by Tom Gamble
Once replete, Badr snapped a command and the little band of men began at once to gather their belongings and cover up the traces of their halt. The lorry was loaded and Badr helped Summerfield, his hands once again tied, up onto the tailgate and into the back. A last check to see that nothing had been forgotten and Badr gave the order to continue. The lorry was started using a crank and spluttered into life with some difficulty due, no doubt, to the thinning mountain air. The frail, yellow headlights seemed to struggle with the mist, swallowed after ten metres. Within three minutes—the time it took for the engine to turn regularly—they had ground into gear and were bouncing perilously upon a track that lead straight up the slope of a mountain valley.
Once again Summerfield found himself in the position of captive, the brief moment of camaraderie born of a common hunger now forgotten. He was forced back down onto the floor of the lorry, jolted painfully for some minutes then struggled up, despite Badr’s command to the contrary, to search a place among the baggage. Badr’s eyes were full of anger at Summerfield’s show of rebellion and Summerfield returned his stare, his own eyes filled with resentment. It was Badr who finally dropped his eyes, his mouth twisting cynically.
The track rose steeply into the flank of the mountain and continued straight onwards, defying the sheer slope and rocky outcrops. Top heavy, it leant outwards towards the empty precipice on its chassis at a worrying angle, intending at any moment, it seemed, to topple over and crash down into the valley floor.
Summerfield closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer and when he opened them again, Badr was grinning at him.
‘Each to our own religion,’ shouted Badr above the noise of the engine.
‘There is only one God,’ returned Summerfield. ‘Even for an atheist like me.’
‘He comes even to the most disbelieving—when they need and when they want Him.’
Approaching the crest of the valley, the little lorry pained and struggled on a last outcrop and then stalled. A stream of abuse, followed by a stream of excuses for such foul blasphemy came from the driver’s cabin. The sudden silence was strange, immense and all-embracing, as though some silent hand had suddenly taken them in its huge palm.
‘Start the engine,’ ordered Badr, irritated, conscious of the effect of the silence on his men who seemed to baulk.
Once again the lorry spluttered into life, sliding back as the driver missed gear. Summerfield shouted in alarm. An awful grinding and the driver finally punched into first, pressing down with force on the accelerator. The lorry bucked forwards, slewed, slammed into a deep rut and stalled again. Another stream of abuse, this time Badr’s voice rising above the rest to threaten the driver. He jumped down, removing a revolver from under a sack and with a nod towards Summerfield handed it across to his companion. He disappeared round the front and an argument flared up. Summerfield heard the dull thump of the young man’s fist on the driver’s head and then there was silence.
‘Yallah!’ ordered Badr and the engine automatically chugged into life. The driver waited, gunning the engine and then—Summerfield supposed Badr had walked ahead and was directing operations—hit the accelerator. The lorry lurched forwards, sending Summerfield crashing painfully into the tailgate. The lorry bounced once, twice against the rock and lurched third time over with a great thhtongg as the leaf-spring suspension hit the chassis and then sprang back into shape. A cheer rose up from the cabin followed by a wild burst of laughter—a sign of released tension. The driver’s voice rose above the rest and gave thanks to the Almighty for having helped them on their way. Badr reappeared, having rapped the driver’s door with his fist, a sign to move on. He hoisted himself up into the back of the lorry, gave Summerfield a brief glance and lit a cigarette. After a while, he glanced again and, catching Summerfield looking at him reached across and let the Englishman take a pull. They grinned.
Dawn came without them noticing and cast a purplish veil over the mountain side, enough to make out the trees and vegetation. Somewhere down in the valley a dog barked and a distant sound of prayer whined eerily up from an unseen village. From the back of the lorry, Summerfield peered out and saw a distant light flicker and fade—the first fires were being lit.
Not long after, the sun began to rise and the black silhouettes of the mountains were suddenly projected upon them, seemingly within hands’ reach. Summerfield’s jaw dropped and he moved instinctively forwards towards the tailgate. His captor moved with him, but a glance from Badr, understanding what was happening, sent him back to his seat. Instead, Badr knelt down beside the Englishman, steadying him with his arm.
‘It is grandiose, is it not?’ said Badr, gravely, but Summerfield didn’t reply.
He had never seen anything like it. And when, suddenly, the sun peered over the crests, hovered hesitantly for a few seconds then burst into the valley, Summerfield felt a strange, exhilarating surge of emotion rush suddenly from feet to head and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Badr, his voice unusually gentle. ‘You’ve been through a lot in the last forty-eight hours.’
Summerfield shook his head, wiping his eyes. ‘It’s—it’s so bloody beautiful. Almost as beautiful as England’s hills,’ he added, hard again. Badr looked at him, paused then nodded a wry smile.
As they drove on along the rough track, level against the hillside now and then down into a higher valley, Summerfield’s eyes were filled with a glorious pastiche of colour—rich pink, emerald green and the clearest sapphire blue he’d ever seen. There was something there he couldn’t quite put his finger on—something in the air and light and he felt confused. Before he could realise, the trauma of the last few days seemed to evaporate from his mind. Jeanne appeared, her face as clear and present as the mountains, and he felt sure, quite absolutely sure she was thinking of him at that precise moment. They loved one another and it was going to be all right.
The sun was midway in the morning sky—Summerfield judged it to be around 9.30 a.m.—when the lorry stopped on a small plateau and Badr unbolted the tailgate. He beckoned for Summerfield to follow him. Standing next to the young man, he followed Badr’s outstretched hand towards where the track petered out and disappeared to a steep, rocky path.
‘This is where we’re going, Harry Summerfield. We have two days’ walking ahead of us before we arrive.’
They began to unload the lorry and before it was completed a team of mules appeared on one of the paths high up where a deep gully formed a gash in the mountain side. Badr went out to greet them, scaling the steep little path with small, rapid steps until he reached them. There were four mules in total and two tribesmen, dressed in pale blue robes and armed with rifles. Badr spoke with the muleteers for a few moments and Summerfield thought he saw him nod in his direction. He watched them, strangely thin shapes—the effect of the sharp perspective—descend the path with precaution until, barely a hundred yards from him, they took on their normal form. When Badr wasn’t looking, one of the muleteers gave Summerfield a hostile grin and, levelling the barrel of his rifle at him, mimed a shot.
A long, strenuous ascent for the first two hours left Summerfield breathless and sweating and somewhat angry. His captors, taking the opportunity to brew some tea and smoke while he recovered, didn’t seem in the slightest bothered by the rugged terrain. He felt useless and weak—a westerner among these men built of pure muscle and sinew.
The journey began again, through a pass in the jagged crest and then down, following a vertiginous goat track of loose stone. Several times he slipped and, unable to stabilise himself with his arms, fell painfully on his back—something that produced howls of laughter from the muleteers. The track led to a large rounded belly of smoothened rock, which they crossed, this time Badr holding Summerfield by the arm, until they reached the valley floor.
This they followed for another two hours or so then, once more, they took a track up into the next mountainside. The same pattern of events repeated itself throughout the day—a steep climb
followed by a perilous descent followed by a valley and then another steep climb. Once they crossed a small wood and cement bridge over a torrent that in winter would have swollen and raged a full four metres deep. One of the mules stopped half way, refusing to go any farther, frightened by the height and rushing water. It took four men, two pulling and two pushing, and a full fifteen minutes, to finally get the beast moving.
Towards the end of the afternoon, after a long break to rest during the hottest hours, they entered a gorge and followed the winding path of the torrent for a mile or so before it opened out into a wide, undulating valley. It was then that Summerfield noticed the little shapes, spying them from a distance—children. Heads popped up from behind rocks or looked out from tree tops, but they never came close and when Summerfield caught their gaze they immediately drew back like crabs scampering back under rocks, coy and frightened. Perhaps, wondered Summerfield, they had never seen a white man before—quite probable given the remoteness of the valley.
It was a sign that they were approaching a village—perhaps their village—and a feeling of relief and even gaiety filled the men. They picked up their step, drew back their shoulders and took on the nonchalant air of warriors returning from patrol—something that made the little children, dotted about the hillside, giggle with pleasure. Summerfield muttered under his breath at their joy. He had lost weight over the past four days, looked grey from tiredness and worry. Approaching the village now, suddenly appearing from out of its mountain camouflage, he felt almost ashamed of himself. He looked like a criminal, his hands tied and his look haggard.
The village was a large collection of mud and wattle houses, stacked one upon each other on an earthen outcrop to one side of the valley. Crowning the village was a Kasbah and a large, imposing granary. The village was the colour of the mountains, pinkish beige, and seeped into them unnoticed if it were not for the windows with their white surrounds.
It was a rich valley. Summerfield imagined that many thousands of years ago, a glacier had pushed its way between the mountains and deposited a deep layer of sediment and rock which, through time, had created the patchwork of flat pastureland and large protuberant mounds—boulders covered with luscious grass and trees. A system of irrigation channels branched off from the now shallow torrent and formed the irregular rectangular dykes marking parcels of laboured land containing almond trees, maize, carrots, turnips, olive trees and wheat. Here and there, wells had been bored and women and young girls, sometimes with the help of mules, carried water or bundles to and fro between the fields and the village. When the group of men passed, they either refused to look at him or else their regard displayed an immense distrust, almost fear. Curiously, there were no men or boys. Summerfield called to Badr who was walking at the head of the band of men.
‘Talking,’ replied Badr, looking over his shoulder. ‘Or doing business. The boys? They are the heads you see from behind the rocks—they are shepherds.’
‘But why do the women do all the carrying?’
Badr stopped and turned to Summerfield, a little perplexed and obviously wondering if it was criticism. ‘Because it is their role,’ frowned the young man. ‘And because the men leave for the towns to earn money. This is how it has been for a long time. This is how it is.’
‘And schools?’
‘There are no schools, Mr Summerfield. Not here. There is a Mullah. But the Berbers have an oral tradition and can remember all that is passed down in history. But there are some boys who are taught to read the Koran.’
‘Like you.’
A trace of a smile came upon the young man’s lips. ‘Like me,’ he echoed. ‘The Mullah took me as his student—he is rather disappointed that I didn’t return to take his place.’
‘He’s still in the village?’
‘He’s very old. And even less tolerant than he was before,’ grinned Badr. ‘You will see. He tests me as if I were still eight years old. And he will test you, no doubt.’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Summerfield, with irony. ‘And what about these?’ he added, nodding to his bound hands. ‘I feel like a criminal.’
Badr dropped his gaze and resumed walking for some moments without looking back and then stopped again. He approached Summerfield, produced a knife from under his gown and deftly cut the rope, finishing it with a glance that carried a warning. ‘If you try to leave us, I’m afraid you will be killed, Harry. It is like that.’
Several dogs began to bark as they entered the foot of the village and a mule brayed indignantly. Badr swapped blessings with several men they came across, speaking a dialect in which Summerfield could hardly pick out several words. They were pointed towards the summit of the village and the Kasbah.
‘Good,’ said Badr, turning to Summerfield. ‘The Kaïd—the war chief—is here and expecting us.’
The winding track led up past forty or so squat houses to a small clearing, evidently the place for ceremonies of different sorts and a bartering space for passing caravans. Several olive trees gave shade and it was under one of these that Summerfield sat for what seemed like an eternity before a messenger arrived with an invitation to enter the Kasbah. Summerfield rose and was escorted by the two armed muleteers, Badr having stayed ahead to speak with the Kaïd.
The Kasbah was almost a village in itself. They entered through an archway and an enormous, sculpted door. Summerfield glanced up at the imposing walls of the fortified house, immediately conscious that the Kaïd and his family were not only people of high political importance, but also extremely wealthy. It was the only group of buildings in the village to have glass windows, for the most part a thick, opaque green, while the central tower contained more intricate patterns of various blues, greens, reds and yellows. The walls were made of the same pinkish beige wattle as the houses in the lower village, but crowned with a series of symmetric patterns made of squares and diamonds.
Summerfield was escorted through a series of extremely narrow corridors, some open to the sky, some enclosed by a section of planks and woven date palm leaves to form a roof. A final corridor gave out to a small courtyard, which they crossed, disappearing into a pokey, rather lopsided aperture in the farthest wall. This led immediately to a steep set of stairs and a first level—empty—then a second, containing several old women who didn’t bother to cover themselves. A third, then a fourth set of winding steps led to a large, furnished room lit by green, red, blue and yellow beams flooding inwards from the windows and lighting up the swirling cloud of dust particles in the air. Summerfield’s immediate reaction was to wrap the lower part of his headscarf around his mouth and nose, as though confronting a sand storm and he stood there, his two guards behind him, in the middle of the room and waited.
A few moments later Badr appeared and beckoned for him to follow through another doorway. Summerfield discovered the floor of the adjoining room to be covered with carpets, in some places forming several layers and mostly blue or yellow and decorated with the strange, almost runic designs of the Berber culture. There were cushions, too, a chimney, a series of large chests where Summerfield imagined the bedding and valuables to be stored and an intricately carved mahogany table inset with mother-of-pearl; around it, four squat chairs, of French design, looking oddly out of place. But even more striking, even more ostentatious, was the central piece in the room—a very large and ornate oak wood wireless set. It looked like a cross between a gothic church steeple and a Bentley Speed 6 radiator grill. And it was not plugged in—for the simple reason that there was no electricity. Summerfield stifled a grin, turned to the Kaïd sprawled in his chair and followed the man’s restless eyes back to the wireless set. He had the distinct feeling that if he laughed now, it would be his very last.
‘This is the Kaïd, Ahmed Youadi, the chief of the entire valley as far as the eye can see,’ announced Badr, in a low, respectful voice. He turned to Summerfield. ‘He is a very powerful man, Mr Summerfield, naturally very wise and also very lacking in patience. Believe me—it is best to keep to
the law of the valley.’ Summerfield’s eyes returned once more to the chief and he nodded slightly. Ahmed Youadi—a small, bearded, muscular man in his mid-fifties—made a gesture of welcome and followed it up with a tersely spoken declaration in local dialect. ‘He says he hopes you will learn to understand us,’ translated Badr. ‘And abide by the rules of our religion and of our tribe. Until then you have only two simple things to do—eat the food he offers you and obey the words he speaks to you.’ Badr kept his gaze levelled at Summerfield. ‘You may now thank him.’
The trace of a frown appeared on Summerfield’s face and then he turned to the chief. ‘Thank you. And may God guide me in His wisdom.’
Chief Ahmed Youadi answered, rapid and unsmiling. Summerfield looked enquiringly at Badr. ‘And may Allah provide Ahmed Youadi with tolerance,’ informed Badr, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips.
36
Jeanne lived in an unreal and relentless dream. Her health alternated between the deepest depression and an emotionless resignation that her life was worthless. She had never felt such emptiness could exist. A physical emptiness for Harry that rose up from the depths of her body and expressed itself in fits of tears in which she whined like a wounded animal.
She was often sick, able to go two days without touching her food and subsequently lost weight. One evening her father made her sit at table for three hours in a face-to-face duel until she finished the food on her plate. She retched. And this had sent Lefèvre into a rage she could never have thought possible. Sure that she was doing it on purpose, he had confined her to her bedroom for three days. At night Jeanne heard her parents arguing vehemently.