The Influence Peddlers

by Hedi Kaddour

  One morning Raouf surprised himself by going to cheer the sovereign, who was standing on his balcony, a very mixed crowd, university students in theology, dockworkers, shopkeepers, office workers. He was with Karim and David Chemla. Even David had cheered. Raouf joked: “A Bolshevik cheering for the sovereign, now I’ve seen it all,” and David: “Everything that sharpens contradictions is good.” Karim had announced to his friends that he had given up his French studies and planned to enroll in the theology school in the capital: “They, at least, are fighting!”

  The sovereign abdicated, creating a constitutional void. Paris was shocked by the abdication, the news traveling as far as Nahbès to darken the hours that Si Ahmed spent waiting for a sign from his son, and those of Rania and Kathryn, who wondered if that was going to unleash real riots, with deaths, especially of the young. “He is so clumsy,” said the actress to Rania, Rania trying to think in spite of her fears: an abdication is perhaps the best thing that can happen to this country. Things will be clear, a republic, free of all superstitions, like in Turkey, and the colonists will be mere foreign owners if they want to stay. She was sure that Ganthier would stay. That evening the resident general had gone to the sovereign’s palace and he had been received by the sovereign in his dressing gown, a sign of contempt. The sovereign had stipulated his conditions: the establishment of plans for a constitution as created by the French deputies—even Monsieur Maurice Barrès and Prince Murat signed off on it! With a legislative assembly, and the same laws as the French had for freedom of expression, association, and gathering! He also insisted that the corrupt and detested ministers be expulsed. The resident general had left, told Paris, and agreed to receive a delegation of Prépondérants who had demanded the end of “humanitarian fantasies,” Richard Trillat adding: “As for Paris and the National Assembly, we will do what’s necessary!”

  And the following day, the resident general paid another visit to the sovereign, a resident general with a cocked hat with white feathers this time, escorted by the African infantry, and, proceeding to serious things, suggesting the removal of all the sovereign’s conditions, a refusal of his abdication, very simple, if not—no, he couldn’t have said if not, a resident general from France in a protectorate country doesn’t say if not, he says, “In the opposite event, with all the respect that I have for Your Highness”—then the country becomes a true colony. Very good “becomes,” thought the general secretary of the residence, who was standing behind his superior, not would become. You must sense that we are already there, my little sovereign. This country is becoming a colony attached to Algeria, “and Your Highness will be deported, I did say deported, with your entire family, and not to Provence, we foresee Saint-Pierre-et-Miquelon, Your Highness, yes, a French territory, rather cold, but very calm, if that is the will of the All Powerful, of course,” the sovereign giving in within a few hours. Enough false bravado from a weak mind, said the nationalists, a number also beginning to circulate, that of an increase in the sovereign’s civil list, the resident general knowing well how to manage money without ever going overboard, the communists then calling for a boycott of the visit by the French president. For David Chemla it was henceforth “class against class.” And Raouf: “You mean clay pot against iron pot?”

  Some nationalists also wanted to boycott, as did the Bolsheviks: a quick meeting between the resident general and their leaders, and an equally rapid decision made by the nationalists, calling for participation in the general goodwill, an end to false nationalist defiance. The crown prince had responded, “They’re caving in less than a day after my father did.” “To convince my natives,” said the resident general, “I tell them the story of the Greek man whose hands became stuck in the trunk of a tree that he wanted to open . . .” There were, however, voices in France bringing up the English example in Egypt: what we have refused today will be imposed on us tomorrow. The Prépondérants had won. Law and order reigned once again. The crowds disappeared from the streets. They had sent out the municipal hoses, and the nationalists were rendered “speechless,” said the editorialists, using the phrase suggested by the residence. Some even demanded the reestablishment of the crime of seditious whispering, which existed here before we arrived, you know. And in Présence Française Richard Trillat demanded they go on the offensive “against the worst trouble-makers, those upon whom we made the mistake of bestowing our education! They should be on their knees, in a posture of the most complete humility, thanking us, instead of rebelling.” Raouf, back in Nahbès, said to Rania: “I didn’t believe in it, it couldn’t have gone very far, notables don’t like street fighting.”

  18

  BIG PROBLEMS

  The Americans went home at the end of October. They had promised to return in six months, to finish filming and perhaps even to start working on another film. In the European city, the rhythm of life had abruptly slowed down. This departure simplified the life of the authorities, and Marfaing wasn’t sorry that Cavarro had packed his bags, even if Thérèse’s sad mood annoyed him a bit, good riddance. The contrôleur civil had also said to Ganthier and Gabrielle that he found young Raouf quite serene for someone who had just lost the love of his life. Ganthier corrected him. Raouf had had his moment of great passion, of course, at the beginning, but Kathryn had put him in his place. He didn’t tell me anything specific, but he turned into an escort, a nice role. Everyone found a use for him, including Neil, who used him to keep any real gallants away. Gabrielle didn’t add much to what Ganthier had said. She had made a reflection about young people who prefer great ideas to warm skin and had informed her friends that she was leaving the country, yes, a big story on what was going on in Italy, lots of things to see, “even if I don’t like that Mussolini.”

  In Nahbès they were still talking about what had happened to Belkhodja, a real blow from destiny, they said so as not to poison the story, but the term “the donkey of God” had circulated widely.

  Belkhodja understood perfectly the role Raouf had played in all of that. He hadn’t said anything but set out to find something that could really destroy the son of a caïd. In Nahbès too many people said that the merchant had slapped himself with his own hand, and they wouldn’t have let him go very far in his vengeance. The demonstrations that had taken place in the capital had given him an idea. He waited for the return to calm, Raouf’s reappearance in Nahbès, and then he took the train. Once in the capital, he sold a lot of rugs, refreshed his wardrobe, and one afternoon, he went to avenue Gambetta, to ponder scruples under the chirping of sparrows in the plane trees, seeking to establish, ennya bennya, intention against intention, the truth of his soul. He was going to indulge in vengeance. He was going to kiss a snake on the mouth and replace his lost pleasures with those of a bitter and dark fruit, but what was essential was to put the devilry of that passion to the service of good, by no longer crying about his unhappiness, the one who cries only steals his own time, and the hour was coming . . . A vigorous bismillah had finally given him the strength to open the door in a building occupied by some Frenchmen who were more discreet than others, who said “monsieur” and treated the natives with respect, but who knew how to hold them on a lifelong leash much better than any brute with a club could have done. He had a long discussion with them. At one point one of the men opened one of the cabinets that covered the walls, and Belkhodja saw a lot of small boxes, each with a capital letter on it. As he was leaving, the police thanked him and told him that the young subversive he had informed them about would be put out of commission for some time.

  A few days later, in Nahbès, the contrôleur civil summoned Si Ahmed for a meeting at the end of which the caïd found himself even more attached to the French than he had ever been before, and obliged to act as quickly as possible to avoid great problems for a son who criticized him for being too connected to France, a son who immediately refused to do what had been foreseen for him, whereas in good families a son would always respond, yes, na‘am a sidi, then he would kiss his father�
�s hand and leave, with the freedom to go swallow his despair in one of the windowless rooms of the house. Except now, Raouf, an only child, had his bac and—the caïd knew this—did not have much respect for his father. Youth dreams of justice, honesty, freedom, equality, independence, rights, and it was one of the disadvantages of the French lycée and of certain Arab books that they made that youth want to freely respect estimable people.

  In the past few years, the father had really tried to make his son understand that though he might not incarnate all those lovely ideas, that didn’t mean he was absolutely corrupt. He received gifts, of course, but just what was necessary for the people who were above him to consider him a caïd of confidence, and not a puritan. The puritans were a threat to the balance of the country, and like the Spahis in full dress at the entrance of the caïdat, corruption was one of the attributes of the function, that’s all, and then, as the adage says, “Power corrupts, but there have to be people to govern.” Things almost took a turn for the worse when Raouf, in response to that paternal adage, had cited another, more popular one, “What the peasant harvests in a day” . . . his father himself completed it . . . “the caïd collects at night,” and he had added: “You’re going too far!” His voice was cold, that of a man who was giving up his right to anger because he had already gone too far for that, in a time when one loves nothing anymore, not because one has been disappointed but because those who should love you no longer do.

  Raouf had said he was sorry, but his father tried not to find himself alone with him. That had made them unhappy, because they could no longer talk about what connected them, Jahiz, Ibn Khaldun, the authors that Si Ahmed advised Raouf to read, and his dear Ibn Hazm, the Cordovan, which he had given to Raouf when he had told him of his enthusiasm for La Bruyère and La Rochefoucauld. And yet the caïd wasn’t trying to remove the ideas that distanced them from the head of his sole heir. He had always behaved in a specific way with him, from the very beginning, a wife dead in childbirth, a newborn who shrieked in the parlor. He had taken the infant in his arms. He had swung his watch in front of him. He wanted to calm him, to get him used to the world, and he had the feeling, many years later, that he had always done that.

  What had made the caïd’s life even more difficult was that Raouf, when he was becoming an adolescent, looked for adversaries greater than his father, and he had quickly found them, speaking with growing violence against colonialism, domination, iniquity, hypocrisy, exploitation. He had read Le Pays martyrisé, had had the pamphlet read by those around him, and made pronouncements against the religious notables, “accomplices in all this for centuries.” Si Ahmed did not, however, feel any animosity toward what his son was becoming, and he found consolation in saying to himself that no season is forced to respect the preceding one.

  In response to his father’s plan, Raouf repeated: “No! . . . Europe with Ganthier, no! If I leave, I leave alone! Or I’ll go to prison, that shapes you as much as travel.” The caïd sought the words, an appeal to reflection. Youth is happy when people think they can reflect. He offered Raouf a paradox to mull: “You will be much freer than if you were alone.” He also knew that a strange relationship had formed over the years between Raouf and the colonist, like a fable, the fox and the wolf. They hate each other yet seek each other out. They like to talk together, compete for the best words. The wolf helps the fox become an adult so he can take advantage of his talents, use his strength and his wile on a fox who begins to develop his own, and the fox knows that it will be in his confrontation with the wolf, and not through respect for patriarchal rules, that he will invent his future life.

  The day before, in Marfaing’s office, Si Ahmed had spoken with Ganthier, calling him “my old friend.” He had told him that since his success with the baccalauréat his son had been hanging around the Americans too much. He hadn’t gone to the university and had probably begun to drink. Not only was the boy separating himself from religion and principles—you can always return to them, God knows how to be generous with the repentant—but he was also separating himself from the real world, which doesn’t wait and never pardons. The caïd wanted Raouf to travel in the real world, and not the one you think you see in Le Figaro or L’Illustration. His son needed to go take some big knocks from the real world, and since Ganthier, his old friend, was planning a trip to France soon, would he agree to take Raouf with him?

  Ganthier listened. “Old friend,” it was a strange expression after all those years of venomous confrontation between them. He didn’t respond directly to the caïd. He stressed how short his coming trip would be. He started talking about his own business, his farm. It is difficult to be gone a long time when you have a lot of acres to oversee, the eye of the master . . . And he reminded Si Ahmed that he was above all a colonist, wanting him to swallow the entire past all at once: border disputes, the seizing of land, all the squabbles, Si Ahmed’s opposition to the extension of Ganthier’s land, the pretext that they belonged to such and such a tribe, that they had such and such a religious or communal status, the caïd’s leitmotif, “The colonists don’t have all the rights, after all!” Ganthier had responded that the land wasn’t worked, or very little, that he was going to make it yield like never before, that he would give work and bread to people who didn’t have any, the caïd saying that for every franc given to his workers, Ganthier put fifteen in his pocket, Ganthier succeeding in his profits at the price of a baksheesh strongly negotiated with the caïd, and the bonuses paid to his own workers. “With an ordinary corrupt person,” said Ganthier, “things would be easier, but that one also wants to improve the fate of humanity, that doubles the cost . . .” Yes, Ganthier took great pleasure in saying the word colonist.

  Si Ahmed ignored the provocation. He even admitted that he recognized the weight of Ganthier’s duties, but it was already winter; Ganthier wouldn’t have any obstacles to prolonging his stay; and he, in the meantime, would go to Ganthier’s land every Sunday with Monsieur Marfaing when he would agree to do him the honor of accompanying him. The contrôleur civil immediately picked up the caïd’s words: “The honor will be all mine,” and Ganthier understood that the caïd would offer nothing more, He swallowed all my sarcasm, he will not lower himself to recall that France indeed owes him that. Colonist or not, Si Ahmed treated Ganthier like a vassal, a great vassal to whom he was conferring his only son, but a vassal nonetheless, and he asked Ganthier to act as if the protectorate didn’t exist, all of that in the office of Marfaing, the master of the region, and Marfaing, instead of remaining at least neutral, punctuated the caïd’s words with a slight nodding of his head. He could have at least said, “The honor would be all mine.”

  It was warm. The large armchairs with carved feet were comfortable and clean, the coffee quite strong, but without too many grounds, the makroud fresh and crispy, the flies nonexistent, three men discussing calmly. What bothered Ganthier was the caïd’s assurance, He knows why I’m making this trip and that there is a good chance that I’ll prolong it, who told him that? Marfaing? Marfaing always knows everything, it’s his profession to know everything to the last piece of gossip.

  Si Ahmed continued to speak, hesitating as if he didn’t know what he was going to say. He was a bit unclear, but at the third allusion Ganthier had understood: the caïd had high hopes that while Ganthier was away he could persuade a certain person to settle the matter between her and the colonist. The land doesn’t like to be divided, does it? Ganthier realized that this issue of regrouping his land wasn’t all that important to him anymore. He had even become used to spending two or three times a week, on horseback, on the path that went through the young widow’s estate. He would see her in the distance, on her veranda, thinking that she was watching him. Si Ahmed continued: It would be a pleasure for him to know that Ganthier would be showing France to his son, and not only France, they could even go to Germany . . . Ganthier had reacted: the Boches? He had fought them for four years, he didn’t understand the interest that those people awakene
d in the younger generation, and the caïd responded that what one didn’t show to the young, they turned into a mirage. It was at that moment that Ganthier realized that he was trapped: by quibbling over Germany, he seemed to have given his agreement for the rest.