‘Nothing’s wrong with a guide book,’ Steven reassured her, ‘Let’s get you your guidebook.’
‘Street directory.’
‘Ok, street directory. I know just the place. Let’s go.’
He took her by the arm and led her past street vendors and children begging, DJ following close behind. They crossed streets crowded with buses, cars and donkeys, past tightly packed cafés where waiters flitted like swallows, until at last they reached a small shop with the sign Office de Touristes. Nicolette entered, followed by Steven and DJ.
‘I’d like to buy a street directory,’ she said in French to the smiling young man behind a counter.
The man looked beyond her to Steven and DJ leaning against a shelf, watching. Steven nodded to the man, and he turned his attention back to Nicolette.
‘Where does your husband want to go, Madame?’ he asked.
‘My husband? Oh, no. It’s me. I want a street directory.’
‘Your husband is looking for a hotel? How much does he want to pay?’
‘No. No hotel. A street directory. And no husband, either.’
‘No husband? Oh. I see. Where do you want to go? I will tell you how to get there.’
‘I don’t want to go anywhere in particular. I want—’
‘You don’t know? How do you not know? How can I be of help if you do not know where you want to go? Where is your husband? Why are you here?’
Nicolette turned to Steven. He smiled at her and shrugged; he was enjoying this. DJ was trying hard not to laugh. Nicolette turned back to the man behind the counter.
‘A street directory. Do you have one? A book that shows me the streets?’
‘A street directory? No. No street directory. Tell me what you want to do and I will tell you how to get there. How much money do you have? Do you want to see the ruins of—’
‘Never mind. Thank you.’ As she walked past them out of the shop, Steven bowed low and DJ burst out laughing.
‘Very funny,’ Nicolette said when they were once more on the pavement.
Steven took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and laughed. He pulled one out and threw the packet to DJ, then lit his smoke. ‘Just a bit of fun.’ He ruffled her long hair into her eyes. ‘Come on, woman. Your husband wants a drink.’
‘Husband my arse,’ Nicolette mumbled as she followed.
#
DJ’s hotel room was packed. It seemed to Nicolette that half of those who had been at the press conference were now here. DJ’s bottle had long emptied, and more had appeared. She sat on the floor nursing her third glass of pastis and water, her back against the bed, with the small wiry Frenchman introduced as Jean-Paul next to her.
‘Thick as thieves,’ she said, indicating Steven and DJ across the room.
Jean-Paul nodded. ‘There’s a lot of history with those two. Been through a lot together.’
‘Oh?’
‘So tell me, what were you doing before this?’
‘Nothing very interesting. Tell me about Steven and DJ.’
Jean-Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t know all of it. I know they were in ‘Nam together. And I know that because they were the ones who got me out of there when Saigon fell.’
‘You were there?’
‘Weren’t we all?’
‘But hang on. The French…’
‘I wasn’t military. I lived there. With my wife and son.’
‘In Vietnam?’
Jean-Paul nodded and drained his glass. ‘Ke-lee was Vietnamese. We had this little house up on stilts by the river, and the jungle all around us. Our own little piece of paradise.’
‘What happened?’
‘What happened? Same as happened to everyone else happened… But I need a drink. Top up?’
Nicolette nodded and watched Jean-Paul weave his way around people to the hand basin that had become a temporary bar.
#
No one noticed Steven and DJ leave the room. They hurried away from the hotel and hailed a taxi. Steven told the driver to go to 2 Boulevard Colonel Amirouche. While DJ waited in the taxi, Steven entered the Crédit Populair d’Algérie, opened an account in the name of Frank Taylor, and deposited $50 in US currency. A few moments later they were heading back to the hotel.
#
Nicolette watched one of the other women in the room, a correspondent whose experience showed in every wrinkle, walk up to Jean-Paul and say something to him. He smiled and turned, looking at Nicolette, then said something to the woman who shook her head and patted his cheek like a teacher to a child. Jean-Paul shrugged, the woman moved on. For an instant his gaze met Nicolette’s and his smile wavered, but only for an instant. He came back with a couple of drinks, looking awkward.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘Something about me, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Some of the old hands get a bit funny when a new face shows up. Forget about her.’
Nicolette looked around the room. ‘Steven’s gone. DJ too.’
‘They’ll be back.’
‘So what is it with those two? You didn’t end up explaining.’
‘How much do you know?’
‘Nothing, actually.’
‘That would be about right – they’re like closed books. I don’t know that much myself. I know Steven was some sort of Military Advisor for the Australian Special Forces. DJ was just regular US Army – or I’m pretty sure he was. But somehow they got together. DJ helped him with something.’
‘What?’
‘No idea. I know Steven was working closely with the Vietnamese to help them fight the Viet Cong. Some say helping them fight the Yanks as well…’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Just rumours. Doesn’t like invaders, our Morris.’
‘And?’
‘That’s all I know. It’s not like he’d tell me what he was doing. I just picked up bits here and there. I do know he was all over the country. Associated with the brass a fair bit too, though if you believed the rumours, there was no love lost there. All I know is if it weren’t for them, my bones would be lying in a ditch somewhere. So I owe them one. Simple.’
‘Fair enough. What about his personal life? Is he married?’
‘Who, Morris? No. But what are you thinking? You’re not falling for the guy, are you?’
‘No! Of course not.’
‘Good, because he’d eat you alive.’ He noticed her blush. ‘I mean it, Nicolette. Get those ideas out of your head.’
‘There are no ideas,’ she said. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the mattress behind her so that Jean-Paul would not continue along this train of thought. Okay, maybe Steven was attractive – in an arrogant, overly confident sort of way – but she wasn’t so stupid as to start anything. For a start, she wasn’t ready for another relationship, and even if she was, it wouldn’t be with someone like Steven. She let her mind drift; the alcohol combined with the sudden change of climate and time zones that were still taking their toll, but even so, she really didn’t feel like she was on assignment. This felt more like when she was still a teenager, and they’d gather in someone’s room to plan their next protest march.
#
‘Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to go home.’
Nicolette opened her eyes. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’ She looked around the room; it was nearly empty. Jean-Paul was stretched out on the bed behind her, snoring gently.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Getting us a driver. Come on, get your gear. He’s outside.’
#
When Nicolette first saw Amoud, she thought Steven was playing another joke on her. This driver – and Steven assured her he really was their driver – looked about twelve years old. He jumped out of the car as soon as he saw Steven, and opened the back door of the Citroën for Nicolette, repeating over and over Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, bonsoir. He wore no shoes, and Nicolette noticed two fingers of his right hand were missing. But as Ste
ven had promised, he knew how to drive and, unlike most of his countrymen, did not feel the need to use the horn continuously. As Nicolette stared out of the window of the car into the night, she wondered why Steven would choose such a boy.
13
The first year of the new century was an important one for Louis and Imez. Imez was now old enough to wear the tidjelmoust, the indigo veil of the Tuareg men that would protect him from evil spirits entering his body through his nose or mouth, because men did not know the secret of life as women did, and so were not immune. He was to wear it constantly and never show his face to anyone, even when eating, but secretly he sometimes removed it when in Louis’ company. And with the wearing of the tidjelmoust, so too came the responsibility of re-joining his father, so as to take his place amongst their tribe.
For Louis, the first year of the new century was equally important. It was the year he fell in love.
It happened on the twenty-eighth of May. Honoré Bertin, an ardent amateur astronomer, had invited Marius and Louis to his house, to lunch and to observe the total eclipse of the sun that was due that afternoon. Louis, more interested in spending his time with Imez and old Merzoug than being in Monsieur Bertin’s dining room, refused the invitation, much to his father’s exasperation.
Marius could well understand Louis’ love of the land, and admired his ability to learn the different dialects and traditions of the area – a talent that had proven useful on many occasions. And he wasn’t worried about the condemnations of some, that Louis was becoming more Berber than French. As far as Marius was concerned, that wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing; he secretly believed Louis would benefit from exposure to both camps, as it were. The problem was that if Louis had his way, he’d avoid all contact with the colons, preferring to ride with Imez to the surrounding native villages instead.
This time, Marius insisted that Louis accept the invitation. He then had a quiet word to his friend Bertin. Out of respect for Marius, Bertin agreed to invite Imez to view the eclipse, but he drew the line at lunch.
Madame Bertin would not be joining them. She had left the previous week for a shopping trip in Algiers, and to bring her youngest child home from boarding school – she would be back later that afternoon.
They lunched on mushroom soup and stuffed rainbow trout, then helped Bertin carry the new telescope he had ordered from France for just this occasion to the turret above his office. Imez joined them, and they drank coffee and ate sweetmeats as they waited. Honoré Bertin was the most excited – at last he would be able to see the as-yet-undiscovered planet Vulcan, which everyone knew was too close to the sun to be seen at any time except during a total eclipse.
They watched the first development of the eclipse by its projection through the telescope onto a piece of cardboard. Within a matter of minutes the sky darkened to a deep purple. Birds stopped singing and sought the shelter of trees and bushes. A dog howled.
‘Now you can look,’ Bertin said as he put the telescope to his eye. The sun became an eerie ring of fire. Somewhere a cock crowed. In the street below a woman screamed and cried out.
‘What did she say?’ asked Marius.
‘She says the moon has swallowed the sun,’ answered Imez. ‘She says we will all die.’
Bertin laughed and Imez scowled. Louis opened his mouth to comment but was silenced by a look from his father. The air became colder. Inside houses lights were lit.
‘But where is Vulcan?’ asked Bertin. ‘I can’t see Vulcan.’
In the street below some prayed and some wailed and some ran to hide. A horse whinnied. And those that understood what was happening gazed at the heavens in awe as the flames of the corona around the sun shimmered in a pearly glow and flared into the deep purple of the sky.
‘Here, you look,’ said Bertin at last, disgusted at not finding Vulcan, and he moved to allow Marius access to the telescope. The moon slipped to the other side of the sun. A burst of light spread across the sky so that it looked like a mix between sunset and storm.
It was at that moment that Louis saw her. She was climbing to the turret, her long black hair and face lit by the eerie light. He thought she could be an apparition.
She looked at Louis and smiled.
‘Ah, Therèse, you’re home then. Come and meet my guests. Marius, may I present Therèse, my daughter? Therèse, Monsieur de Dercou.’
Marius shook the young girl’s hand. ‘My son Louis,’ he said, and Louis looked at the girl but didn’t shake her extended hand. He seemed to have forgotten his manners, and could only stare. ‘His friend Imez,’ said Marius to cover up his son’s presumed rudeness.
Imez bowed to Therèse, and she smiled at him and extended her hand for him to shake.
‘I couldn’t find Vulcan,’ said Bertin, oblivious to the mood around him. ‘Therèse, did you hear me? I couldn’t see Vulcan.’
‘Never mind, Father.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘Come, Mother wants to see you.’
Honoré and Marius went down the stairs of the turret. Therèse followed, turning to smile at Louis before disappearing. Louis stared at the stairwell long after Therèse had gone. Imez burst out laughing.
‘Now Mademoiselle Bertin will think you’re a simpleton,’ he said, still laughing.
Louis looked at him, horrified. ‘My God, she will!’
‘Well,’ said Imez, leaning over the rails to look at the street below, ‘I guess it doesn’t really matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s a child. What does it matter what a child thinks?’
‘She’s not a child.’
‘She is a child. But I think that child has bewitched you.’
Louis looked down into the street. He felt such a fool. He wished he could undo the last few minutes, was sure Therèse Bertin must be laughing at him this very moment.
But the young Mademoiselle Bertin was not laughing at him; she was thinking that Monsieur de Dercou’s son seemed to be very nice indeed.
#
It didn’t take Marius long to realise Louis was totally infatuated with Therèse Bertin – never before had his son volunteered to go into Ampère quite so often, nor taken so much care of his appearance. But Louis was sixteen-years-old, and the girl was not yet thirteen. He’d have to realise she was much too young to court, and would soon be back riding with Imez.
Marius was wrong. Louis didn’t forget Therèse Bertin, and each time he saw her, he thought her more beautiful. Shortly after meeting her the day of the eclipse, he’d visited Bertin on business for his father. Therèse had come into her father’s office, unaware that Louis was there, and Louis had gathered up his courage and talked to her. It was only a Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Bertin, but she had smiled and answered Good afternoon, Monsieur de Dercou, and Louis had gone home happy. After that it had been easier.
He frequently visited his brother and sister-in-law’s shop. It stocked clothing for ladies, hats and haberdashery, and was well patronized by the grands colons – the petits colons and the native population preferring to shop elsewhere. Sometimes Therèse would come into the shop, and Louis would take the opportunity to comment on the weather, the price of sheep, the developments of the town. And each time Therèse answered and added to the conversation, so that Louis soon lost his shyness, and they would casually mention the next day and time they thought to be at the shop, should the other also find reason to be there.
Honoré Bertin also noticed Louis’ interest in his daughter, and her interest in Louis. He held Marius in high regard, and decided that if something developed between the two young people, so be it. Therèse could do a lot worse.
#
It was during the first week of autumn that, for the first time anyone could remember, old Merzoug did not appear in the fields. Marius found him still in his bed; he had died in his sleep. Gwafa and Imez came for the body, and wrapped it in the brown and white striped rug that was also his shroud, and took him to his village for burial. Marius and Louis went also, to sho
w their respect for the old man who had helped them so much during their first years here. He was buried as was fitting, with his back to the ground, his head to the North and his feet to the South, and most importantly his face towards Mecca. Then Gwafa placed a single standing stone upon the grave to denote that here lay a man.
After the funeral, Marius sent Louis to Ampère to deposit money into the bank. Louis rode the Colonel, a horse that had been retired from the military, whose worse habit was to ignore its rider and join in military exercises every time it passed troops practicing their manoeuvres. Louis preferred this horse to all others – he felt the horse had retained a certain aloofness, an independence that separated him from the other horses they owned. And as he rode towards Ampère, he remembered Merzoug.
He thought about the rabbits the old man had caught for them when they’d first come to Algeria, and how he’d smiled that big toothless smile of his when Louis had mended the parasol that had torn against a branch. He’d only had black thread, and his clumsy sewing had stood out like a scar on the delicate fabric, but Merzoug had praised him like the finest seamstress in Paris might expect to be praised. He remembered the time he’d taken Louis to his village, and given him his first taste of couscous. He’d shown Louis how to eat it, using only the first two fingers and the thumb of the right hand, and had laughed when Louis had held the grains too tightly so that the little ball of food collapsed onto his clothes.
Alone on that long dusty road, Louis allowed himself to cry for the old man as he had not cried even on the death of his mother.
By the time he reached Ampère, Louis once again had control of his emotions. But Therèse was also at the bank, and when she saw Louis she guessed straight away something had happened. She convinced him to sit with her on the seat beneath the oaks in the square, and when Louis told her of Merzoug’s death, she held his callused hands in her own gloved ones, and showed such sympathy, such understanding, that Louis almost lost control of his emotions once again. He decided instead that it was time he spoke to Bertin about his intentions to court his daughter.
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