Messali was wrong. The underground organizations for Independence had to consolidate if they were going to beat the French as the Vietnamese had done. Bella knew that Messali’s organization was small but it would grow as the rebellion grew. Bella could not afford to have Algerians choose between the two organizations. He needed every man he could get. The FLN would become stronger as the MNA diminished in power and influence. Messali’s followers would abandon the MNA and join Bella’s FLN once they realized that their struggle against both the French and the FLN was doomed.
Bella convinced himself that, even though they disagreed, Messali would be proud of what his student had become. More than just a fighter, Bella was now the leader of a movement that would hopefully lead to Independence. Bella also convinced himself that if given a chance he would kill the old man. It saddened him that he had grown to hate the French more that he loved Messali.
FIVE
It was early morning. Coyle was running his preflight check on the C-119 he was going to fly to Paris. He had not read the newspapers and knew nothing of the attack in Paris involving Brigitte.
His felt his shoulder had healed to the point he could fly again and he was anxious to get back in the pilot’s seat. He had informed his former boss at CAT and he immediately gave Coyle the route to Paris to ferry troops home.
Coyle was one of the few pilots that could handle the big C-119 boxcars. After many heroic attempts to resupply the French troops at Dien Bien Phu, the French had more aircraft than pilots to fly them. The C-119 could carry three times as many passengers as the next biggest aircraft in the French fleet. Soldiers were anxious to leave Vietnam, plus France was falling behind in lowering its troop commitment levels according to their agreement with the North Vietnamese. The French did not want a restart of the conflict. Not now. Not when they were almost out.
It had been an international embarrassment for France, once the world’s greatest military force under the leadership of Napoleon, to lose to a third world nation like Vietnam. The more time that passed the more the French government just wanted to forget the whole damned affair.
France was an American ally and Coyle didn’t like seeing the French in such a weakened state, especially with the Cold War boiling up. But he was also conflicted about France’s motives during the Indochina War. They were an imperialist government trying to hang on to their empire. Vietnam was a colony fighting for its freedom as America had once fought for its Independence from Britain. It was true that the Viet Minh were backed by the Russian and Chinese communists and therefore the enemy of America.
And then there was Brigitte. She was definitely French and as much as she tried to report the truth her French bias showed through her writing. Coyle had volunteered to fight for the French at Dien Bien Phu, but that was more to save Brigitte who was trapped within the garrison than to support the French cause. Coyle decided keeping his mouth shut was the wisest move. Whatever the Indochina War meant, it was over and everyone just wanted to get on with their lives.
Coyle heard a familiar sound in the distance; the low, deep voices of men singing ‘Le Marche.’ He turned to see a group of French paratroopers marching toward his aircraft. At their head, was Bruno. His uniform and the uniforms of the men under his command clung to what was left of their bodies which was mostly skin and bones. The muscles from years of training were gone and the skin on their faces sagged off their cheek bones. The average French soldier had lost over 50 pounds during the four months of captivity under the Viet Minh. They were the lucky ones. Many had starved to death.
Bruno stopped his men in front of the aircraft loading ramp and approached Coyle. “You made it, Monsieur Coyle,” he said.
“And so did you, Colonel Bigeard… at least some of you,” said Coyle.
“Yes. I went into Dien Bien Phu with over 800 paratroopers under my command. Now I have forty. Not much of a battalion, I fear.”
“I was referring to the meat on your bones. You’ve lost a few kilos.”
“Oh, yes. The Viet Minh did not understand the appetite of the French.”
“I heard. I tried to image you eating rice every day.”
“Rice every day? That would have been nice.”
“Well at least you are on your way back home. French croissants and cheese should fatten you and your men back up in no time.”
“Yes. Yes. I think you are right. How is Brigitte?”
“She’s good. Back in Paris writing for Politiques Internationales.”
“And you are here?”
“I had some things I needed to attend to before I joined her.”
“Ah, then you will be living in Paris with Brigitte and I?”
“Yeah, I guess I will.”
“Do not worry, Monsieur Coyle. I shall keep a good eye on Brigitte for you while you are gone.”
“I am sure you will.”
“With your permission, my men will board.”
“Permission granted.”
Bruno moved off to supervise the loading of his men and their gear. Coyle continued his preflight check, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Bruno but he did not trust him when it came to Brigitte. And he wasn’t sure he trusted Brigitte when it came to Bruno.
Brigitte sat at her kitchen table typing a story and drinking the last of a bottle of wine. She often drank while writing. Nothing too heavy. Wine helped her relax and lose her inhibitions about writing poorly. Respect from her readers was something Brigitte craved and that need often got in her way by creating a kind of writer’s block. Two glasses of wine solved writer’s block. Four or five glasses of wine and she was useless. It was a fine line that she tread. At the moment she was creeping toward the line. She finished the last paragraph when there was a knock at the door.
She placed the security chain that she had installed between the door jam and the door. It allowed her to see out without completely opening the door. After the assassination at the café, she felt security was not a bad idea. She opened the door and peered out through the gap.
Coyle and Bruno were standing in the hallway. She had no idea that either was coming. Without a word, she slammed the door shut so she could remove the chain.
Coyle and Bruno looked at each and shrugged. “I’ve been locked up in a prison for the last four months. It must be you,” said Bruno.
“What did I do?” said Coyle.
“I have no idea. What did you do?”
Brigitte fumbled with the lock and opened the door. She hugged Bruno first which was not lost on Coyle. Coyle understood but could not help feeling jealous.
“You are free, my little Bruno,” she said. “You are nothing but skin and bones.”
“I may have lost a kilo or two,” said Bruno.
She released Bruno and wrapped her arms around Coyle kissing him multiple times. “I had no idea you were coming. Why didn’t you call?”
“I was gonna, but then I thought it could be a nice surprise,” said Coyle.
“Come in. Come in.” Brigitte ushered them into the apartment.
“We shall celebrate. A chicken or goose, I think,” she said.
“Both sound good to me,” said Coyle.
“And me,” said Bruno.
“Do either of you know how to cook a chicken or a goose?” said Brigitte.
Both shrugged no. “Then we shall go out,” said Brigitte. “I do not know how to cook anything not in a can.”
“But you’re French. I thought all French knew how to cook,” said Coyle.
“You thought wrong,” said Brigitte grabbing her coat and purse.
“Brigitte is a modern woman, Coyle,” said Bruno. “I assure you she has other attributes you will appreciate far more than cooking.”
“Listen to Bruno, Tom,” said Brigitte pushing them out of the apartment and closing the door behind her.
The restaurant Brigitte had chosen was a bistro near her apartment. She had considered taking them to one of the more touristy restaurants near the Eiffel Tower or the Opera H
ouse but decided against it because of the noise and smoke. Tourists smoked like chimneys. Besides, the wine at the bistro was good and cheap. The food was simple. Coyle was a little disappointed that goose was not on the menu. He had never tasted goose and imagined that if anyone knew how to cook a goose if would be the French. He settled for the bistro’s amuse-bouche - goose foie gras on a cracker and a complimentary glass of house wine.
Brigitte ordered an entire boeuf en croute with a side of Gratin dauphinoise for Bruno and refused to take no for an answer. The beef pie was normally served to two or three people and the gratin potatoes were cooked with almost a half of a kilo of cheese. She was determined to fatten him up as quickly as possible before he was shipped off to battle again.
Coyle, who ordered the beef bourguignon, was fairly certain the pie would kill Bruno before he finished it by bursting his shrunken stomach and suggested he chase it down with a bottle of red wine to help with the digestion.
Brigitte ordered a plate of escargot and the coq au vin for herself. French women were known for eating portions meant for squirrels. Brigitte was the exception but still managed to remain slender.
Brigitte was a celebrity, and good for business. The bistro owner came over to ensure she was happy once her meal had been served. She was. He stayed for a short visit and another complimentary glass of wine for each of them.
As the night wore on, so did the stories. “I can’t believe we are all here,” said Coyle. “That we survived that hell hole.”
“Oh, Dien Bien Phu was not that bad. We had food and wine up until the end,” said Brigitte.
“What followed was far worse,” said Bruno.
“We all heard the stories. How did you and your men survive?” said Brigitte.
“Many didn’t. Those that did had something worth living for.”
“And what was that for you?” said Brigitte, hopeful.
“France, of course,” said Bruno. “…and my men. There wasn’t much I could do for them except to encourage them to hang on.”
“Any idea where you are going next?” said Brigitte.
“I have been offered a position at École des Troupes Aéroportées – France’s school for paratroopers.”
“Then you would live here in Paris?” said Brigitte lighting up.
“Yes. You can keep an eye on me. Maybe find me a woman that can cook goose.”
“Hard to imagine you as a teacher,” said Coyle.
“I agree,” said Bruno. “But I suppose it is important to pass on what I have learned over the years. It could save many lives and help France win the next war.”
“The next war?” said Coyle.
“There will always be war. We are not a peaceful species.”
“And where will be the next war?” said Brigitte.
“You tell me, Brigitte,” said Bruno.
“Perhaps here in Paris.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“It’s not good. The Algerians want Independence and I believe they will go to great lengths to earn it.”
“You were lucky you were not the target,” said Bruno.
“Target? What are you talking about?” said Coyle, concerned.
“You need to learn enough French to read the newspapers, my friend,” said Bruno.
“And you should learn to keep quiet when affairs do not concern you, Bruno,” said Brigitte.
“What the hell is going on?” said Coyle.
Brigitte considered for a moment, then said, “Last week there was a man that I was supposed to interview at a café. He was gunned down by an Algerian assassin in front of me. At least I believe she was Algerian.”
“She?”
“Yes. The assassin was a woman.”
“Did the police catch her?”
“No.”
“Then she could still be out there hunting for you.”
“She did not want me. She was with the FLN. It was a message to a competing organization.”
“A message?”
“Of sorts, yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to – at the proper moment.”
“And when was that?”
“No here. Not now,” said Brigitte growing angry. “Thank you for that, Bruno.”
“Better not to let it fester,” said Bruno.
“So, what are they doing about it?” said Coyle.
“The police are searching for the woman. I gave them a good description.”
“The police are useless,” said Bruno. “I’m sure the killer is back in Algeria by now.”
“I meant your magazine. How are they going to protect you?” said Coyle.
“They are not. I am a war correspondent, Coyle. They know I have faced far worse than this and that I can handle myself. You should know the same.” She got up from the table. “If you will excuse me, I am going to pee… by myself.”
She stomped off to the toilet at the back of the bistro. “Now she’s mad at you,” said Bruno.
“You love to stir the pot, don’t you?” said Coyle.
“It’s a talent,” said Bruno finishing the last of the beef pie.
Gamal Abdel Nasser, the de facto president of Egypt, was not happy when Bella entered his Cairo office and took a seat on his couch. Nasser had just foiled an assassination plot against himself by a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. The current Egyptian president, Mohamad Naghuib, was under suspicion of being one of the conspirators against Nasser and had been placed under house arrest. With the Egyptian generals backing him, Nasser had taken over as chief executive of Egypt until he could be rightfully elected president by the people. “We have a chance to show the world that we are a civilized people and you start a war with a fellow Arab,” said Nasser getting right to the point.
“It was necessary,” said Bella. “We need to consolidate our forces to defeat the French Army.”
“You will never defeat the French Army. They are too rich and too powerful. They can replace their troops at a much faster rate than you can. The French Army is well trained and battle tested having fought an eight year war in Indochina. Given enough time they will crush you and your rebellion. Besides, you do not need to defeat the French militarily. You are fighting a political battle and your little civil war is not helping your cause. It only proves what the French politicians have been saying, that Arabs are tribal and cannot rule an entire country themselves.”
Bella knew what Nasser was saying made sense. He had come to the same conclusion, but he thought it more prudent to let Nasser lecture him as a father lectures a son. The Algerian Independence movement needed Nasser’s help. Egypt was a sanctuary for the FLN and Nasser was well respected as a leader in the Middle East. The discovery of oil was still new to the Arabs and power had not yet shifted to Iran, Iraq and Saudi Arabia.
Egypt also had a seat at the United Nations and could plead the Algerians’ case to the other world leaders. If France was to be pressured to give up Algeria, the pressure would need to be both internal and external. International opinion weighed greatly on the French government after their loss of Indochina. “The U.N. is on your side. Imperialism is out of fashion. Democracy and self-determination are the new international watchwords,” said Nasser. “Your Arab brothers are on your side, but they won’t stay on your side if you continue this foolishness with Messali and the MNA.”
“We have made our point,” said Bella. “We will stop the violence as long as he does not retaliate.”
“I see little chance of that now that you have thrown down the gauntlet.”
“It was one man.”
“It was a public execution… and in Paris, no less,” said Nasser. “Maybe if you offered him an olive branch.”
“Such as?”
“The female assassin that shot his agent. Give her to Messali.”
“Messali will have her killed.”
“Yes. I would think so. But it may stop the war.”
Bella considered for a long moment. H
e did not want to anger Nasser. “I will take the proposal to my fellow leaders,” he said. “I do not know how they will respond.”
“See that they respond in a positive manner, Bella. If your revolution is to be successful, you will need Egypt’s help. You will need my help.”
Nasser’s message was not lost on Bella. He would see that the violence between he and Messali stopped for now. But he also knew that Messali would most likely retaliate and when he did, Bella and the FLN would be justified to respond in kind. The civil war would continue and that was exactly what Bella wanted.
Bella knew very well that any settlement between the Algerians and the French would need to be diplomatic. The FLN needed to weaken France’s resolve to get them to the negotiating table as the Viet Minh had done. The FLN would need to turn public opinion against the imperialists, and the best way to do that was to increase the cost of colonialism through violence. Bella’s little civil war in the cafés of Paris was the perfect platform to elevate French pain and he wasn’t about to let it go… not even for Nasser.
On his way back to the safe house Nasser had arranged for him, Bella purchased a copy of Politiques Internationales from a newsstand. He read the article Brigitte had written on the assassination. He admitted to himself that her coverage of the event was fair in its portrayal. Bella was not interested in fair. Brigitte Friang was a celebrity and people listened to celebrities. He wondered if there was a way to turn Brigitte toward the Independent movement. She was smart and should clearly see the justice of their argument. And yet, she was French through and through.
Bella wondered if Brigitte might be used in another way to help the cause. Her death, especially if it were violent, would sent shock waves throughout France. The French public would mourn her as a fallen hero. Even a martyr perhaps. He didn’t care what they thought of her. He wanted to cause France pain and Brigitte’s death would be sure to do that. The more pain the French were forced to endure the more likely they would give up Algeria to avoid more pain in the future.
Café Wars Page 6