Sherazade

by Leïla Sebbar

  'OK, OK! Stop your lessons . . .'

  'Really, just listen to this . . .'

  'If you add another word, I'll hitch . . .'

  'What word?'

  'You know very well.'

  'Yes. OK. Getting in? We'll switch on France Musique. I like France Musique in the car.'

  Pierrot and Sherazade are on their way to Pithiviers. Pierrot sings at the top of his voice, turning up the volume on the radio.

  'It's Brahms's Lieder, you know them?'

  'No.'

  'Did you know, when he was thirteen he played the piano in German taverns?'

  'So what?'

  'So, it's the same as us, we'll play in clubs and bars . . . When I come back and Krim too, we'll form a proper group with Basile, you'll see . . .'

  'But you're already quite old . . .'

  'Not as old as all that, you know. Krim's nineteen, Eddy nineteen or twenty, Basile's twenty-three. I'm the oldest and you're the youngest. You'll sing like Sappho, if you like, or Nina or someone, anyone, they're all old hat all those, Mama Béa as well. . . anyway you'll sing, that's the main thing.'

  'Yes, I'll sing. I'll be the singer in the group and I'll be Zina in Julien's friend's film . . . When I get back from Algeria, if I come back. What'll you call your group?'

  'We haven't decided . . . The Arabian Nights, you'd like that?'

  'No way!'

  'Why not?'

  'Don't like it . . .'

  'Listen. Brahms is beautiful. No one likes him . . .'

  'Will you take off those headphones! Really! Can we talk or can't we? We never talk when we're not in a car. Just for once . . . You keep putting them on and I can't stand it. Take them off,' Pierrot repeated.

  'No. I can hear quite well.'

  'It's not the same . . . I can't talk to you.'

  'Too bad!'

  'You either take them off or you get out.'

  Pierrot brakes. Sherazade opens the door, takes her bag and gets out. Pierrot drives off, Sherazade waves. He can see her in the rearview mirror. He accelerates. The car disappears.

  Sherazade has forgotton her jacket. She walks in the middle of the road. She's put on her dark glasses. She's left her hat on the back seat.

  The BMW backs up to Sherazade at full speed. Pierrot brakes, opens the door, throws the hat and the jacket out; he drives off, the tyres shrieking, Sherazade waves. Pierrot can see her in the rearview mirror, he stops, opens the right-hand door. Sherazade doesn't get in, she walks on. Pierrot drives very slowly, keeping level with her.

  'Are you going far, mademoiselle?'

  'To Orleans.'

  'Can I give you a lift, I'm going to Orleans myself. Would you like to get in?'

  In Pithiviers Sherazade drank a Coca-Cola and Pierrot several beers while playing the pin-tables. Sherazade has sat down near the window. She's writing a note to Julien which she won't send, telling him about Matisse and the arabesques of the odalisque. Pierrot has put a record on the juke-box called Eyes the Colour of Mint, sung by Eddy Mitchell. Sherazade looks up. Pierrot is looking at her. She was writing to Julien. She takes the letter, tears it up into the ashtray and Pierrot burns it with his lighter – a lighter with Marilyn on that Basile gave him.

  Pierrot buys some Gauloises. He doesn't like the Marlboros that the squat-mates smoked.

  He's old. It's true he's the oldest. But when they ran out of Marlboros they smoked his Gauloises.

  Pierrot has opened out the road map of France on the table near the pin-machine.

  'Why do you look at the map all the time? Don't you know it by heart? You know where you're going.'

  'I like road maps, that's why. And I've always liked geography.'

  Before leaving, Pierrot puts Eyes the Colour of Mint on again.

  Sherazade didn't want to hang around Orleans. She couldn't give a damn for Joan of Arc and Pierrot didn't insist. He caught sight of her on her horse or on foot, he's not quite sure, that satisfied him.

  They drove on towards Beaugency.

  Sherazade took off her headphones. 'It's Verdi!' Pierrot said, 'Yes, La Traviata, but I prefer his Requiem. My father had an Italian friend, a miner who'd come from Lorraine, from Longwy to be exact, who knew nothing but Verdi and listened to nothing else. He couldn't help singing along with the singers. He was our neighbour. I heard Verdi all the time until Aldo's death, his name was Aldo, like Aldo Mori . . . a mine accident.

  My father told us about it. My mother didn't want us to go and see, I slipped away but she caught me and had to keep hold of me until my father got back. It was like in Zola and some pictures that I've seen since, reproduced in art magazines, a picture called The Death of a Worker; the artist was born in the mines. The death of the Italian who sang Verdi is The Death of a Worker, I'd really like to see it one day in the original; when I get back to Paris I'll go and see the artist and ask him to show it me or tell me if it's in an art gallery. If you come back you must go and see it too. The Death of a Worker, you'll see, it's really beautiful. The story of Aldo and the picture of the worker who died like Aldo really upset me. My father cried when he told me about it. We all went to the funeral. The municipal orchestra played Verdi. Because of him, the whole mine and the whole town sang Verdi. Even the children.'

  Before they got to the Loire, Pierrot had insisted on driving round Beaugency. He remarked to Sherazade that she was in a little French town, really French, such as she'd not see anywhere else.

  'Look at it, Sherazade, look closely.'

  'It won't disappear . . . What's got into you?'

  'I love France . . .'

  'Are you off your rocker or what?'

  'Not at all. I can say I love France, can't I? To you . . . because the buddies . . . they couldn't give a damn . . . so, I love France.'

  'You talk as if we were going to die.'

  'You think so?'

  Pierrot pulled up in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. He'd expected to see her in Orleans, he sees her in Beaugency, standing carrying her banner. Her sword has lost its blade but the sheath lies against Joan's thigh, through the coat of mail over the folds of her skirt her spiked knee-guards can be seen. The warrior Joan resembles a woman, with large rounded hips . . . For once, Pierrot thinks. 'That's Joan of Arc.'

  'So I see.'

  Pierrot reached the bottom of the hill, near the square shaded by lime-trees.

  They were listening to Verdi. Pierrot said 'You can smell the Loire' and Sherazade 'What if we drove across the Loire?' . . . 'In the car?' 'Yes, in the car, of course' Sherazade said with a laugh. Pierrot stared at her, said 'You bet' and gripped the steering-wheel like a stunt-man, 'Hold tight Sherazade, look out, we're crossing the Loire, shut your eyes, we're across . . .'

  Sherazade was laughing. Pierrot put his foot down hard on the accelerator. The Loire was in front of them.

  The little road that runs beside the Loire leading nowhere, the Rue de l'Abbaye, is lined with plane-trees. A house with green shutters on one side and a few yards away, on the other side, a bench above a terrace which slopes down to the river. Pierrot accelerated. The BMW shot through the plane-trees, hit the bench, turned over several times, righted itself on the raised strip of ground, rolled a few yards to the right, and stopped.

  Pierrot, still clutching the steering-wheel, didn't move.

  Verdi could be heard on the radio.

  Sherazade opened her eyes . . . She wasn't hurt. Neither was Pierrot. She shook the door open and jumped out, picked up her bag and hurled it against a plane tree. She'd put on her jacket an hour ago as it began to get cool. She still had her walkman on.

  Pierrot hadn't stirred. 'What's the silly bugger waiting for? What the hell's he up to?' Sherazade could see his fair curly hair on the wheel, nothing more. 'What's he buggering about for? Shit!' She ran towards the car door, shouting 'Pierrot! Pierrot!'

  On the radio, Callas was singing Verdi.

  Sherazade gave a start. It struck her – this shitty Verdi. . . Pierrot can't hear anything when
I call him – she saw the smoke before hearing the sound, 'Pierrot! Pierrot! . . .'

  She just had time to jump clear. The car blew up. Sherazade recoiled, covering her head. There were more and more explosions, sending the BMW into the air. There was no sign of Pierrot. Sherazade tried to get nearer. Red flames were shooting up. They nearly reached the highest branches of the trees. Dense black smoke enveloped the house with the green shutters. The bench had gone up in flames.

  Sherazade leaned against the tree, rooted to the ground, screaming, 'Pierrot! Pierrot! Pierrot! . . .'

  The sound of a siren could be heard. When the police arrived, Sherazade had disappeared. They couldn't identify the body. They found traces of arms and explosives. A few yards away, near the Loire, one of the policeman, who'd continued his search as far as the boat that had been moored there for months, discovered bits of the number plate of the stolen car and a scrap of red thread. 'He was with a woman,' the policeman thought. 'She must have copped it too.'