That Devil's Madness (11 page)

‘She spiced the soup.'

‘What? Fatima? But she doesn't do the cooking.'

‘I realise that, Papa. I specifically asked her mother not to add spices to the food anymore – in my condition, it upsets my digestion. But this girl went behind my back and spiced the soup anyway.'

Marius squatted to the level of the child and gently removed her hands from her face. He could see the imprint of his daughter-in-law's hand across her cheek. ‘Did you add anything to the soup?' he asked. The girl nodded. ‘Why?'

‘It was tasteless, M'sieur.'

Marius helped her up. ‘Go find your mother. Go on, go.'

‘You're not going to reprimand her? Again? I would have her whipped. You're too soft with them, Papa. You let them get away with everything.'

Marius nodded but didn't bother answering – he'd heard this accusation before. And though he'd never say so, he thought Madeleine had forgotten her origins, thought herself too superior – too much of what she called a ‘lady' – just because they were now better off. But a lady wouldn't slap a child for such a small thing, of that he was sure. He had known a real lady – his Pauline – and she would never have treated the girl this way. She may not have had much, but she was proof that class had little to do with how much money you had. Only the fact that Madeleine was soon to give birth prevented him from telling her what he thought of her behaviour. He decided to talk to his son instead.

‘It's because she wants to live in town,' Jean explained. ‘She hates it here. She wants us to move to Ampère, to be around other French women.'

Marius nodded, though he didn't think it was just a matter of country versus town. ‘And what about you? What do you want?'

Jean turned from his father and pretended to scrutinise the fence before him.

‘There's a shop for sale in the main street. Madeleine thinks it would be a good business proposition. The town's growing, Father – there are more and more houses being built. Madeleine says a more exclusive shop than what there is there now would do well – we could import quality goods.'

Marius nodded, but didn't comment.

‘But we can't really afford it. I have a bit of my savings left, which I can put towards the shop, but we'd need money to get settled as well. A house, of course, and a housekeeper to clean, and a girl to look after the children. And maybe someone to help me in the shop…'

Marius noticed that Jean had avoided answering his question, and by the sound of things, it seemed these two had planned asking him for money for a while.

‘How much?'

‘Just a few thousand francs. I have the figures in my room.'

Marius struggled to hide his disappointment; he hadn't raised his sons to be like that. Initially, when Jean and his family had arrived, he'd thought Jean wanted to join him on the land, but Jean had quickly dissuaded him of that idea. And whilst he had to admit that his son had worked hard when living in France, since coming to Algeria he had done very little, other than lording it over Marius' workers. It pained Marius to think this, but he realised he no longer wanted Jean or his arrogant wife on this land. A few thousand francs would be well worth the peace it would bring.

‘Show me your figures after dinner. I'll get the bank to make a transfer.'

Marius' prediction proved correct – when Jean and Madeleine left for Ampère shortly after, life at
Asif mellul
quickly resumed its previous peaceful rhythm.

#

If Marius was disappointed in Jean, in Louis he found only hope. At fifteen, the lad had an affinity to this land and its people that was uncommon in one so young. While some of the new
colons
tut-tutted and whispered, Louis and Imez had become inseparable, to the point where Louis refused boarding school – preferring a tutor instead – but only because he was then able to cut his lessons short and escape with Imez to roam the surrounding valleys and gorges. Marius had tried to encourage his son to study harder by suggesting that Imez join him in his lessons, but this had resulted in the tutor handing in his resignation – he didn't believe in teaching ‘savages'. In the end Marius agreed to forget about tutors, but told Louis that, instead, he would now have to take over some of the responsibility of running the property. Louis couldn't have been happier.

And just as Louis and Imez had developed a strong friendship, so too did Gwafa and Marius, as they discovered in each other a similarity of values, and the two men would spend many an evening playing chess under the shade of the oak in summer, or by the fire in the dining room in winter, whenever Gwafa was passing through. And over time Gwafa's French improved, and Marius learned Gwafa's dialect, so that they would spend hours discussing local developments and the problems of the indigenous population.

11

The winter sun painted the buildings of the Vieux Port into a pale golden canvas, and the people of Marseille shook off their afternoon slothfulness. Shutters opened to let in the light, street urchins appraised tourists' vulnerabilities, sea gulls screeched. From a radio inside a café along the Quai du Port, Barry Manilow sang about the Copacabana, and the fresh pungent aroma of olive oil, garlic and simmering tomatoes escaped into the streets to mingle with the smell of brine and the ancient fragrances of resin and myrrh. The city stretched. Yawned. In the harbour pleasure-crafts bobbed gently next to fishing boats where leather-skinned men mended nets and smoked Gauloises, and argued the validity of the current rigged elections. Street vendors gathered their wares for their evening's shift, and behind the Joliette Docks a pimp slid a stiletto across his favourite girl's throat to teach her a lesson. The city shrugged. The clock in the Sauveterre Tower marked the hour.

Nicolette warmed her hands around the large cup of steaming coffee. A week ago, she'd suprised herself by refusing to take a ‘no' from
The Herald
's foreign-news editor. She'd insisted that she would go to Algeria with, or without, his permission. She'd resign, she'd told him. Go freelance. Sell her photos to Reuters. In the end, he'd agreed to let her go, but he had conditions.

‘First, you do this on your annual leave. And second, you'd better do a travel piece on your way back. Go to Marseille. Sicily. I don't know – think of somewhere exotic. I have to have
something
I can print.'

‘So you're paying? Plane tickets? Hotels?'

‘Don't stretch your luck – airfares only. Pay for your own accommodation – you'll be on holidays, remember?'

News travelled fast at
The Herald
, and that afternoon Ted Boyd had stopped by her desk.

‘Give this guy a ring – mate of mine. Lives in Marseille part of the year. At least
he
can write, and he might be covering Boumedienne – I dunno. But if he is, he might agree to team up. You could get lucky,' and he'd handed her a piece of paper with a phone number and the name ‘Steven Morris' written on it. ‘Don't ever say I never did anything for you.'

Nicolette blew on her coffee to cool it a little and took a sip. She'd been surprised that Ted, who until then had done nothing except kick her out of Pictorials whenever he found her there, should bother to give her a contact. But at least it had decided her on which city to base her ‘travel piece'.

Now that she'd met Steven Morris, however, she wasn't sure she should have contacted him.

He was as charming as Ted was gruff, but he'd managed to make her feel like a complete neophyte almost as soon as they'd met. She'd asked around about him before leaving Australia, and from what she'd gathered, he was known for his controversial coverage of civil conflicts, especially Vietnam, so she hadn't expected things to be easy. But when she'd rung him, he'd surprised her by saying that yes, he intended covering Boumedienne, and yes, she could ‘tag along'.
But let's get one thing straight,
he'd told her,
you're accompanying me, not the other way around.
Her initial reaction had been to protest, but a little voice deep inside told her keep quiet. After all, this was her first overseas assignment – she could always dump him if she didn't like the way things were going.

They'd agreed to meet for the first time in the restaurant attached to her hotel, and he'd guessed straight away how inexperienced she was. She knew what had given her away – the passports, of course. But no one had ever told her about extra passports.

‘You've got a spare passport, right?' he'd asked as he'd sat down. Nicolette had looked at him blankly. ‘Christ, another bloody amateur! Show me your passport.'

‘Why?'

‘Just do it.'

When she'd handed it to him, he hadn't bothered looking at it, pocketing it instead.

‘How much cash have you got on you?'

‘What?'

‘Cash, woman! How much have you got on you now?'

‘I don't know. I—'

‘Probably not enough. Never mind, you can owe me,' and he'd looked at his watch, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her around the tables, meal forgotten. ‘Come on, before they close.'

He'd taken her to a fishing tackle shop where the man behind the counter had nodded his recognition and allowed them to go through the back door to an alleyway and up a flight of steps.

Steven had tapped on the door. ‘Keep your mouth shut and don't ask any questions.'

Inside a small room that smelt of stale cigarette smoke, at a red laminex table, an old man had been sitting playing Patience. Steven had nodded to him, and great deal of money had changed hands. The man had said something Nicolette hadn't understood. He'd disappeared behind a doorway and had come back with a camera, indicating Nicolette should sit on a stool. When he'd taken her photo, Steven had handed him her passport and the man had disappeared behind the doorway once again.

‘What's—'

‘I said be quiet.'

‘But—'

‘Will you just shut up, woman? I'll explain when we're out of here.' He'd lit a cigarette and looked out the small window. Time had passed.

When the man returned, he'd handed Steven an envelope. Steven had nodded, signalled for Nicolette to follow and headed back down the staircase.

‘Are you going to tell me what's going on? Why couldn't I talk? And where's my passport?' she'd asked, trying to catch up to him.

‘They sometimes bug those places. Here,' and he'd handed her the envelope. Inside were both her original passport and a new one, also in her name.

‘A fake. Why would I—'

‘Listen hard. If you're going to work with me, you follow my rules. And rule number one is – if you're going to go in a country where there's
any
likelihood of any sort of unrest, always carry a spare passport. If there's any trouble, the first thing they do is take your passport – then you're stuck there with no hope of getting out. And I'll be damned if I'm going to waste any time trying to rescue anybody, ok?'

‘But won't they know it's a fake?'

‘Have a look at them.' Nicolette had pulled out the passports – she hadn't been able tell which was the fake and which the real. ‘This guy's the best in all of France. Bend it a bit so it looks like you've had it for a while. And don't go keeping both in your bag. Stick one down your pants or something, somewhere where they won't go looking…'

When they'd gotten back to her hotel, Steven had insisted they go back to her room.

‘I might as well check your gear while I'm at it,' he'd said, ‘you've probably got that wrong too.' He'd rummaged through her bag and though she'd protested, in the end he'd only objected to her boots. ‘You have no idea, have you?' he'd asked as he'd walked out of her room with them under his arm. A short while later he'd returned with a new pair – more practical, lightweight and waterproof, with small, crescent-shaped metal plates on the underside of the heels.

Nicolette looked down at her feet. The boots may not be as fashionable as her other pair, and there was nothing feminine about them, but she had to admit they were a lot more comfortable. She just wished Steven didn't behave in such an obnoxious manner.

Then, to make matters worse, when they'd finally sat down to a meal she'd tried to counteract her inexperience by hinting she was familiar with Algeria, but that too had been a mistake. It hadn't taken Steven long to work out that Nicolette had left Algeria as a child, and that her knowledge of the area was fourteen years out of date. He'd lapsed into an angry silence, and she'd been about to excuse herself and go back to her room when his mood had changed, and he'd become so full of good humour and advice that Nicolette had mellowed towards him. The only reference he'd made to her inexperience in the field was when he'd said goodnight: ‘Don't worry, kiddo, you're with me now. We'll get your pics on the front pages somehow.'

Nicolette sighed – yes, the next few days should prove interesting, but the opportunity of working with someone like Morris wasn't something to dismiss lightly. How long would this take? If Boumedienne was in a coma, he might last for months, or die tomorrow. It was unlikely she'd be back home for Christmas, but she could get lucky and make it back for New Year's.

She saw the tall Australian cross the street, dodging around cars as he came towards her. She thought he looked more like a fisherman than a journalist – in his late thirties/early forties, his hair was just a fraction too long, and his beard had a hint of grey, but what intimidated Nicolette most was the aura of supreme confidence that surrounded him; he looked as if he never doubted any of his actions. Ever.

‘So how come you live here part of the year?' she asked once he'd sat down.

‘I'm mad for the bouillabaisse.'

‘Bullshit.'