Sin in Algiers

by Roland Graeme

  His dick burst with the force of a fireman’s hose spurting high-pressure water out of its nozzle. Wad after wad of his thick cream squirted up into the air. It descended in a wet, sticky rain, spattering down onto Nigel’s chest and stomach and upper thighs. The semen dribbled over his tightly clenched, still pumping fist. And still he shot, until it seemed to him that he would never stop ejaculating.

  An intoxication of delight, a bliss which was inexpressible, indeed!

  Chapter Four: The Search for a Guide

  The steamship was coming into the harbor. Nigel was on deck, at the railing, excited by his first glimpse of the North African coastline and the city of Algiers.

  Lieutenant Daumier bade Nigel au revoir on the pier.

  “May I call upon you?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Please do. I am staying at the Grand Hotel.”

  “I know it well. In a day or two, then?”

  “Yes. I shall look forward to it.”

  At the desk of the Grand Hotel, after checking in, Nigel asked for a telegraph form.

  Arrived safely, he informed his mother. Will begin my researches at once.

  “Please have that sent off as soon as possible,” he told the desk clerk.

  “At once, sir.”

  Upstairs, Nigel gave his suite a cursory inspection, to determine that it was satisfactory.

  The furnishings had evidently been imported from Paris. The bedstead and the small armchairs had their wood painted a creamy white, and they were upholstered in a striped fabric of green and rose-color. The walls were painted ivory white, and they were adorned with yards upon yards of fabric arranged in delicate, pretty, but rather frivolous curtains and swags, with patterns of flowers tied up with ribbons, and flying and perching birds. Plump, smirking cherubs held up the table lamps.

  The bathroom boasted the latest and most luxurious appointments. Tucked away in a recess behind a screen was a large enameled bathtub.

  The management of the hotel seemed to have gone to great pains to create, for the guests, the illusion that they were not in North Africa, but back on French soil—still in Marseilles, if not indeed still in Paris.

  Only the mosquito netting draped over the bed suggested that this was the tropics.

  It was not exactly a masculine sort of a retreat, Nigel concluded. But he thought he would be comfortable enough.

  Nigel dismissed the bellboy with a generous tip, and he told Mornay he could start to unpack.

  “I shall want a cold bath, a brief nap, and a change of clothes—in that order, Mornay.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And then you may go and amuse yourself, until it is time for me to dress for dinner. I may go out before then, but I won’t need you for that.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Nigel had promised his mother to begin his researches at once. And so he wasted no time. Later that afternoon, after taking a cup of tea in the hotel’s dining room, he went to the tourist agency which was located near the Place du Gouvernement. As he walked into the establishment he felt a little nervous. There were no other tourists in the office at the moment. A courteous clerk with bright and searching eyes immediately took charge of him.

  “What can we do for you, sir?”

  “I am a stranger here,” Nigel said.

  “Everyone who comes to Algeria from abroad is a stranger here—at first.”

  “I suppose so. Well, having come to this country, I would naturally like to see as much of the town as possible. As much as possible, do you understand?”

  “You wish to engage a guide?”

  “Yes, but not just any guide. I must have one who is thoroughly acquainted with the city. And also with the countryside around it, perhaps.”

  “Please wait for just one moment. Gervais?” Turning, the clerk called out into an adjoining room, from which a pleasant-looking and extremely well-dressed man in his late thirties emerged. “This is Gervais,” the clerk said. “He is an excellent guide. He was born here in Algiers. He speaks several languages, including English, French, and Arabic.”

  The elegant-looking older man murmured in an undertone that such was indeed the case, and that he was at Nigel’s disposal.

  “What does the young gentleman wish to see?” the guide asked, in the same low, silky tone of voice. “The Kasbah, of course. The mosques, the bazaars, the casino, the Moorish baths, the public gardens—”

  “Wait, please.” Nigel turned back to the clerk.

  “Monsieur?”

  “May I take a chair?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Please be seated, and confer with Gervais at your leisure.”

  Nigel sat down. “I am no ordinary visitor,” he warned Gervais.

  “No, monsieur?” the guide murmured.

  “I have come here,” Nigel said, lowering his voice, “with a purpose.”

  “And that purpose is—?”

  “To acquaint myself with certain aspects of Algerian life of which most visitors remain unaware.”

  “Ah, I believe I begin to understand. You wish to see extraordinary things. You wish to experience the diversions which are available for a young gentleman of your age and your obvious refinement. Then, first of all, you must pay a visit to La Belle Fatima. I will arrange it. She receives company every evening in her house not far from here, in the Rue—”

  “One moment! Whom did you mention? La Belle what?”

  “La Belle Fatima. She is the most beautiful woman in all of North Africa. As I was saying, she receives company—”

  “Pardon me. Is this lady—?”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Is this lady—well, is she sinful?”

  Startled, Gervais threw up his hands in a somewhat theatrical gesture of horror.

  “Sinful? La Belle Fatima? She is a lady of the utmost respectability. She is known throughout the town. She entertains visitors, Europeans in particular. You go to her house at eight, you take coffee, and you converse with your charming hostess and her other guests. While you do so, you see dancers perform and you listen to native music. And then you bid your hostess bonne nuit and you depart. Do not fear, my young sir. It is as respectable as anything you will find in England, your own country.”

  “If it’s that respectable, then I don’t need to see it,” Nigel informed the guide. “It’d be a waste of time. You see, I haven’t traveled all this way to see respectable things,” Nigel went on, with a slight blush. “Quite the contrary.”

  The clerk, who had overheard this conversation, gazed fixedly at Nigel. So did Gervais, whose impassive facial expression now suggested almost a kind of stupor.

  “Sir?” Gervais asked.

  “Quite the contrary,” Nigel repeated, firmly. “My object in coming to Algeria is to search about in the Kasbah, and the other disrep—” He interrupted himself, coughed to clear his throat, recovered himself, and went on, stoically. “And the other disreputable quarters of Algiers.”

  “What are you searching for, sir?”

  “For frailty.”

  “Sir? I am not sure I understand you.”

  “For human frailty—for wickedness, of every sort.”

  The clerk suppressed a gasp.

  Boldly, Nigel pressed on. “I wish to go to all of the wicked places that this city has to offer. All of them, without exception. I must immerse myself in sin.”

  Gervais gaped at him for a moment, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as though he was not certain he had heard correctly.

  “Young man,” the guide then said, in a tone of the utmost severity. “What do you think your parents would say if they heard you speaking of such things?”

  “But it was my mother who insisted that I come here,” Nigel explained.

  “Your mother!”

  “Yes. She was very explicit in her instructions. She wants me to learn as much as I can, and to take notes on everything I observe and experience, for her to make use of.”

  “Sir,” Gervais sputtered. “Sir, I am a respectable
married man. I have five children. I have practiced my trade as a guide here for many years. But never—! Words fail me. You horrify me. I will say nothing against your mother, because I have never met the lady. But if it was my misfortune to have you for my son, I would take a horsewhip to you. I refuse to have anything to do with you and your vile intentions.”

  He turned his back on Nigel and retreated back into the safety of the adjoining room.

  Nigel glanced at the clerk, whose lips were quivering with a barely pent-up indignation. The man was no doubt about to say something, equally as condemnatory as Gervais’s outburst.

  “Excuse me,” Nigel muttered. “But the air is very close in here.”

  He fled to the safety of the outdoors, where the hot dry breeze passed over his body. He stood there, rooted to the spot, oblivious to his exotic surroundings.

  He felt a distinct and crushing awareness of failure. He had scarcely set foot upon African soil. And yet already his mission seemed to be in jeopardy. If an Englishman abroad could not rely upon a respectable, long-established tourist agency to direct him toward depravity—then to whom could he turn?

  “Does monsieur wish to see the Kasbah tonight?”

  The voice, low-pitched, lightly-accented, and insinuating, pierced Nigel’s consciousness and sent a strange, slight thrill coursing through him. Had someone really spoken? Or had he imagined it, in his despair?

  Nigel turned, and he saw standing beside him a tall, well-built, audacious-looking young man about his own age, with coal-black hair and mustache, magnificent deep black eyes—and an air about him that was half-languid, half-wary, like that of a serpent about to strike. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit of European style, with a bright red flower tucked in his buttonhole, and he carried his hat in his hand.

  “Were you speaking to me?” Nigel asked.

  “To none other, monsieur, with your permission.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am a guide, monsieur. Here are my references.” The young man produced from an inner pocket a large bundle of papers, each one neatly folded and tucked away inside its own envelope. “If monsieur cares to look them over—?”

  Simply in order to be polite, Nigel took the envelopes. He opened one of them at random and extracted its contents, which was a note handwritten on thick cream-colored paper with a family crest embossed at its top.

  To whom it may concern—

  This is to introduce Tarik Seyd Al-Ibrahim, a young man who resides in Algiers. During the winter of 1894 I engaged Mr. Seyd Al-Ibrahim’s services as my guide for a period of several weeks. He provided me with complete satisfaction, proving himself to be honest, loyal, resourceful, energetic, and above all discreet. Thanks in large part to him, my stay in Algeria was most relaxing and stimulating. Should you require further details, please feel free to write to me at—

  There was more, but Nigel had read enough. It occurred to him that the phrase, relaxing and stimulating, was somewhat contradictory. Intrigued, he handed the documents back to the young Algerian.

  “Your name is Tarik, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, monsieur. And I am at your service.”

  “This testimonial is all very well and good. But my requirements are not necessarily those of the ordinary tourist.”

  “I could not agree with you more, monsieur. Each gentleman is different. Which is why I pride myself upon tailoring my services to each gentleman’s individual requirements.”

  “Hmm,” Nigel exclaimed, under his breath. “You’re a glib one, at least. Now, see here, my good man,” he said, aloud and more urgently. “I want you to answer me plainly and honestly, man to man. Are you respectable—or are you capable of being less than respectable?”

  “I am respectable when I am called upon to be respectable—but I can also rein in my respectability, when that is what is expected of me.”

  “We would appear to be off to an excellent start. Now tell me, without prevarication—are you also capable of being quite wicked and sinful?”

  “Very wicked and very sinful, monsieur.”

  “That’s good. I mean—for my own purposes—it’s good that you are wicked and sinful. I am not interested in engaging the services of a cathedral choirboy, you understand.”

  “Then I shall do my utmost to be very wicked and very sinful indeed. You will not be disappointed, monsieur.”

  “Excellent. Can you undertake to show me everything that is immoral and shocking here in Algiers?”

  “Everything, monsieur?”

  “Everything, without exception. I wish to be spared nothing.”

  “You are audacious, monsieur. You have the spirit of an adventurer—of an explorer.”

  “I must familiarize myself with every manifestation of vice that this place has to offer,” Nigel insisted.

  “I will guide you, monsieur. You will miss nothing. You will return to England intimately acquainted with our local vices.”

  “That’s just what I want. I shall want to engage your services exclusively, for the duration of my stay. Name your price, Tarik.”

  “Would two hundred English pounds be too much? I would ordinarily ask for two hundred and twenty-five, or even for two hundred and fifty, for such an undertaking. But I have taken a fancy to monsieur. I will reduce my usual fee accordingly. Monsieur, of course, will pay all of our incidental expenses, while he is in my company?”

  “Of course. Now, how long will this take, Tarik?”

  “To see all of the shocking things here in Algeria?”

  “Yes, without exception. We must take care to leave nothing out.”

  “Two weeks, perhaps. Three, at the most, if monsieur wishes to be most thorough.”

  “That is what I had estimated, as a matter of fact.”

  “Monsieur must realize that most of the activities which would be considered outré take place at night. If monsieur has a strong constitution, and he can do without sleep—?”

  “I will sleep during the heat of the day, if necessary, and do my explorations at night.”

  “Excellent. Monsieur will not be disappointed. I will exert myself to the utmost in order to satisfy him.”

  “Come to the Grand Hotel tonight, then, at ten o’clock.”

  “I will be there. Perhaps monsieur would be willing to pay me a little in advance?”

  “Certainly. Here are ten pounds—five per cent of what we have agreed upon.”

  Tarik took the banknotes, made a graceful and obsequious salute, and then he disappeared in the direction of the quay. Nigel walked back to the hotel, flushed with a sense of excitement and daring, and feeling like the most desperate, depraved character in North Africa. His mother, he felt sure, would be proud of him.

  “Now, how did you divert yourself this afternoon?” Nigel asked Mornay, as the valet helped him to dress for dinner. “Did you see anything of the town?”

  “I went to a Moorish café, sir, where I drank a cup of strong coffee and watched the men playing dominos.”

  That did not sound very exciting, in Nigel’s opinion.

  “I have engaged a guide,” he informed his valet.

  “Have you, sir? Is he a Frenchman?”

  “No, he is an Algerian.”

  Mornay frowned a bit.

  “Is he—to be relied upon, sir?” he asked.

  “I will soon determine that, I am sure. He will escort me when I explore the city, later on tonight. You will accompany us, Mornay.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “We had better take along our revolvers.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  During his dinner in the hotel’s dining room, Nigel drank a bottle of champagne, and after the waiter cleared away the plates, he smoked a strong cigar while he enjoyed his coffee and a liqueur. At last, he told himself, he was playing the part of a man of the world.

  The head waiter approached him furtively, and bent down to whisper in his ear.

  “An Algerian gentleman has called, saying he
was to meet a young Englishman here, at ten o’clock.”

  “Oh, yes. I am expecting him.”

  “He said he is here to take monsieur to see one of the mosques.”

  “To see what? Ah—of course. To see a mosque.”

  “I am sure you will find it interesting, monsieur.”

  “No doubt. Send for my valet, will you? He will go with me.”

  Nigel rose and made his way first to his suite, where he retrieved one of his exercise books and a lead pencil. He put on a voluminous dark overcoat and thrust one of the Springfield revolvers into its pocket. Then he descended to the hotel’s veranda, where Tarik was waiting, smoking a cigarette—which he threw away when he caught sight of the Englishman.

  “Ah,” Nigel said. “There you are. You are prompt, I must say.”

  “Always. I am at your disposal, monsieur.”

  “Well, let’s be off, shall we? To—to the mosque, as you say.”

  “To the mosque, certainly, monsieur,” the guide responded, with complete self-possession.

  “You are a rogue,” Nigel declared. “And a prevaricator.”

  “Absolutely, monsieur.” Tarik agreed.

  Silently, Mornay joined them.

  “My man will come with us,” Nigel explained.

  Mornay and Tarik exchanged shrewd, searching glances, each man assessing the other.

  The three young men then stepped out onto the pavement, where a carriage was waiting.

  “Where are we really going?” Nigel inquired, anxiously.

  “We are going to see the Ouled Naïls dance,” Tarik told him. “En avant, et vite!” he cried to the driver as he bounded into the carriage, taking the seat opposite Nigel and Mornay. The coachman flicked his whip, and the horses trotted off.

  Chapter Five: The Dancing House

  “What are these Ouled Naïls?” Nigel asked. “I believe I have heard the name mentioned somewhere.”

  “They are members of a nomadic tribe,” Tarik explained. “They live in the desert. Often, they move about there restlessly from place to place, without a fixed home. Some of their women come to the towns and cities to dance. They earn money dancing, and when they have earned enough, they return to the tribe. But now they have dowries, and the men are eager to marry them.”