Sin in Algiers

by Roland Graeme

  “Oh, my, Mater. Are you telling me this man is trifles with the affections of both of these ladies at once?”

  “I am afraid so, Nigel. He trifles as only a man of the most abandoned character can.”

  “Well, I must say it, Mater. Here in London, that sort of a fellow would be considered—a cad.”

  “Yes, he is heartless. He is unprincipled. He is ruled by his senses. The French are like that, you see. And when a Frenchman is also a soldier, away from home, surrounded by sensual temptations—well, then he can be twice as bad. Or so, at least, I have always been given to understand.”

  “May I ask how the story turns out, Mater?”

  “You may. The Englishwoman is so intoxicated with her lover that she is undeterred by the discovery that she is not his only mistress. She casts aside all restraint, and she fights the native woman, using every weapon that one woman can employ against another.”

  “You don’t mean to say that the two ladies actually come to blows?”

  “No, although that might make for an exciting conclusion to a chapter. As I envision it, they confine themselves to using their feminine wiles. Meanwhile, the deceived and betrayed husband is willing to take his wife back. He pleads with her to give up her lover and return to him.”

  “Very sporting of him, I should say. And does the lady accept his generous offer?”

  “I have not yet worked out the denouement in my mind, Nigel. No doubt inspiration will come to me as I approach the concluding chapters of the narrative. The task of writing this book will require all of my energy and concentration. I shall be dealing with violent passions, which can be very tiring to write about. But I cannot spare myself. For the sake of my readers, I must accept the challenge. I intend to strip the veil from hypocrisy, and reveal it in all its nudity.”

  “All its nudity? Do you think your readers are quite ready for that?”

  “They must steel themselves, my dear Nigel. It will be for their own good. Now, my boy,” Mrs. Cheney went on, briskly. “Let us be very clear about what you are to do for me. Now that I have begun my book, I cannot leave London. Distraction or violent activity of any sort—including travel—would interfere with my concentration. That is why you must go to Algiers, on my behalf. There, you must conduct the necessary researches. I am afraid you may have to poke about in the native quarters a good deal in order to dig up the kind of local color I require. That could be unpleasant, and even dangerous. So we had better buy two revolvers for you to take along, one for you and one for Mornay.”

  Nigel suppressed a gasp. His mother’s calmness astonished him. No matron of ancient Rome, sending her son off to battle, could have displayed more stoicism.

  “Do you really think it might be necessary for me to shoot someone?” he asked.

  “Oh, I should think not. Simply having the revolver in your possession, and being able to display it, should suffice. Any Englishman can earn a foreigner’s respect, if he only holds his ground, and speaks slowly and loudly enough. But knowing that you are armed will put my mind at ease during your absence. Now, let us recapitulate,” Mrs. Cheney said, rather in the tone of a schoolmistress who found herself dealing with a less than ideally apt pupil. “You will explore everything which Algeria and its environs has to offer in the way of vice, sin, corruption, and sensuality. You will collect for me the raw material I need—and the rawer, the better. You must take notes—copious notes. Upon your return, we will discuss your experiences, and I will review your notes. Then I shall manipulate the material in such a way that it will saturate the artistic whole of my fictional narrative, to stimulating yet edifying effect. Do you understand, Nigel?”

  “I believe I do. I am to travel to Algiers, and see all the wickedness which is to be found there and in its vicinity. I am to take notes, and bring them back to you.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And—how long am I to stay there?”

  “Until you have plumbed the depths of human degradation.”

  “A week? Two weeks?”

  “I believe two weeks should be enough. Three, at the most. You must take your time, and be thorough. Otherwise, you may overlook something which I can use. We will buy everything you will need for the journey. A couple of blank exercise books should be enough to contain your notes. You must take care to write legibly, Nigel.”

  “Of course, Mater. When am I to go?”

  “As soon as possible. At the rate I am progressing through the opening chapters, I will soon find myself at a standstill for lack of this material. You can take the express train to Paris the day after tomorrow.” Mrs. Cheney looked at her son, tenderly. “I shall miss you, my dearest, while you are away.”

  “And I shall miss you.”

  “But these are the sacrifices which must be made for the sake of art. When you become homesick, Nigel, you must try to put your personal feelings aside. You must think of the book which you are helping me to create. The most important work of literature I have yet attempted. A book that will brand itself upon readers’ consciences, in letters of fire.”

  “That does sound rather exciting, Mater.” Nigel envisioned the printed pages charred at the edges and giving off smoke as they emerged from the press, one by one.

  Chapter Two: Our Young Hero Embarks upon His Quest

  No one could accuse Mrs. Cheney of either indecision or inefficiency. Once she had decided that her son was to travel abroad on her behalf, she took immediate action to do all she could to speed his departure.

  The whole household was soon transformed into a humming beehive of activity, preparing for the young master’s journey to Algeria. The morning after Mrs. Cheney’s discussion with Nigel in the study, mother and son set off in the carriage, with shopping list in hand, to purchase what he would need to explore North Africa. These items included a Baedeker guide, a small but well-supplied medicine chest, clothing suitable for a tropical climate, a pith helmet, a lightweight umbrella designed to ward off sunstroke, and a number of assorted little luxuries, all calculated to persuade the traveler that he had not actually left the comfort of England for a less hospitable land. For his personal protection, Nigel bought a pair of Smith and Wesson Springfield revolvers, along with several boxes of cartridges. And, most important of all, he acquired a dozen blank exercise books—upon reflection, his mother had decided that two such books would scarcely contain enough scandalous material for her purposes—and a box of new lead pencils, with a clever little portable pocket sharpener.

  Meanwhile, Mornay was packing his master’s trunks, and his own bags. This amiable young man, who at the age of twenty-five was barely Nigel’s senior, was accustomed to traveling. He had accompanied his master on tours throughout France, Germany and Austria, and to his native Switzerland. They had traversed the Italian boot together. Although they had never been south of Sicily, the valet was now looking forward to this new expedition, and he took special pains to pack suitable clothing for a tropical climate.

  The valet was intrigued when his master presented him with one of the revolvers.

  “Do you think it will be necessary for us to shoot anybody, sir?” Mornay asked.

  “I hope not. However, we must keep in mind that the inhabitants of Algeria are for the most part, with the exception of the French colonists, savages and heathens. We may have to defend ourselves against them.”

  “Hadn’t we better practice a little, then, sir?”

  “An excellent idea, Mornay.”

  The two young men visited the kitchen, where they terrified the cook by brandishing the revolvers with boyish enthusiasm. Collecting a number of empty wine bottles, Nigel and Mornay carried them out into the garden behind the house. There, they set the bottles up in front of a brick wall, like so many condemned prisoners. The two-man firing squad then carried out the execution without mercy, leaving shards of glass scattered about the neatly mown grass.

  “You are the better shot, Mornay,” Nigel admitted.

  “I’m sure that should t
he need arise, sir, you will have no difficulty hitting an Algerian,” the valet replied. “After all, a man is a larger target than a bottle.”

  Naturally, Nigel spent his last evening in England at home with his mother. They dined together, and then they retired to the drawing room.

  “I hope you will not be lonely here without me, Mater,” Nigel remarked. “I have been thinking about that all day.”

  “I shall be lonely, Nigel, but we must be brave. I shall immerse myself in my work. As you must immerse yourself in your researches, on my behalf. Speaking of which—there is one more thing I need to discuss with you, quite seriously, before you go to bed.”

  “I am listening, Mater.”

  “Someday, my dear—perhaps when you are thirty years of age or so—I must find a suitable wife for you.”

  “Oh, do you intend to do that, Mater?”

  “Of course. To whom else could I entrust such a sensitive task?”

  It occurred to Nigel that he might be permitted to select a fiancée for himself. But, wisely, he did not suggest this possibility to his mother.

  “She must come from a good family,” Mrs. Cheney went on. “That goes without saying. I would prefer her to be beautiful. The thought of having unattractive grandchildren is anathema to me. She need not have brains. That can be a liability in a wife.”

  “Can it, Mater? But you—you are an exceptionally intelligent woman. Everyone says so.”

  “Thank you for having noticed that, Nigel. But one intelligent woman in a family is enough. No, your wife must be cheerful, submissive, and proper. She must have an appreciation of her place in society. Above all, she must be able to run your household, and entertain your guests. She need not do too much thinking for herself. She will always be able to turn to me, should she need advice.”

  “But, Mater, you speak of my marriage as taking place some years from now. I fail to see what it has to do with my journey to Algeria in the morning.”

  “The less intelligent your wife is,” Mrs. Cheney said, bluntly, “the more important it will be that you, her husband, should be a man of the world. You must not be lacking when it comes to certain masculine experiences. This trip abroad may provide you with an excellent opportunity to broaden your knowledge.”

  “Oh.” Nigel could feel his cheeks coloring.

  “My dear boy, there is no need for you to be embarrassed. Because, unfortunately, you have no father to advise you, I must fulfill that duty myself. Please understand, though, that of course I do not expect you to exceed certain limits. You must never forget that you are an Englishman, and a gentleman.”

  “I will always strive to be worthy of our family name, Mater.”

  “And that is where Mornay may once again be useful to you.”

  Nigel did not how to interpret this apparent non sequitur. “How is that, Mater?”

  “As a member of the servant class, and no doubt a descendent of peasants—Swiss peasants, to be exact, did we not agree, yesterday?—as such, Mornay may be less fastidious than you would be about certain things. In other words, he might be willing to rush in, where a gentleman such as yourself would fear to tread. Perhaps you should even encourage him to do so. After any such adventures, he can confide in you, and you will enter the information in your notebooks.”

  “I think I understand your meaning, Mater. But—would it be altogether fair, or sporting, for me to ask Mornay to undertake what I would refuse to do myself?”

  “I do not see where fairness enters into the question. Mornay is in your employ. It is for you to give him his instructions, and it is for him to carry them out. Mornay runs your bath for you, and he shaves you, does he not?”

  “Of course, Mater.”

  “And he takes care of your clothes for you?”

  “Indubitably, Mater. And he does so very well.”

  “I should hope so. My point is, you do not do any of these things for yourself. You delegate them to your manservant, as well you should.”

  “Ah. I see your logic now, Mater.”

  “I suppose you might offer Mornay some small additional financial compensation, in addition to his regular wages, at your discretion. That ought to ensure his cooperation. Perhaps you should discuss the matter with him tonight, before you go to bed.”

  “I shall, Mater.”

  But, when he was alone with Mornay in his bedroom, Nigel’s courage began to fail him. He sat at his dressing table, removing his shirt studs and placing them in their box, and winding his pocket watch. While he performed these mundane nocturnal tasks, Nigel furtively observed his valet, who was busying himself with fastening the straps of Nigel’s trunks and applying to them their labels—each of which proclaimed, Mr. Nigel Cheney, passenger to Algiers, via Marseilles, in Mornay’s own clear, careful, round handwriting.

  Nigel had to admit that his valet was a handsome young man. Mornay was somewhat short of stature, but he had a trim, athletic physique. Like so many gentlemen’s gentlemen, he took meticulous care of his own appearance, and he was always immaculately groomed and dressed. He had reddish-brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and an alert manner, as though he was determined not to miss anything which might be taking place near him.

  But was there anything of the sensualist in him? This was the question which his master was now forced to ponder.

  “Ah, Mornay—?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Are you looking forward to our journey?”

  “I am, sir. It will be a change for us both.”

  “There will no doubt be many strange and exciting things for us to see in North Africa,” Nigel suggested.

  “No doubt, sir.”

  “And some of them may be of an exotic and sensual nature.”

  “Oh? Do you think so? Such as which, sir?”

  “Well—you know, Mornay—things of a decadent, Eastern, Oriental sort.” Struggling to come up with something more specific, Nigel finally said, “Odalisques, perhaps.”

  “Odalisques, sir? Ah—you mean young ladies tarted up in Arabian Nights costumes, such as you see at the circus, or at a fairground?”

  “Yes,” Nigel agreed. “Although I have heard that many of the native women in Algeria go about veiled in public, so as not to arouse the men’s base, animal instincts.”

  “Or perhaps they go about veiled because they are old and ugly,” Mornay suggested, with a droll smile. “Well, veiled or unveiled, it will be interesting to see them, sir,” he added, dismissively. “Along with all of the other strange foreign things.”

  “And while we are speaking of strange foreign things—tell me, Mornay. Have you ever read any of the books written by the explorer Sir Richard Burton?”

  “No, sir. Are they interesting?”

  “Very. And in some quarters—they are even considered to be a little—well, racy.”

  “Really? Perhaps when we return, I can take one of them out of the lending library.”

  And that, in effect, was the end of the two young men’s discussion, which was not quite as comprehensive as Mrs. Cheney might have desired.

  On this night before his departure, Nigel was careful to go to bed earlier than usual. But for half an hour or so as he lay in bed, sleep eluded him.

  Vague visions of himself loitering in crowded open-air bazaars, in the mysterious interiors of mosques, in the smoky and noisy bars of African public houses, and in the picturesque cafés owned and operated by Arabs, flitted before his mental gaze. Most compellingly of all, he saw himself taking his ease upon piles of soft embroidered cushions in dimly lit Moorish interiors—while surrounded by voluptuous ladies with eloquent large oval eyes, gleaming black tresses, and shapely nether limbs encased in Turkish trousers of spangled muslin. Odalisques, indeed! Dense clouds of tobacco and hashish smoke seemed to assail his nostrils, along with the scent of opium—and of exotic perfumes.

  He imagined himself being subjected, almost against his will, to female caresses of the most unladylike and provocative sort. He became aware of a sligh
t stirring in his loins, which he forced himself to ignore—not without some difficulty, and a considerable exercise of firm will power.

  At last, though, he slept.

  In the morning, Mrs. Cheney accompanied Nigel to the station, to see him off. There was a tearful moment of parting as she clasped her son tenderly in her arms and kissed his cheek. But then the whistle blew, announcing that the train was about to depart. After boarding the car, Nigel leaned out the window of his reserved first-class compartment and waved goodbye to his mother with his silk pocket handkerchief. Then, as the train began rolling, and the platform was lost to sight, he sank back upon the seat cushions.

  He was off on his quest!

  Now at last he had time for reflection.

  It was strange to have left London so precipitously, and to be on route to Algiers.

  Nigel wished he had someone to talk to. He and his mother had planned this trip so quickly that it did not occur to Nigel until now that, had there been more time in which to prepare, he might have invited one of his old college chums to accompany him. That would have been fun, having a companion with whom to share the experience. Of course, he had Mornay. At the moment, though, Mornay was traveling in a third-class compartment, with his fellow servants. It would not be proper for a gentleman to invite his valet to share a first-class compartment with him. That was the sort of thing which ignorant nouveau riche Americans sometimes did, to the merriment of the British who observed their vulgarity.

  Well, Nigel consoled himself, once he and Mornay arrived in Algiers, Nigel might relax the usual protocols a bit and interact with his man along more democratic principles. The mere thought pleased him. It made him feel rather daring, almost as though he was a bohemian at heart.

  To distract himself for a moment, Nigel took out one of his new exercise books. After sharpening a pencil, he wrote on the first page in admirably clear letters, Notes about Algerian and North African Depravity, Volume One.