Visions of Isabelle

by William Bayer

  "Tell me–go on."

  "I would wake up in a nomad's tent, and there would be an old woman nursing me, and she wouldn't tell me where I was. And at night a man in a dark cloak would come, his face covered, and he would be silent, too. He would take me away into the desert on his horse, and then I would find myself on the sand, my arms and legs tied to stakes, and he would ravage me and ravage me, and I would grovel and moan, until, finally–"

  "Yes?"

  "Until, finally, he would tear away the cloth from his mouth and I would see..."

  "Yes?"

  "I would see a skull, a gleaming skull, shaped like your face–the face of the man I'd stabbed the night before."

  She stopped, lowered her eyes.

  He gasped, put his hand to his cheek.

  "But this is a fantastic story. I have never heard a story like this."

  "It was one of my dreams when I was running away from you."

  "And there were others?"

  She nodded.

  "Tell me. I want to hear them all."

  She talked on, into the night, weaving tales for him, tales of herself alone in the desert, made out of bits and pieces of Russian nursery stories and parts of novels and even things she invented at the moment she said them, and he listened, fascinated, amazed, his large moist eyes growing big, his pupils reflecting the single flame of her candle until the candle burned out and she stopped. Then he grasped her, kissed her, held onto her for warmth on the cold black sand.

  The next day Slimen Ehnni moved into her little house. Here they lived like husband and wife, he going off each morning to join his regiment, she to the markets of El Oued to shop, and then to a café to chat with people for hours.

  At night they lived a rapturous life. They would ride out into the sand, practice their horsemanship for a time, gallop this way and that, and then explore until, after a month, they knew every garden within a radius of twenty kilometers. Then they would settle near a well, share a pipe of kif, and Slimen, by mutual consent, would ravish her several times with his sturdy zib. Afterward they would lie together like brothers beside a fire of dung. She would run her hands over his hard wiry body, fondle the curly hairs on his chest, play with the ends of his moustache and tell him stories.

  At first his demand for good tales was easy to meet–she invented them, or else framed imagined happenings from their future into romantic sagas in the style of Loti. But as he became more sophisticated and demanded more intricate plots, she relied upon her memories of the Arabian Nights, giving him hours of pleasure with elaborate renditions of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin and his Magic Lamp, and as many as she could remember of the rest. Finally, breathless and hoarse, she would stop, they would fall into sleep in each other's arms, and, at dawn, ride back to El Oued where they would pray and then revive themselves with shots of cheap absinthe that seared their throats.

  Isabelle wanted Slimen to take her roughly, and though this was contrary to his gentle nature, she forced him to it by climbing astride him and daring him to fight. Then he would mount her and ravage her with the hard strokes she liked the best. She wanted to be mastered, ground down, though it was often necessary for her to remind him that this was her desire. Then she would pretend he was a stranger, dark and strong and mean, who used her body to flog the sand, making her scream out beneath the stars.

  "I want to be hurt!" she would shout to him, and though he would protest, she would claw at him until he had no recourse but to pound her to submission with high-pitched cries. Then she would scream, as if with agony, kick about with her feet, writhe beneath him, roll her head, and gulp at the clean cold air. For a time he was mystified by this behavior, but soon learned what she liked and found that he liked it himself, especially since it was only necessary for him to be forceful when they made love. The rest of the time, when they rode or talked or ate, it was she who decided everything.

  Their nocturnal expeditions did not go unnoticed. The French in the Arab Bureau, horrified enough to see a European woman sharing her lodgings with an Arab male, suspected that she had not given up her pursuit of Morès' murderers, and was using Slimen to help track them down. The Arab community was even more suspicious. Her visits to nomad tents, where she taught people to clean wounds, and nursed enflamed eyes, were misunderstood. People said she was a spy, and a few fanatics said she was a kidnapper looking for babies to sell in the Sudan as slaves.

  Isabelle and Slimen made no attempt to discourage these rumors. They welcomed the strange searching looks of their neighbors, and enjoyed deflecting curious questions. They savored their roles as outcasts who shared forbidden pleasures, though their only indulgence was alcohol, in defiance of the prohibitions of the Koran.

  They spoke often of religion, the perfect beauty of their shared faith, and then of the future they would share in El Oued. Slimen had a dream of retiring from the Spahis and running a small grocery. He intended to do some minor smuggling on the side as well. Isabelle was amazed at the modesty of his vision: his imagination, which she treasured for its purity even as she deplored its miniscule size, could conceive of nothing grander than a caravan ten camels long.

  Perhaps, she thought, I love him because of his inferiority. But still, she harbored a great dream for herself: to explore the Sahara as no European had before, ranging in ever-widening circles from her base in El Oued.

  She saw herself riding into oases out of the dawn, materializing in little settlements with science for the sick and sagacity to settle disputes, then riding off again, chased, perhaps, by a few stray children who shouted for her to come back from the fringes of the sand. As the years wore on she would become a legend, and no one would know that in another life she was the wife of little Slimen–ferocious lover, gentle brother–who waited for her always, and to whom she never failed to return.

  At first she believed she possessed everything necessary to accomplish this dream–everything except money, which she was certain the sale of Villa Neuve would gain her in time. But the longer she remained in El Oued, the more clearly she realized that being Islamic was not enough. She needed another key to open the door to Saharan mystery–membership in one of the closed religious sects.

  That no outsider had ever been admitted only hardened her resolution to try. Si Mahmoud, she vowed, would be the first.

  THE SHEIK

  In late autumn, when the great summer heat has passed, and it's possible to ride on the dunes during the day, Isabelle learns of the arrival of Sidi Mohammed Lachmi, sheik of the Kadrya sect. She urges Slimen to join her on a ride to the village of Ourmès where the great holy man is to be met by a multitude of followers and escorted back to El Oued. But Slimen is hesitant, and the night before the arrival, they quarrel for the first time.

  "I'm sorry, Si Mahmoud," he says. "I have my obligations to the army."

  "Send word that you're sick."

  "And then be seen in the procession?"

  "Why not? Are you afraid?"

  "Not afraid. Never! But I can't afford the risk."

  "You're too obedient, Slimen. And your obedience shows a small nature."

  He rises, furious. "And you, Si Mahmoud, you are so grand. How fortunate you're a woman. How sad for me that I serve the French."

  "So," she says, ignoring his sarcasm, "you refuse to go."

  "I will report to my regiment."

  Isabelle, disgusted, rides off before dawn alone.

  She broods over their quarrel the whole distance, telling herself that soft Slimen is an insufficient man, and she is foolish to think he is someone to whom she can devote her life. He's not of my style, she thinks, but then, when she sees the first glimmers of the fires of the Kadrya camp, she is so thrilled that she forgets everything and hastens toward the glow.

  A cold breeze rustles the palm leaves and the black tents of Sidi Lachmi's encampment. Beautiful fringed flags, like the wings of huge prehistoric birds, flap upon their staves. She lingers about the camp, wandering first among groups of spec
tators, then sitting close enough to smell bread baking in the ovens, and the aroma of coffee boiling in kettles on the fires.

  At first light the camp is quickly packed onto camels, and when Sidi Lachmi's escorts begin to mount their horses, Isabelle mounts Souf, too. Fumbling, she lights a cigarette, incapable of removing her eyes from the great pavilioned tent in the center. Four black Tunisian musicians, dressed in silks that glow in the dawn's light, begin to pound upon huge drums made of camel skin stretched taut. Other musicians come forward, shaking tambourines above their heads. Finally, with a grand gesture, a man throws open the flaps of the tent, and the sheik appears, dressed in a long robe of green silk, his head wrapped in a turban.

  Isabelle is struck at once by his posture, noble and erect, his dark skin, jutting beard, hooked nose and weathered face. His wise black eyes glisten, and there is a hint of cruelty in the arch of his brows. Suddenly out of the crowd comes a cry–trembling, immense:

  "Greeting, great son of The Prophet!"

  The sheik, calm, unreachable, grave, acknowledges the salutation by a slight expansion of his chest.

  It is repeated, over and over, faster and faster, while the musicians beat their drums to climax and the tambourines shake madly in the air. Horses rear up, their eyes fearful, their mouths spewing foam. And still the great man stands in the portal of his tent, gazing forward with immunity to praise.

  An aide brings forward a white horse–a horse so fine that Isabelle cries out at its beauty. The sheik mounts his saddle, barely altering the angle of his head, and, as the magnificent animal prances to the cheers of his followers and the music which has now risen to a deafening roar, he raises his arm and thrusts it imperiously toward the east. The procession begins.

  She rides with those on the wind-swept flank, parallel to Sidi Lachmi and his aides. The advance is stately, slow, aimed at the rising sun which is still hidden by the enormous dunes that shield El Oued. As they make their way out of the blue shadows of Ourmès, beams of golden light suddenly appear. Then, at the same instant, the silent empty dunes all around give birth to mobs. Entire tribes come riding out to join and wait in a great half circle far away.

  As the procession approaches, Isabelle begins to hear their chant, at first nothing but a barely audible murmur, but becoming, the closer she rides, a thunderous savage song of war. Suddenly a thousand horsemen appear scattered on the heights of all the dunes, standing at equal intervals, rearing on their horses, shaking long-barreled muskets in their arms.

  Then a great whoop below as a hundred men break from the center of the circle and charge toward the sheik at full gallop, twirling their rifles around their heads and discharging them in attack. The luminous air fills with smoke, but the column of Sidi Lachmi continues its march, while the men who have taken part in the circle behind join the other followers on its flanks. Now the vast circle parts, giving way to Sidi Lachmi's column, and as it passes through the center, the chant of war becomes an obeisant hail:

  "Welcome, peace, O saint of God, Sidi Mohammed Lachmi, son of The Prophet, great sheik of all the Kadrya, whose name shines east and west across the sands."

  And looking to the holy sheik, Isabelle sees that still his countenance is without expression, hard and strong, showing not the slightest sign that he has heard.

  She admires him most of all for this, for though she is moved by the great spectacle of his welcome as she has never before been moved by any human gathering, still the ultimate grandeur of the day is that its hero accepts everything as his due.

  Later, before the gates of the Kadrya monastery in El Oued, Isabelle watches the ceremonies in honor of Sidi Lachmi's return. He sits upon his magnificent white horse, watching acrobats, singers, riflemen and an exhibition of equestrian skills.

  Isabelle cannot restrain herself, works up her courage, then goes to one of the Kadrya officials and begs to be included in the competition. Her wish is granted and she plunges out on Souf, a fine lithe figure, galloping and halting, turning around in her saddle, twirling a borrowed saber like a mad Cossack. She knows that her riding style is different from the others, filled with boldness and risk, but the spectators like her, begin to applaud, and for her creditable performance she is chosen to be among those presented to the sheik.

  Then, so close to him that she can smell the perfume on his beard, she kisses his hand and asks, with perfect equanimity, if he will grant her an audience alone.

  The men around are shocked, but Sidi Lachmi seems amused. He stares her in the eye, and then, after what seems to her the longest moment of her life, he asks the reason for her request.

  "So that I may enter the brotherhood of the Kadrya," she says. The men around click their tongues, and murmur disapproval at her effrontery, but the sheik gravely nods.

  "Perhaps," he says, "perhaps, my son. It may be possible."

  "When may I come to you?"

  "Tomorrow night. And be prepared to be examined by the wisest of my men."

  She nods and moves to the side, thrilled at her boldness, for she knows that if she'd applied the normal way, her request would have been rudely denied.

  That night at dinner, when she tells Slimen what she has done, he turns away and frowns.

  "Be careful, Si Mahmoud. Sidi Lachmi is ruthless. He will never accept you once he discovers you're not a man. And then you'll be his enemy."

  "Nonsense. He's a great sheik. Not the sort who splits hairs over a petty matter of sex."

  "When he was young and there was fighting in the Souf, he skinned his captured enemies alive."

  "Ah," she says, "I might have known–that's why you refused to come. You Spahis fear the sects. You know that if there's an uprising you'll be considered traitors to the French."

  "I'm not a traitor and I'm not afraid."

  "Good, Slimen. Good. I wouldn't love you if you were. But take care, dear brother. From what I've been told the tortures begin with castration. I would not like that to happen to you! "

  Slimen shudders, then they embrace and laugh.

  Later, when they are smoking kif by the small dome on the roof of their house, he asks again if she's determined to join the Kadrya.

  "I want to know the desert, Slimen. So, if they'll have me–yes."

  He nods then, and seeing that he understands she reaches to him, meets his liquid gaze and fondles his moustache.

  The next evening she dazzles her examiners, a trio of old men with long beards. Her knowledge of Koranic science and law, her deep interpretations of scripture confound them, for she has lived in Tunis and Bône, talked of religion with the finest minds in the Maghreb. Unused to such erudition, the wise men declare themselves satisfied. Then they usher her into Sidi Lachmi's court.

  He reclines, in his green silks and white veils, upon a pile of sheep hides lit on one side by a single thick candle set on a brass tray. The room is huge, the floor and walls covered with fine carpets. Black servants squat in dark corners. A brazier provides a modicum of heat.

  Sidi Lachmi confers with his wise men, then motions Isabelle to sit down. While a servant pours tea he studies her face.

  "My examiners give me good reports," he says in French. She is surprised that he has chosen her language, and also by the elegance of his accent which reminds her of the best she's heard in Parisian salons. She starts to speak but he raises his hand.

  "Say nothing until I am finished."

  She lowers her eyes.

  "We must be frank. Otherwise nothing is possible. On the other hand, if you are honest, then many interesting things may occur."

  She looks at him and nods. He grins, for the first time displaying warmth, though she feels it's blended with craft. "You are European, of course."

  "I am a Moslem."

  Sidi Lachmi waves his hand again.

  "Never mind about that." He stares at her most closely, his lips curling to a strange smile.

  "Tell me, my child–why do you dress like a man?"

  For a moment Isabelle is afraid.
<
br />   "You see that?"

  "I saw it instantly."

  "But how?"

  "It is my business to read faces."

  "Then others see it."

  "Perhaps. And then, perhaps, many are deceived. But that doesn't interest me. You must answer my question."

  "I don't know."

  "The truth," he demands. "Otherwise we have nothing more to say."

  "I disguise myself so that I may live here as I like."

  "And for no other reason?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Then you do not spy for the French?"

  "Of course not. They loathe me. Most likely they think I'm mad."

  He strokes his beard.

  "Yes–that is what I've heard."

  "You've heard of me?"

  "Who has not?"

  "But, I..."

  "My daughter, you are not a fool. You have a deep understanding of our religion, and are devout besides. Surely you realize that your presence in the desert has been observed. The problem with a disguise, especially one as shallow as yours, is that when it's uncovered people wonder at its purpose. In Touggourt I was approached with the proposition that you be killed."

  "But why?"

  "Because you wear two faces, and are therefore presumed dangerous. But none of that matters to me. Other women have been admitted to the brotherhood, though not very many, I confess. It depends on the person, you see. A good human is a good human just as a good horse is a good horse. In the end the only thing that matters is quality."

  Again he grins, and she finds herself taken with him, though frightened a little, too. Clearly he is no primitive, but a man of subtle sophistication. He has an ulterior motive–she is certain of that–and that he speaks in French so that servants will not understand.

  "Do you play chess?"

  She nods.

  "Good. We will play."

  He snaps his fingers, a servant creeps forward on his knees, and the sheik growls something into his ear. A moment later an inlaid board is set between them, a box of carved pieces, and a fresh pot of tea.