by Hedi Kaddour
“Si Ahmed, I am like a sailor who has suffered a great blow from the wind. I need help from a friend.”
In the caïd’s large house, a bordj at the edge of the city, there was a smell of olive oil, a heavy, fruity odor, a bit acidic, which infused even the red leather of the benches in the salon, vaguely nauseating. Belkhodja spoke of friendship; he had gone as far as he could go. He added in a voice filled with emotion:
“Thirty percent, paid in six months.”
“You insult me! You take me for an apostate! Sixty percent in a year! You confer me to Hell! Is that your friendship?”
Si Ahmed was enraged. He cursed money, that instrument of the devil. He took Belkhodja by the arm, squeezed it, saying:
“Money causes debt, and debt is the millstone of friendship! And you still have your house, don’t you?”
Belkhodja left without responding and without having received a response. He wasn’t even sorry to be leaving, as the odor of the olive oil was oppressive, invasive, even if it was indeed a smell of the finest quality.
21
THE HAND
They arrived in Paris, and as they were going into the lobby of the Scribe Hotel, Ganthier gave a little shout of surprise: a few yards away, standing in front of an armchair, was a woman watching them with an amused, yet somewhat insolent look while she removed a pair of pale yellow gloves. He thought she was back in the United States with her husband and the whole film crew. Kathryn kissed them, yes, she was alone . . . Neil wasn’t with her . . . He preferred to watch his rolls of film rather than his wife . . . She was supposed to go to Germany . . . Berlin . . . I want to meet Mr. Wiesner . . . Yes, the director . . . a great artist . . . He directed Pola Negri . . . and I’m better than her, aren’t I? . . . It was wonderful what was happening . . . Kathryn was taking advantage of the opportunity to visit Paris, a stay in Paris . . . a longtime dream . . . Yes, she was staying at the Scribe, like them. No, not exactly a coincidence—she knew they were coming to Paris. Raouf had written to her. He had been dreaming of this trip. I am sure that with you he is acting blasé, but he has been dreaming of this trip.
Raouf’s smile seemed forced; Ganthier was carrying the conversation. Why had she chosen the Scribe? To see them, of course, and that was the upside of not being a big star, you could avoid the Crillon, the Meurice, the journalists, you had time to meet up with friends . . .
“And I’m traveling light. Tess isn’t with me.”
“Did she stay in America?” asked Raouf.
“No, officially we’re traveling together, but I gave her her freedom . . . She rarely asks a favor of me . . . She’ll rejoin me when we return . . . You’ll have to do without her confidences . . .”
Kathryn didn’t add anything. Thoughts were turning very quickly in Ganthier’s head. The actress’s presence was going to simplify things a bit vis-à-vis Gabrielle. They were friends. Gabrielle wouldn’t be able to refuse to go out with them, on the condition that the young American agreed to stay longer in Paris and that Raouf didn’t get into a snit. At the moment he seemed happy to see his friend, but with him you never knew; he had to be starving for independence, not to be a tourist with two or three others.
The second surprise for Ganthier came a few hours later, when they met up for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Kathryn was seated across from him, next to Raouf. Suddenly, she threw her head back and laughed, without looking at anyone, nor at Raouf’s arm, upon which her hand had landed. An octopus, Ganthier thought. And she left her hand there, as if it were the most natural position for it. Ganthier couldn’t stand it, in Nahbès she had made Raouf her friend, one can take the arm of a friend to cross the street, but one can’t do what one wants in a restaurant, even here, what right does this girl have to play with a boy who is in fact under his watch, a vulgar gesture, and which is going to cause damage, reawaken the desires and imagination in someone who thought he was master of himself, and who is six years younger than she, it’s obscene, he’s a virgin, didn’t know what to do with the Austrian girl, who literally threw herself at him, and now Kathryn is keeping her hand on his arm, like that. A harmless gesture for her—she wouldn’t do anything more—but it is going to panic Raouf, the audacity typical of an American woman: I’ll touch you when I want to . . . Or maybe she did want to have him . . . But in fact those girls don’t take, they light a fire and do nothing, American arrogance, showing their desire is enough for them, or else they go farther and it’s worse! She is going to have Raouf after dinner, like a toothpick, a night in the hotel, then she’ll send him packing and run off to Berlin. And Ganthier would have to pick up the pieces, and take them back to Nahbès, and give them to Si Ahmed, who had trusted him.
The hand was removed, a very lovely hand, by the way, Kathryn’s perfume wafting between them, a light mixture of pepper and lemon, that woman allows herself to rest her hand on the arm of another when it is his arm she should be interested in, he should have put himself next to her, he hadn’t paid attention, yes, he had chosen to sit here, to look into the actress’s eyes, and in any case she could have then played footsie with the kid and I wouldn’t have seen anything, I’m the one she should be squeezing like that, not a kid she is whipping into the throes of passion where he doesn’t belong, not yet . . . Kathryn took her hand away, she must have realized what she was doing, she wasn’t a femme fatale to that degree, oblivious rather, but one doesn’t have the right to be so familiar when one is wearing such a low-cut dress! Raouf seemed upset, but not overly so, the kid is sturdier than I would have imagined, he’s right, to act naturally is what you have to do when faced with this type of aggression, act as if an old friend is taking his arm, let her get excited for nothing, like the Austrian girl.
Kathryn was telling a story whose thread Ganthier had lost. She started laughing again, and her hand again landed on Raouf’s arm. Ganthier’s face remained friendly. He wanted to shout, “That’s enough!” He couldn’t even find the attitude that would have been appropriate to break up this teasing ploy. This didn’t make sense! Did that woman, who was the most beautiful woman in the restaurant that evening, have to set her sights on an adolescent? She could have chosen another target, she was going to give Raouf a distorted idea of what a woman is: this is wrong, Raouf seemed to have control of himself, but it won’t take long before he starts blushing up to his ears. Ganthier was trying to think of something harsh to say, an allusion to the refinements of a civilization whose rules are always difficult to master, but couldn’t find his words, continued to talk about something else while trying not to look at the table.
Raouf had worked up some nerve and was now telling the story of the high-class tarts who were with them on the Jugurtha. Kathryn’s hand wasn’t on his arm anymore. He’s practicing, thought Ganthier, he is disarming with youth, but he is talking about tarts to act like an adult . . . Raouf saying that it was Ganthier who had noticed those women first, they were returning home from a stay at the court of our dear sovereign, I assured him of my discretion, but I’m persuaded that he did not seek out their company.
And for revenge Ganthier started talking about the young Austrian girl: our young friend scored a conquest but he was bereft at not being able to deploy his Stendhalian knowledge; he didn’t have time; she literally threw herself on him! Ganthier was having fun. Kathryn started to talk in a simpering voice, to parody a scene for Raouf: you don’t have the right to have girlfriends other than me, not without asking my permission. A slap from a great friend on Raouf’s hand, you understand? Another laugh, and the hand with the red fingernails resting on the forearm. Ganthier looked Raouf in the eyes. Raouf blushed. She might at least sense the kid’s distress; she’s going to drive him mad.
Kathryn kept her hand on his arm, now without simpering, she was going to have to leave that arm to pick up her knife, but she used her fork in her left hand for the pommes sarladaises, she wasn’t even teasing, and Raouf didn’t look at her much but didn’t eat, for fear of freeing his left arm, is a potato saut�
�ed in duck fat really worth removing the hand of Kathryn Bishop? Ganthier said to himself, she has a lot of nerve doing that in front of me, does she take me for a piece of furniture? or maybe she’s provoking me . . . Yes, she’s looking for a man for tonight, she’s using the young man to excite me, maybe it’s a game she’s playing with Gabrielle against me, she might have written to Gabrielle, “If you don’t want your colonist, would you loan him to me?” that sort of thing goes on a lot these days, in any event, her hand doesn’t belong there, even to provoke me, or as if it’s the arm of a little brother—he’s gone beyond the age of little brothers! they played like that all summer long in Nahbès, it’s over now, there are rooms above us, we’re among adults now!
Kathryn took her hand away to pick up her knife, Raouf began to cut his duck leg, very calmly, and suddenly Ganthier understood: a true couple! He was sitting opposite an established couple who were meeting again! Kathryn wasn’t provoking him, no, it was the familiarity of a couple! In a moment she would put her hand back on his arm and call him “sweetheart”! That’s why Raouf disappeared for two hours this afternoon, a walk to cure his migraine before dinner, right! he cured his migraine in bed, he could pretend to be detached, there was no more urgency, an established couple who is back together, and in Nahbès Ganthier hadn’t seen anything! For months! Raouf as a guide for the American woman, everywhere, all the markets, all the excursions, he spent hours and hours with her; no one had seen anything, he followed her like her shadow, people made fun of him, and there wasn’t any gossip, no indiscretion, she was living at the Grand Hôtel, a place where a young Arab is noticed like a fly in a glass of milk, she couldn’t take a step in the city without everyone knowing where she was going, there, then there, the caïd didn’t see anything, either, or Marfaing, or anyone, the kid followed her like a shadow, not the slightest suspicion! A shadow is a eunuch. Kathryn had no more wine in her glass, she took a swallow from Raouf’s while looking him in the eyes.
They couldn’t have done that in the fields, now, could they? In any event there’s always a peasant wandering around . . not in town, either, or else she disguised herself, wore a headscarf, and maybe he disguised himself as a woman, he must have been reliving scenes from One Thousand and One Nights, transforming himself into a deliverer of bread to enter any house of an obliging friend in an Arab town . . . not easy . . . Raouf as a woman, that must not have tricked very many people, love is blind, but the neighbors aren’t, but who else, then? one of Kathryn’s friends? maybe Cavarro, the discreet Cavarro? he had a villa, or maybe Wayne, the poodle, he adored Kathryn; he was capable of killing himself for her, then, suddenly, it was obvious: Gabrielle . . . Ganthier knew he had the explanation even before he could explain it, yes, Gabrielle, but how? those two often visited her at the house she had rented, they didn’t hide themselves, the entire street saw them, the nose in the middle of the face, if he had asked the question, people would have responded: Yes, they came by, I think, they’re often there, did they come back out? Maybe, they come by almost every day, you know. They saw them all the time, so no one paid any attention anymore; and once they’d gone in she would have put a bedroom at their disposal, the maid always left after lunch, maybe the journalist even gave them her own room, she would go to work in the sitting room, yes, that was the only explanation, she typed her stories while trying not to listen to the bedsprings, and when I would arrive she received me in the sitting room while those two continued to be the beast with two backs, in silence, because they had heard someone enter, in silence with imperceptible movements, it’s even better, they were doing that when I was there!! . . . and Marfaing might also have visited, Kathryn coming into the parlor as if she had just been in the powder room, for everyone in the town it was just a gathering at Gabrielle’s place, around that American actress who had become her friend . . . no, impossible, there must have been some crosschecking, someone wondering how she managed it so that no one ever saw her arrive, Marfaing did the same thing: he arrived, and then they laughed while watching him watch the door, he was waiting for his Thérèse, okay, those two were happy just to have tea, like everyone else, those people came to Gabrielle’s to indulge in some innocent pleasure while a young couple was indulging in a less innocent one behind the wall, silently, with imperceptible movements, with the extra excitement that comes from danger, he learned quickly, that virgin, I’m not dreaming, he looks like he’s been at the Scribe for a month, there must be an education in bedrooms, or rather, the feeling of being happy, that must be it, finished the mad desire for what one doesn’t have, she is his, they are together, that makes you placid, she must have told him promising things for him to have such assurance right in a hotel dining room where he has never been in his life.
Ganthier started to watch Raouf with a different eye, telling himself that the little scoundrel fooled them all, they aren’t even petting anymore, a hand on an arm from time to time, that’s enough for them, they are used to each other and it’s still fantastic, a hand on an arm, he is hers and he likes that, he pulled the wool over all our eyes, especially mine, whereas we’ve been spending our time together telling each other personal things for years, and what’s more, he’s made me his accomplice: “I don’t want to leave, especially not with Ganthier,” and I’m the one who insisted, I even invoked intellectual discoveries! and I must have seemed really brilliant on the ship, asking him if he wanted any tactical advice to seduce his young Viennese girl who thought he was melancholic, he’s been sleeping with one of the great Hollywood actresses for months and there you were, scolding him for acting platonic with a nice young Austrian girl, you spoke to him of Stendhal, maneuvers: wake up, young Raouf, prepare yourself starting now to receive the message from Europe, overcome your inability to enjoy pleasure! He must have really laughed . . . Poor Metilda, she couldn’t measure up.
Ganthier felt alone, humiliated. The distribution of women had taken place. His hands were empty; he was alone with his distress, with the melancholy he had so easily attributed to Raouf when they were on the boat. On his left the empty chair could have been Gabrielle’s, and Gabrielle’s hand on his arm. Something the journalist had said came back to him: “I’ve never met a man who truly knows how to love himself.” He looked around the room so he would seem to be doing something. At a neighboring table the conversation, which up until then had been very discreet, rose a decibel, a woman saying to two young boys:
“Stop it now, you don’t draw waves in your mashed potatoes with your fork, it’s vulgar!” Her words having no effect, she then addressed her husband: “You might scold them! You can see I don’t have any authority anymore!” and the husband:
“I’m not putting my authority in the mashed potatoes!” He was quiet a moment, then: “It’s your fault, you give orders instead of making them respect you, you’ll never change!”
Something else Gabrielle had said: “Men think marriage gives them the right to change their wife.” Then there was the noise of a fork screeching on porcelain. One of the boys had discovered a new game. His brother responded with the same screeching, then repeated the noise of the fork while slightly increasing the intensity, the two children trying to see how far they could go without provoking a serious reaction. And the sight of the still young couple, encumbered by those two little imbeciles, made Ganthier even more depressed than the silent reflections he was having, nothing more than the hand on the arm, Kathryn showing Ganthier that she no longer had anything to hide, that’s why she’s come to the Scribe, “not exactly a star,” right! She chose the hotel that the little scoundrel must have told her about a long time ago, the day I spoke to him about the hotel his father and I had chosen; an established couple, and how about me? And if she goes to Berlin, he’s going to want to go with her . . . and Gabrielle still isn’t in Paris!
What struck Ganthier was how natural Raouf seemed, he wasn’t acting the innocent or the parvenu in things of love: that’s life; there were people in the streets and lovers in hotels, Ganthier h
ad only to accept reality, he might be able to recover something . . . Ganthier surprised Raouf looking at Kathryn’s neckline, that little sneak feels the need to verify that they’re still there, that they’re the most beautiful, the most supple, the freshest, the most welcoming, and she has obviously worn the dress needed to feel the looks of her man, what am I doing here!
Ganthier was exasperated. He wanted to drop everything, to say, “You no longer need me, I’ll meet you in a week,” and then, finding an indirect jab:
“Did you see? The lady over there, the third table. It’s really lovely, the red ribbon around her neck with a jewel in the center, very effective.” Kathryn responded:
“Yes, given her age . . .” Looking Ganthier in the eyes, then: “You’re not really going to tell me that I should wear such a thing?”
And Ganthier was forced to sing the praises of Kathryn’s natural freshness in front of Raouf; he had let himself be had; a young person had gotten the better of him. Ganthier had never been interested in Kathryn, and here he was on the verge of a jealous outburst. Absolutely not, Gabrielle was going to come. He would need the American woman; in the end, two couples could be amusing. In the aisle of the restaurant an elderly woman wearing pale blue was advancing on the arm of a man in a black suit. Their shoes didn’t make any noise, but the boards of the floor creaked one by one under their weight, attracting looks that were meant to be discreet, and which were thus all the more insufferable. The man and the woman blushed, trying to go faster by holding on to each other. Kathryn said to Ganthier:
“Guess who’s going to join us the day after tomorrow?”
22
CROSSROADS OF PAIN