"Yes?"
"Though he adores your rebellious spirit, he believes you use it to bring misery upon yourself."
"Oh," she says after a long silence. "I never thought of that."
One evening after too much to drink, she enters the area around Lyautey's tent, learns from the sentries that he's alone and asks his batman if she may pay him a call. A few moments later he steps outside.
"How nice to see you, Si Mahmoud. How good of you to stop by."
He does not invite her in.
"I had to come," she tells him. "I was sitting alone, confused, and when I began to long for clarity I thought of you."
Lyautey smiles.
"I think of you often," she says. "At night, especially, I think of you a lot."
"I could be your father, Si Mahmoud."
"In age, perhaps, but not in your heart."
"Thank you."
She purses her lips, maddened by his innocuous phrase. Doesn't be realize, she asks herself, that I've just made him a declaration? She's about to blurt out something, words she's not yet framed but already knows she'll regret, when he takes her arm.
"Do you drink because you suffer, Si Mahmoud?"
She nods. Suddenly tears form in her eyes.
"Your life has been extraordinary and strange," he says. "I think the desert is your studio–a place where you suffer, are alone and work to form your soul. And you emerge from it strong, stronger than you know. There's great power in you–the aristocratic force of life. You're so much better than those fools in Paris who run about like ants."
She looks up at him, his gentle fatherly eyes. She wants to fall at his feet, thank him for this compliment which is the best she's ever received. She feels that something is happening between them, something that will bring her to his arms.
"I was just going down the hill to make a round of the canteens," he says. "They belong to the men, of course, but I don't think they mind if I step in for a minute or two. Come–let me walk you back."
Expertly he guides her out of the officers' section of the camp. She stumbles, still drunk, blushes when he helps her to her feet.
She looks at him again, sees something distant in his face. He is thinking, she is sure, of whether to turn and take her back. Suddenly she goes soft, holds her breath, feels some intention coming from his arm. But then there's a tightening up, a signal he's decided to resist.
"Yes, come," he says. "We'll look in at the dance hall. I enjoy watching the girls there myself."
As they move among the tents, down a narrow walk, past campfires and sentries who raise their rifles in salute, she knows their moment has passed, that for some reason he has steeled himself against taking her as a lover in his tent.
Another minute and this sad silent thought is broken by a faint hint of music that hauntingly pierces the Saharan night. They move closer to the dark mud building, transformed into a dance hall for the troops, and hear laughter, the thump of stamping feet.
They move to the windows, smudged panes, and peer inside. Hundreds of soldiers are cavorting with two dozen girls who look worn out. Isabelle recognizes faces from the convoy that brought her to Beni-Ounif. In wigs and frills they twirl among the men, splashes of color in a monotonous sea of tan, lit by carbide lamps that hang from ceiling wires and fill the top half of the room with yellowish smoke. Standing outside in the bitter desert air, Isabelle feels apart and turns to the tall presence at her side.
"I used to go to places like this," he says, "when I was a young officer in Saigon. But we didn't have many French girls there–the Annamese were so splendid, so petite."
He seems almost wistful to her, and she holds her breath, hoping he'll let down his shield, give her a glimpse of the man within.
"It's hard to imagine you dancing like that."
"Why? Because now I live like a feudal lord surrounded by an adoring court? I was gay when I was a lieutenant–now I must be grave. That's the cost one pays for high command. Now I must be a stern father to the men, mete out discipline and rewards. Still I miss the days when I led patrols, and then, happy to be back at camp unscathed, could dance away the night."
A pair of legionnaires passes by. They don't see the colonel or his friend standing in the shadows by the wall. They are speaking in German, laying plans for one of the girls inside. When they're gone Lyautey laughs.
"I don't know how many times I've overheard talk like that. Yet for all the brilliant seductive traps well laid, only one in a thousand ever catches the prey. It's the same in war. Still I must keep sending out patrols, even though I always lose some men. I never know, you see–by some majestic stroke of luck one of those boys in there might manage to shoot Bou-Amama through his heart."
They turn back to the dancing, more riotous it seems to her, building toward some explosion of flesh and sweat. She watches as one of the girls comes near the window for a breath of air. Her face is exhausted, lined, the eyes bloodshot, the lashes limp. And beside her, on the smudged glass, is a reflection of herself.
Isabelle narrows her eyes, examines her reflected face–weary, turbaned, moody, scorned. Is there some bond, she wonders, are she and I the same, both worn out by too much ecstasy, so hardened by life that we can no longer stimulate desire?
The whore on the other side winces and turns away, leaving only the reflected image of Lyautey and herself as a faint stain on the smoky scene inside.
"A soldier like you, Si Mahmoud, is worth a thousand patrols. There are important things I would like you to do. Tomorrow I'm going back to Aïn Sefra. Will you come and see me next week?"
She nods, and he withdraws without a word. She stands alone then, watching the dancing, and a few seconds later sees him enter, sees the men cheer, the dancers strut, the musicians stand and play the anthem of St. Cyr. Lyautey raises his right hand, gives a royal wave. Then he slips out and the crushed pursuit turns frantic once again.
A few days later she visits him in the commander's house at Aïn Sefra–even more lavishly decorated than his field tent. The furniture is gilded; there are flowers everywhere in Oriental vases; his ancestors' portraits hang on the walls along with tapestries and imported boiserie. These things–so inappropriate in this dusty desert outpost, especially in this voluminous house of baked red mud–are strangely impressive, like props in a set. With them, he creates a setting of irresistible splendor by which he magnifies his power and announces that even here France exists.
"I've had some indications," he tells her, "that Bou-Amama wants to talk peace. What do you think?"
"Be wary," she warns him. "I know these people and how they work. They open a hundred different lines, start rumors, set up diversions, talk peace and attack at the same time. They also take great pains to infuriate their enemies by unforgivable deceptions which, they hope, will inspire rash acts."
"That's very interesting. The question is whether my intelligence is correct."
She shakes her head.
"When Bou-Amama wants peace, he'll stop the attacks. And he'll do that only when he thinks he has no more chance. Then he'll lie low for a while, send you sweet letters, even sign a treaty if you like. He'll wait for the proper moment and then he'll attack again. This is his land. He thinks that sooner or later, next year or a century from now, you French will finally get tired and leave."
Lyautey stares at her a long time. "As always," he says finally, "you and I think along the same lines."
"So," she asks him, "how do you hope to win?"
"I don't."
"Really?" She is surprised.
"You've said it yourself–sooner or later we'll have to go. Or else move these troops when there's a flare-up somewhere else."
"Then...?"
"Then we forget about conquest. Instead we pacify, as inexpensively as we can."
"I don't understand."
"It's quite simple really. I have been developing a new approach. I have decided I must study the tribes, keep them apart, exploit their rivalries, turn them to adv
antage for France. There's no point now in conquering Morocco. The point is to control it, and that's more easily achieved by a protectorate than an outright conquest by arms. Divide and control–that'll be my method. What a waste to send out columns on attack, when I can more cheaply neutralize Bou-Amama through the rival Marabouts."
She looks at him, struck by his clarity, and the strength of his political grasp. At this moment to her he seems like a god, leaving her with no other wish than to serve him, learn and obey.
"Tell me, Si Mahmoud, do you suppose the local sheiks know that you and I often talk?"
"I'm sure of it–Arabs know everything."
"In that case I could use your help."
"How? Tell me what I can do."
"Many things, Si Mahmoud," he says fixing her with kind strong eyes. "So many things."
He excuses himself and leaves the room. When he's gone she stares at the ancestral portraits, excited, mystified, intrigued. Many show the same high forehead and finely drawn chin. All wear uniforms, medals, sashes, epaulets.
He returns with Lieutenant Legrand who eyes her strangely, then sits down.
"You're Moslem, Si Mahmoud," Lyautey says. "You speak the language like a native. More important you understand the people–there's much sympathy between you and them. You're the only European, thus far, to become a member of an Islamic sect. In short you have all the qualifications necessary to deal directly with the sheiks."
"As your intermediary?"
He nods. "As my agent–a source of information, too. We need intelligence. My deuxieème bureau isn't equipped to penetrate the sects. Our own Arabs are suspect, and Arabs, anyway, have a tendency to tell one what they think one wants to hear. Really, Si Mahmoud, you'd be invaluable–just the man we need."
They both are staring at her, waiting for her to agree.
She wonders, then, if she really wants to help, and whether to do so will be to betray the Arab cause. She needs to consider whether Lyautey, for all his magnificent stature, represents the sort of benign colonialism she can bring herself to accept. She decides she must divert them, give herself some time to think.
"This could compromise my status," she says. "I'm here as a reporter, don't forget."
"I'll write Barrucand. Don't worry about that."
"You're French now by marriage," says Legrand. "This is a chance for you to show your loyalty."
She laughs hilariously, and they both stare at her perplexed. She pauses again, then decides. Of all the Europeans she's met, Lyautey is the only one she can bring herself to help.
"Well," she says, "maybe...perhaps..."
"Good!"
"Excellent!"
Lyautey sends Legrand for a bottle of champagne. When he returns they drink a toast.
"To our new agent, Si Mahmoud!"
"To France," she replies, a touch of bitterness in her voice.
She asks for more to drink while they settle the details of the bargain. Legrand is dispatched for another bottle while she and Lyautey talk.
"I insist on reporting directly to you."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"And later, perhaps, you'll do something in return."
"Anything you wish."
"Will I be paid?"
"You'll receive a small allowance to cover the costs. Also a pass that will allow you to eat in the messes and will give you priority on the trains."
When she leaves, finally, reeling with champagne, happy that her talents have been recognized and are at last being put to use, Lyautey turns to Legrand.
"What do you think?"
"I think she'll be magnificent."
"Yes," says the colonel, "for a while at least. But eventually she'll get restless. We'll have to keep her on a tight leash."
"Don't you trust her?"
"I trust her, certainly. But she has no discipline. She enjoys her suffering, and is susceptible to the most destructive forms of excess."
For several weeks, then, she shuttles back and forth between Aïn Sefra and the towns on the rail line to Beni-Ounif, visiting the monasteries, meeting with the Marabouts, discussing the advantages of collaboration with the French.
When she gives Lyautey her reports, embellished with meticulous descriptions of the personalities she's met, she has the sense he's using her as part of a master plan which he alone knows and holds secretly in his head. He is like a juggler with a hundred balls in the air, exploiting the Marabouts, playing on their rivalries, using them, his men and even herself to accomplish his grand design.
One night at his quarters she finds a stranger. He is young and dark with a brutal handsome face and a smile that seems more like a sneer. Lyautey introduces him as Lieutenant Antoine Desforges.
"He's from the Camargue," Lyautey says, "a land of marshes and wild horses. Desforges feels at home in the desert. He's used to horizons with a sharp edge."
As she gives her report she feels the lieutenant making a feast of her with his eyes. When she's finished, and Lyautey begins his questions, she becomes distracted by the intensity of his gaze.
"Is it necessary for this young man to stare?"
"What's that?" asks the colonel, looking around.
"Forgive me," says Desforges. "I forgot myself. I was so fascinated by your report."
She gives him an abrupt nod, continues with her reply. Later, when Lyautey goes to his desk to sign a stack of orders, she and Desforges begin to talk.
"Have you been here long?"
"About a year. I command a company. We're patrolling south of Beni-Ounif."
"Spahis? Camel Corps?" .
"No." He laughs. "Irregulars–a terrible bunch. Bandits, deserters–anyone we can find. They spend more time fighting among themselves than anything else."
"Lieutenant Desforges is being discreet," says Lyautey, returning from his desk with a decanter of wine. "Tell her what you really do."
Desforges lowers his eyes, then raises them and shows his teeth.
"Oh, lots of things, Si Mahmoud. Patrols, of course, and armed propaganda, and then sometimes we pretend to be part of Bou-Amama's army and wreak havoc in the towns."
"What's the point of that?" She finds him arrogant, doesn't like him at all.
"To drive a wedge between the enemy and the people who help him to survive. If `Bou-Amama' means pillage and rape, then they'll welcome the colonel when he moves south next year."
"What nonsense! But then, perhaps, rape is something you enjoy."
Desforges grins. "I follow my orders."
She turns to Lyautey who tries to conceal a smile behind his glass.
"So–you're playing it both ways. I might have known."
"Now, now, Si Mahmoud–I'm not a man to stake everything on a single card. Like yourself, Lieutenant Desforges is doing an excellent job. I gave him a nasty task and the worst scum around–people who'd ordinarily be locked up. He's done well, actually molded them into a first-class force."
"I'm sure he has. You must be an amazing officer, Lieutenant. How do you account for your success?"
"Discipline. That's all there is to handling men."
"I see."
"I don't think Si Mahmoud approves, Colonel. Please assure her I'm not a beast."
"I can assure you that Lieutenant Desforges is an exemplary officer in every way. I believe he even plays the violin."
"The cello, Colonel."
"Yes, the cello–I forgot. No, Si Mahmoud, don't underestimate the uses of brute force. Your civilized encounters with the Marabouts and Desforges' havoc in the towns are two arms of the same beast–me!" They laugh. "Each of you has much to teach the other. As a matter of fact I think it might be a good idea for you to ride with the lieutenant's company for a time. You could write about it, subject to my censorship, of course. Would you like a few days off? Desforges can put you up, in disguise, naturally, and then you'd see what it's all about."
She turns to Desforges, finds his eyes fastened on her, feels she's being presented with a dar
e.
"You've been telling me you want to live with the troops, write about their lives en marche. This would be an excellent chance."
What does he want me to find out? she wonders, suspecting duplicity, suddenly feeling that she's in contest with a most devious sheik, another Sidi Lachmi, whom she might do well to fear.
"You'd be welcome, Si Mahmoud. Perhaps if you rode with us you'd understand what we do, and we could redeem ourselves in your eyes."
"You understand, Desforges, you'd be responsible for her safety–personally responsible to me?"
"Understood!"
"Well, Si Mahmoud, what do you say?"
She hesitates a moment, then she agrees, thinking how well she'll be able to skewer this animal after observing him awhile at close range.
Outside Lyautey's house Desforges invites her to join him for a drink.
"Couldn't we go to your quarters? I'd like to hear you play your cello."
"Unfortunately I broke it over a sergeant's head."
"Oh," she says, "what a pity. Now I'll never know if you can play."
As they follow a path into the ravine, she stumbles and he reaches for her arm. She jerks away.
"I can manage very well."
"You don't like me, do you?"
"Not especially."
"That's too bad, because I like you a lot."
"How sad for you."
"I've seen you before, you know. I was in the courtroom in Constantine. I wondered then what you were really like."
"Now you have a chance to find out."
"Yes, I'm looking forward to that."
She pauses, looks at him, sees the faintest sign of a sneer on his moonlit face.
"And I shall find out about you, Desforges. Perhaps more than you'd care for me to know."
They walk the rest of the way in silence, then stroll in the African village among drunken legionnaires toward the Oasis canteen. Over a drink they discuss the war and make arrangements to meet in Beni-Ounif. When she leaves him she's certain it will not be difficult to keep him in his place. He's younger than she and his Camarguin toughness will not be a match for one who swung a shovel on the garbage scows of Marseilles.
Visions of Isabelle Page 25