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PART ONE
1
High plateau, the south of Algeria, the month of Rajabin they ear
1288 after the Hegira (April 1871)
The ostrich is no more than forty paces away. He could
fire already, but his galloping mount is leaping around so much that he
is afraid of missing his target. And besides, he has hardly any
illusions about his skill as a marksman. The horse, despite its fatigue,
increases its pace. It sensed that the huge bird was slowing down little
by little. They have been rushing like mad for too long. At this rate,
the ostrich is going to collapse, its tiny heart choked by the
incredible exertion. This is, for the man, his first ostrich hunt; he is
astonished by the contrast between the animal’s grotesque lop-sided gait
and the speed of its course.
“Blasted bird,” he mutters, filled with admiration, “you certainly are
the offspring of a camel and a stork!”
At present, he can almost touch the magnificent silky, swaying white
feathers, the very object of a chase that seems to him more and more
inane. The cock, reeling from exhaustion, can no longer manage to weave
around. Besides, that would be of little use; beyond the pond next to
the pink laurels, there extends, in front of the hunter and his prey,
the unpitying flatness of the plain, spiked with thorny bushes and tufts
of Spanish grass.
The ostrich comes to an abrupt halt. It hesitates, trying to conceal its
rear behind a ridiculously small bush. The horseman is hard put to
control the chestnut steed rearing in fright. The ostrich turns towards
them. It raises a leg, lowers it and scratches the ground. Is it going
to leap at them? The two talons on its elongated claws look as if they
could disembowel a wild beast.
He makes his mount circle around the animal, keeping a respectful
distance all the while. This is the perfect moment for firing, but he
cannot make up his mind. A hoarse sound, interrupted by a series of
splutters, emerges from the bird’s beak. The large eyes above its
obscene-looking neck stare at the pursuers through eyelashes which
strike him as almost feminine. Does the fowl know that this two-headed
monster is about to take its life? Is the frenzied jerking of the eyes
in their sockets void of all expression a kind of supplication, perhaps?
The man realises that for the ostrich he has cornered he must represent
the Ozrin of feathered creatures, or another equally merciless deity.
“Great ass-arsed cockerel,” he shouts, “you were about to rut; as for
me, not only am I frustrating you, but I am here to teach you the filthy
secret of what it is to die!”
He would like to savour his witticism. It is a fine day, and he has
managed to thwart the females’ ruses to protect their male – in full
mating cry. He recognised them, despite the dust, thanks to their black
plumage bordered with white on wings and neck. With its slender sex
hanging between its legs and its first panic-stricken jerks, the bird
brought to mind a lover, taken by surprise, fleeing without his
undergarments. The man laughed and felt an odd sense of fraternity with
the hapless male robbed of its delightful intimacy.
“You, at least, have managed to make love once or twice before dying. As
for me, with the one I love there’s nothing but gazing at her shoulders.
I cannot make any sense of this. All I want is dallying, caressing and
making love with this wretched Nour. And I’ve done none of that. Perhaps
I never shall, what do you think?”
The heat of the chase has made the hunter forget, for the moment, the
anxiety which has been tormenting him for several weeks, an anxiety
shared, in all likelihood, by all the tribes, allies or enemies, from
the coast of Kabylie to the Chaambas desert.Will they too be obliged to
take part in this new war? How many of them will lose their lives? And
he himself, his family, Nour, will they manage to escape if the place
where their tents are pitched is laid waste?
The bird falters, then sinks heavily on its breast. A wave-like motion
ripples along its neck from bottom to top, as if it were going to vomit.
It is probably in its death throes: red-stained froth seeps from the
slits in its beak.
“Damn” – the hunter is getting annoyed – “you are not going to start
weeping?”
Its blood vessels must have burst. The bird blinks furiously, trying to
throw off death as if it were a persistent mosquito.
The hunter’s ardour has cooled. This creature, striving desperately not
to sink into nothingness, has become far too human for him. The panting
bundle of feathers reminds him of a baby whimpering because he is too
exhausted to wail. The man is ashamed of his cowardice, he knows he will
not pull the trigger. Disheartened, he muses: And with me, will my soul
depart in an equally ridiculous fashion through the holes in my nose?
He spurs his horse, which, taken by surprise, shows resistance: the
thoroughbred, although a grass-grazer, has found a liking for the game,
not understanding that it could come to an end without a death-blow. The
horseman gives the reins a fierce tug and turns his mount around. When
he reaches the crest, he catches sight of the dust raised by Hassan’s
horse. He will have to submit himself to his raillery: he was the one to
discover where the ostriches were, and he will not hide his fury when he
sees his cousin coming back empty-handed!
His cousin is already hailing him from the foot of the hill. The rider
clears his throat, then spits the dust out of his mouth.He shrugs,
disgusted with himself:
“You’re out of luck, ostrich. I am much more afraid of how this idiot
cousin of mine will mock me than of your curses!”
He strikes the horse with his crop; the animals neighs in pain. When he
finds the ostrich again, it is not dead. It is on its feet, but
tottering. The man dismounts: he strides ostentatiously towards the bird,
hoping that it will still have time to escape. But its eyes are shut and
it does not react to the hunter’s approach. Its neck is stained red by
the foam seeping from its beak. The man would almost like to prop up the
animal, which had narrowly missed crashing against a rock.
“A hyena would have chomped away at you anyway, little brother.”
As the shot rings out, Hassan is already at his side. The animal’s legs
are still twitching.With a disagreeable smile at the corner of his mouth,
Hassan exclaims:
“I couldn’t understand at first why you were coming towards me. But the
important thing is, Kader, that you’ve finally got it, your redoubtable
chicken . . .”
Kader shrugs. He gazes at the mass of feathers half entangled in thorny
scrub. In spite of himself, he had aimed correctly: the head, though it
was hit point-blank, has not been damaged: only the right eye is missing.
The cousin, astride his horse, adds, with a click of the tongue like an
insult:?
“I hope that you will show less hesitation in front of the French
soldiers. They won’t miss you, you can be sure.”
Kader, in the grip of a vague feeling that he needs to vomit, makes no
reply.He does not know whether this is caused by the death of the
ostrich or the prospect of having to go to war soon.
“Do you really believe that we are going to make war, Hassan?”
The young man on horseback curls his lips, annoyed by his companion’s
sudden ill-humour. His heart is also heavy with apprehension, and he is
filled with resentment because his cousin has shattered their tacit pact
of heroism. He dismounts, holding two long strands of rope. He hands one
to Kader. In a cutting voice, he grumbles:
“To the north, there’s war already. I don’t see how we can avoid it.
Still less you and I! Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but remember: we are the
eldest son in each of our families and the sons of chiefs . . .”
“You trust El Mokrani?”
“Yes . . . in so far as we have no other choice. The important thing is
that he has managed to stir up all the northern tribes against the
Christians. No-one else could have achieved that.”
Hassan has started binding the ostrich’s legs. The knot slips. He ties
it again, then, in a flash of anger, kicks the dead animal.
“Kader, I know that you are going to tell me again that El Mokrani was
appointed bashagha after he helped the Duke of Orleans defeat your
kinsman, the Emir Abd El Kader in the campaign of the Iron Gates. But
all that, it happened so long ago, before you and I were even born.”
Kader, his eyes lowered, snorts contemptuously:
“Son of a noble family, I remind you that our mothers are sisters. And
the Emir, if he is my kinsman, he is also yours!”
Hassan turns to his cousin. He is shaking with exasperation:
“He might have betrayed the Emir thirty years ago, but now he’s a hero.
There is famine everywhere. El Mokrani has gone into debt to feed the
peasants in his district. Everything he owns has been put up as surety.
In vain did he implore the French army – his allies what’s more – to
lower taxes and distribute food among those who no longer had anything
to eat. They treated him with contempt. In the end, he decided that
there was nothing left for him but to raise a rebellion. In any case, we
no longer have the choice: people are starving in our villages and even
God doesn’t acknowledge us, despite our five daily prayers! At the least
sign of discontent, the army just cuts down all the palms and all the
olive trees, it arrests the agitators and raises taxes. If they are not
paid, they confiscate our lands to make room for their Alsatians or
their Maltese. Oh, they know well enough what they are doing, these
accursed soldiers! Soon, we won’t have anywhere but ravines and mountain
peaks to hide our backsides . . .”
Hassan’s voice has cracked. He pretends to be absorbed in trussing the
bird. Then he gulps, overcome by a child-like sadness:
“We haven’t lived through all this only to be treated like dogs.”
Kader, with a lump in his throat, taps his cousin on the shoulder. The
other, a strapping fellow, all muscles and tendons, lowers his head to
hide his moist eyes. Kader remembers the two inseparable scallywags they
were during their marvellous years in the oasis of Biskra. Hassan, his
elder by two years, taught him how to climb as high as the crowns of
date palms. They came to spend entire afternoons there, each perched at
the top, exchanging secrets across huge fronds heavy with dates.Hassan
said over and over again that, when he grew up, he would become a great
traveller, the equal of Ibn Battuta, and go sailing in great ships in
search of ambergris spawned by the ocean foam. “I don’t want any more of
this desert that dries you up, what I want is water – the sea, immense
and endless!” he bawled, stuffing himself with green dates. He did not
worry about the stomach ache that would follow, because, according to
him, a future explorer had to make himself tough and train himself to
eat anything. Once he waxed so lyrical that he slipped from his branch
and came close to losing his life in a headlong fall.How many times did
Kader envy his aunt’s son for his intrepid nature: when he hurled gobs
of spit at the legs of grown-ups he disliked and his knack of dreaming
up the most glorious destinies for himself and his cousin . . .
His voice growing husky, Kader tries to jest:
“Give me the other rope, shepherd.You are going to see how you parcel up
a fowl the size of this!”
They laugh, embarrassed because they are experiencing the same emotion.
Hassan sighs:
“We’ll never have a better opportunity. They have just been beaten by
their worst enemies, the Prussians. Their country has been occupied,
their army exhausted and, as if that weren’t enough, the French have
decided to disembowel each other in their capital. The story goes that
they are eating rats and cats and that there have been thousands of
deaths. Just think, they train their cannons on their own brothers.
These Christians are madmen, believe me, son of my aunt.”
He adjusts his tarboosh with fastidious care, then combs his fingers
through his short beard. Always so careful of your person, Kader remarks
in silence, with a pang of envy.
“Tomorrow we’ll know everything. After the midday prayers in the
market-place on Friday, the Elders will declare whether they will
resolve to join El Mokrani.Until then, pull yourself together, and don’t
piss yourself in fear, poet.”
“Idiot,” Kader says, without managing to smile.
By the time they finish slinging the carcass of the ostrich between the
saddles of the two horses, they are running with sweat. Their prize
turns out to be so heavy that the horses have trouble remaining
upright.Hassan tests the weight of the bird’s thighs. He winks:
“For me the meat, for you the plumes: that’s what we’ve agreed on, isn’t
it? What are you going to do with them? They are so delicate and
beautiful that only a woman of taste can appreciate . . .”
Kader blushes at the thinly veiled sarcasm.Hassan bursts out laughing.
“Since you’ve become infatuated with that . . . that . . . what is she
called, now? Nour, is that it? You think that no-one around you knows
about it?”
Despite the handful of dust Kader has flung at his eyes, Hassan laughs
even more uproariously.
“The women around here are terrors, you little prick, as you’ll quickly
realise. They’ll tear your heart out and keep it for themselves.”
“Tomorrow, you say?”
At last, the two exhausted horses, the blood-stained ostrich swinging
lazily between them, reach the stony little path. The peculiar coupling
makes its way along the narrow strip of water leading to the seguia. The
palm grove with its countless green sails swaying gently in the setting
sun spreads out in front of them. The two can already make out, at a
short distance from the oasis, the multicoloured hills and dales of the
tents of the tribes who have assembled from the four corners of the
Sahara to consult with one another.
“Yes, tomorrow our fate will be sealed: to die quickly or to be snuffed
out little by little.”
“And you, my cousin, which do you prefer?”
“What do you imagine? To live, of course, and in a blaze! But do you
think we have any choice left, Kader?”
He adds, a hand in front of his face:
“My God, I am as worn out as an old nag. This is not what I dreamt about
when I was a lad . . .”
His voice is bitter and filled with rage. Kader is astonished at how
exhausted his cousin looks. Coming back from the hunt had certainly
taken a long time, but the rider guesses that his childhood companion
has experienced a sudden urge not to go on feigning constant bravado and
to reveal something of the anguish which is also goring him.
“Hassan, do you think there’s any chance of victory?”
“None. To win a battle or two, to raze a few farms, to cut off the heads
and purses of a dozen or so colonists to show that we are not slaves,
yes. To chase them out of our land, no. Their cannons, their rifles are
too powerful for us. What could we put up against them: starving
warriors, peasants in tatters, a few clapped-out muskets, the
interminable disputes among the tribes and many, many prayers, far less
effective than goat-fart. Ah, but we are strong for religion! Go to the
Imam, he’ll even find out for you how many pebbles the Prophet
recommended for wiping your arse.”
Kader is suddenly overcome by rage against the inevitable:
“Are we then going to saddle, with our own hands, the black camel of
death so that it may kneel in front of each of our tents? Is there no
other way out? Perhaps those devils could be persuaded to change their
mind? We have eloquent men amongst us, and with them there’s only the
bloodthirsty military.”
Hassan’s reaction is unexpected. His uncontrollable laughter almost
makes him choke. His mount, taken by surprise, steps to one side. The
ostrich’s head slips out of the knots and bumps violently against the
other horse’s hoofs. Kader is almost thrown from the saddle. While
struggling to control his terror-stricken horse, he hears Hassan
shouting at him:
“By the houris of Paradise, cousin, your love for that Nour makes you as
timid as a hare. Since when has a conqueror paid heed to the conquered?
Have you ever heard of a mouse begging a cat for mercy?”
His voice burning with rage, Kader hurls insults at his companion:
“Blast your mouth, I forbid you to speak of Nour! And what’s more,
imbecile, gelded ass, help me instead of making speeches. This damned
carcass is going to pitch me into the wadi!”
“Gelding yourself! Even a nag would refuse to obey someone as
lilylivered as you are. When we overran Spain, did we pay any heed to
the tears of the Spaniards we’d crushed ? We held them in thrall for
seven centuries and left Andalusia only when bayonets were prodding our
backsides. No-one ever feels pity for someone on his knees, do you hear?”
Lips curled in disgust, Hassan observes his cousin’s efforts to avoid
sliding off his mount. Hands placed ostentatiously on the pommel of the
saddle, he rails:
“Your family, just like mine, are the owners of slaves they had bought
or abducted. Have you ever thought of them with compassion or to free
them? That would seem absurd to you, worse, ridiculous!” |
