by Hedi Kaddour
Songs had followed the shouting, a cacophony, no song louder than another.
“I would have thought that they would know how to sing in chorus here,” said Kathryn. As if in a reply to the songs, the shouts of the officers provoked a clanging of metal, bayonets placed on gun barrels, shouts of indignation blending with the songs, the demonstrators tightening their ranks. A song suddenly rang out above the others. Gabrielle said:
“It’s ‘Die Wacht am Rhein,’ ‘The Guard over the Rhine’ . . .” In the background they also heard snippets of “L’Internationale.” Ganthier stepped back, he saw Raouf and the two women from the back. He took a piece of paper from his pocket:
“The Boches are acting brave, but it’s skin-deep courage, they know what’s coming!” He folded the paper. It was a bilingual proclamation from the French command, in large, bold type, the promise of summary shootings for any gathering, and the death penalty for any act of sabotage, with or without victims, and curfew at five in the evening. Ganthier chuckling:
“Ach! Gone are the five-to-sevens, you realize, the lover excited by what he’s going to do with his sweetheart, he rings at Frau So-and-So’s, at five after five, and bang! He gets shot in the back, like a vulgar saboteur!” Ganthier’s voice was set against all the lovers in the country. He again looked through the shutters, and muttered: “We are going to create a few cadavers . . .”
And suddenly there was only one song, which silenced all the others, a tune that was even more militaristic, “La Marseillaise.” The French soldiers were responding, the beautiful four-count rising of “La Marseillaise,” a true chorus. The Patrie was silencing the Vaterland, “Allons enfants” . . . No . . . It was the Germans, not the French soldiers who were singing, but the civilians, what could resemble “La Marseillaise”? A song from the nineteenth century?
“No, it really is ‘La Marseillaise,’ in German,” said Gabrielle. She had begun to translate, Kinder des Vaterlands, enfants de la patrie, Tyrannei blutiges Banner . . . l’étendard sanglant . . . The Germans had already sung “La Marseillaise” against their kings and princes in 1848, but this time they were singing it against the French, loudly, in voices that became increasingly harmonious. The people didn’t advance. They sang while stomping their feet on the paving stones. Raouf started to laugh:
“A song against tyranny? Today? In the great French empire? They have to stop it right away!” Facing the civilians, the soldiers were becoming agitated. A voice shouted, “Bastards!” another, “We’ll stick your ‘Marseillaise’ up your ass!” An officer shouted in turn. The soldiers were quiet. Opposite, the demonstrators were at the refrain, Zu den Waffen . . . while stomping on the ground even harder. The shouts of officers, followed by mechanical sounds, then a rumbling, a sort of huge, gray metal coffin appeared, on four wheels, mounted on the back with a wall pierced with two horizontal slits that framed a black tube aiming forward, an armored car similar to those that one sometimes saw emerge from the barracks in Nahbès used for patrolling in the south.
“This will be our greatest success,” said Gabrielle, “Germans who sing ‘La Marseillaise’ five years after victory!”
She looked outside, a hand resting on Kathryn’s shoulder, Raouf saying that she was trying out phrases for her article. She continued:
“The Germans are singing the revolution that we are no longer fighting for!”
Raouf asked her whether she believed that the Germans were really going to revolt. Ganthier responded:
“They better not . . . and by the way, why do you find them so interesting?”
“They are resisting a foreign occupation . . . Will you denounce me if I admit that this morning I feel a bit German?”
“Oh, if you’d like, you can even go down to the street, shout with them. Do you know how they say ‘an impossible task’ here? They say ‘washing a Moor,’ we’ll see what kind of fate they have in store for you!”
From the square there now rose up the sounds of a clarion, and Ganthier, while watching through the gap:
“Don’t forget that you will also be a great agent provocateur!”
The soldiers were advancing, one, then two steps. Gabrielle was writing in her notebook. Opposite the soldiers, the demonstrators were pressed even more tightly together. Raouf didn’t understand. The soldiers were going to shoot; those men should be spaced apart.
“Yes,” said Ganthier, “but in battle the shoulder of a comrade helps you to stay.”
“They’re going to get themselves killed, why?” asked Kathryn. Ganthier responded that it was to forget that they had been defeated.
“No,” said Gabrielle, “It’s because they don’t want to be the only ones to pay for a war that everyone wanted.”
“You can demonstrate when you’re powerless. At home in Nahbès it’s called a valiant last stand!” Ganthier had made a point of saying at home to upset Raouf.
They had to prevent Kathryn from going down to the square. Another song rose up, the “Deutschland über Alles.” Ganthier saying:
“Look, they’re stepping back, they’re singing their hymn to be able to retreat. Your resisters are leaving, they’re disappearing like water down a drain!”
“They’re right,” said Gabrielle, “The living are becoming rare.”
The civilians were leaving the square while singing, some waving their fists at the armored car. Raouf said to Ganthier:
“This occupation is more pleasant for you than war. This time they don’t have an army.”
“Yes,” Ganthier responded, “and that cost us a great deal, now they have to pay!” His hand had cut through the air. He wasn’t looking at Gabrielle, but he knew that she was listening. While talking to Raouf, it was she whom he wanted to confront.
30
FOR AN ORCHARD
In Nahbès, Belkhodja had long believed that Si Ahmed would be his lucky charm, and now he himself had become the lucky charm of Si Ahmed: he could state his conditions. Si Ahmed was happy to tell the story of his oil, like a devotee of love tells of the body of his sweetheart. Belkhodja didn’t dare shake his head; rather he did it in small movements, as a sign of well-meaning surprise, but for him it was impossible to imagine devoting as much time and as many scruples to details that no one would notice, the finesse of the crushing, the weight of the grindstone, the quality of the mule, the pressing filters, and the quality of the arms of the men at the press! The French have an expression for that, and in his head Belkhodja asked pardon from God for using such an expression, but it described well what Si Ahmed was making, “jam for pigs.” In fact, he didn’t use those words in front of the caïd, or in front of anyone else, he just thought them, just before excusing himself before God, and that gave him the contemptuous strength to do all the calculations that resulted in Si Ahmed always being the loser, a loss that earned him his title of pig provider. While listening to the caïd Belkhodja reflected, Buy all that oil, a six-month note, he’ll agree, he needs the money, just like me, more than I do, he has to pay for his car, if he gives it up he’ll lose his financial status, whereas today he is a man who can still buy at auction with a fluttering of his eyelids, and then there are his son’s problems, the trip to Europe so that jackal can return with a new coat, that takes money. Belkhodja held Si Ahmed in his hand. He just had to negotiate the note well.
One day he dared ask the caïd if he expected to sell his oil; Si Ahmed’s strength lay in not letting a response wait too long, for there is always a moment in business when you must give the other a foretaste of victory, so that he doesn’t become tired of his dreams and begin to do real calculations.
“Perhaps,” replied Si Ahmed, with a distracted look, “Times are difficult.”
It was a half-admission. Belkhodja’s hypothesis was correct. If the caïd sold in the wholesale market he wouldn’t make a large profit, and he probably already had one or two creditors in that market. He was tired; he wouldn’t have the patience to sell retail. He had to pay for his son’s trip and the baksheesh t
o the French police, and the car, and if he started to sell retail everyone would say that his affairs were not going very well.
Belkhodja had spent several days researching the market, wholesale oil, retail, how much the best oil sold for in stores, in one-gallon cans, how much it would cost to put one gallon in cans. How much would a grocer pay for twenty cans, or even bottles, a gallon, no three-quarters, like wine, the price of a gallon: how much did a bottle cost? The bottle was more complicated but had a much better return, and why not go up north, to Ghouraq, two trucks. He could do some very good business, two large trucks of ghemlali, put it into bottles in Ghouraq, or go directly to the capital, with the stock, put it in bottles there—Si Ahmed had said so—the prices there were excellent. One or two months of selling it retail in the capital and Belkhodja would pay off both his debts and Si Ahmed, or even conclude a deal with the Transméditerranéenne. Sell it all to the Transméditerranéenne, with a decent commission to the head of the kitchens: that was even better, yes, and why not sell in France? Belkhodja returned to see Si Ahmed. He was excited. He had begun to act like a French businessman on the continent; he had jumped some steps, with the excitement of the crazed. At the last moment he had shortened the period of reimbursement, a note for three months, and brought up a friend’s price. Si Ahmed acted as if he hadn’t heard a word.
A few days later Belkhodja came back to renew his offer. He sat across from Si Ahmed. He had decided not to watch the caïd’s face and most often stared at one of the white walls of the room. He forced himself to appear as someone who lets his calculations argue for him. He was indeed going to spare Si Ahmed any concerns—a note at zero percent, between good Muslims, and his house as collateral, it was good collateral—and Si Ahmed had the strength to respond:
“No, I will never accept the house! When one takes the house that means there is no confidence!”
And in the silence that followed, Belkhodja understood that he was going to win; they were talking about confidence. Si Ahmed had the rope around his neck, but suddenly he said:
“Cursed is he who deprives a family of its roof!”
Another silence, and Belkhodja was afraid. He stopped calculating. Si Ahmed had repeated cursed, and he didn’t sound like someone who was going to calm down and conclude a deal. He was leaning on his fear of punishment from On High to refuse him. Belkhodja began to panic. The caïd didn’t have the reputation of being a pious man, but when an impious one begins to fear God he fears him ten times more than any honest believer. Si Ahmed was suggesting that he make the pilgrimage:
“You should return to what’s essential, purify yourself, vis-à-vis Him (pointing at the ceiling). No one will be able to take aim at your business during your pilgrimage.”
Belkhodja found the idea of a pilgrimage insulting; he wasn’t that old. He was angry at the caïd. He decided to speed things up. He brought out his final proposal: his orchard, half his orchard, an orchard of one hundred acres, planted in squares, well-spaced trees, two wells, ample irrigation that not a piece of ground escaped, and the large hedge of poplars that stood guard against the wind from the sea, the last thing that still made him a man of worth. He had sworn to his father that he would never give it up, but collateral is not a sale, not the house, but half the orchard, four times the worth of the house.
“You’re really ready to put up the family trees?”
There was concern in Si Ahmed’s voice. Belkhodja didn’t like that. He stood up. There was nothing else he could do, too bad. At least he was going to stop being shaken around like the tail of a rooster. He was going to sink into his debt. They would seize all his property in any case, house and orchard, and the caïd would fall, as well. They would both find themselves begging, whereas a well-concluded deal would have enabled each of them to escape, mektub! Si Ahmed accompanied Belkhodja to the door of his house, doing nothing to hold him back, adding on the threshold, his face somber:
“If I helped you it would be . . . Can you swear to me that it would be the last time?”
Before realizing what he was doing, Belkhodja swore on the head of his ancestors whose trees he was putting up as collateral, and he was finally able to come to a price, the quantity of oil and total price, strike hard, something between the wholesale price and the retail price, and Si Ahmed’s face darkened, his chin moved, from left to right. He didn’t say no. He spoke about his oil again, the first pressing. Belkhodja asked how much he had. Si Ahmed didn’t know exactly, two hundred fifty, three hundred cans, but he would count them that very evening. Belkhodja asked if they could plan on four hundred fifteen-gallon cans, all at once, six thousand gallons, the supply for all the ships and hotels of the Transméditerranéenne at the highest price for two years.
Si Ahmed didn’t say no, but he became as slippery as a fish covered with his oil, and Belkhodja heard himself proposing a note of twenty-two thousand francs. “No!” Si Ahmed said. Belkhodja didn’t know what to do. At twenty thousand it was already too much; he would have to go to Paris to make enough profit; he had offered that sum while regretting it. Perhaps Si Ahmed’s hardness was a sign from destiny, a door that destiny opened to Belkhodja to pull him from the trap into which he was falling, because at the moment when he had proposed those twenty-two thousand he knew he wouldn’t be able to reimburse that debt with the profit, even if he sold by the bottle, at the best price, and by mixing a little. Even someone who did the accounting all alone could see a flash of truth, and it was a crazy offer. Any number above seventeen thousand was crazy, or the Transméditerranéenne, long negotiations, and he would have money for himself only by not reimbursing his smallest creditors. Belkhodja had as quickly as possible to get out of this madness, but he saw himself in the capital, with new clothes, doing new business. Of course the oil wouldn’t be enough, but it would open the doors to business again. He had to count on the profit that would come from other business, Germans, great buyers of rugs: he would get out of his debt through them. He had to get to the capital as soon as possible—the Transméditerranéenne, or an agreement with Marseille, no, Paris, directly, a half-wholesale sale in Paris, the Paris fair! That could increase his profit twofold, almost, but there were all the uncertainties of transporting it. Twenty thousand, that could be doable. No, it was still too much: why had he offered that sum? The merchant sensed his ruse escaping him. He had to renegotiate. He stood up, said good-bye. He had to let a night go by and start afresh on new foundations, six thousand less, and Si Ahmed, on the threshold, took him by the shoulders and said:
“Okay, agreed, twenty-two thousand! You know why? Because we’ve known each other for close to twenty-two years, and also because you were there at my son’s birth!” Si Ahmed’s eyes were shining with emotion. The sheep had walked into the oven by itself.
Belkhodja had been afraid to lose, but now his victory frightened him. He almost didn’t react when Si Ahmed pointed out that the collateral would include the entire orchard, so as not to tempt the devil, he had added. Belkhodja understood that in Si Ahmed’s mind the devil might whisper to the debtor that he wouldn’t need to reimburse him, that taking half an orchard was not that serious. Si Ahmed also hastened to admit that he had to be careful, and so it was a good deal. He wasn’t lying, but he was selling high, not really that high, the best oil; Belkhodja now only felt the end of his efforts. By selling carefully he would have a good price, not to mention the profit that he would then earn from the sale of rugs.
The desire to get back into commerce and resume his dreams won over Belkhodja, as did the desire to sell as soon as possible, to be in the capital without further delay, good sales of oil and rugs on the first day, the feel of new bills in his hands, and at night, walking in the darkness, dreams and ships to launch on the seas, for real this time. He above all needed money. Even if, in Nahbès, even on the retail market, oil, even of that quality, didn’t go above sixty centimes a quart, he needed money as soon as possible. Belkhodja thought only of victory, not its cost; he took away Si Ahmed’s c
ans in the night, two trucks, and he sold several dozen cans in Nahbès, at the auction the next day, enough to pay for renting the trucks to quickly go up north and make a splash, and he was about to set off with his trucks when a buyer proposed to buy the whole lot, wholesale! He showed his wad of cash to Belkhodja. He lived in Ghouraq, a city to the north of Nahbès, fifteen thousand francs, in real bills that rustled in the hands of the man from Ghouraq. Belkhodja started dreaming again, decided to gain a month by not having to put the oil into bottles, eliminate the cost of storage, the haggling, chasing down buyers. This was a gift, to be done with that oil and return as quickly as possible to his rugs and his dreams. What was essential was to pay off the worst debts. As for the rest, if he could get his head above water he would be able to swim to the shore.
He sold the oil to the man from Ghouraq, and that same day, he went to the capital with the fifteen thousand francs in cash. He paid back the most pressing creditors, found his best buyers. His business quickly picked up. He spent a lot. The old dreams returned, as did the new debts he had to take on to stoke them. Things moved along. Belkhodja had some good sales, then some losses, heavy. He still felt the bills rustling, but he had fewer and fewer of them. Catastrophe was slowly arriving. He refused to acknowledge it, and he liked his refusal. He might have been able to react if he hadn’t been tempted by an enjoyment stronger than that of drugs, gambling, dreams, and anguish: that of the imprudent shepherd, the victim of an inundation that he could have prevented, who, himself, tries to drown the last of his animals.