered why didn’t you kill me?’

I have nothing to say to Raoul. It is Chantal I should be talking to. I am amazed by her guts. Did she really order this? The ferocity is really admirable. Admirable but at the same time animal, for, since right-wing atrocities do nothing to advance the cause of humanity, they can only be viewed as ugly historical freaks going nowhere – the two-headed calves of politics. But I wish I had my camera with me. What a woman! Raoul is still talking and now there is a note of bitterness in the shaky voice.

‘I have wished it too, that you had killed me, many times. But life must continue, eh? Would you like a cigarette?’

I shake my head. He fishes out a Bastos from his overcoat and gets it alight and, soon, ghastly smoke issues from the two holes in his face.

‘Afterwards, I had difficulty at the hospital. I had to tell them that it was the work of
FLN
terrorists. If I had breathed a word about the Children of Vercingetorix, I think it would have been the end of me and of my parents. I have been reading
The Diary of Anne Frank.
I recommend it to you. It is something better than either your Karl Marx or anything Chantal has to offer.’

He is fishing about in the pockets of his overcoat for something.

‘I pity Chantal and I fear for her sanity. Look at this.’

He thrusts an embossed card into my hand. It reads:
Mlle Chantal de Serkissian has much pleasure in requesting the attendance of M. Raoul Demeulze at a party to celebrate the staging of the Ring Cycle at the Algiers Opera House and to meet the cast.
R.S.V.P.
It is dated four days on.

‘Bad taste, I think. It arrived in the post last week. I suppose it satisfies something in her … For a time I thought of actually appearing at her party and causing a … Well, never mind. What is the phrase that is so popular nowadays? “The suitcase or the coffin.” It’s the suitcase for me. In fact I am leaving Algiers. That’s why I’m down here today – to go to the shipping office. I think I may take up painting. Well, goodbye, old fellow. Look after yourself, won’t you? And do keep thinking about the labour theory of value. You weren’t very logical you know.’

A final inspiration comes to me.

‘Give me that card, Raoul.’

He does so and I watch him shuffle off down the quay. I think that what interests me about Chantal is that she does not share that exaggerated fear of violence which is so common among the bourgeois. The working class are different. They are capable of understanding that violence can be a liberating force and therefore enjoyable. Chantal is different too. I rest, pressed against the harbour wall, watching to see if Raoul is being shadowed.

Rather than go back to the flat where I will only have to face more of the childish interrogations of Nounourse, when I have climbed out of the dock area, I plunge into a Moorish bar. It is a place I have never set foot in before. I should like a drink – several drinks – to fortify myself against Nounourse’s rumbling attacks against alcohol and drugs and to help me sleep against his snores. It is a matter of waiting. Of passing time, before we strike again. The place is full of lonely men. A Kabyle in a postman’s uniform and gauntlets looks up as I enter and his gaze follows me to the bar. I buy a glass of red wine and move over to the pinball machine. I hope that my absorption will protect me against any conversational overtures. It is an American machine, the jaunty ‘Swing Time’ model. ‘
IT
’
S
MORE
FUN
TO
COMPETE
!’ A crew-cut little urchin sticks his head out from behind one of the buffers and a balloon issues out of his mouth, ‘
HOW
YA
DOIN
’?’ and on the other side of the field of play another’s balloon reads, ‘
TOO
BAD
!
TRY
AGAIN
!’ The whole thing is styled for the sixties – the decade into which, against all the odds, I have survived two weeks. The styling of this awful machine is surely the harbinger of the next ten years – slick, smart, materialistic, well behaved – a dream of life for the no-hopers in this bar. The first game was just to get the feel of the machine and see how the roll-overs worked. I put some more centimes in. The first ball is the crucial one. It builds a foundation for a cumulatively growing score by lighting up a chain of lights for bonus points, but though I try to concentrate, I am all the time aware of the watching Kabyle as a ghostly image on the glass panel of ‘Swing Time’.

I am on the third ball and building up a killer score when a swinging blow to my back makes me lose control of the game and the ball drops between the flippers. Tilt. My hand goes into my pocket and I spin round.

‘Hey! Hey! How goes it?’

Who is this man? Heavy set, big ears, hooked nose and a depressed-looking face on which a smile sits awkwardly. A soldier of France.

‘No, it’s not a ghost! Don’t worry about the game. I’ll buy us another. After all, “It’s more fun to compete!” And let me freshen your glass. You look as though you need it. Wonderful seeing you again!’

He strolls over to the bar. The Kabyle never moves his eyes from me. Who the fuck is the man at the bar? Perhaps I should leave now before he returns with the drink? I don’t remember him, but that proves nothing. You never know in this life who you are going to see again – and who you aren’t. You can be like as one with someone for years and then they vanish completely and forever, or maybe forever. You won’t know until you are dead. Others keep cropping up again and again in your life in a hundred different contexts and coincidences. From the window of our little hideout I saw Zora in the street two days ago, a child holding her hand and a baby in her arms, just as I had imagined she would reappear. Two men in trenchcoats marched along behind her. For a long time after this woman had vanished into the distance I played round with the idea that this was Zora leading the flics towards some place where she thought they might find her husband’s old contact, Tughril. Then I played around with the idea that she wasn’t Zora at all, for if I am honest with myself the angle of vision was difficult and the woman didn’t look very like Zora. And maybe the trenchcoated men had nothing to do with her. Or maybe, very likely indeed, they were taking this anonymous woman to identify her slaughtered husband’s body in the morgue. It is hardly likely that I shall ever know the truth.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

He is back with a cognac for me and a beer for himself. I grunt in a friendly yet noncommittal way.

‘You always used to drink cognac. That I do remember. You said it stopped dysentery. Complete rubbish, of course.’

Rubbish indeed and I don’t remember saying that, but he punches me on the arm encouragingly.

‘Hey! Hey! Red River Delta! Haiphong! Tonkin! Taking the Shan tribesmen on the trail! Remember now? Great times!’

He wags his head from side to side and mugs friendliness. Even so, his face is pretty grim and I have the impression that if I say that they were not great times or that I cannot quite place him, he will take a swing at me. So I just smile. He tries to smile back, but it’s more like a rictus.

‘The name is Edmond Durtal. I’m buying, so I’ll take the first game.’

And he sets the machine for two. As he positions himself over the flippers, I casually rest my elbows on the edge of the frame, so that he cannot jiggle the machine about as he would like, to pay him back for that slap on the back. He soon loses his first ball.

He looks at me closely.

‘Mind you, I would have had difficulty in recognizing you with that beard. You remind me of the artist … that artist with the prostitutes …’

‘Toulouse-Lautrec.’

‘That’s the man. And you are in civvies now! I don’t believe it. How’s life treating you? What are you doing? Tell all.’

I say nothing, but tap my nose.

‘Oh, I see. Undercover stuff. Lots of bad hats in this bar, are there?’

He doesn’t quite take it seriously, but, still, he believes me. Now it’s my ball, but he is leaning against the machine.

‘I’m sorry. Would you mind taking your elbows off while I’m shooting?’

He steps away reluctantly. I am clocking up a satisfactorily high score, but all the time I am thinking. I still cannot remember this Edmond. It could all be a fraud. Maybe the Kabyle is with him? Maybe this Edmond’s job is to detain me in footling conversation while his sergeant goes to fetch reinforcements? Despite all my precautions this morning, I could have been followed, or there could have a tail on Raoul down at the quay. He could be
SDECE
or he could be from Vercingetorix. He could be a fellow-traveller working for the
FLN
. But, on the whole, I think it is probable that he is the fool he looks.