by Brian Moore
She folded the Arab veil and put it on the mirrored table. Lambert stood, impatient, by the flimsy door of the dressing room which he closed and locked as they went through the wings and out on to the stage. Deniau, who had preceded them, waited at the foot of the steps and now as she followed her husband across the square, going towards the archway which led up to their rooms, Deniau took her arm, delaying her. Lambert did not seem to notice. He walked quickly, not looking back, disappearing into the shadows of the colonnade.
At that, Deniau put his face close to hers and whispered, ‘You mustn’t let him do this. What if he’s killed? It’s pride and foolishness. You must make him use his own pistols. Do you realize that by this time tomorrow you could be a widow? Besides, it’s not just his reputation that’s at stake, it’s more than that. Please, help me?’
‘Help you?’
‘I mean . . .’ He paused and smiled guiltily. ‘I mean, help him. Look, you’ll be with him now, you must find out what it is he plans to do. I’ll come to your rooms later. Perhaps you can slip out for a moment and we can talk?’
‘Emmeline? Emmeline?’
She looked up. Lambert stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. ‘Come along! I need that pistol case!’
‘I’m coming.’ Ignoring Deniau she hurried under the archway and up the stone steps leading to the second floor of the fort. Her husband was already standing by a table in the sitting room and when she entered he held out his hand for the pistol case and sat down, opening it and removing an object which she did not recognize.
‘Fetch me one of those candles,’ he said. ‘And matches. And pray that this will work.’
‘What are you going to do?’
He put the object on the table, then looked up at her. She saw that his face was pale and drawn. ‘Something I haven’t done before. Dangerous. When I prepare an illusion I rehearse every move over and over again to make sure it’s perfect on stage. But tomorrow there will be no rehearsal. I will be working with a savage who wants to kill me and with this.’
He looked again at the object on the table. ‘This is an ordinary bullet mould.’
He stood, went to his writing case and took out a card, bending up its four edges to make it into a trough. He then melted down a piece of candle wax and placed it in the trough. He made a sort of lamp black by running the blade of a knife over the candle and mixing the result in with the melted wax which he then poured into the bullet mould. ‘This is the difficult part,’ he said in a half-whisper as he turned the mould over to allow the portion of the wax which had not yet set run out, leaving a hollow ball in the mould. He did not succeed.
‘How many candles do we have?’
She went into the bedroom, counting. ‘Seven – no – eight.’
‘Good. Bring them here. I will need to practise. I must have a perfect hollow wax ball which looks exactly like a bullet.’
‘So there will be a trick,’ she said. ‘A false bullet?’
He did not answer. He bent over the table, as she had seen him do hundreds of times in his atelier, shut off from her, engrossed, patient, perfecting his art.
‘You said there’s a danger. You could be killed.’
Again, he did not answer. She sat on the divan, watching him. He could be killed. And for what? Why has it come to this?
‘Henri, did you hear me?’
He was now fashioning his third wax bullet. ‘It’s still not right,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘But it’s better. And with luck and application it will be better still. It must seem like a lead bullet when I hold it up. I must practise – practise. It must be done very naturally, a simple holding up of the bullet so that both the sheikh and the audience can see it. That will be the moment of risk. These desert people have keen eyesight. It must be perfect.’
‘What are you talking about? Henri, you’ve made your fortune. You’re famous. You said you wanted to settle down, to live a normal life at home in Tours.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘I know you want a child. We could try again.’
‘Nonsense. That has nothing to do with it.’ She looked at him, stunned. I know you want a child. We could try again. After all these years, at last I managed to say it, to blurt it out. I never thought I could. When I think of the times I lay awake at night feeling guilty, knowing that it was up to me to urge him to try again. But now when I say it, he doesn’t even notice. Doesn’t he care about us? What does he care about? His career, his fame, his inventions, his ‘posterity’.
‘Well, what about your inventions? You tell everyone that your mechanical marionettes are the finest ever made. Are you going to ignore all that to play a trick on some African sheikh? Tomorrow morning, you could be killed and for what? To please the Emperor? To help him conquer another part of Africa? Don’t you see? Deniau has tricked you into this. But, to be fair to him, even Deniau is telling you to use your own pistols and not risk your life.’
Carefully, he poured the melted wax back into the cardboard trough. It was as though she were not in the room.
‘Henri, you say you love me. I know I haven’t been everything you wanted, but do you? Tell me the truth.’
Now he was decanting the melted wax into the bullet. He nodded his head, as if remembering something. ‘That’s it. I can draw blood from my thumb. An English magician showed me how, some years ago when I performed in London. The second bullet filled with blood will have to be more solid than the first one.’
‘Henri!’
He looked at her. ‘Darling, this has nothing to do with the things you’re talking about, the ordinary things, love, marriage, children. I was put on earth for more than that. Perhaps to be here in Africa and tomorrow at dawn to confront this challenge. Because I am Lambert, because I have been given these gifts, I can’t refuse it. If I do, shame will dog me for the rest of my life.’
‘Shame? Listen to me. Deniau says you’ll save lives if you prevent Bou-Aziz from starting a holy war. But next year when our armies arrive in Algeria there’ll be war just the same, a war in which thousands of French soldiers will be killed and thousands and thousands of Arabs and Kabyles will die. And for what?’
‘It will be a war that France will win,’ he said. ‘And perhaps in some small way it will be won because of the risk I take tomorrow morning. I may be killed. So be it. It’s no more than any French soldier would do for his country.’
He held up the hollow wax bullet and pierced its end with the tip of his knife. Squinting at the tiny orifice, he nodded his head as though agreeing to an invisible suggestion. ‘If he fails to kill me, I will use this. It will frighten them. Now, please! Go out, go to the other room, but go away. I must be alone.’
She went out on to the balcony, pushing aside the bead curtain of their quarters, hearing it rustle as it closed behind her. The late afternoon light struck down across the courtyard of the fort, intersecting it, leaving the stage in shadow. She stood swaying slightly, as though her mind had ceased to command her body. Then, aimless, she walked down the stone steps, crossed the square and went out into the narrow streets of Milianah, mingling in the crowd, standing in doorways to allow small trains of camels and mules to pass, then, amid covert glaces from the Arab and Kabyle passersby, wandering among the stalls of an impoverished bazaar, unseeing, lost in painful reverie, not knowing where she was going, or why, her mind returning again and again to those words: I was put on earth for more than that. More than the ordinary things, love, marriage, children.
Again hearing his irritated voice as he said it, the voice of someone explaining an obvious fact of life to a stupid girl.
And, I who lay awake night after night in Tours, guilty because I didn’t want another miscarriage, or even a healthy child, his child. Tonight I found out the truth. To him, marriage and having a child is something ‘ordinary’, not to be compared with the triumph of earning a place in history as the magician who brought glory to the Emperor and to France.
Yet why should I judge him? I married him, knowing I didn’t love
him, I dreamed of making a cuckold of him with Deniau, who’s nothing if not his twin in that ambition to rise above ‘ordinary things’. Anyway, what do I know about those ‘ordinary things’? I never had them.
She walked on, lost among the aisles of the bazaar, ignoring the importuning smiles of stall keepers, their outstretched hands inviting her to inspect their wares. Ahead, a file of loaded camels moved in strange undulations. The cries of their drivers, the smack of whips against the camel hides, the odours of coffee and spices, the small boys running alongside her holding up clusters of dates for sale, the sputtering, sporadic crackling of rifle fire in the distance, all of these sounds, sights, smells, suddenly, inexplicably, filled her with panic. She hurried on, crossing a square, entering the narrow streets of the inner town, a labyrinth of hidden courtyards, closed gates, and blind façades. In these surroundings, so unlike any city, any landscape she had known at home it was as though the Emmeline she had been slipped out from her body, leaving it null. She leaned against an archway, lost.
The African sun fell below the horizon. Night came down like a blind. Slowly, one by one, lights flickered on in the narrow windows of the surrounding dwellings. In desperation, she looked this way and that until at last she saw, high above the roofs of the city, the tower of the French fort. She went towards it, running as to a beacon. As she ran, she wept.
Chapter 11
The Zouave on guard duty at the entrance to the fort went into the guardhouse and told his sergeant, ‘The lady has returned.’
‘Has she gone to her quarters?’
‘No sir. She went into the infirmary.’
At once the sergeant put on his belt and ran out, hurrying up the flight of steps which led to Colonel Deniau’s quarters. He found the Colonel, asleep on a divan, wearing a white robe, a volume of poetry lying open on the floor beside him. The smell in the room told the sergeant that kif had been smoked. But at once, on hearing the sergeant’s news, the Colonel rose, threw off his robe and putting on his dress tunic hurried down to the courtyard. Lights were on in the infirmary. The door was open. An orderly saluted and showed him into the dark night shadows of the isolation ward. The Colonel saw that there were two beds in the room, one occupied, one empty. In the occupied bed he saw Lambert’s servant, his face wet with sweat, his eyes wild and terrified in a way which reminded the Colonel of a frightened horse. Sitting on a camp stool by his bedside was Madame Lambert. She had been weeping and was holding the sick man’s hand and trying to speak to him. The young corporal in charge of the sick bay stood at the head of the bed, wiping the patient’s soaking face with a towel. At sight of the Colonel he came to attention and saluted.
When she saw the corporal salute, Emmeline realized that someone had entered the room. She turned. Deniau at once went to her and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re back. I was worried for you.’
But she turned away from him, bending over the sick man, saying, ‘Jules? Jules? It’s Madame. Can you hear me?’
Deniau looked at the corporal. ‘Where is the doctor?’
‘He was here earlier, sir. He left because Lieutenant Dessault’s wife is in labour. Besides . . .’ The corporal shook his head.
Again, Deniau touched Emmeline’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid he can’t hear you.’
But she ignored him, clasping the sick man’s hand, saying again, ‘Jules, Jules, it’s me. Can you hear me?’
An orderly appeared at the door and said to the corporal, ‘The priest is here.’
The corporal, again wiping the sick man’s brow, said quietly, ‘Madame? Madame? The priest is here. Monsieur Guillaumin asked for him earlier today. He will give Monsieur Guillaumin the last rites.’
Emmeline looked up, distraught. A bearded Jesuit monk wearing a robe and sandals stood behind her, carrying a small box containing the viaticum and holy oils. He nodded to her and to the Colonel then, putting down his box, draped a stole around his neck. ‘He may wish to confess,’ the Jesuit said. ‘Will you please leave us?’
She nodded but bent again over the sick man, saying, ‘Jules? Jules? I will be back. Can you hear me? I will be back.’
Deniau, waiting, walked with her into the corridor. ‘Can I get you something? A drink, something to eat? You haven’t had supper.’
She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. But can you find the doctor?’
‘The wife of one of our officers is in labour. There is a fear that she might miscarry. So the doctor is with her. But I will speak to him soon. In the meantime, tell me about your husband?’
She looked at him as though she did not understand.
‘I mean, how is he getting on with his preparations? I knocked on his door a while ago but there was no answer. And when his supper tray was sent up, he sent it back, untouched.’
‘He is trying to make bullets,’ she said. ‘He says if what he’s doing goes wrong he could be killed.’
‘False bullets?’ Deniau said. ‘You must be worried for him. As we all are. But, as you know, he’s very resourceful. I wish, though, that we could persuade him to use his own pistols. If anything goes wrong tomorrow, it could be a disaster.’
‘A disaster,’ she said. ‘For you?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I mean, for him, of course.’
‘Go away! Leave me alone!’
Deniau, ignoring her anger, said gently, ‘I am truly sorry. You misunderstood me. Your husband’s life is precious. Let’s see what he proposes and if we still think it too dangerous we won’t allow him to proceed.’
But she looked past him as though he were not there, then walked back towards the isolation ward. The corporal was waiting outside the closed door.
‘Has the priest finished?’
‘No, Madame. But he is giving the last rites now. It will not be long.’
Deniau, watching, saw her bow her head. Her body trembled as though she wept.
He turned and went out of the building.
Several minutes later, the Jesuit came from the isolation ward, holding the viaticum box carefully in both hands as though he were about to go up on to an altar. When he saw Emmeline waiting he paused and said, ‘Madame Lambert?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘He is asking for you.’
She nodded and went in, following the corporal who carried an oil lamp which he placed on the shelf above the sick bed. A harsh yellow light lit the sweat-soaked face of the patient who, now conscious, twisted around under the sheet, and staring up at her, held out his hand, palm upwards like a beggar. For a moment she did not recognize the Jules she knew in this figure with its pinched face, the skin colour eerily bluish, the voice so weak that she could barely hear it. ‘Madame, Madame? Do you remember your promise?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Seating herself on the camp stool, she took his hand in hers. The room was filled with the stench of excrement. His breathing was rapid as though he could not get air into his lungs.
Now, in an almost inaudible voice, he asked, ‘Where is Monsieur? He didn’t come to see me. Is he sick too?’
She closed her eyes in shame. ‘No, no. I will bring him to you very soon.’
‘He won’t come. He’s forgotten me, that’s all. I know Monsieur, I know him better than you do. He’s working. He won’t come. Maybe you . . .’ Weeping, he did not finish the sentence.
‘What is it, Jules? Tell me.’
‘Maybe you will speak to him. It’s for my wife and my boy. When I am dead, what will happen to them? I have worked for Monsieur for twenty years. Twenty years, Madame. From the beginning, in Paris before he became famous and then in his theatre in the Rue Monge. And when he wanted to live in Tours, as you well know, I brought my wife and my boy from Paris to live in the stables across the yard from your house. I was loyal to him, I was always loyal. Long before you came into his life, I was there. Every day, helping him. And on stage, in all of his travels, Russia, Spain, all those countries. And now, because I followed him to this hellish place, it is the
end for me. I will die here tonight. I will die alone. And what will happen to my family, Madame? They will not have a sou. Please, Madame. You are kind. You are not like Monsieur.’
‘You are not going to die, Jules. And you mustn’t worry. Monsieur Lambert is kind, he’s a good employer. I promise you. You mustn’t worry. Soon, you will be home. Try to rest now. I will stay with you all night. I promise.’
The corporal approached, and beckoned her to come with him to the far end of the room. There, watching the sick man writhe on his bed, he whispered, ‘I have seen this many times, Madame. Hélas! He is close to death now.’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Can you send someone to my husband’s rooms? Tell him Jules is dying. Tell him he must come at once.’
‘I am sorry, Madame. Earlier, I went myself, because I thought Monsieur Lambert should know. But I wasn’t able to speak to him. He was asleep and had left instructions that he was not to be wakened. I asked Colonel Deniau what I should do. He told me on no account must Monsieur Lambert be disturbed. Perhaps if Madame goes herself?’
She looked back at the bed. Jules was staring at her, his breathing frighteningly rapid, his mouth opening as though he were trying to vomit.
‘No. It doesn’t matter. I will stay with him. That will be best. My father is a doctor and I used to help in his clinic.’
‘I will be in the main ward with my other patients,’ the corporal said. ‘Call, if you need me.’
Shortly after two o’clock, the sick man who had writhed and twisted about in an oblivion which seemed to lift him into a world in which he was not aware of her presence suddenly lay still. She leaned over him, afraid. But he opened his eyes, saw her and dragging himself up in the narrow bed, asked, ‘What day is it?’
‘Monday. Are you feeling better, Jules?’
‘Madame? Madame? Did I tell you about my wife and my boy?’
‘Yes, Jules, you did. Now lie back. Try to rest.’
He lay back in the bed. Should she call the corporal? She rose from her seat. Jules, eyes closed, whispered, ‘Don’t leave, Madame. Don’t leave!’