Marius turned towards the west where the view interested him more. Here the hills dropped abruptly to plains where orange groves and olive trees grew, as well as a variety of other fruit trees. The hint of an acrid odour drifted up and the captain told them of a tannery in the Arab quarter where the shoes and boots of the whole region were manufactured.
That evening Marius and Louis learned they would be attached to another military convoy for their journey to Sétif. This journey of one hundred and twenty-six kilometres would be done in one day, in five stages: Oued Athménia, Bir l’Arch, Tadjenen, Leâalma, and finally Sétif. They would rise before sun-up, and would only stop to change horses at each stage and for lunch. It would be hard on them, the captain told Marius, as they were not used to travelling such distances by horse, but he was confident they would manage.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said, ‘it’s mostly downhill.’
#
To Louis, the trip to Sétif was nothing but a blur of hooves and dust. By the time they reached town it was dark, and they could see little, but Louis was glad that part of their journey was over, for his muscles ached and his backside felt numb. As soon as he lay down in the barracks he fell asleep and couldn’t be roused for dinner.
Over a glass of Port with the officers, Marius learned his luck was holding – Aïn Azel was provided with supplies twice a month by convoy, and one was due to leave the next day; they wouldn’t have to spend time in Sétif after all. Then talk moved to the indigenous population.
‘Now the Jews, you don’t have to worry about them,’ the captain explained. ‘We had them all become naturalised as French some time ago, and they’re no trouble. It’s the Muslims that you have to be careful of. We tried to get them naturalised, but they refused. Wouldn’t give up their religion and become Christians.’
‘Does becoming naturalised make you a Christian? Did the Jews become Christians?’
‘No, no! No need for them to do that. We just made it a condition for the Muslims, but they refused…’ The captain shook his head, perplexed as to why one would refuse such an opportunity. ‘You’ll find them a strange lot, I think.’ He refilled their glasses, then explained that the Muslims of Algeria were not one race, but could be divided broadly into Arabs, Turks and Berbers.
‘Now the Berbers, they divide themselves even further. Not like us French – if you’re French, you’re French, no?’
Marius nodded, unsure how to respond.
‘Not the Berbers, though – they’re Kabyles, Berrabers, Tuaregs, Shawias. Some of them even have slaves and serfs, which complicate things further. Now I ask you, Monsieur, how are we to tell them apart?’ He sipped his Port and continued. ‘There’s been a bit of trouble with them lately. The Arabs, they’re nomads, you see. And most of the Berbers too, though not the Kabyles – they live in the mountains. But anyway, Arab, Kabyle or Berber, they’re all the same. Claim they own the land the settlers are trying to cultivate. Of course, they don’t own it at all. They never stay in one place, so how could they own it? But it means trouble all the same. I’m told – though I’ve no proof, you understand – that Berbers are more intelligent than Arabs. But how do they know that, hey?’
Marius shrugged. He knew little of Berbers and Arabs.
‘The Tuaregs now, you can tell them apart. They wear blue, and it’s the men who cover their faces – not the women. Why do you think that is, Monsieur de Dercou?’
But Marius had no idea. He wiped his lips with a serviette to hide a yawn. Then the captain gave him the address of Monsieur Honoré Bertin, the bordj or military administrator of Aïn Azel, responsible for receiving and distributing mail, generally organising the goings-on of the area, and giving newcomers directions to their land.
‘He’s a good man, Bertin. He’s done well. You can trust him.’
The next morning, with the sky barely lightening and the mountains still deep violet, Louis and Marius joined the convoy to Aïn Azel.
#
Louis sat on top of the sacks of flour that had been his nest these past two days, and scratched as he watched the people of Aïn Azel gather around the dray. Apart from the soldiers, only the builders on scaffoldings nearby seemed European.
‘Hey, young man, do you intend spending the whole night up there?’
Louis looked down amongst the crowd. Next to his father was a gentleman smiling up at him. Marius signalled at him to come down.
‘Monsieur Bertin, may I present my son Louis? Louis, Monsieur Honoré Bertin.’
Louis wiped his hand on his clothes and shook the outstretched hand.
‘Welcome to Aïn Azel, young man. I was just telling your father you must both stay with us for a day or so. In fact, I insist. Now, Monsieur de Dercou – you have baggage? Just that? Well then, no need to wait. Let’s go.’
Louis followed the two men. He found it strange that a man such as this Monsieur Bertin, a man with a waxed moustache, pinstriped suit and starched collar, should befriend his father like this. But Marius didn’t seem to think it strange.
‘Hey, Campetti,’ called Bertin as they passed the builders packing up their tools for the night, ‘Come and meet our new settlers.’
A small dark-haired man dressed in sac-cloth trousers and singlet separated himself from the group and was introduced to Marius and Louis. He shook hands, then returned to his work.
‘Don’t let his appearance fool you,’ Bertin explained, ‘he’s doing well, Campetti. He brought his team of men with him from Italy. Since then, he’s built himself two houses – two – one of which he rents out. Then he built the only café-restaurant in the area. His wife and children run it. You may well ask, Monsieur, why a café-restaurant when there are so few of us here, and some months back, I would have agreed with you. But Campetti, he knew what he was doing – that café is earning him a small fortune. Always full of soldiers and Legionnaires; they get tired of barrack-food, you see. But that’s not all – he also built some stables, and he made them large enough to house coaches that are sure to come in the future. He might just be a petit blanc at the moment, but I think he’ll become a grand colon before too long. He’s not stupid, that Campetti. No, not stupid at all…’
Marius nodded in agreement. Behind them, Louis also nodded. Mr Campetti seemed an ordinary man, yet he already owned a number of properties – if he could do it, maybe they could too.
#
Louis sat a little straighter, trying to keep awake. He and Marius had shared a hot bath before dinner – the first in weeks – and the combination of cleanliness and good food had a soporific effect on him. He could still smell the odour of the vinegar and lavender paste they had used to scrub their gritty, musky bodies and hair, which Bertin had given them to rid themselves of fleas and lice. They had soaked in the water until it turned cold, then put on their other suit of clothes. The clothes they had taken off had been collected by a servant as soon as discarded, and were being boiled in a cauldron as they ate.
He looked around the large mahogany table. Madame Bertin’s gentle features and thoughtful manner reminded him of his mother. He thought she would have liked a dress like Madame Bertin’s, trimmed with pin-tucks and lace and a satin sash. Bertin’s sons, all much older than Louis, were sitting back in their chairs, politely listening to their father explain that, as well as his role as military administrator, his property was also the relay station for caravans from the south.
‘You’ll enjoy the caravans,’ he told Louis. ‘Something a bit different to what you saw in Sablières, I should imagine – they’re quite a sight, coming through the gates of the town. The salt caravans – now there’s a picture. Thirty, forty camels long, some of them. You’ll like those, young man.’
Louis nodded, stifling a yawn. A maid came into the dining room to remove the cheese plates.
‘Then, of course, there are the crops. The Arabs do that for me; clear any new land, do the planting – I let them graze their flocks in my fields after harvest. You’ll have to hire some yourself
, immediately, or you’ll never get the land ready in time before the winter snows. You’ll only pay them at harvest time, with a portion of the crops.’
The maid came back with fresh plates and a platter of figs, dates and grapes.
‘Now my little Therèse,’ Bertin said, nodding towards Louis, ‘she’d be a bit younger than you, young man – she’s away at boarding school right now, but you’ll meet her when she comes home – she thought that wasn’t fair; thought they should get paid with money. I caught her giving them her birthday money once. You wouldn’t believe how cross she was with me when I made them give it back!
‘You’re not eating, Monsieur. Can I pass you something? No?’ He took a fig from the platter and bit into it. ‘My oldest child – she’s married now – she would never have done that. Funny how different each of your children can be, wouldn’t you say, Monsieur? How many children have you, if I may ask?’
‘Four. Four boys.’
‘Oh well, there’s still plenty of time.’
‘When will Madame de Dercou be joining you?’ asked Madame Bertin.
‘My wife died, Madame. Three months ago.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, Monsieur. I didn’t know. My condolences.’
Marius nodded.
‘My condolences,’ muttered Bertin and his sons. Bertin cleared his throat. Coughed. ‘Well, how about some coffee then? And maybe a little glass of something?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ answered Marius, ‘just coffee. It’s been a long day, and we have a lot to organise tomorrow.’
‘Yes, of course, of course… Now, tomorrow you must get a horse.’
‘I hadn’t planned on—’
‘Oh, but you must – it’s a matter of prestige, of status! The Arabs walk, the pieds noirs ride. That’s how it is.’
‘Pieds noirs?’
Madame Bertin laughed. ‘Yes, “Black feet”. The French call us colons, but the Arabs call us “black feet”. It’s because of the shoes we wear – so different from theirs…’
‘In any case,’ Bertin continued, ‘you will need some sort of beast. You’ll need something to carry your crops into town, eventually. Maybe a mule, if not a horse.’
‘A mule, maybe,’ agreed Marius.
‘Oh, and don’t have an Arab for a headman – you’ll want a Berber, if you want things to go well.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Ahhh, see, I didn’t know either when we first came, but then I read about it in La Revue des deux mondes. The scientists in France, they studied them. Had their skulls sent to them and studied them. Compared them to Arab skulls. And do you know what they found, Monsieur?’
Marius shook his head.
‘Apparently their skulls are like that of the German people. Who would have thought? That’s why they have that proud look about them. Makes sense, when you think about it. Not like the Arabs, all thin and nervous and dry. So that makes them more like us, more hard-working and courageous, you see. More intelligent. That’s why you have to make sure you get a Berber headman, you see?’
‘May we be excused, Father?’ asked one of the sons. Bertin nodded. ‘Good night, Sir. Louis.’
The maid brought in a tray with coffee and cups. Bertin pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. Marius did the same. Sat back, relaxed.
‘Now, you’ll also have to get a pump.’
‘A pump? I think the pump can wait a while; we’ll manage, carrying water.’
‘Ah, no. You must get a pump. The river might dry up in summer. Everyone has to dig a well, so you’ll need a pump. I’ll be sending the well-digger to you soon. Buy it tomorrow and tell them to deliver it here – I’ll see it goes with the well-digger. I’m sorry, but I must insist. It has to be this way. You’ll find this a very different country to our dear France, Monsieur de Dercou, but you’ll learn…’ He puffed on his pipe, thoughtful. ‘You know, when we first came, we hadn’t much more than you have now. Do you remember, my dear, where we first came?’
Madame Bertin laughed. ‘Oh dear, yes. They were hard times, Monsieur. When we first came, all we had was six children and a pig. And not a whole pig at that – its tail was missing.’ She smiled at the memory.
‘You look surprised, but it’s true what my wife is telling you. We were just like you. And there wasn’t as much here then, either, was there, my dear?’ Madame Bertin shook her head. ‘But the soil here, Monsieur, it’s so rich, it’s black. You can grow anything. If you’re not afraid of a bit of hard work, you can do well here, Monsieur de Dercou. Yes, you can do very, very well indeed…’
7
Nicolette walked across the black and white tiled floor of the reporters’ room, past the grey steel desks, past the chief of staff’s ‘playpen’ – an enclave bordered by a waist high partition – then through the swinging double doors and down the corridor until she reached Pictorials. It was still dark outside, still cool, though the weather bureau predicted another scorcher. It was fairly quiet on the third floor of The Herald building, with only the foreign sub-editor and copy boys sorting through the overnight cables from the telex machine, but Nicolette knew that by six a.m. the chief of staff and other sub-editors would arrive, followed shortly by editor John Fitzgerald, or ‘Fitzie’, as everyone called him. By then the floor would be a hive of activity, the intensity of which would only increase with the arrival of reporters and cadets bringing the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of ‘copy!’ or ‘shute!’, and the constant ringing of telephones. Which was why Nicolette preferred to arrive so early – a habit she’d formed when she too had been a copy ‘boy’. At five a.m., she knew she had a good hour which she could spend examining the previous day’s contact sheets and news photos; she might only be a cadet right now, but her three-year cadetship was almost over, and then she intended becoming a fully-fledged photojournalist.
The routine for journalism cadets was three-and-a-half days on the floor, one-and-a-half days at RMIT, but this taught her little about photojournalism per se. She didn’t complain; she knew she was lucky to have this cadetship, as all the others here were bright young things straight out of high school. So she did what she was told, went where she was sent, but in her free time she not only examined The Herald’s photos, but also submerged herself in the works of photojournalist like Neil Davis and Eric Piper, Robert Cappa and Larry Burrows, Welshman Philip Jones Griffiths and Englishmen like Tim Page and Don McCullin, all whose reputations rested on their reportage of war from around the world. But most of all she examined the photographs of women photojournalists – Lee Miller and Catherine Leroy, Dickey Chapelle and Gloria Emerson. There was something different about these women’s images, something more humane – those were the sort of photographs she wanted to take.
But she knew that compared to theirs, her photographs were those of a rank amateur, so she examined each image – the angle from which the light hit, the composition of positive and negative shapes, the contrasts between light and dark – and with each photo she asked herself What is it that makes this a good photo? Why are some photos so memorable, whilst others leave me cold? And over time, she’d realised it came down to two things – emotion and energy.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
Ted Boyd dropped his camera bag at her feet. Of all The Herald’s photojournalist, he was the only one who actually frightened Nicolette. In his fifties, he always looked as if he’d slept in his clothes on a park bench and was permanently hung-over, which, considering how much time many of them spent at the Phoenix in Flinders Street or the Astoria, next door in Exhibition Street, was probably a fact. But she’d heard he’d cut his teeth as a photojournalist in World War II while still no more than a kid, then went straight on to cover the Greek Civil war, Indochina, Korea then the Congo Crisis. After that, rumours were vague, so that he both intrigued and frightened her.
‘I’m only looking at yesterday’s proofs. I—’
‘I don’t care what you’re doing – I’ve got work to do. So fuck off!’
#
Nicolette sat at her desk writing captions for the photos that would be used in a forthcoming edition, oblivious to the usual chaos around her. Most cadets hated being sent to Captions – they’d rather be out and about gathering bits of mediocre news – but she didn’t mind it. Better this than interviewing city shoppers for their opinion on whether they approved of Princess Margaret divorcing Lord Snowdon, or of South Australian Premier Don Dunstan’s fashion sense – who really cared! The poor man’s wife had died earlier in the year, and he himself was now ill, but it seemed to Nicolette that people couldn’t get passed him daring to wear pink shorts in State Parliament, some years previously. Not the type of news she hoped to cover. Explaining an image in no more than one or two lines was much better training for what she wanted to do; it made her realise what was important in the photograph.
The building gave a slight shudder and Nicolette looked at her watch. Ten thirty – dead on time. Deep in the bowels of the building the printing presses had started up, and she knew that within half an hour that day’s first edition would hit the streets. She went back to the caption she was writing. Tomorrow was a public holiday – the Melbourne Cup – and she was looking forward to it. She wasn’t interested in the race, much to the horror of those she worked with, and planned instead to go with her camera gear to the Dandenongs. It was something she hadn’t done in years – she used to love going bush, loved the isolation, that feeling of being one with nature. But she’d also been afraid it would remind her too much of the times she’d gone to Mount Lofty with Willow in a baby sling, so that she hadn’t done it since Willow’s death. But now she felt she could handle the memories.
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