That Devil's Madness

by Dominique Wilson

  Massa, unlike most of the women in Constantine, was fully veiled. Nicolette thought her black abayah and hijab gave her the appearance of a crow – she’d grown used to the white veils of the women of Algiers in the short time she’d been here. She looked towards the post office across the square, opposite to where they were sitting, and wondered if it was worth going there to ask for help. Probably not – she was quickly learning that official sources were of little use. Her search for Jamilah in the telephone book that morning hadn’t yielded any result, and ringing directory assistance had been even less help. She would have to search for her on foot instead.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know a Jamilah al-Zain?’ she asked. Massa shook her head. ‘No, I guess that would have been too easy. Okay, let’s go. I thought I’d start around the Berber quarter where she used to live.’

  Walking through these streets brought back pleasant snippets of memory – the boussadïa that came down from the mountains, his skin the colour of ebony, clothed in animal skins and feathers; she could almost hear his cries and the beat of his tambourine, and her own shrieks of delighted terror when he bared his teeth and pretended to be vicious. Everyone knew that he never harmed anyone, but they would throw him a coin anyway, because to do so would bring them good luck. They passed a movie theatre and she wondered if the Colisée was still standing, with its plush red velvet seats and black and white marble foyer. It had a roof that opened to the sky in summer, but it was the red and blue neon lights that shone at night that seemed most magical in those days.

  ‘So how do you know Steven?’ she asked Massa.

  ‘I don’t know him. My husband does.’

  ‘Okay – how does your husband know him?’

  Massa shrugged. Nicolette looked at the woman, hoping that a journalist’s trick Steven had told her about would work. It was a simple trick based on the idea that most people were uncomfortable with long moments of silence, so that if the journalist kept quiet, and just looked at the person they were interviewing, eventually that person would become uncomfortable and say something to break the silence, often giving the journalist information he would not have thought to ask for. But Massa obviously hadn’t heard of this trick, nor did she seem to have any problem with silences, because she just walked a little faster, hugging her abayah tighter around herself.

  ‘Have you always lived here?’ Nicolette asked at last, more to make conversation than out of interest. Massa shook her head and walked even faster. Okay, thought Nicolette, I get the hint. Don’t make conversation, don’t ask questions, don’t even bother being friendly. So why are you here, lady? Steven’s going to have to do some explaining tonight.

  When they reached the Berber quarter, Nicolette felt she had stepped back into her childhood. She used to roam these streets with Jamilah. Hand in hand they would run from that very French triangle of Nicolette’s school, home, and her grandparents’ apartment on the Avenue Charles de Foucaut, and escape to the back streets of Jamilah’s world where these narrow alleyways swarmed with people, goats, camels and dogs. They would meet shopkeepers who squatted down on the front step of their shops, and who offered the girls tiny cups of strong syrupy black coffee – so different to what was served in Australia – which they knew not to drink right to the bottom so as not to swallow the grounds.

  The thought of these coffees made her thirsty for one. She found a coffee shop, entered and sat down. She was the only woman there and the men looked at her curiously, but Nicolette ignored them. Massa, following, hesitated at the entrance but Nicolette signalled to her to come in and sit down. A cat walked up and rubbed itself against her leg. When she pushed it away it climbed on the table next to theirs and sat upright like a statue of Bastet, staring at her. Nicolette ignored it and ordered two coffees, and when they were brought to her table she asked the young man who served them if he knew Jamilah al-Zain

  ‘I know many Jamilahs,’ he answered. ‘But none by that name.’

  ‘Why is it so important to find this woman?’ Massa asked.

  ‘We were friends when I was little. Good friends.’ Nicolette remembered Steven’s warning. ‘I just want to see her again.’

  ‘Often it isn’t good to go back; a lot can change over the years. Sometimes it is better just to keep the memories.’

  Nicolette nodded, surprised to hear so many words from this woman. ‘I know,’ she answered, surprised that she agreed. She sipped her coffee and remembered Jamilah’s uncle, who’d had a small jewellery shop in this quarter, and who would let them try on bracelets and huge silver earrings. Nicolette’s ears weren’t pierced then like Jamilah’s, so he’d loop them over her ears and the girls would look at themselves in the mirror he kept for his customers, and they would giggle and preen and giggle some more. Then, their vanity satisfied, they would go to Jamilah’s home and her mother would make them sit on the floor on a rug worn thin, and would give them a snack of sticky fresh dates and figs bursting their skins with ripeness. Maybe Jamilah’s uncle still had his shop. He’d be old by now, but it was possible he still lived here. Nicolette finished her coffee.

  ‘Come on,’ she told Massa, ‘I have an idea.’

  #

  In the neighbourhood of Constantine, along the road on the further side of the Rhumel River where the remains of the aqueduct built under Justinian stood, Steven and Amoud waited by their parked car. The air smelt of sulphur from the springs nearby, and of the sewerage discharge from the city above. Floating on currents of air, vultures and hawks circled the gorge.

  A car drove slowly past, then reversed and stopped. Steven walked to the driver’s side window and looked into the car, then nodded to Amoud. He said something to the men in the car and gave the driver an envelope containing some of the U.S. dollars he’d withdrawn the previous day from the Crédit Populair d’Algérie. He went back to his vehicle, and the car drove off. Amoud and Steven followed.

  After half an hour’s driving the terrain flattened and the area became mainly agricultural, though at this time of year many fields lay fallow. The cars turned into a laneway, at the end of which was a farmhouse. The first car drove on but Amoud parked beside a grove of chestnut trees.

  Steven sat on the bonnet of the car smoking a cigarette. He could hear traffic on the road nearby, birds chirping. From the farmhouse up ahead he could smell wood burning. He crushed the butt of his cigarette on the ground and, leaning back against the car, softly whistled Imagine.

  He heard a gunshot, then another. A dog barked. He turned to climb back into the car. Heard a third shot and hesitated. The dog howled. He climbed into the car and nodded to Amoud, who drove back onto the road.

  #

  Nicolette knocked again on the door of the apartment on the outskirts of Constantine. They were on the fourth floor, and here also the lift was not working. The walls were scribbled with graffiti, and the smell of decomposing rubbish drifted up the stairwell.

  ‘Maybe no one’s home,’ Massa suggested.

  ‘Someone’s home. I can hear a baby crying.’ She knocked louder. Heard shuffling behind the door, a key being turned. The door opened a little, held by a safety chain.

  ‘Jamilah?’

  The woman looked at Nicolette and Massa, then back towards the baby crying inside.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Jamilah? It’s me. Nicolette.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t you remember me? We went to school together. I know it was a long time ago, but we were friends…’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  Nicolette stared at the young woman behind the door. She was shocked at how worn and thin this woman was. How cold. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, never had she thought she’d get such a reception.

  ‘Your baby’s crying,’ she said at last, for want of something better. Jamilah nodded and moved back into the apartment, shutting the door. ‘Come on,’ Nicolette told Massa, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  They had just reached the stair
s when she heard the door open once more. She turned. Jamilah was standing in her doorway, a baby on her hip. Behind her Nicolette could see rows of shelves lined with books.

  ‘You surprised me,’ Jamilah said by way of apology. ‘I didn’t expect you.’ Nicolette nodded, but didn’t move away from the stairs. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I went to the old Berber quarter. I remembered your uncle’s shop – he remembered me. Told me where you were.’

  ‘He’s a foolish old man. He should know better.’ She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wiped the baby’s nose.

  ‘Girl or boy?’ Nicolette asked. She felt awkward, unsure how to bridge this chasm before her.

  ‘Girl.’

  ‘She’s cute.’

  Jamilah moved the baby higher on her hip. ‘I must go. I have to go to the market.’

  ‘Can I walk with you?’

  ‘If you want.’

  Nicolette nodded and Jamilah went back into the apartment, shutting the door behind her.

  ‘Thanks, Massa. You can go now. I’ll be alright.’

  Massa hesitated. ‘Your friend who asked me to accompany you…’

  ‘I’ll square things with Steven. You go. Thank you again.’

  Massa nodded and went down the stairs into the street. Nicolette waited.

  After a few minutes, Jamilah opened the door and ushered a young boy out. The baby was in a stroller. ‘Let’s go.’ She picked up the stroller and made her way downstairs.

  ‘Wait, let me help you with that,’ Nicolette called out, but Jamilah ignored her. She looked at the little boy staring up at her. Smiled and offered him her hand. He frowned and ran down the stairs after his mother.

  #

  The souk was a huddle of alleyways shrouded in semi-darkness, so narrow the only way to carry goods to the shops was on donkeys’ backs. Occasionally sunlight streamed through gaps in the bamboo shades covering the alleys, creating bursts of colour as it reflected off copper and brass, and baskets of glass beads. It was divided into sections, smaller markets each with their own smells and sounds. Nicolette and Jamilah made their way past the silver souks where heavy necklaces, earrings and bracelets glinted, many decorated with the hand of Fatima, or fish, or geometrical shapes to ward of the evil eye or to ensure fertility. Past the tailoring section where you could have a garment made by simply showing the tailor a picture of what you wanted and where, from sunup to sundown, barefooted little boys bent over treadle sewing machines.

  Through the cobwebs of alleyways they walked, avoiding peddlers, shoppers haggling, water sellers with their chests covered in brass cups. Hurried past the brassfounders so as to escape the deafening, echoing sound of their hammering. Nicolette would have liked to stop and look at the intricately carved brass trays, but Jamilah hurried on ahead, pushing the stroller with her little boy clinging to her skirt.

  The food section began where artisan shops blended with stalls. It was bordered by pharmacies selling dehydrated scorpions and potions, herbal mixtures and powders, all guaranteed to provide a cure for everything from gout to broken hearts. Dried lizards hung from nails hammered into the posts holding up the bamboo shades, and beside these, dentists advertised their skill at tooth pulling by exhibiting the ones they had already harvested.

  Jamilah pushed her way through the crowd until at last they came to the fruit and vegetable stalls. There, pyramids of onions rose from the ground, next to baskets of oranges and hessian bags full of almonds. She stopped and examined the onions, turning each one in her hand, squeezing it to test its crispness. She chose three, then moved on to the meat stalls where sheep’s heads were laid on tables alongside bowls of white tripe and pigeons still with their feathers. On the ground in cages a few skinny chickens squawked and clucked. Here again Jamilah concentrated on her purchase, with an intensity that Nicolette guessed was simply an avoidance tactic.

  ‘Come,’ Nicolette said, spotting a stall that sold drinks, ‘let’s get a drink. And maybe a hot chocolate for this young man?’ Jamilah nodded and Nicolette felt relieved.

  Over glasses of sweet mint tea the tension eased a little. They talked of the present. Jamilah was married to a good man. She had four children, and worked at the reception desk of a real estate company three days a week.

  ‘I’m glad things worked out for you,’ Nicolette said.

  Jamilah looked at Nicolette in a way that made her feel like an ignorant child.

  ‘Worked out? It depends what you mean by “worked out”. If you mean are we happy, do we have enough food on the table, some sort of security, then no, things haven’t “worked out”.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just thought—’

  ‘What did you think? That when Algeria got her independence and you all left, we’d just take over and have the same lives you had?’ Jamilah’s little girl whimpered and Jamilah pulled a baby’s bottle filled with water from her bag. She gave it to the child and rocked the stroller. The girl settled.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought, under Boumedienne…’

  ‘There was Ben Bella, then Boumedienne. You really have no idea what’s been going on here since independence, have you?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You don’t, do you? No one does, that’s half the problem. The world doesn’t want to know about Algeria, not even the UN. It’s all too hard.’ She took a deep breath then lowered her voice. ‘You think I’m been unfair – I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘We had to leave, Jamilah. I was just a child; I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true… Tell me, do you remember any of it?’

  ‘I remember us. You and Rafiq were my closest friends. I remember some things, and Grandpa Louis used to tell me a lot.’

  ‘He was a good man, your grandfather, an honourable man. But that was then. You’re here now, Nicolette. Open your eyes. What do you see around you? Does it look like everything is as it should be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I—’

  ‘You always were half blind, you know. Always the dreamer. I remember that about you – how you only saw what you wanted to see. Tell me something. In this country you went to, this Australia – what do you do when you go to the butcher shop?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. What do you do?’

  ‘Well, I ask for what I want.’

  ‘And you get it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When we went to the butcher just now, what did I ask for?’

  ‘I didn’t take any notice.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I asked for half a kilo of meat. Not lamb, not chops, not sausages. Meat. Because here, you never know what’s going to be available, and to ask for something specific doubles its price. So it’s easier just to ask for meat. And you get whatever’s available, whatever he has the most of. If you’re lucky and you’re early, if it’s a good day, you might get real meat – a piece of goat, a pigeon – but more often than not you’re given the stomach or the lungs or if you’re lucky the tail with some meat still attached, of whatever beast he has that day. And you don’t ask what animal it is. This country runs on gluts and shortages. Mostly, it’s shortages.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’

  Jamilah’s little boy finished his drink and climbed on his mother’s lap. She smiled at him, kissed the top of his head and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t realise. Every night I fill the bathtub with water because I never know if tomorrow is the day they’ll cut water to my suburb. And if they do, I don’t know for how long. Sometimes we have electricity, sometimes we don’t. When the French left, there was no one qualified to operate the utilities, the machinery. It took a long time before there was some sort of order, if you can call it that. People had no work. And those that did had to give all the profits to the government. We believed it would create new jobs, but it never did. And even though we were all starving, when Ben Bella asked for our money, our jewellery, “anything that sho
ne”, as he put it, still we gave it willingly, even though we didn’t know how that money would be spent.’

  ‘But things are better now, aren’t they? You’re working…’

  ‘Yes, today I can work. Tomorrow working might mean my life.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there are those who say it is wrong for women to work. Especially in what they consider male occupations. My neighbour died because her husband would not let her be examined by a male doctor, and at the same time refused her a female doctor because he said women working in such positions went against religious laws.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So many women are unveiled. I thought—’

  ‘You thought we were liberated? Oh, don’t look so surprised. They may censor what we read, but we still manage to keep up with what’s happening in the world. And yes, I’m liberated, but not in the way you probably mean. I might look like just a Muslim housewife to you, but I’m an intelligent woman, Nicolette. And I’m a Tuareg, not an Arab. I can own property, inherit even, have my own money. Not all Muslims are the same, you know.’ She buried her nose in her son’s hair and inhaled, taking comfort from the smell of him.

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ She smoothed the boy’s hair, kissed the top of his head once more. ‘I’m luckier than some,’ she said, looking at her daughter asleep in the stroller. ‘My husband is proud of my intelligence. He encourages me to keep learning all I can. Brings home books we’re not supposed to have. He’s proud that I fought in the war of independence, as my mother and my sister did, right beside the men. But now there are some who want us to go back to the old Arab ways.’

  ‘But you’re my age – you would have been what, then? Eight, ten years old?’

  ‘That’s old enough to fight; many of us children were actively involved. Oh, I know you weren’t aware of it – that’s what I meant when I called you a dreamer – but to be fair, we made sure of it. We couldn’t have been friends if you’d known. Don’t underestimate children, Nicolette. Soon they’ll be running this country.’