The Influence Peddlers

by Hedi Kaddour

  At the last minute Ganthier removed “to your door” and added a bit of hesitation: “I’ll accompany you . . .” Gabrielle agreed, her eyelids closed for an instant. Yes, like you will close them when we’re at your place, my little goat, that’s what you always have to do with women, challenge them, that’s what they like about us, and I was right about the goat, a yes with closed eyelids . . . As for her stomach, Ganthier had forgotten to look.

  In the taxi, they continued to talk very naturally, about the Daumas, politics, Europe, the crisis between France and Great Britain. She knew more than he did, had more details. He listened to her, he watched her lips, her shoulders, then forced himself to look at the street, to listen to the noise of the motor. Sometimes, in a turn, their shoulders touched.

  When they were in front of her building he was bold, supple, and precise. He didn’t give her time to take his hand to say good-bye. He was in front of the outer courtyard door, ringing the bell to alert the concierge, opening, stepping back to allow her to enter. She muttered something while passing in front of him. He thought he heard If you’d like . . . didn’t ask her to repeat it. It was a lovely, new building, near the Trocadéro, with an elevator, two large mirrors on facing walls in the lobby on either side of the elevator, mirrors that multiplied their reflections to infinity, a couple returning home, it was wonderful. While the wooden cage climbed in luxurious silence he breathed in the young woman’s perfume. It wasn’t an overly sweet scent. He had heard a name mentioned during dinner, Mitsouko.

  They went into her apartment. He still wondered at what point he was going to take her in his arms: I should have done it in the elevator. She took off her coat, took his, said to him: “Have a seat.” She poured two glasses of cognac with authority, then: “Please excuse me a moment.”

  She slipped away. He relaxed. He was sure of what was going to happen. His best moment was right then: a lovely parlor, with sound-dampening rugs, very light, warm colors, not many knickknacks, a splendid vase of birds of paradise, large lamps, space. She had probably gone to remove her girdle—no, she doesn’t wear one—touch up her makeup, maybe put on a more comfortable dress, more supple, more relaxed than her suit.

  He was sitting in one of the armchairs, the mistake of a rookie. In an instant he was on the sofa. He sighed in relief. The sofa was wide, beautiful yellow leather, supple, deep. He imagined Gabrielle with her legs tucked under her. It was warm . . . Across the room there was a wooden sculpture, an enormous Buddha sitting on an elephant as if it were a footstool, more than three feet tall. The Buddha was smiling, his eyes lowered . . . The sofa wasn’t really the most obvious choice. What will you do if she thinks you’re coming on too strong and she sits in an armchair? He went back to the armchair, reflected, and saw what he should have seen earlier: the side table to the left of the sofa, with cigarettes, an ashtray, a book. That was her place. He went back to sit on the sofa, a very Napoleonic maneuver, advance from the right. He moved to the center, no, that was too much. He moved back toward the armrest, realized that even though the apartment was warm, his hands were icy. Not now! He put them under his thighs. He imagined Gabrielle in a half-open dressing gown.

  She came back into the room. She was naked, a glass in her hand, and completely naked, her hair undone, she walked toward him. He had a moment of panic, took refuge in a thought, she practiced dance . . . She moved to the left, placed her glass on the side table, opened a large phonograph. She had two lovely dimples on her lower back. He took his hands out from underneath his thighs. They were just as cold; this wasn’t the time . . . From the phonograph there came the voice of a woman, German, a wrathful woman. He didn’t know how to look at Gabrielle. He tried to summon his desire, glanced at the Buddha, who must have seen a thing or two. He looked back at Gabrielle. She had turned around. She was smiling like the Buddha, but her eyes were wide open. He couldn’t hold her gaze. The singer was singing Wagner, Willkommen ungetreuer Mann. She had put that on on purpose. He didn’t dare look at her breasts. He looked high up on the wall behind her, telling himself to stop looking at the wall. She was naked, anything but that. He wondered what was happening to him, the height of intimacy and you’re not doing anything? Stand up? Go to her? Wait for her to come to you? Welcome you disloyal man, the anger of Venus in Tannhäuser, who was that singer? You could ask her since you are here, and the name of the conductor with—that nude, it was insane, Wagner, she had done it on purpose, the guy who is not impressing his Venus. How do you seduce a naked woman? A hooker would already be in action. Get up, take her, bend her, that’s what she’s waiting for, but you don’t even want to, never done such a thing, too much light, all these lamps, it’s like daylight, I’ll have to undress. What the hell is she doing? Gabrielle had gone behind the large vase of birds of paradise. They left traces of orange and purple on her white skin. She picked off a wilted flower using her nails. He realized that she had been talking about flowers for a moment, about the fragility of plants in the winter. She’s mocking me. Venus’s anger had come to an end. She went to remove the needle from the phonograph, went back in front of the vase. He forced himself to say something, about plants. I’m a moron. Leave, leave telling her you are at the wrong address. Gabrielle naked. He had no desire, and cold hands. She passed next to him. He almost took hold of her hand, but the time it took him to decide to do it, the hand had disappeared. Gabrielle went back to the bathroom. Two dimples on her lower back. Join her? He shook himself. Naked or not, I’m getting up and taking her. But I feel nothing, nothing I can do, or it’s too quick.

  Gabrielle again in the doorframe, with a basin of steaming water in her hands. She placed it in front of the other armchair, turning her back to Ganthier, the dimples, firm buttocks, fleshy, the royal rear guard in the battles of pleasure, Verlaine. I don’t feel a thing. She stood up, turned, sat down, slowly put her feet in the water, saying, “It’s boiling,” with a moan of pleasure. If she asks me if I want a basin, too, I’ll slap her. He felt himself blushing, which happened only very rarely, and never in intimate moments. He was angry at himself, blushed even more. Leave while blushing, that would look great. He heard the voice of a woman saying, “He was afraid, he ran away.” She’s playing with me. She’s beautiful, don’t sneak looks at her, like a schoolboy: look at her the way I would look at a statue. There, the breasts, the beautiful areolae, breasts held high, hanging gently from their weight, a pretty weight, a beautiful springboard. He followed the beautiful springboard with his eyes to the nipple, then the roundness back around, joining the thorax, she knows all that.

  After an eternity she pushed the basin away, wiped her feet, tucked her legs under her, and started talking about the weather, the cold snap, the rise of the Seine. She shivered: “Be a dear, would you mind getting my pajamas? They’re hanging in the bathroom behind the door,” Ganthier got up, happy that he was being told what to do. He heard her voice behind him: “They’re light gray, and my slippers should be in front of the bathtub, they have white fur trim!” He returned. She was standing up. He helped her put on the pajama top. She stayed for a moment facing him. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She pulled away to put on the bottoms. She looked at him sweetly. She slowly tied the cord of the pajamas. He felt better, the pajamas looked good on Gabrielle, they were a bit big for her. His desire returned. Playful, casual, he wanted to untie the cord of the bottoms. He followed her, placed his lips on her neck. She turned around: “So, it’s back? Is it my pajamas? Do you want to keep them for the night?” In the same tone he said: “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting myself.” He looked at her in the eyes, took one of the brown locks of hair between his index and middle fingers. She didn’t react. He let go of the hair. His hand descended down Gabrielle’s back. She took his hand, brought it back between them. Her look was cold. He was afraid of a “now leave.” He went back to sit on the sofa, assumed a humble air, held his hands out to her: “Can we make peace?”

  She sat down on the sofa.

  “I’m very clumsy, a tru
e king of bad timing.”

  She smiled. He took her hand. She pulled it back, asking:

  “Why did you come to Paris? Business or politics? In Nahbès you appeared to be the most perverse colonial in the country.” She was teasing him. Perverse colonial, it certainly describes you this evening, but good, she wasn’t throwing him out. He didn’t know how long the confrontation lasted, a struggle of so many seconds, a hand that he took, that didn’t resist, but Gabrielle used the hand-holding to block any attempt to go further, a kiss on the forehead that brought him no reprisals, but Gabrielle permitted no others. She resisted, but without throwing him out. She was very strong, but didn’t use her strength. She preferred to say “no” dryly, but she allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders, like a friend, talking about everything, and in a moment he was face to face with the evidence. They were confronting each other, the goat and the wolf. She was making him pay for the jokes at dinner, a series of gestures, without conclusion. She sometimes accepted the progression of a hand, then blocked it. The pajama allowed him to feel the suppleness of her body. He tried to untie the cord. She blocked his hand, and in doing that it landed on her stomach: it was warm. Each time he tried to undo the cord she increased her pressure, and she resisted at the same time with all the strength of her muscles, the stomach of a gymnast, and her eyes fixed with the same hardness, but not chasing him away, all of that without animosity, without ceasing to talk.

  At one point he needed to take a break. He leaned back slightly, onto the back of the sofa, stretched. She’ll end up giving in; she was looking at him kindly. That was it; he wasn’t going to fail. He was worn out, but now he was sure of what was coming. He just felt very tired . . . He kept her hand in his, scolding himself for having drunk so much, the alcohol making his head heavy . . . He closed his eyes . . .

  When she awakened him with a cup of coffee there was daylight. She was dressed, perfumed. He made a grimace as he stood up. She asked him if it was his back, adding: “Sofas are always terrible.” She didn’t talk about age; her tone was neither sarcastic nor upset. He saw himself in one of the mirrors in the parlor, his suit wrinkled, his face wrinkled, his shoulders drooping, his cheeks already gray, his feet swollen in painful shoes. He tried to act naturally, to leave like a friend who has spent an impromptu night; he could have cried out of rage. She allowed him to save face, asking: “What are we doing this afternoon?”

  “Kathryn wants to go to the movies, she wants to see a German film, Müde Tod—‘Tired Death.’” Gabrielle almost burst out laughing, then:

  “Great, you’ll take care of it? Then I’ll pardon you!” Then in a dryer tone, “Well, maybe.”

  She closed the door. One day he would find out what Gabrielle had confided in Kathryn:

  “I showed him that women are not condemned to modesty. He couldn’t get over it.”

  25

  A TASTE FOR WEALTH

  Despite the smell of olive oil that pervaded the house, Belkhodja continued to visit Si Ahmed, whose door was always open to him. Belkhodja told himself that if the caïd allowed him to come in it was because negotiations hadn’t ended: it would be better another time; it was written in the rhyme of the adage kheira bigheira, like a necessary link between “the best” and “the next time.” He stopped looking for another lender. And Si Ahmed continued to say no. He could have had a servant say he wasn’t at home, but that was Si Ahmed’s strength. He let Belkhodja in. He listened to him. He told him no, sometimes revealed his bad mood, but he listened to him . . . The one who speaks sows, and the one who listens harvests. And Belkhodja returned because he said to himself that in Si Ahmed’s refusal, a door remained ajar. He was confronted with a no, but he remained master of the comings and goings, and of time. Normally, in business a good interlocutor ultimately proposes a solution, because it isn’t right to say no to someone when you’ve known him for a long time and when one has means, he loses his dignity before you; it isn’t worthy to leave him in that state. And it can bring bad luck. “When I say no, it’s no,” is something the French would say, whereas a man of tradition always finds some sort of compensation to offer to balance his refusal. He can as a last resort send you to someone else, with a letter of recommendation. That doesn’t cost a lot, and once you have done that, the one asking can no longer ask you. But Si Ahmed didn’t say a thing. And that could indeed mean that his refusal wasn’t definitive, that he must have several solutions in mind. Sometimes, when there was a lull in the discussion Belkhodja became aware of the chirping of a cricket. He would sometimes say, “It isn’t far away,” hoping Si Ahmed would have a servant get rid of the pest as he would have done at home. But Si Ahmed did nothing; one day he even said: “I sometimes find it annoying, but when I’m alone and it’s too quiet, it’s like the silence of death.”

  Some days, when Belkhodja seemed to be about to give up, the caïd asked him for details about his business, just like that, as if for a negotiation to come, as if it were enough to wait for things to finish happening, and Belkhodja became patient again while telling himself that the one who waits already has more luck than the one who hopes. Then he became worried again, because Si Ahmed’s procrastination was making him more and more upset. The caïd showed no irritation. He opened his door to the merchant, but his face was closed. And Belkhodja began to be afraid. Si Ahmed must have serious problems; he might be ill or ruined. In the end, his business was a closed book. People said he possessed this or that farm, shares in this or that business, a flour mill, fishing boats, livestock, a phosphate company, but no one really knew, and most of his business didn’t go through a store where one could assess the clientele or the merchandise. They thought Si Ahmed was rich because caïds have the reputation of never forgetting themselves. It was even said that his skin had a yellow tint because he slept with his gold, but he could be in dire straits, and the truth, a serious truth, was that the caïd, to refuse a favor to a friend, must have, as the French say, problems.

  There was something else, which Belkhodja hardly dared to admit to himself: Si Ahmed’s son, Raouf . . . Raouf’s problems must have become Si Ahmed’s problems. Money problems and political problems must be coming together. Belkhodja had gone too far in his denunciation of the son; it was badly played. He should have been content with vague accusations, a young man with nationalist tendencies, who late in the night spoke careless words, but the merchant had wanted to shine in front of the police in the capital. He had spoken about communist sympathies: the caïd’s son was the friend of the man named David Chemla, a Bolshevist student, and Raouf read L’Humanité at the home of his former teacher, another communist, but untouchable, wounded during the Great War.

  The police had remained unimpressed. To wake them up Belkhodja had added that Raouf also frequented people who regularly went to Egypt and Turkey, and that seemed to be of interest to them: Were those people received in the caïd’s house? And David Chemla, did he happen to meet up with nationalists? With Raouf? Belkhodja responded that he didn’t know but that he was going to find out. One of the French police had then wondered if there might not also be some double-dealing going on by the father of the young man, a Francophile caïd in the morning, a vicious nationalist in the evening. Belkhodja regretted not denying that last hypothesis, not simply responding to other harmless questions about Si Ahmed, and now everything was coming back to haunt him, the fruit had broken the branch! Si Ahmed—and not only his son—must now have some real problems, among which money wasn’t the most serious. A caïd is appointed and removed with the stroke of a pen, and he can be the object of an investigation into corruption, with the confiscation of his property. The day was perhaps near when Si Ahmed would say to Belkhodja that it is difficult for a dead man to help a sick one.

  For a few days, Belkhodja was really afraid. If the French in the capital really went after the caïd, he would no longer be able to help him. He was, however, Belkhodja’s only lifeline, that’s what he had been told repeatedly. He was ashamed of the place w
here he had been told that, of the person who, in the shadows, had pointed out Si Ahmed to him as his last resort, a piece of advice that was well worth the money he spent to get it, “your one and only lifeline.” To obtain that advice Belkhodja had gone sixty miles north of Nahbès, in the very heart of the medina of Ghouraq. He had crossed a space filled with huge nettles that revealed the stelae of forgotten graves. He found himself in a room with walls covered with flags of faded silk from mosques, amulets, talismans, dried and blackened toads and chameleons, and others that were still alive, attached to strings, and there, in an alcove strewn with pillows, an enormous woman, squatting, facing the door, had greeted him. On a tray in front of her several rag dolls were lined up: potbellied sultans, black-skinned genies, houris with well-rounded hips, warriors with their throats slit. These were the messengers who would put the fortune-teller in touch with the good or evil spirits of the astral plane, and that woman, after an hour of incantations, fumigations, turning of cards and manipulation of dolls, had told him: “It is in your town that your one and only salvation resides, an old acquaintance and a powerful man.” Nothing else. And yet Si Ahmed, the powerful man, refused to help Belkhodja. He was clearly going through a rough patch. Belkhodja remembered the caïd had himself mentioned the time when he would no longer be caïd. A rumor of political disgrace must have reached certain creditors; it might be debts that were weakening the notable.