#
The fog had long evaporated and the sun was but a pale circle behind the clouds. A school of dolphins had played along the side of the boat mid-morning, prompting a smile from the dark-eyed goat-girl. Steven handed Nicolette the sandwiches they’d bought at the bistro that morning, along with coffee from a thermos.
‘So how old were you when you left Algiers?’
Nicolette shrugged. ‘I don’t remember exactly. I was very little, I know that much. Must have been about three. We were going to Constantine, where my mother’s parents lived – Grandpa Louis and Grandma Thérèse.
‘I can remember being in a train, stopped at a station. A man with a little monkey on his shoulder stopped outside our carriage, and I tapped on the window and waved.’ Nicolette took a sip of her coffee. ‘The man picked up the monkey by the arms and lifted it to the glass, and I laughed, but my mother pulled me back into my seat. There was another woman in our carriage, and I’ve always remembered what she said: “You’ll have to watch that one,” she told my mother.’
‘Charming. What did you say?’
Nicolette shrugged. ‘Nothing that I can remember. But I do remember thinking the woman very ugly.’
Steven laughed. ‘Funny the things you remember.’
‘What’s your earliest memory?’
‘Me? Let me think … I know. The time I broke a lizard.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I didn’t really break him. I just thought I had.’ He smiled. ‘I was just a little fella. We lived on this property a few Ks out of Cooma. My dad brought home this lizard to show me – a little gecko. Well, it took off, see, and of course I made a grab for it. Caught it by the tail, and the lizard kept running, leaving its tail in my hand. I bawled my eyes out. Thought I’d broken it. Wouldn’t believe my dad at first, when he tried to tell me that’s what lizards do. Took ages before I believed him.’ Steven shook his head, engrossed in the memories of an Australian childhood. ‘Funny what you remember…’
They sat on the deck looking out to sea, each lost in long ago. The movement of the boat and constant hum of voices, punctuated by the occasional clucking of chickens, combined with the overwhelming tiredness that three days of travelling across timelines can generate. Nicolette felt she was operating on automatic pilot. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
#
‘Nicky, wake up. We’re nearly there. Look.’ Nicolette woke, confused. It was dark and her body felt stiff from the hard deck beneath her and the cold air. Steven helped her up. ‘Look over there. Algiers.’
As the boat passed the mountainous coastline, they could see the lights around Notre Dame d’Afrique, high on its promontory. Then Penon, the old Spanish fort on the end of the breakwater.
The boat drifted past the gates of the breakwater. The domed Mosque of El Kebir glowed white, and before it arched driveways hid the ancient cliffs. Behind them streetlights marked the wide boulevards of the French part of the city, with its office buildings, opera house and hotels. Then, behind those, rising hills and the white-walled, flat roofed houses of the Casbah.
‘Excited?’
‘Too tired.’
Around her people were gathering their bundles. The dark-eyed goat-girl pulled at the ropes, but the goats refused to stand. She stood with hands on hips, glaring at the animals. Then, with a sudden high-pitched screech and arms flailing, she rushed towards them. The goats jumped up and made to run, but the girl anticipated their move and was already pulling back on the ropes. The goats came to a sudden stop. The girl gave Nicolette a triumphant smile. Steven laughed and the boat came to anchor.
#
Madame Lesage reminded Nicolette of a spider. A small spindly woman dressed all in black, she welcomed Steven with familiarity, then looked Nicolette over from head to toe.
‘Alors, who is this?’ she asked.
‘I told you when I rang. This is my colleague, Nicolette de Dercou. A photographer.’
‘Hmph. Looks too young. Too pretty to be wandering around the world with someone like you.’
Steven winked at Nicolette and walked towards the long corridor leading out of the entrance hall of Madame Lesage’s rooming house. Nicolette followed.
‘The usual room?’ he called back.
Madame Lesage shrugged. ‘Bien sure! Always the same room, non? She can have the one opposite yours.’
Steven opened one of the doors. ‘This is my room,’ he explained without turning on the lights. ‘I always have this one.’
Nicolette could make out a bed, a wardrobe. Along one wall, French windows opened onto a tiny courtyard. Steven dumped his bags onto the bed and came out into the corridor once more. Directly opposite his room was another door.
‘This will be your room,’ he said as he flipped the light switch. Nicolette looked around in astonishment as he pulled her in then shut the door behind her. ‘Pretty amazing, hey?’ he grinned.
‘It looks like a boudoir from some French brothel.’
It was a large room with a high ceiling, decorated in the Rococo style. The walls were lined with mirrored panels framed by delicate scrolled mouldings, and all the furniture appeared to be made of walnut. Dominating the room was the most extraordinary, massive bed Nicolette had ever seen. The huge bed-head was carved with scallop shells, scrolls and flowers, as were the two pillars on either side of it. It was covered with a pearl-grey and cornflower-blue striped satin bedspread. The same satin had been used to line the blue velvet brocade of the full-length curtains, which were topped with a gilded valance.
Against one wall, a large mirrored wardrobe echoed the carvings of the bed, as did a delicate toilette with thin S-shape legs. Between them a portrait of Madame du Barry hung in a gilded frame.
‘Your room isn’t like this, is it?’
‘God no. But it’s the only one here that isn’t.’
Nicolette nodded. ‘And all of these,’ she said, indicating the furniture with a wide sweep, ‘are they all real?’
‘You mean are they genuine antiques? Yeah, I believe they are.’ He sat on the bed and patted beside him. Nicolette joined him, still looking around the room, trying to take it all in. Steven leaned back, resting on his elbows, and watched her expressions. She caught his gaze in their reflection in one of the mirrored panels, and was surprised at how much younger he looked when relaxed. As if caught off-guard, he rose and went to shut the curtains.
‘Crafty old biddy, Madame Lesage,’ he continued. ‘Got it all for a song when Algeria got its independence and the big exodus started.’
‘That’s really sick.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He shrugged. ‘She saw an opportunity and grabbed it. Bought some other properties as well, I believe. All the French wanted to do was to get out as quickly as possible. It was a buyer’s market. It happens.’
‘But she’s French.’
‘Was. Renounced her French citizenship a few years back. She’s Algerian now.’ A knock on the door interrupted. ‘Oui?’
‘Votre dîner est prêt.’
‘Merci Madame. You’re hungry?’ Nicolette nodded. ‘Come on then. Don’t worry about Lesage, she’s all right. I’ll give you two minutes to wash up.’
#
Nicolette was relieved to see that the Rococo style didn’t extend to the kitchen; there was only so much she could take. This room had more of a country feel, with black and white tiled floor and copper moulds gleaming on the wall. A large pine table in the middle of the room was set for two. Madame Lesage was checking something on the stove.
‘Sit down, sit down. It’s ready.’ She ladled soup into two plates. ‘I have to go out for a while. You’ll manage?’
‘Always do,’ said Steven.
Nicolette watched the woman remove her apron and leave the room. She tasted the watercress soup, appreciating its creamy texture and peppery tang, remembering it from her childhood.
‘So I take it you’re a regular? Just how often do you come here?’
‘Whenever
I’m in the country. Prefer it to a hotel – more homely. And Madame Lesage’s a great cook. Plus you’re less likely to encounter problems here.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘Who knows, in a country like this? Things can change pretty quickly, and if they decide they don’t like foreigners, hotels become prime targets. I’d rather be in an ordinary house – you blend in more that way.’
‘Hm… makes sense, I suppose.’
‘You’ll learn. Comes with experience.’ He noticed the dark circles under Nicolette’s eyes – with no makeup and with her blond hair tied back in a high ponytail, she looked like a teenager. He wondered, not for the first time, why he’d ever agreed to let her tag along. But something about her reminded him of himself, all those years ago… No, better not start thinking along those lines. She was just another kid, wanting to make a name for herself.
‘You’ll be fine, kiddo. You’ve the makings of a damn fine photographer – yes, I checked; rang Boyd last night. And you’re smart. Just don’t let anything spook you. Finished?’ He took their plates to the sink then fetched the heavy cast-iron dish from the stove. As he lifted the lid the aroma of sautéed chicken filled the room. ‘Anyway, you’ve got me to teach you all the tricks.’
Nicolette attempted a smile. ‘I’m not that inexperienced.’ A wave of tiredness swept over her and the aroma of the dish made her feel nauseated. ‘I really don’t think I can eat anymore.’
‘Okay, lesson number two: when you can eat, you eat.’ Steven spooned a portion of chicken onto a plate. He placed it in front of her and poured her a glass of wine from the carafe. ‘I’m serious. You never know when you’ll be out there chasing a story. Forget about the civilized mealtimes you’re used to – they don’t exist anymore. So eat. I’m not having you get sick on me.’
Nicolette picked up her fork, feeling chastised. She took a small mouthful.
‘I’m not having a go at you, Nicky. But you’ve got to look after yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you don’t.’
They ate in silence. Nicolette tried, but couldn’t finish the portion Steven had served her. She put down her fork and leaned back in her chair, sipping her wine, and it occurred to her that Steven hadn’t really answered her question about how often he came to Algeria, but she was too tired to follow it up. She could barely think. She really shouldn’t be drinking wine either; it would probably send her to sleep, right there in her chair. She put her glass back on the table and looked about the room.
It reminded her of her grandparents’ kitchen in Constantine, when she was a little girl. Long summer afternoons when, after lunch, she would be sent to nap, but of course never would. She would look at comics until she grew bored, then sneak along the corridor and peek into the kitchen. Her grandfather would be sitting at the table that was always covered with a blue and white checked oilcloth, reading the paper. Her grandmother would be putting away the last of the dishes. The bamboo blinds would be lowered against the sun, the fan on the dresser humming. Her grandparents would be talking quietly, and Nicolette could feel an aura of contentment surrounding them. She would sit on the floor, her back against the wall right next to the doorway, and listen, soaking in the calmness of their voices.
Occasionally she would lean over and look in, and sometimes her grandfather would notice her and wink, but he never made her presence known – her grandmother would have sent her back to her room if she’d realised Nicolette had disobeyed.
Later in the afternoons, when the worst of the heat had passed, she would go for a walk with her grandfather. She loved those walks – loved walking hand in hand with him along the avenues, listening to his stories about when he was a boy. But most of all she loved the stories that involved Jamilah’s grandfather, Imez. Grandpa Louis knew she was Jamilah’s friend. It was their secret.
‘You look a million miles way.’ Steven’s voice brought her back to the present.
‘Not that far.’ She stretched. ‘Just remembered something I thought I’d forgotten. But I need to get some sleep.’
‘Well, in that bed, you’re bound to sleep well.’
‘I’ll feel like a courtesan.’
‘Madame du Barry?’
‘No thank-you.’
‘No?’
‘No. I like my head where it is.’
Steven laughed. ‘Good night, Nicky.’
12
The bureau’s pressroom was on the top floor of a three-story building that had once been the offices of Algiers’ most respected legal minds. But sixteen years of independence had not been kind to the once beautiful old building. The lift had stopped working some time ago – no one could remember when – and the mahogany balustrade was cracked from lack of wax. Paint peeled from the walls of the pressroom, and the windows were coated with a film of dust and cigarette smoke that hung in the air. A ginger cat sat on the windowsill watching the rain outside. Bits of paper stabbed one on top of the other with drawing pins indicated a notice board hung beneath. Wastepaper baskets overflowed. Three desks stood in the middle of the room, unoccupied, their typewriters silent. A fly buzzed around a half empty coffee cup. In a corner of the room one of the two telex machines clacked continuously.
Behind cheap wooden partitions that were more symbolic than effective, bureau chief Mike Davies opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of cognac and three paper cups. He half-filled the cups, then, moving the photograph of a much younger version of himself shaking hands with Churchill to one side, placed a cup in front of Steven and Nicolette.
‘I suppose you want to organise your own driver again,’ he said to Steven.
‘I’d rather.’
The bureau chief nodded. He rose, went to the radiator beneath his window and felt it, then kicked it a couple of times.
‘Nothing ever works in this town,’ he said to Nicolette by way of explanation. He picked up his cup. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry to see you back, Morris.’ He drank a mouthful and looked at Nicolette. ‘No offence, girly, but have you any experience with these people?’
‘I grew up here.’
‘Did you now? Well, you might want to keep that under your hat – shouldn’t make a difference, but won’t hurt to be careful. The wounds are still pretty fresh, and the mood can turn. They can be pretty volatile at times.’
‘I can handle it,’ Nicolette said, and to prove it, she took up her paper cup and copied the chief’s action, but the alcohol made her eyes water. She smothered a cough. Steven ignored her, and as Mike Davies watched her and waited for her to settle, the corners of his mouth twitched.
‘Yeah, I reckon maybe you can. Got your own darkroom? No, didn’t think you would. Ok, there’s one of sorts on the floor below – if you can get passed everyone else using it. The UPA, Reuters, and Agence France-Presse guys aren’t too bad – most have their own portable – it’s everyone else you’ll have to fight for space. If it’s not urgent, you might be better off giving your film to one of the support staff – they’ll do it in a couple of hours for you, but if something big breaks, you better be prepared to fight your way in there. Anyway, let’s hope it’s all over before Christmas and we can all go home.’
‘Before Christmas,’ Steven said, draining his cup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked Nicolette’s camera bag off the floor. ‘Come on, kiddo,’ he said as he handed her the bag, ‘let’s go.’
#
Steven let the voice of the official drone on and watched Nicolette. She’d been very quiet since leaving Davies’ bureau, and he could almost hear her brain ticking over about the darkroom. If anything was to show her up as an amateur, this was it, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. Anyone who’d been in the game for five minutes made sure they always carried the basics to process a film and make prints, anytime and anywhere, as long as there was access to water. Hell, he even knew someone who’d hijacked a public toilet once.
Nicolette was concentrating on every word the official said, as if she really believe
d him. Boumedienne was doing as well as could be expected. His family was with him. There was no change.
Steven saw Nicolette taking notes – he never did. He preferred getting his information from his own sources. He looked around the room; it was like every other press conference. The younger ones were concentrating, the old hands were just filling in time and planning their next story. He recognised most of the faces. The few other women in the room had been in this game for a long time. They were sitting together, a tough elitist little group. He saw one glance at Nicolette then immediately dismiss her. The official finished his spiel. Chairs scrapped back, people moved out.
‘Morris – when d’you get in, man?’
Steven and Nicolette turned to the man grinning behind them.
Steven smiled and shook the man’s hand.
‘DJ. I thought it was you up front. Late last night. Good to see you.’
‘So who’s this?’
‘My offsider, Nicolette de Dercou. Nicolette, DJ Lloyd, from The New York Times.’
Nicolette shook hands. DJ appeared to be around Steven’s age, and wore his hair in a ponytail. She noted the camera bag over his shoulder.
‘Hey, did you see Jean-Paul? Where’re you guys staying?’
‘No, not yet. Is he here? The usual – Lesage’s.’
DJ shuddered. ‘Creepy woman, that one. Listen, we’re at the de Genève. And I’ve got a bottle. Coming?’
‘Why not? Come on, Nicky.’
‘Shouldn’t we…’
‘What?’
‘I dunno. Check the place out? Talk to people. Get a street map maybe? A guidebook?’
‘Hmm… A guidebook. Now that’s a good idea.’ Steven looked at DJ, who rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘A guidebook, huh? Yup, I’d say that’d be a wise move.’
Nicolette looked from one smiling man to the other.
‘Okay. What did I say? What’s wrong with a guidebook? Okay, maybe not a guidebook. But a street directory would be handy…’
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