by Brian Moore
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There were great celebrations tonight.’ She put out her hand and touched his cheek.’ Go back to sleep. Tomorrow is your moment. You must be ready for it.’
‘I am. You’ll be proud of me.’
French soldiers came to attention at the entrance to the theatre as the first of the Arab military companies arrived in the Rue Bat-Azoun. The marabouts entered last, moments before the Governor-General and his party appeared in the boxes above the stage. During the lull before the curtain rose the Arabs shifted uneasily in their unaccustomed seats, some trying to tuck their legs beneath them as they would in their tents. In 30-degree-centigrade heat the Europeans fanned themselves distractedly with their programmes, the ladies furtively peering into pocket mirrors to see if their mascara had run.
Suddenly, Colonel Deniau appeared before the footlights, bowing first to Maréchal Randon’s party and then to the marabouts and sheikhs.
‘We bid you welcome.’ He spoke in French, pausing between sentences so that the interpreters among the crowd could translate.
‘As part of the festivities and celebrations offered by our Governor-General, he has brought here from France a great Christian sorcerer to delight and astonish you but also to show you the truth. The truth is that certain of your marabouts have claimed to be invulnerable to bullets, impervious to bodily pain, to heal the sick and cure the barrenness of women. Because of these claims they would have you believe that they, and they alone, possess supernatural powers and can foretell the future, a future which promises you victory in a holy war. But tonight you will witness powers greater than any you have seen, powers that may give you pause. Let us welcome the great marabout of France. Henri Lambert.’
Deniau stepped down from the stage. The curtain rose. Emmeline, watching from the Governor-General’s box, saw at first an empty stage with a table in the rear containing the heavy box, the cornucopia, the top hat, the punch bowl. Then, in the silence of total attention from the audience, Lambert walked out from the wings. He carried his short ivory-tipped baton and wore a light-black silk jacket, a white linen waistcoat, and grey chequed trousers. He held his head high, looking up at the dress circle, then bowing slightly, as a signal that he was about to begin. At this, Jules appeared on stage, wearing the yellow-and-black-striped vest of a French footman. Jules went to the table in the rear, took up the top hat and handed it to Lambert. Lambert tapped it to show it was empty, displaying its insides to the audience. He then passed his baton over it and reaching into it produced, in turn, three heavy cannon balls which he dropped with a thump on to the stage floor. There was a sudden stiffening among his audience. The Arabs no longer shifted in their seats but stared unblinking at the stage.
Again Lambert tapped the hat and this time took from it a bouquet of flowers. Emmeline, watching the four marabouts in the front rows of the stalls, saw them finger their prayer beads and exchange sidelong glances. There was no applause. Lambert, walking to the footlights, signalled to Jules who came forward and handed him the papier-mâché cornucopia which was about three feet in length and hinged on one side so that Lambert could open it to show that it was empty. He did this, then closed it and, smiling now, turned the cornucopia upside down, spilling from it a rain of ladies’ fans, small bouquets of flowers and bonbons which Jules placed on a tray and offered to the ladies in the audience. Now, for the first time, a smattering of applause was heard but Emmeline saw that it came, not from the Arab spectators but from the Europeans.
Jules brought out the punch bowl, a silver cup of the type used in Parisian cafés. Lambert unscrewed the bottom of this cup and passed his baton through the vessel to show that it was empty. He said some words which his audience could not hear and passed his hand three times over the bowl. A dense vapour immediately issued from its opening. Jules then brought forward a dozen small coffee cups which Lambert filled with boiling coffee. Jules placed the cups on a tray and going down among the audience, offered them to spectators in the front row. Interpreters, prompted by Jules, announced that the great sorcerer offered any in the audience a gift of coffee, their favourite beverage. No one accepted, until at last, on Jules’s urging, one of the marabouts suspiciously took a cup and sipped from it. Several other spectators then tried the coffee as Lambert kept pouring from the small, seemingly inexhaustible bowl, now handing it down into the audience so that Jules could refill the cups in full sight of the recipients. At last Lambert signalled and the bowl was brought back by Jules to centre stage. Lambert held it up, showing that it was still full. He placed it on the table at the rear of the stage, then took from the table the small solidly built box which was closed with copper hinges. Holding it lightly in one hand he walked to the centre of the stage. And now, for the first time, speaking slowly so that the interpreters could translate, he addressed his audience.
‘From what you have seen you may say that I am possessed of unusual powers. And you are right. My powers are supernatural, granted to me by God. I will now give you a new proof of these powers by showing you that I can deprive the most powerful man of his strength and then restore that strength at will. I ask anyone who thinks himself strong enough to try this experiment to come forward now.’
Emmeline looking down from her box saw the four marabouts in the front row lean their heads together. Then one of them pointed to an Arab sitting in the stalls. This man at once got up and mounted the stage. He was of medium height but muscular and well built. He came up to Lambert with a confident air.
‘Are you very strong?’ Lambert asked him. The Arab smiled and looked down at the marabouts in the front row, then nodded. ‘I am.’
‘Are you sure that you will remain strong, always?’
The Arab turned to his interpreter and uttered one word which was translated as: ‘Always!’
Emmeline saw Lambert pause. Knowing him, she could sense his pleasure at what he was about to do. He faced the Arab in a long silent pause.
‘You are wrong,’ he said, at last. ‘In an instant I will rob you of your strength and you will become as weak as a little child.’
The Arab smiled and again looked back at the marabouts as though sharing in a joke.
‘Now,’ Lambert said. ‘Lift this box.’
The man bent and easily picked up the box, balancing it in one hand and raising it above his head. He turned to Lambert and said contemptuously, ‘Is that all?’
Lambert signalled him to put the box down. Facing the Arab, he raised his slender magician’s hands making a pass in front of the man’s face. He then said, ‘From this moment on, you are weaker than a little child. Try to lift the box.’
The Arab confidently reached down, seized the box by its iron handles and gave it a violent tug. But the box did not budge from the floor. Angrily, he bent over it, sweating as he strained to lift it. It did not move. Emmeline heard the audience begin shouting what seemed to be words of encouragement. Again, the Arab bent and strained. He panted and pulled and at last, defeated, let go of the handles and stared up at Lambert in a mixture of fear and anger. But at this moment shouts from the sheikhs in the parterre made him turn and look out at the audience. Emboldened by their cries, in a great show of will, he bent again over the box gripping the handles, his legs straddled for a final effort. Emmeline, who knew what would happen, felt a tremor of fear for this man.
On a secret signal from Lambert, Jules who was now backstage sent an electric current into the handles of the box. The Arab, his hands glued to the box, trembled violently, his chest contracting as he uttered a yell of pain. He fell on his knees, sprawled over the box unable to relinquish his grip.
Lambert watched his agony then stepped forward and waved his baton over the box. The Arab, released from the current, staggered to his feet staring at the infidel sorcerer, then turning away, pulling his burnous around him as if to shield himself from harm, jumped down from the stage, ran through the central aisle and out of the theatre.
In the Governor-General’s and Prefect’s boxes and
among the French officers in the parterre, Emmeline sensed a sudden elation, a moment of triumph mixed with a certain puzzlement, for no one knew how her husband had achieved these effects. But from the marabouts in the front row, to the masses of Arabs in the further reaches of the theatre, there was a grave, uneasy silence.
‘Chitan,’ a marabout called out. The ladies in Emmeline’s box turned to the interpreter. ‘What is he saying?’
‘Satan.’
Now the theatre filled with a hubbub of excited Arab voices. Emmeline saw her husband look down from the stage as though searching for someone in the audience. And then Colonel Deniau came up the centre aisle, pausing at the orchestra pit to face the agitated Arab spectators.
‘Some of you know of marabouts who claim to be invulnerable to bullets,’ he said. ‘But can they prove it? Tonight you see a sorcerer who is truly invulnerable and will prove it beyond any doubt.’
Lambert now came to the centre of the stage, paused, then said, ‘I am invulnerable because I possess this talisman which protects me from all harm.’ As if by magic, a small glittering glass orb appeared in his outstretched hand. ‘With this in my possession, the best marksman in Algeria cannot hurt me.’
He had barely finished speaking when one of the marabouts in the front row of the stalls jumped up, vaulted into the orchestra pit and hoisted himself on stage, in his haste singeing his clothing in the candles of the footlights. He faced Lambert and said, in excellent French, ‘I am here to kill you!’
There was a silence. Then Lambert said, ‘You wish to kill me? I am a greater sorcerer than you and I tell you, you will not kill me.’
He gestured to Jules who came from the rear of the stage and handed him a cavalry pistol which he offered to the marabout.
‘Take this and satisfy yourself that it has not been tampered with.’
The marabout blew several times through the barrel, then through the nipple to make sure there was passage from one to the other, and after a further careful examination of the gun, said, ‘The weapon is good and I will kill you.’
‘Because you are so anxious to kill me,’ Lambert said, ‘then put in this double charge of powder and a wad on top.’
The marabout did this, saying, ‘It is done.’
‘Now here is a lead bullet: mark it with your knife so as to be able to recognize it and put it in the pistol with a second wad.’
‘It is done.’
‘Now that you are quite sure that your pistol is loaded and that it will fire, tell me: do you feel no remorse about killing me, even though I authorize you to do it?’
The marabout looked at him coldly. ‘No. You say you are a sorcerer. Prove it.’
Lambert nodded, then signalled to Jules who came forward and handed him an apple and a dagger. Lambert stuck the dagger into the apple and held it in his left hand at chest height.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Aim not at this apple but straight at my heart.’
The marabout at once took aim at Lambert’s chest and pulled the trigger. The gun fired. The bullet did not hit Lambert but lodged itself in the centre of the apple which he held in his hand. Lambert brought the apple back to the marabout, saying, ‘Take this bullet. Is it the one you marked?’
The marabout pulled the bullet from the apple. He looked, then nodded angrily. Lambert took the pistol from him and handed it to Jules.
‘No one can kill me,’ he said.
Emmeline saw that even the European spectators were alarmed, and baffled by what they had just seen. The Arabs in the theatre sat stiff as automata, watching as the shaken marabout went back to his seat.
At this point, Maréchal Randon, sitting in front of Emmeline, stood up and applauded, smiling down at Lambert. Following his lead, all of the Europeans in the audience rose and applauded. Lambert bowed gravely in acknowledgement, waited until the applause had ended, then, smiling, holding his hands up in a welcoming gesture, came forward to the footlights and signalled to the interpreters.
‘For my next demonstration I would be grateful if one of our Arab friends will come up on stage to assist me. I assure him he will suffer no harm.’
He waited while the interpreters translated, after which there was an uneasy pause. Then, suddenly, a young Arab, tall, insouciant, wearing elegant yellow boots and the embroidered waistcoat of a caid, came down the centre aisle, smiling at his friends in the manner of a boy who has accepted a dare. Lambert stretched out his hand to help him climb on stage. Jules then carried a light wooden table to centre stage and set it down.
‘As you can see,’ Lambert said, waving his baton under the table legs, ‘this table is not attached to anything and contains no concealed drawer or space.’ He turned to the young Arab. ‘Will you please climb up on it?’ The Arab climbed on to the table and stood, looking out at the audience. Jules then brought from the wings a huge cloth cone, some six feet high and open at the top. He and Lambert fitted this cone over the Arab, completely hiding him from view. They then slipped a plank under the cone and each taking an end of the plank lifted it and the cone that sat on it off the table, carrying it towards the footlights where, suddenly, they upended it. The cone was empty. The young Arab had disappeared.
A gasp of astonishment rose in the room. Suddenly, as though someone had called, ‘Fire!’ people rose in their seats and several, in panic, hurried to the main exit. But the door was locked. Lambert, calm and deliberate, stepped down from the stage and walked through the now crowded main aisle. Those who wished to flee nevertheless moved aside to let the sorcerer pass. Emmeline, from her vantage point, saw the fear in their faces as they stared at her husband. On reaching the main door Lambert stretched out his hand and as if by magic an iron key appeared between his fingers. He unlocked the door, then passing through to the vestibule, returned leading the young Arab by the hand. The Arab seemed dazed, as though drunk. Emmeline smelled the odour of ether as he passed beneath her box. Lambert led the young man back on stage. The Arabs, bewildered but still in a state of extreme agitation, began calling out to their fellow countryman, who, dazed, muttered some answer which the interpreters translated for the European audience as: ‘He says he does not know what happened. He feels as if he has smoked kif. He forgets.’
Lambert now put his hands on the Arab’s shoulders, thanking him for his assistance. But the young man, frightened by his touch, jumped down from the stage and disappeared into the audience. In the ensuing confusion and milling about of the crowd Lambert signalled to the orchestra pit. A drumroll sounded, silencing for a moment the panicked spectators. Lambert turned to the interpreters. Emmeline, watching him, saw his elation, his sense of triumph.
‘I am a sorcerer. I am Christian. I am French. God, whom you call Allah, protects me. As He will protect my country from any enemy who dares to strike a blow against France. In the name of your host, Maréchal Randon, I thank you for coming here tonight. We bid you good evening.’
Chapter 8
The following day as she went in on the arm of Monsieur de la Garde to a luncheon given by the Governor-General in honour of her husband, Emmeline saw Deniau enter the room carrying copies of a newspaper which he handed out to Monsieur de la Garde and the Prefect. The newspaper was Le Moniteur Algérien, the voice of Algiers’ French population, and when he opened his copy and began to read it Monsieur de la Garde said to the company, ‘Aha! Listen to this! It says here:’
Let us add that this year, as always, the races have been the occasion of numerous festivities offered, in part, to honour our Arab chieftains. But neither the banquets held for them by Monsieur le Maréchal, nor the closing ball which brought together the élite of our population, has impressed them as did the astonishing séance given by Henri Lambert whose supernatural gifts they witnessed for the first time. Monsieur le Maréchal is well aware that recently certain marabouts have managed to impress their fellow Arabs by deeds which would seem to hint at unearthly powers and by this means have gained an influence over the native population which they now wish to exp
loit in a revolt against French rule. By showing them a Christian whose supernatural powers so far exceed any their marabouts can demonstrate, Monsieur le Maréchal and Monsieur Lambert have made an important contribution to re-establishing the atmosphere of peaceful co-habitation essential to our prosperity.
On hearing this the Prefect came up and shook Lambert’s hand, saying, ‘Congratulations!’ Others crowded around, adding their praise. At that moment Lieutenant Lecoffre entered the room, a sign that the Maréchal was expected.
Monsieur de la Garde holding the newspaper went to greet him. ‘Your Excellency, have you seen the newspaper?’
The Maréchal, who this morning wore his dress uniform and the grand cross of the Légion d’Honneur, acknowledged the respectful bows of his staff and the curtsies of the ladies present, then, turning to de la Garde, said, ‘No I have not seen it but Lecosse told me what was written. An excellent beginning.’
Maréchal Randon then signalled the servants who at once offered glasses of champagne to the company. ‘Let me propose a toast,’ he said. ‘To Henri Lambert – a great magician and as of today a soldier in the war against France’s enemies.’
The toast was drunk. Emmeline saw her husband’s elation as, moved by pride and emotion, he told the Maréchal, ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. Believe me, it is a great honour to be allowed to serve my country.’
There were murmurs of ‘Bravo!’ and the company went in to luncheon. As she took her seat on the right of Monsieur de la Garde Emmeline saw Deniau’s place card on her left. Moments later as he slipped into his seat beside her he took her hand and kissed it, saying in a low voice, ‘I have been dreaming of you.’
She looked at him, worried that Monsieur de la Garde might have heard. But Monsieur de la Garde was engaged in badinage with the Prefect’s wife.
‘Do you know why I have been dreaming of you?’ Deniau said in his confidential tone. ‘It is because next week we shall be travelling together. And in the desert, in the real Algeria. It will be enchanting for me. For both of us, I hope?’