As dawn broke, she opened the curtains – it had stopped snowing. In the morning light Willow’s skin and lips looked blue, and each breath she took seemed to require more and more effort.
‘Sweetheart, it’s Mummy. Can you open your eyes for me?’ But if Willow heard Nicolette, she gave no sign of it. Nicolette felt a growing panic that she barely managed to control. Come on, why aren’t you here? Why are you taking so long? But she knew that if the only doctor in Delegate – the closest village – was unavailable for any reason, Michael would have to ring the one in Bombala, and that was well over an hour’s drive away in the best of conditions. He’d been gone for hours now. What was keeping them? But she had told him to wait – maybe the doctor’d been called away to see someone else. Maybe he was snowed in, up his way.
‘Baby? Open your eyes for Mummy…’ Please God, make them come now. She went to the front veranda, hoping to see the doctor’s car coming her way. Nothing. Back inside she wet the face washer again and wiped Willow’s face and chest, knowing it wouldn’t help, but she had to do something. I don’t care about anyone else being sick. Make the doctor come now. Help my baby! She stroked Willow’s forehead, softly sang ‘Toora-Loora-Loora’ – her daughter so loved that lullaby…
Over in Killarney
Many years ago
My Mother sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low…
Benji still lay beside Willow, his attention focused on Nicolette, and occasionally he’d give a little whimper. Nicolette stroked her daughter’s forehead, her cheek, willing her to fight, willing her lungs to breathe more easily.
… Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral
Too-ra-loo-ra-li
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral
Hush now, don’t you cry…
But Willow was too sick to cry – she barely looked conscious. Where were they? Please God, help my little girl! She stood and walked to the window, willing the doctor’s car to appear. Suddenly, Benji began to howl – a long mournful howl that made Nicolette shiver. She hurried to quieten the dog, anxious he not disturb Willow, and saw that her child had died.
#
‘Through here, Doctor. The room at the end of the corridor.’
Nicolette heard the sound of boots being kicked off, a door being closed. Stay away from my baby. The doctor came into the room – an old man she’d never seen before. Benji growled. Don’t touch my baby.
‘Nicolette? Let the doctor—’
‘No! Don’t touch her.’
‘Please, I can’t examine the child if—’
‘No!’ And Benji’s growl turned to barks.
‘Will you please let me examine your daughter, and someone take that bloody dog out of here!’
Michael grabbed Benji and shut him in the kitchen, but still the dog barked. By the time he came back into the room, the doctor was putting away his stethoscope.
‘You should have called me earlier. How long had she been sick?’
‘Oh God! Nick?’
But Nicolette didn’t answer.
Michael crumpled against the wall, shaking his head. Slowly slid to the floor. ‘A few days… I thought it was just a cold… tonsillitis maybe… mumps…’
‘And you’re a doctor, are you?’
‘I was a medic… In Vietnam…’
‘A patch up merchant, then… Your daughter had diphtheria. This didn’t happen overnight. If you’d gotten her to me earlier—’ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then turned to Nicolette. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me. I get angry – needless loss. Tell me, was the child—’
‘The child’s name is Willow.’
‘I’m sorry. Was Willow immunised?’
Nicolette shook her head. The doctor turned to Michael, a questioning look on his face.
‘We didn’t want to. We heard it can cause brain damage…’
The doctor sighed once more. ‘God help me!’ he whispered.
Nicolette still sat beside Willow, her face expressionless. She stroked Willow’s arm, her forehead, her hair.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral
Too-ra-loo-ra-li
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral
Hush now, don’t you cry…
‘She’s in shock. Look after her. Get her something hot to drink, with lots of sugar. I’m going to have to report this; it’s an infectious disease. God knows where she got it. Haven’t seen it in years. You’ll both have to get swabbed – one of you may be carrying it. Everyone around here will have to get done too. I’ll send an ambulance… for Willow…’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll be back this afternoon to check on your wife…’
#
Nicolette sat on the steps of the back veranda, Benji at her feet. She felt nothing. No cold, no pain, no emotion. Just nothing. She heard the dull, muted sound of ice crystals compressing underfoot. Michael stood before her and she saw he’d been crying. It meant nothing. He tried to take her in his arms.
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Nicolette—’
‘Don’t.’
‘She was my daughter too, you know…’ Nicolette stared past him. ‘I thought… Nicolette, I didn’t know. I’ve never seen—’
‘Don’t, okay? Don’t give me anymore of your bullshit. You’re the reason she’s dead. You, Michael! You killed my little girl.’
He stood there for a moment, looking at her, then went into the house. Now only the muffled, isolated sounds of a countryside shrouded by a thick white down. Her own breath – in, out. Keep breathing, Nicolette. The soft phump of snow falling from a branch. From a neighbouring paddock, a cow moo-ed. Still Nicolette sat, burrowed in a pit of misery where reality no longer existed. Benji stood, stretched, went to a nearby tree to relieve himself. Came back to Nicolette and put his head on her lap and whimpered, but Nicolette didn’t react, so he lay down at her feet again. A pale sun shimmered in a slate coloured sky. Hours passed.
#
She heard the paddock gate open, squealing in protest against the cold. Saw the ambulance make its way through the slush towards their house, the doctor’s Land Rover following. She rose and went inside.
Even from the corridor she could smell vomit. She walked into their bedroom.
He was slumped across their bed, his face dark purple, smeared with vomit. Still attached to the back of his hand, a needle and slim syringe, his belt loose around his arm. Beside him, a cigarette lighter and a teaspoon on which rested a tiny ball of cotton wool. And tipped over on the floor beside the bed, an empty bottle of brandy.
Nicolette looked at Michael for a long moment, then turned and went to answer the knock on the door.
6
Algiers appeared strange and mysterious to Louis. European-style houses five storeys high mingled with lofty domes and graceful minarets, whilst narrow winding streets climbed to the centre of town where they joined newer, wider avenues built by conquerors. The town was built in the shape of a triangle, with the Casbah a clutter of whitewashed houses surrounded by a wall at its apex. To the north, hills rose to a height of about five hundred metres, forming a background to the city and providing a lush green contrast to the whiteness of the town.
‘Cirer, m’sieur, cirer?’ The small bootblack pushed his tin of pungent yellow paste towards Marius’ face. ‘Mine’s the best, m’sieur. I polish your shoes?’
Marius shook his head and gently pushed the urchin away. Though no more than six years old, the boy glared at Marius then spat at his feet before joining another bootblack sitting on the footpath. Together they began hitting their brushes on top of their boxes – short sharp rhythmic taps.
‘Why are they doing that, Father?’ Louis squinted in the bright morning light; it felt strange to be on solid ground once more.
‘It’s to draw people’s attention; they need the work. But come, this way…’ Marius led Louis up a steep flight of stone steps to the main part of town.
All around people hurried – the dark sombre clothes of Europeans contrastin
g the white burnooses of Arabs and the colourful costumes of the Turks. Corseted women in leg-o-mutton sleeves, dark-eyed Moresques in loose flowing robes. The city swarmed with soldiers – French soldiers in their blue uniforms, Legionnaires in khaki with protective neck-curtains attached to their kepis, and fearsome Zouaves in short blue jackets with contrasting braiding, bright red pantaloons and wide sashes around their waists.
From the upper platform of a minaret a Muezzin called the faithful to prayer, whilst in the alley next to the mosque a small black-haired boy offered his sister by the hour. And everywhere, dark-skinned barefooted children hustled and begged and stole, then disappeared into the crowd once more.
They arrived at the small butcher shop that had been recommended to Marius, whose owner rented out the room above at a very reasonable price. The smells of raw meat and offal turned Louis’ stomach, and he leaned against Marius when they climbed the stairs to their room.
‘You’re don’t look well,’ Marius said when he noticed the light film of perspiration on Louis’ forehead, the pallor of his skin. ‘Does it hurt anywhere?’ Louis shook his head. ‘Hmm… Well, I don’t think you have a fever. Just overtired, I’d imagine, but you better get to bed, just in case. I must go see about our land. Sleep, if you can; I can’t have you sick.’ He put his duffle bag under the bed, patted his pocket to make sure his money-pouch was still there, and left with a nod in Louis’ direction.
#
Louis lay on the bed, but he found the room still swayed to the rhythm of the waves. The smells of the butcher shop drifted through the wooden floorboards so he rose and opened the window wide, letting in a warm breeze smelling of oranges and cumin.
He sat back on the bed and looked around at the sparse furnishings. The bed was small for a double bed, but the mattress felt comfortable under a bedspread embroidered with cabbage roses, and there were two feather pillows. Next to the bed, under the window, was a small table on which stood a carafe of water and one glass. There were no chairs. A small gentleman’s wardrobe stood against the opposite wall, and beside it a framed portrait of Napoleon hung on the wall. Louis opened the wardrobe – two wooden coat hangers, and in a corner, a lady’s parasol.
It was made of a soft yellow material, such as he had never seen before, and woven with a pattern of small garlands of spring flowers above which butterflies fluttered. Along the outer edge was a pleated trim. Something about the parasol reminded Louis of his mother – but then, everything reminded him of his mother. He felt tears welling in his eyes and quickly wiped them away. He mustn’t cry anymore; he’d cried enough on this journey, when sure his father was asleep. But his father hadn’t cried, and now he too must act like a man. Once more he examined the parasol. No, his mother would never have owned a parasol – the women of Sablières had no use for such frippery. It was more the femininity of it, the softness of the material… He thought it must be expensive. He’d better give it to the butcher.
‘Eh, well, it’s not mine. Not my colour at all,’ the rotund little man said with a laugh.
‘But it must belong to someone. They might need it.’
‘And just how do you want me to return it, hey, young man? Do you know how many people I have staying in that room of yours? Every day, someone new. They come, they go… How do you think I’m going to find this lady?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, I don’t either. Who knows where she is now. And anyway, if she can afford a parasol, she can probably buy another, non?’
Louis shrugged. He didn’t know much about parasols.
‘Why don’t you keep it, young man? You never know, you might meet a young lady one day. One who would appreciate such a thing, yes?’
Back in his room Louis considered the parasol; he would put it away with his watch-chain. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the chain, wanting to admire it beside the parasol, but saw the gold links were turning green, and the silver links black. He spat on the corner of his shirt and rubbed each link, but no matter how hard he rubbed, he couldn’t make them shine. He remembered his father’s comment in the market square – he’d known straight away the chain wasn’t made of gold or silver. He must think Louis such a fool! And he was a fool, to waste what little money he’d had on such rubbish, when he didn’t even have a watch. In one angry movement he threw the chain out of the window and curled into a ball on the bed.
#
It was dark when Marius returned and found Louis fast asleep. He felt the boy’s forehead – it was cool, and there was colour back in the boy’s cheeks.
‘Louis, wake up. Are you awake? Well, sit up. I have news.’
‘You have our land? What’s it like? Is it far?’
Marius sat on the bed and opened up a package he’d brought, from which he took out two brown rolls and a small piece of cheese which he broke in half. He handed Louis his share. ‘Ha! The Government – they say they want to offer us land, want us to develop this country, but they’re all a pack of liars. But first, how’re you feeling?’
‘Much better, but what happened? Didn’t they give you the land?’ Louis took a bite of bread and of cheese. ‘Are we going back to Sablières?’
‘No, no, we’re not going back. But I did refuse the land they offered me. Land, ha! More like a solid piece of rock. They must think we’re stupid, but I told them – not even enough soil to grow weeds for goats, I said.’
‘So we are going back.’
‘No. I said no, didn’t I? It so happens that there’s better land just out of Aïn Azel, about 15 kilometres out of Sétif.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A few days east of here – about two hundred kilometres as the crow flies. But this land’s not free – I had to buy it.’
‘But we don’t have any money.’
‘We came to an agreement and I signed some papers. They’re keen to settle that part of the country, but I’m not stupid – I checked around first. Asked people who’d been there. The land’s all right. Rich, in fact. We agreed I’d pay for the land over the next fifteen years. We leave tomorrow morning. What’s this?’
‘A parasol. I found it in the wardrobe. How will we get there?’
Marius opened the parasol. ‘It’s in good condition. You should have taken it to the butcher.’
‘I did. He told me to keep it, but I don’t want it. How are we getting there tomorrow?’
‘You don’t want it? No, I suppose not. But we’ll keep it anyway. We might be able to trade it for something.’
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
‘Tomorrow. How will we get there?’
‘By boat. No, don’t look like that – it’s the only way. And it’ll take more than just tomorrow. There are no roads to Sétif. The coaches are unwilling to travel such distances, so the only way is by sea, either to Bedjaia or Skida. But for our own safety, we’re better off going to Skida, apparently. It’s further – about three hundred and fifty kilometres from here – but there we’ll be able to join a military party that’s going to Constantine, to the south. From Constantine, we come back this way about a hundred and twenty kilometres to Sétif. Then another forty kilometres southward to Aïn Azel. I know, it sounds complicated, but I have to think of our safety. Don’t worry, it won’t be so bad. I met a Corsican fisherman who’s going to Skida himself tomorrow – he’s agreed to take us on board.’
Louis sighed; he doubted a fishing boat would be any better than L’Arlésienne.
‘Fourteen hectares, Louis. Think of it! Fourteen hectares of rich land with a river running through. I think we were wise to come here after all.’
#
The trip to Skida was uneventful. The sea was calm and Louis found that he wasn’t seasick as he’d been on the Arlésienne, and the Corsican fisherman told him tales of pirates that used the caves they could see along the coast to hide their treasures. At night he slept on deck looking up at the vastness of the sky. He saw a falling star one night and remembered the women of his
village who would cross themselves whenever they saw one, because they believed it to be the soul of someone who’d just died, and he wondered if his mother was up there, looking down on him. Would he ever stop missing her so terribly?
By day it was easier because there was plenty to keep him busy. He helped the fisherman catch their evening meal, and once, when they caught a small shark, the fisherman cut off its tail and nailed it to the bow to ward off other sharks. But nights were different, because no matter what he thought about, his thoughts always came back to thinking of his mother, missing her, wondering what she’d say about this or that…
By the time they reached Skida on the fifth day, Louis felt himself an accomplished seaman. They found an army captain who took them to his camp, and for the next two days, while the military organised their provisions, Louis and Marius enjoyed military food and the shelter of a tent.
But soon it was time to move again, and they were given the use of a horse for the four-day trip to Constantine. Louis sat behind his father, holding tight, and by the end of the first day on horseback, he found he had difficulty walking. The soldiers teased him and offered to fill his pants with straw to ease the ache.
On they rode the next day through desolate clay hills sometimes covered with silver-barked pines, sometimes with prickly pear. They rode between mountains of slate with strata jutting at acute angles towards the sky, and occasionally they saw, on a hilltop, a small Kabyle village. They passed few people on this road – a shepherd or a villager who would stop and stare, and every so often they would see aqueducts or bridges, the remains of ancient Roman occupation.
On the fourth and last day of this leg of their journey they travelled uphill, up a road skirting deep gorges at the bottom of which a stream or river gushed over rocks, and past fields where storks stood on one leg and stared at them, just as the villagers had done earlier. When they reached Constantine that afternoon the army captain took them to a vantage point where, at six hundred metres above sea level, they could see the whole countryside below. He pointed to the sulphur springs where five arches formed the baths that were part of the aqueducts built by Justinian in the seventh century, and where every Wednesday Jewish and Arab women bathed and performed devotional rights. To the east deep rocky ravines protected half the circumference of the town, and the Roumel River tumbled over its rocky bed. Hawks and vultures circled and nested there, attracted by the discharge of sewers from the city above.
That Devil's Madness Page 4