The Influence Peddlers

by Hedi Kaddour

  Part III

  ONE YEAR LATER: NAHBÈS, JUNE 1924

  36

  A TRUE FOX

  The Americans didn’t return in six months, rather the following year, at the end of June, and this time without McGhill, the producers’ snitch. In the meantime, Neil Daintree had filmed three successful westerns. He was now back to finish Warrior of the Sands and counted on this stay to find a subject for a film that would be more distinctive than the endless stories of sheikhs. When they arrived Raouf had just returned from Paris, where he had completed his first year of law school. Neil was extremely friendly toward him, and they began to give each other lessons in Arabic and English. Gabrielle Conti was also there because she had decided that summer should be spent in the sun with people who liked you fairly well. Something had changed in her relationship with Ganthier. “What’s going on with you and him?” Kathryn had asked. Gabrielle found the question very American and managed to dodge it. In any case she didn’t really know, herself. She was discovering many more qualities in Ganthier, but she was savvy enough to realize that it was because he was showing less interest in her, and perhaps because he was more muscular than the men she met in Paris. Rania was happy to see her friends again. She kept repeating to herself, I am beautiful . . . I have rights . . . and became angry with herself for having such pitiful thoughts. Kathryn found Raouf’s features to be more drawn, his voice hardened. In Berlin they had managed to part with a smile, and neither of them wanted to bring up Metilda or Wiesner. There was some distance between them, but it was good to see each other. Kathryn still would have liked to know how things stood between him and Metilda.

  Raouf and Ganthier resumed their confrontations, which were no longer as harsh. Ganthier seemed less “preponderant” than before, and Raouf seemed to have given up revolution for the time being. “Law school is to blame,” said the colonist, “It makes you patient, so many things that have to line up just so if you want them to work.” Raouf found Ganthier melancholic, and he refrained from telling him that he seemed to have aged. “I’m at that age when you reread things,” said Ganthier. He had also started reading a Muslim mystic, and he was even trying to translate the text, which led to more discussions with Raouf. “No,” said Raouf, “don’t translate qids as ‘saint,’ that’s too cloying, too pietist. Qids is foremost the ‘sacred,’ Hallaj isn’t a curé at Saint-Sulpice!”

  To celebrate their return to Nahbès the Americans offered to arrange a free outdoor film screening for everyone in the town. Marfaing found the idea interesting. One had to move with the times, “The natives, you understand, if you inject them with small doses of modernity, electricity, cars, movies, they will end up working with you. Some, at least, the modern ones, they’ll break with the fanatics who prohibit images, and that will keep the moderns from being supported by the fanatics!” As soon as they heard about the screening the leaders of the Prépondérants, Pagnon and Jacques Doly, the lawyer, made it known to the contrôleur civil that they were not in favor of it, and Colonel Audibert, the local commanding officer, was also reticent, the crowds . . . overflowing . . . Marfaing responded that overflowing crowds when you know how to control them are fine; a few knocks on the head with rifle butts by the greatest army in the world are a wonderful preventative measure. Marfaing emphasized his cynicism to show the officers that he was not just a bleeding heart. The colonel said that Daintree was wilier than he seemed, that they were playing with fire, and Marfaing replied, pointing his finger upward, his eyes wide open: “I’m stealing the fire! And I’m making history!”

  In making history he was also making his mistress, Thérèse Pagnon, very happy. She was dying to see a film with Francis Cavarro in it. Daintree had one, which took place during the French Revolution, Scaradère, an odd name. Yes, Daintree had said, the producers felt that if they mixed Scaramouche and Lagardère that would bring in more people. Marfaing was hesitant, the Revolution . . . Daintree said that it was the first part of the Revolution, 1789, the Bastille, the people united, and the message that great France is sending to the entire world, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, the Enlightenment.

  “So, dear Neil,” Marfaing had said, “a film to enlighten, not to encourage fanatics, correct?”

  Neil had liked that idea. He showed excerpts to Marfaing—stupid landowners, an apathetic and spineless king, young people filled with good intentions, lots of love scenes—that might work, with a majority of Europeans in the audience, handpicked natives, a nicely contained evening, the Enlightenment, the first revolution, the one that Édouard Herriot, the new head of the French government, liked. Marfaing would show that he could be a good servant of a government of the left, perhaps even replace the resident general, whom Paris had never pardoned for the events of 1922.

  They gave themselves a week to prepare. As a distraction, Ganthier took Neil some twenty miles out of Nahbès: Let’s go where there aren’t any tourists, or women, a “man outing.” No, we’re not going to a brothel, but I’m not going to tell you, you’ll see. They drove at a good clip under a sun that turned everything gray and ocher. There was no vegetation except for a few ashy plants; it was geology in a pure state. At one point an enormous structure in the shape of a broken arch arose out of the ground, parallel to the road.

  “Keep looking,” said Ganthier, “In ten minutes we’re going to see the other piece. They were separated a long time ago, but you can tell they were together once . . .”

  Their conversation was filled with innuendoes, Neil trying to find out what had happened in Germany, without asking too many questions about Raouf, or about Wiesner, some jovial questions that fooled no one. Ganthier thought: What bothers him is not that his wife slept with a German filmmaker, it’s that she wants to work under that guy’s direction, and that she adds, as she did yesterday in front of everyone, It could be a true work of art! And does he know about Raouf? He might suspect something, or he might not want to know, no, he must know, what’s ironic is that he must have found out just when it was over, and our two lovebirds don’t seem to have resumed their habits at Gabrielle’s, a page has turned, perhaps, or maybe Kathryn went back to France this year, two lovers under the roofs of Paris, and if I ask Neil about what trips Kathryn took that will give him ideas, Raouf should still be careful, jealousy doesn’t have to be right to explode.

  They finally reached their destination, Ganthier’s car rolling into a douar with houses low to the ground all bunched together. They had to park, get out, walk in a mixture of sand, dust, and loose stones to a deserted square. Neil realized that in fact people were around, but on rooftops. The village chief greeted Ganthier, who said to Neil:

  “I brought his youngest son to my farm. He can’t leave much to him, so with what he is learning with me, the boy will be able to have a small farm of his own one day, he’s a good worker.”

  They were seated on a rooftop protected from the sun by an awning made of reeds. The square remained deserted until a camel, preceded by baleful cries, was suddenly led in. In fact, said Ganthier, it’s a female camel, in heat. The man who was holding the camel by its bridle was walking it around the square. They heard more cries in the distance. Yes, the cries of a camel, there are males close by, Ganthier said, but for the moment they’re making them wait. Neil asked, laughing, if they had driven through the dust for two hours to watch camels screw. Ganthier said you must be patient, it isn’t exactly what you might expect, you’ll see, it’s educational. Their host came to sit down on the banquette next to Ganthier. He served them steaming, frothy tea, which they drank down, talking about the harvest, livestock, difficult times for honest folk, the Master of the two worlds who holds everything in his power, and the village chief made a gesture with his hand. Another camel entered the square, larger, stronger, and the female camel was already placing her tail on her side.

  It took several men to hold the male camel. He bellowed, reared up, an almost uncontrollable mass, and all around people were also shouting. Then the men tried in vain to dra
g the male outside the square. They took the female away, and the male finally gave up under the blows of a stick. Around the deserted square only the shouting of humans could be heard. The female camel returned. She tried to follow the scent of the male but was held back. “Do people really enjoy watching frustrated animals?” Neil asked.

  The male returned to the square.

  “No,” said Ganthier, “That’s not the same one, he’s smaller, they shouldn’t have chosen a smaller one.” And again the female moved her tail, the smaller male proving to be just as difficult to handle as the bigger one, and shouting from all sides, shouting like at an auction, bills and coins going from hand to hand, the male then led out of the square, the female remaining alone.

  “That sack that’s hanging out from the males’ lower lip,” asked Neil, “Is that a wound?”

  “You’re observant,” said Ganthier, “No, it’s the sack that stores water. Normally it’s on the inside.”

  Neil asked if it had been pulled outside. Ganthier said:

  “The people aren’t as sadistic as you’re implying! It comes out naturally, do you hear that noise? A real balloon . . . There is only air inside, there’s no more water, a sack that expands and contracts, with that strange chirping. The sack moves up from their throat through the larynx because it’s dry. No, they aren’t prevented from drinking. In fact, the camel doesn’t want to drink. He could if he wanted, but that idiot over there doesn’t want to swallow a thing until he has satisfied a need more pressing than thirst. You saw how they were also drooling, like sick animals, and their eyes are baleful. Yes, all of that comes from the need to screw, the sack, the baleful look, drool, the noise of a balloon. Those lovesick idiots go on a true thirst strike until they’ve found a female. It’s good old Mother Nature who has perfected this to force camels to perpetuate the species. Do you want something to drink? First you screw. And that makes them violent. They lash out, they bite, they are muzzled; that makes them even worse. With humans it’s when they drink that they become violent; with camels it’s the opposite. Yes, they will fight, thanks to the genius of men, because normally camels don’t fight just for the sake of fighting. English dogs will kill each other at any hour of the day, but not camels. The camel is not a wild beast, he has to have reasons, and good ones, and he doesn’t have to be whipped into a frenzy the way dogs do. They bring it to him on a platter. They present the female to the first camel, then take him aside, just enough to get his blood heated, etc., and then they bring in the second camel, present him to the lady, who is beginning to get impatient, and presto, they bring in the first male again, who is also full of ardor, and it will begin. This is when the owners and the bettors can lose their burnooses. Watch, it’s getting serious, the two males both in front of the lady. The second one is really smaller, that’s not normal, yet this isn’t a village that has the reputation for rigging fights . . . You can see how things are heating up between the rivals. They’re sizing each other up, making noise, and now the lady is gone; our two males are face to face.” Ganthier dared to say: “In the same situation two modern men would find a way to work things out . . . every other day, for example . . . a compromise.” Neil added, without laughing:

  “Compromise is what distinguishes us from animals. It enables us to continue to work together.”

  “There—they’ve begun!” said Ganthier.

  On the square it was like hand-to-hand combat, shoulders knocking, chests pounding, hooves kicking . . .

  “That’s to intimidate,” said Ganthier, “There’s more, watch, the big one is trying to grab the other’s neck, and the other one is breaking away, biting. Yes, a camel bite really hurts, and you see how the sack is becoming purple? And the gushing foam? Oh, his neck is caught again, clearly the big one is the strongest in this contest!”

  The smaller camel was biting from below to prevent the other one from catching hold, and was bitten in turn, another neck hold by the big one, missed, the two animals backing off, then charging each other, their crashing bodies making dull thuds. After a while the smaller camel gave up, lowered his head, accepted the other’s domination. Was the battle over?

  “No,” said Ganthier, “He isn’t giving up, he’s staying. He’s weaker but he’s not a coward!”

  “Do they fight to the death?” asked Neil. Ganthier didn’t reply. The weaker camel was still in the fight, but its neck was lowered toward the ground.

  “It looks like he’s submitting,” said Neil.

  “Yes, but he isn’t. When it submits it leaves the square. It’s crazy, this is the first time I’ve seen something like this. Those neck holds are their main weapon: supported by the legs, all their strength goes through the chest and the neck; the neck is both an arm, a trunk like an elephant’s, and a snake, there you go!”

  The bigger one stuck out its neck, wrapping it like a trunk around the other’s neck.

  “He’s trying to choke it, he’s going for the kill,” said Ganthier. The other wasn’t even trying to bite anymore. His knees buckled under the attack. In the audience very few people seemed unhappy; most must have bet on the bigger one.

  “This is unusual,” Ganthier said under his breath.

  Then, using all the strength in his camel legs, the small one suddenly sprang up and tossed the big one into the air, almost a ton of huge camel six feet off the ground, and it fell on its hump, legs in the air in a cloud of dust. The strangler then became the strangled.

  “Now it’s the big one who has taken a fall,” said Ganthier, “He has fallen on a true fox!”

  The true fox now fell onto the body of the big one. He dug in a hoof, his head, his jaw. The other’s cries became louder and louder; blood flowed out of his stomach. He kicked his hooves and threw his neck in every direction but couldn’t find a hold.

  “A camel without purchase is finished,” said Ganthier.

  “Why is the smaller one standing up?” asked Neil, “Does he think he’s won?”

  “No, a ruse within the ruse, look!”

  The small one had placed the big one’s head between its hooves, and the big one’s blood began to spurt out of its ears and nostrils. It kicked its legs, in vain; its movements became weaker.

  “He’s going to finish him off,” said Neil.

  Death cries now, it was over. Men rushed over, pulled the winner off.

  “They won’t let him die,” said Ganthier, “A nice big male costs too much!”

  The defeated one got up shakily onto its feet and limped off, dripping drool and blood. The winner was celebrated, a silk blanket, ululations . . .

  “He couldn’t care less about the ululations,” said Ganthier, “He’s only thinking about the female. He’ll drink only afterward, and the sack will go back into his throat.”

  Around them money was again circulating. Neil tried to pick out the losers by their faces.

  “I won,” said Ganthier.

  “I didn’t see you make a bet.”

  “The village chief bet for me, not a lot, but it allows him not to feel indebted to me, and I accept his money so as not to offend him.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?

  “No, it doesn’t even pay for a can of gas, he knows that, and he knows that I know, hakda l’hayat, that’s life.”

  On the way back to Nahbès, Neil told Ganthier that he would like to stage a camel fight in his next film:

  “If I find the right subject . . . That fight, those ballooning sacks, those bets of a few francs, it’s both dramatic and grotesque, difficult to do, but it would be worth it,” he added, thinking, I also know why you wanted me to see that fight between males, but you don’t have to worry about your friend Raouf.

  After a while, Ganthier took a side road on their right, a narrow road that suddenly pitched downward, turning into a path with ruts and large stones. They had turned onto a rocky, narrow path, and suddenly there was a coolness of greenery and shadow, large palms opening up the landscape, banana trees, lots of grass, a network of small i
rrigation ditches, an occasional pool with white lights on the surface of the water and on the wings of the dragonflies. There were also pomegranate trees and plants low to the ground, tomatoes, melons, barley, a few men working on the ditches, a man slowly coming down from a palm after cutting a bunch of perfect, brilliantly brown dates. They greeted the man from afar:

  “Let’s not go any closer,” Ganthier said, “He’ll feel obliged to give us his dates.”

  Neil sat down on the edge of a water tank, took out a notebook, a box of paint, a brush . . . He was sorry that Kathryn wasn’t there. It was in such moments that he felt he was still in love with her.

  After some time he joined Ganthier and said:

  “This is rare!” And Ganthier:

  “The watercolorist is a thief!”

  Not far away there were some low houses the color of the earth. They greeted another man who was working in the sun. He was kneading a damp mixture of clay and straw, and was putting it into small, horizontal wooden frames.

  “For bricks of dried earth,” said Ganthier, “They’re fragile, crumbly, have to be replaced all the time. Here they never stop making them, and making more of them, as they did twenty centuries ago. That man learned the profession from his father, who himself . . . They say these people are lazy, but they work all the time, if they stop they starve, come on!”

  They arrived in front of a circular basin, partly carved out of the rock. The back wall had a mosaic on it, a banquet scene, but the central part was missing.

  “Hot springs,” said Ganthier, “The Romans made baths out of them, and maybe something else. On the left there’s a phallus engraved on a low wall, that’s what attracts tourists . . .”

  As they were leaving the oasis, they encountered a group of English tourists who were enchanted with the faces and eyes of the children whose photo they were trying to take. A slightly older girl forced the others to go into one of the houses, and as she was going in behind the others, she turned around and spit in the tourists’ direction.