"I promise, Mademoiselle, that you will see Justice served today." He speaks loudly, in a courtroom voice, but then stoops, whispers into her ear: "My wife and daughter are just outside."
She follows him to the hall, bows to a pinched-faced woman dressed for an Easter promenade, accepts the nervous curtsy of an awkward girl who wears pigtails and a sour frown.
"Thank you," says the captain. "Antoinette is absolutely thrilled."
She returns to the witnesses' room, smokes and waits. At precisely seven o'clock the bailiff appears to call them into court.
The room is huge, much larger than she'd supposed, signifying, she has no doubt, the power of colonial France. Already the air is close, for the benches below (she thinks of this place as "the pit") are choked with Arabs, and the balcony is packed with Europeans in fancy dress, women fanning themselves with the morning's La Dépêche Algérienne, officers in stunning uniforms and civilians in immaculate white suits waving to personages below.
Her entrance is greeted by craning heads. People whisper and point. She hears the words, "The Russian!" echo in the room. Looking around she is struck by a vision of colonial rot–the natives below, crowded, sweating, draped in their tattered robes, and, above them, the masters from France, cool, detached, suited in finery, thirsty for a bloodletting to avenge their suffering beneath this merciless North African sun.
She follows the bailiff proudly to a seat beside the sheik. She is moved by the costumes–Sidi Lachmi resplendent in his sherifian silks, green and white; the caid of Behima in a fez and red burnoose; the other southerners with their expressive heads, bronzed faces and robes.
The tribunal which faces them is equally decorous: five officers, chests festooned with medals and decorations, polished buttons, uniforms immaculate and sharply pressed. Their faces are rigid, impenetrable. She studies them and sees no compassion. The president, a colonel of artillery named Janin, seems made of stone.
Suddenly–a stir. All faces turn to the back. A man with thick gray hair and a magnificent moustache, epaulets on his shoulders, stars on his kepi, takes a roped-off seat in the first row. Janin gives him an ingratiating nod. It is General Laborie de Labattut, commander of the Sud-Constantine, known for his precise etiquette, legendary for his ruthless suppression of insurrections in the south.
The general, however, interests Isabelle far less than Abdullah and his coterie, the blank-faced guards who stand behind him, the stooped interpreter by his side and his counsel, a hawk-faced Frenchman with knitted brows who stares at her with devastating eyes. She turns to Abdullah, tries to meet his gaze, but he is focused on Sidi Lachmi, who stares straight ahead without expression. She feels tension, then, as if the four of them are working themselves up for a bout.
A presentation of arms: A herald announces the case; a clerk stands to read the accusation. He recounts the incident much as it took place–the facts are not in dispute, and Isabelle is satisfied. But then he reads on, and she can hardly believe her ears.
"Mademoiselle Eberhardt," he drones, "has been observed since her coming to the Sud-Constantine by officers of the Arab Bureau. They have found her behavior exceedingly eccentric, and likely to give offense to the indigenous population. She is known to be a rich Russian, though she claims she is a Moslem and poor. She obtained permission, in 1899, to travel in the military zone on the basis of a false statement that she was writing a book about Saharan customs. She stayed a short while, returned to Europe and then came back in August of last year, at which time she proceeded to live a lascivious life in a squalid fashion, cohabiting with a Spahi corporal in an Arab house, and then becoming involved with the Kadrya sect and its sheik–the witness Sidi Lachmi–a sherif, with whom she has often been observed in intimate consultation at late hours of the night.
"Shortly after her arrival a coded message was received by the bureau's annex in El Oued. It had been discovered through informants that Mademoiselle Eberhardt had been sent as a private investigator on behalf of the Marquise de Morès. Her mission was to identify the murderers of Antoine de Vallambrosa, killed by unknown persons in 1896.
"The annex kept a close watch on Mademoiselle Eberhardt and had her followed many times. A large dossier was compiled, containing reports of mysterious nocturnal rides, covert meetings with nomadic tribesmen, conversations with prostitutes in cafés, attendance at religious ceremonies, and numerous other activities whose purposes could not be explained.
"The annex did not disrupt these actions, hoping that by them she might attract the killers of Morès whom the Bureau had been seeking for some time.
"After a long investigation it has been determined that the accused, Abdullah ben Mohammed ben Lakhdar, was not one of these, but a member of a sect rivaling the one to which Mademoiselle Eberhardt became attached. She had become a cause of religious strife, and was attacked by the accused, according to his deposition, on purely religious grounds.
"Though her behavior is not an issue in this case, except insofar as it may have been the cause of the alleged crime, the investigators are recommending a separate process at which Mademoiselle Eberhardt, because of her disruption of stability in the region of El Oued, be brought to account."
Murmurs, chattering in the balcony. Janin calls for silence. Isabelle rises from her chair.
"I protest the accusation. It is filled with lies."
"That," says Janin, "is something this court-martial has been convened to decide."
"The statement that I'm rich is completely false."
"Silence, Mademoiselle. We are in France here. Not in Russia!"
She hears giggling in the balcony and turns to face those who dare to laugh. She opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by the clerk who begins to read the witnesses' names.
"The witnesses are excused."
After much testimony by others, she is called back. She takes an oath before the president who questions her from notes.
"You find fault with the indictment?"
"Nearly everything that has to do with me is incorrect."
"The Arab Bureau watched you for a long time. Are you saying they've falsified their reports?"
She thinks a moment.
"The past two summers have been extremely hot. There are many mirages in the Sahara. That may explain their errors."
From the balcony a massive intake of breath. Janin is furious.
"Are you trifling with this court, Mademoiselle?"
"Certainly not. But it seems odd to me that I should have to defend my conduct. I thought someone else was on trial today."
Janin coughs into his fist, asks the government commissioner to question the accused. The process is long. Each query and response must be translated. Isabelle listens and waits.
Abdullah admits to the attack, but insists he was guided by a divine impulse. An angel appeared to him, ordered him to kill this woman who wore masculine dress and made trouble in his religion.
His attorney rises, the hawk-faced Maître de Laffont.
"Please, Abdullah, speak precisely. Tell the court the troubles this woman caused?"
"She dressed as a man. Also, she was the mistress of the Kadrya sheik."
A stir in the chamber. Janin calls for silence. Sidi Lachmi stares straight ahead.
The commissioner speaks to Isabelle: "The accused maintains that you caused a disturbance in the Moslem religion."
"I am a Moslem. In any case, that's something he thought up after the fact."
Janin: "But isn't it true that you wore masculine dress?"
"I did."
"And is that an insult?"
"Unusual, perhaps, but not insulting."
"Why did you dress that way?"
"It was practical for riding."
Laughter.
"I think this might be a good time for you to explain what you were doing riding around the dunes?"
"I was studying the local ambience. I'm a writer and have been preparing a book for some time. It also happens that I have a small knowled
ge of medicine–conjunctivitis and a few other diseases. I often treated tribesmen and their families who had no access to medical care. So you see, rather than earning the disfavor of people, I was trying to make their lives a little better than they were before I came."
"Do you have anything to say about the statement of the accused?"
"Only that I forgive him. I believe he's mad. It's not him I want to see at the bar, but those behind him who pushed him to do what he did."
Abdullah gives her a quizzical look. Sidi Lachmi shakes his head. Maître de Laffont rises and immediately assumes a sarcastic stance.
"You refer to other people. Please tell us who they are?"
"I don't know."
"Then we're supposed to believe that certain individuals whom you cannot name are responsible for this crime and should be brought to trial?"
"Yes."
"But Mademoiselle Eberhardt, how can we bring them here if we don't know who they are?"
She shrugs. "I'm the victim of a crime. It's not my job to solve it."
"But you have definite views?"
"Of course."
"A serious accusation has been made–that you were the mistress of a religious sheik."
"It's a lie."
"But suppose it weren't a lie..."
"Impossible because..."
"But just suppose it were true. Wouldn't that be sufficient cause for a deeply religious man to feel that it was up to him to remove this affront to his faith?"
"This is an ugly rumor and has nothing to do with me."
Janin: "But you evade the issue, Mademoiselle. Suppose the rumor is true. Would it constitute an extenuating circumstance? I am asking you because I understand you're an expert on Koranic law."
"I can't imagine any circumstance, in Koranic law or even in the law of France, that could possibly justify a murder."
"You are speaking as an expert?"
"I am speaking as a woman who was slashed with a saber. And I resent the way you try to force me to justify that act."
De Laffont: "But you don't deny that you wore the clothes of a man?"
"Of course not."
"Would you agree, then, that your behavior has been–to use the word of the indictment–'eccentric'?"
"Perhaps, but I don't see that my preference for the burnoose has anything to do with this case."
"It does, Mademoiselle, because the accused claims that he was provoked, and I'm trying to get a clear picture of just how provocative you've been."
"There is no way he could have been provoked by me. He said he never saw me before January 29."
"But your reputation, Mademoiselle! You were well known! He'd heard of you. We have evidence here of widespread rumors. Some of them you deny and others you don't."
De Laffont pauses for effect.
"Tell me–just what is the meaning of the expression: `Si Mahmoud'?"
"It's a name."
"I know it's a name. But why do you use it? Why would someone with a perfectly pleasant name such as 'Isabelle Eberhardt' deliberately choose to call herself `Si Mahmoud'?"
"That's a personal decision. Surely I have the right to travel under an assumed name."
"Perhaps, perhaps–but then we have the right to find that rather odd. And, if you refuse to explain yourself, we also have the right to draw conclusions about your personal life."
"What should I say to that?"
"Tell the truth!" De Laffont smacks down his hand upon the bar. "Here we have a man, a commercial trader and a sherif, well respected in his community, a man who never raised his hand against anyone in his life. All of a sudden he runs at you with a saber and tries to cut you in half. There has to be a motive. He says he was motivated by religious anger. He was a member of a rival sect, and you provoked religious dissension. Now I think that's very much to the point."
"My conscience is clear."
"How nice for you! But how unfortunate for those poor people whom you claim to love so much! What did you think you were doing? Who gave you the authority to meddle in their lives? Frankly, Mademoiselle, it seems to me that a woman of your education might have found something better to do with her time than to ride about the Saharan dunes, dressed like a man, involving herself in religious intrigues! "
Laughter broken by applause and cheers. De Laffont beams. Janin calls for an hour's recess.
Slimen joins her in the corridor. Reporters crowd about, ask a hundred questions at once. Isabelle brushes them away.
Outside the Conseil de Guerre she gasps for air. The courtroom's been stifling. She longs to be away, anyplace else, riding the dunes, prancing across the sand.
People part before them, then stare. It's as if she carries some disease.
Yes, she thinks, we are objects of disgust.
They flee around the corner to an obscure café. Afraid to be seen smoking kif, she lights a cigarette, gulps down three coffees in a row. Slimen is in anguish and cannot find words to comfort her. He can only grip her hand.
She holds herself solid and brave. She resolves she will not show her hurt, will never hide her face. But she cannot understand the brutality of the trial. It's as if she's the criminal and Abdullah only an excuse.
Slimen is silent. The hour passes long. She has no desire to return to court, wishes she could rest forever in this café. But she knows she must see the process through, even if she's going to be ridiculed more. She grasps harder onto Slimen's hand. Their eyes meet. She can tell by his face that he understands, respects her dignity, her refusal to admit to pain. He loves her–she sees that and feels a great rush of love for him.
Just inside the Conseil de Guerre, as she is about to reenter court, a young lieutenant blocks her way. He is soft-spoken, assiduously correct. He has a communication for her, an official government note. He hands her a sealed envelope, wishes her luck, honors her with a gracious salute. She nods, expressionless, but quakes inside. She has a notion of what this means, and afraid she will not be able to suppress her tears, she leaves the seal intact.
She barely listens as Martin sums up his case.
"'God commanded me,'" he says, "is not a viable defense. This is France and French law must be supreme. We cannot allow religious fanatics to attack Europeans simply because of some imagined affront."
De Laffont is ruthless when he speaks of her, but his remarks pass over her like desert wind. He says she brought the attack upon herself. "To Abdullah this woman was a devil who lashed him to fury because she threatened that which he loved more than anything else–his faith. We must construe his actions as self-defense."
Captain Martin replies: "The testimony makes it clear that this was a premeditated crime. We must demand the death penalty for that."
De Laffont pleads for mercy, and then the judges retire. Minutes later they return. Janin reads the verdict in a stony voice:
"We find the accused guilty of attempted premeditated murder. Due, however, to certain mitigating circumstances, we have decided to show him mercy. He is sentenced to hard labor for life."
From the gallery a mixture of hissing and applause. Isabelle is stunned. She turns to Abdullah, tries to read his eyes. But he is glaring at Sidi Lachmi who turns away, then gathers up his robes and quickly leaves the court.
How strange, she thinks, that he does not even give me a nod. And then, suddenly, she understands.
It rushes at her, smashes like a bullet against her brain. Motives, explanations–everything is clear. Sidi Lachmi–of course!
He was so quick, so glib when he told her it was a Tidjani plot, that Abdullah was an assassin who'd struck at her simply because he was in another room. She thinks back to the evening before the attack, when she'd gone to see him with Slimen. There was cunning, then, in his smile as he enticed her to ride to Nefta. He knew she couldn't refuse, not after he'd given her gold.
She is sure–all the loose ends fit. He'd warned her in many subtle ways, had told her the first time they talked that people wanted her killed, had procla
imed his ruthlessness a thousand times, had even hinted at his plans to alienate the Tidjani from the French. Certainly if a European had been killed by a fanatic member of a favorite sect, some of that favoritism would have been wrenched away.
So she'd been set up for that, a pawn in a human game of chess. No wonder his coolness at the station, his distant smile in the witness room, his refusal to meet her eyes in court. It all made sense.
And Abdullah–he'd been nothing but a dupe. Perhaps he'd been paid, or promised blessings upon his line.
She looks at him again. The guards have hold of his arms, are about to march him off to a dungeon where he will spend the rest of his life breaking rocks.
Suddenly her days in El Oued seem to her a sham. It's as if she's done everything wrong–pursued her impossible dream like a fool, while all the time she's been nothing but a tool in ruthless hands.
Sitting in the courtroom, staring at Abdullah's empty chair, her year in the desert turns to bitter ashes in her mouth.
General de Labattut is among the few who congratulate her in the hall.
"You cannot say that French Justice has not thoroughly avenged you." He bows, then turns his back.
Captain Martin, wife and daughter clinging behind, shakes her hand.
"I trust you are satisfied, Mademoiselle. It was not an easy case."
Even De Laffont has a few well-chosen words:
"You understand, of course, that my antagonism wasn't personal. I had to save my client's life. Speaking personally, however, I must confess to an admiration for your style. I certainly wish you good luck."
Walking back to their hotel, she feels drained, dazed. Slimen remembers the envelope.
"What is it?"
"Read it for yourself."
He breaks the seal, looks at the paper, passes it to her. "What does it mean?"
She glances down, then back into his eyes.
"It means, dear brother, that I have become a pariah–that now I am cast out. The governor-general has seen fit to expel me from Algeria, and all French North African possessions as well. The act of expulsion is final and cannot be appealed. I have forty-eight hours to pack up and leave."
Visions of Isabelle Page 20