Back at the étoile Du Sud canteen in Aïn Sefra she meets up again with the correspondent, Jules Bresson.
"I'm just back from a week in the field," he tells her, ordering them each a drink. "You can't believe what's going on. At least a platoon of legionnaires is being killed every day. They deny it here, of course, but every time they send out a patrol, there's an ambush and the men are massacred like rats."
"Doesn't surprise me a bit," she says. "I've been making the rounds of the posts. The Arab irregulars are incompetent–they're even afraid of dogs."
"Listen," he says, lowering his voice, "this whole town's riddled with spies. Bou-Amama knows about every column that goes out, and he knows about it in advance."
"But don't the French realize...?"
"If they do, they're not willing to talk. Tomorrow I'm having dinner at the garrison at Duveyrier. Come with me. We'll throw them some tough questions. Maybe we can make them squirm."
When Captain Lascaux, in command at Duveyrier, receives word he's to be visited by a lady journalist, he and his officers become greatly excited and arrange a candlelight dinner in her honor at the fort. Lascaux, himself, prepares to offer her his personal quarters for the night. But their excitement gives way to stupefaction when Isabelle swaggers in, unwraps her turban and reveals her short-cut hair.
"What an Amazon!" Lascaux whispers to Bresson.
The journalist smiles. "Give her a chance."
At dinner she gobbles up her food like an Arab, using her hand to transport it to her mouth. A number of officers, clearly repulsed, excuse themselves and wander out. But a hard core of fascinated Frenchmen remain–Lascaux, another captain named De Jonghe and a Lieutenant Legrand who, Bresson tells her, is Colonel Lyautey's aide-de-camp.
"Well," she says after dinner, setting down her coffee to which she's ostentatiously added a tumbler of anisette, "you're strung out here for a hundred fifty kilometers in a line of little forts." She winks at Bresson. "From what we've seen, your railway is attacked every night, and every one of your patrols is torn to bits. Now isn't that a fair summary of the facts?"
De Jonghe clears his throat. "You exaggerate the situation, Mademoiselle, and you forget that we control the wells."
"Bou-Amama doesn't seem very thirsty to me. He attacks you all the time, but, then, perhaps he has wells of his own, or his men don't need so much to drink."
Under pressure from her sarcasm the conversation soon becomes intense. Isabelle begins to chain-smoke cigarettes, and, alternately to gulp down glasses of liqueur. She is fierce in her criticisms and forces the officers to put up a spirited defense.
"Bou-Amama has a phantom army," says Lascaux. "It's hidden somewhere in these rocky hills. He strikes out of the night and retreats God knows where. Impossible for us to search out and destroy. We must wait for his attacks, hope to win in the defense."
"The Colonel," says Legrand, "believes that Bou-Amama cannot survive without the support of the local tribes. But how can we French convince these nomads they'll be better off with us? That's the crux of the question, and we don't have an answer for it yet."
"Someday I'd like to have a word with your colonel," she says, grabbing up another bottle, then placing it on the floor within easy reach. "If he'd deign to see me, of course."
"I've asked for an interview a half dozen times," says Bresson. "Apparently Colonel Lyautey doesn't like the press."
"Nonsense," says Legrand. "He's up in Oran bargaining for more troops. When he returns I'm sure something can be arranged."
"More troops–more shit!"
They all turn to her amazed, then watch as she yawns and pours herself another drink. "Even with fifty thousand men you'll still be prisoners in your forts."
As the evening progresses she becomes increasingly obscene, drinks herself to a stupor until she finally collapses in a pile beside the intelligence officer's dog. When she breaks into a husky snore, the three officers and Jules Bresson look down at her in dismay.
"What do you make of that?" asks De Jonghe.
"A rather tough young lady," says Legrand. "A little unbalanced, of course. But she does have interesting views."
"Listen, Bresson," says Lascaux, "we're delighted to entertain lady journalists, and we'd be pleased if you'd bring us more. But next time, dear fellow, could you kindly find us someone a little less extreme."
Jules Bresson returns to Paris at the end of September, leaving her alone in Aïn Sefra to cover the autumn campaign. From her sources in the ranks she learns of vast troop movements to the border opposite Figuig. A small but ancient settlement, Beni-Ounif, has become the focal point for this latest show of force. One day she watches as a train, covered with armed men, machine gunners on the roof, sweeps by without stopping toward the south. On it, she is told, is the commander of the Sud-Oranais, Colonel Louis Hubert Gonsalve Lyautey, come personally to orchestrate "incidents" that will make it possible to pursue Bou-Amama across the frontier.
She has heard too much of this Lyautey in the canteens where the men speak of his grandeur and marvel at his magnificent style. Anxious to meet him she departs for Beni-Ounif, riding with a mixed crew of camels, replacement legionnaires and a gang of dance-hall girls imported from Sidi-bel-Abbès.
She immediately seeks out Legrand and asks for an interview with his chief. The next day he tells her it's arranged.
"The colonel wants to meet you," he says. "He invites you for coffee tonight. But leave your notebook behind. He's interested in you as a personality, not as a reporter for some rag in Algiers."
That evening Legrand meets her at the gates of the French camp, escorts her past the sentries toward a cluster of Berber tents. A dozen horses are tied nearby. Flags wave on their staves in the gentle evening breeze.
Legrand leads her to a large tent in the center. The flaps are open, and, as she comes around the side, her eyes meet an amazing sight. The whole vast octagonal space, built around a central pillar of polished wood, is lined with white silk, and on the ground are piles of fine carpets, laid one upon the other as in a Turkish mosque. Flowers are every-where, arranged in copper pots, while lanterns cast a soft even glow on a huge canopied bed, an ebony chest with brass fittings and a splendid Empire desk.
She thinks: This colonel lives like a great sheik. Then staring in at a group of men sitting at a conference table covered with maps, her mind flashes back to El Oued. She remembers Sidi Lachmi and is struck by a sense of déjà vu.
Legrand motions for her to wait, steps inside. He goes up to a man whose back is to the flaps and whispers in his ear. He, in turn, says something to a servant wearing a satin jacket monogrammed with a large "L." While this man brings up two more chairs, Legrand returns to escort her in.
"Colonel Lyautey; Mademoiselle Eberhardt."
Lyautey stands and turns, revealing himself for the first time. He is gray-haired, balding, with a kind open face and a magnificent and elegant moustache. His tunic is buttoned at the top, he wears a cummerbund of black silk, a row of medals, fitted riding pants and a pair of shining black boots.
She is taken at once by his proud, smooth, aristocratic face and the friendly curiosity of his eyes. There is an aura of openness about him, and, in his greeting, something curious and sensitive that provokes her desire to win his esteem.
He, in turn, seems taken with her, for she is dressed like a costumed cavalier, in clothes one might see on an actor in an opera, but with a sense of pleasure in herself, and the allure, the desirability of a thoroughbred horse.
Graciously he introduces his officers who click their heels as he says their names.
"Though this is the first time that Mademoiselle Eberhardt and I have met," he tells them, "I've heard wondrous tales of a lady journalist who rides the best horse in the Sud-Oranais."
"And you, Colonel–" she replies, "who has not heard tales of the man summoned all the way from Madagascar to deliver Morocco up to France?"
"Excuse us, gentlemen–please." The officers gather up the
ir map cases, bow to her again and stroll out.
Legrand whispers to the servant who brings them coffee in octagonal cups. Then he lights a pair of silver candelabra beside a tray of cognacs and liqueurs.
"May I smoke?" asks Lyautey.
"Of course," she replies. "May I?"
He nods, amused, but she notices that his eyes widen slightly when she brings out her kif pipe and camel's udder box.
Filling their respective pipes, each waits for the other to speak. When Legrand can no longer bear the silence he interjects.
"Mademoiselle Eberhardt calls herself Si Mahmoud," he says. "She has some interesting ideas which correspond to things you've been saying to the staff."
"How good of you," Lyautey says with a smile. "I've been waiting a long while to meet someone who shares my eccentric views."
They laugh and then Isabelle begins, saying she does not think he will prevail with a rigid line of forts.
"Of course," he says, "I agree. But tell me why."
"I know nothing about war," she says, "but I understand these people and the problems of this land. Here Bou-Amama is not regarded as a bandit, but as a holy man embarked on a crusade. This region has always been a land of gunpowder. There's no clean line between Morocco and Algeria–the people have no notion of nations or frontiers. But there is Islam." She says the word with an intense intake of breath. "Islam–it is with them all the time. Now Bou-Amama represents the faith, and because of that he gains their help."
"Then what is my solution?"
"That depends on what you want to solve. Pacification is one thing–Morocco something else."
Lyautey's eyes narrow with fascination.
"Let's speak of pacification..."
"Fine. For that you must not think in terms of holding land. One or two oases–so you have water and resting places and depots for your supplies. But the rest is desert and has no value. It's not the land you must fight for, but the affections of the people. If they like you, then Bou-Amama cannot survive. And if they don't, you'll have more nightmares like Taghit and El-Mounghar. His men can always mass to attack your weakest point. You must move as much as he, change your headquarters every day, be everywhere at the same time, come out of nowhere in the night. But don't set up all these little forts and expect them to hold the line. I've slept in them, Colonel, and I can assure you that the men inside are scared. What can you expect, when they know Bou-Amama can appear at any moment and smash them to dust?"
"You're right. Legrand–she sounds like me. But she doesn't go quite so far."
Isabelle smiles. "I'm not a soldier, Colonel. I'm a writer, for an obscure Algerian rag."
"You're Moslem?"
She nods.
"And you speak the languages?"
"Of course."
"So you know the people?"
"Better than I know the French."
"Tell me–what do they think of us?"
"Nothing–nothing at all. They think of God, fervently and all the time. They cannot grow food or eat it or sleep or fight or make love without evoking his name. They–and I include myself–are obsessed with submission to His will."
"And the leaders–the caids..."
She shakes her head. "The caids keep civil order–nothing more. The real leaders are the Marabouts–the religious men, the sheiks with barraka, the descendants of the saints who rest in the domed tombs. They interpret the will of God, and by the power of their interpretations they lead."
"Bou-Amama is a Marabout."
"Yes, and there are many others who could influence even him."
Lyautey smiles, satisfied.
"We do think the same, from slightly different angles, of course. My interest is to make this region safe, and then expand to the west. The sultan of Morocco is a mental defective, a child sitting in a decaying court. What little power he has left is felt only in the cities, hundreds of miles away. But this land–of 'gunpowder' as you call it, this land of Marabouts and tribes–it must be played cleverly, without great frontal attacks and valiant last stands at the gates of forts. I must win the people over through the Maraboutic sheiks. Yes, we see things the same way, though I suspect you've come to your conclusions through an interest in exotic tribes, while I've come to mine out of my duty to serve France."
She nods, locked to him by his probing eyes.
"You say you're a writer. Is that really your profession?"
"Yes. And I'm a drunkard, too."
They laugh.
"I can see it in your face," he says. "You're the sort who feels compelled to chase the sun, to bury yourself in some strange and empty part of the earth where you can forget who you are and blend with nature–perhaps with God."
She puts down her pipe, astounded at how deeply he has seen into her soul. In only a few minutes of acquaintance he has put his finger on the force that has driven her to this desert of heat and pain.
"Perhaps," she says, "you're happier serving France. Perhaps it's better to be pushed by something one can understand than by some mysterious force that drives one to extremes."
"We shall not know, Si Mahmoud, if we are happy until the moment when we die. But I can envy you riding about on your magnificent horse, feeling free because you have no home and can wander where you like. For me happiness lies in changing the world, not my inner self. I enjoy leading men and rather dislike being led. If you knew what problems I have doing these things, you would understand why sometimes I'd rather be free like you."
Legrand, embarrassed by these revelations, clears his throat.
"Perhaps," he says, "Si Mahmoud's activities are not incompatible with our own."
"Yes," says Lyautey, "I've thought of that. But we shall speak of it some other time. Are my singers ready?"
"Yes, Colonel–they are."
"Good. Bring them in. Stay, Si Mahmoud, and listen to the best voices in my command. These German legionnaires love to sing, and their fine sad lieder give me pleasure at night."
Six young men, all tall and deeply tanned with gleaming blond hair, appear in the shadows outside the entrance to the tent. Lyautey greets them, they light candles, and then they begin to sing.
The colonel and Isabelle refill their pipes, smoke and sip liqueur from huge fragile goblets. The serenade wafts to them across the silk-lined tent, dying in the deep-piled carpets at their feet. It is sorrowful, soft, a song of Nordic love, requited but then destroyed by an untimely death. Though it seems to contain the tragic mystery of a castle built upon a frozen peak, here, in this gently billowing tent, set upon the ground of a Saharan oasis, it blends and lulls and becomes sublime. Isabelle looks over at Lyautey, watches him resting with closed eyes, swaying to the melancholy lilt.
Much later, after many songs, and many more goblets of liqueur, she feels a soothing bliss. She is not intoxicated, feels no miseries within. It is like the early days in Bône when she first experimented with kif and found a still and subtle joy. And here, with an intelligent, powerful man, she feels something she has not felt in years: admiration, the sense that at last she has met someone great.
Over the next few days their friendship blooms. Legrand comes to find her often, to take her to the great tent for feasts on silver plate. Once Lyautey asks her to brief his officers on the confraternities. He sits like a gently smiling Buddha as she tells the startled men of the power of the sects. Another time he spends an hour with her carefully tracing his plans upon his maps. And still another time he calls her to help him question a prisoner.
Until his talks with her, he had been giving lavish feasts for the caids. Now he begins to entertain the Marabouts. He sits quietly at these banquets, listening gravely as she interprets, asking an occasional question, always showing respect for their beliefs. She notices that he does not degrade the conversation with threats against the enemy or promises of the benefits that will flow from France. He wants to convey an impression that he is a great sheik, too–that he has riches beyond count, can entertain in lavish style and possesses
such awesome power that he has no need to boast.
Her admiration grows at each meeting until finally she's so dazzled she forgets her rejection of Europe and all it represents. Lyautey is a superior being, but there is something more that attracts her, a sensitivity to people and to life. When she compares him to the other men in her life–Vava, the mad Russian; Archivir, the passionate Turk; Sidi Lachmi, the scheming sheik; Slimen with his primitive Berber traits–she believes he comes closest to Eugène, but with a forcefulness and a self-possession that her dear friend does not possess. He's about to become a general–there's talk in the officers' mess of that–and she hears much of him there, sees him through the eyes of his adoring men who speak with awe of the grasp of his mind, his cleverness, his grandeur, the expert way he draws the best out of each of them.
"We grow when we are with him," says Legrand. "We love him for that."
He is warm and gallant with her, makes it clear that he respects her and is intrigued by the way she lives. But there is always something guarded–some delicate wall she cannot breach. He shows her neither temperament, weakness, impatience nor the slightest hint of dishonesty or guile. But though she senses he has many sides, she always leaves him feeling he's not allowed her to explore his depths. Beside him Sidi Lachmi seems a mere pretender to strength. Lyautey is unique, a sort, she thinks, one is lucky to encounter in a lifetime. She treasures their friendship, begins to live for his summons to the tent.
"What does he think of me?" she asks Legrand one day.
"That you're one of the smartest people around."
"And my personality?"
He pauses a moment, as if judging how much to tell.
"I must be discreet," he says, "but I'll tell you one thing."
Visions of Isabelle Page 24