Julius (12 page)

‘Both knocked down for three,’ he said carelessly; ‘that crowd weren’t wasting anything. Come to a café and let’s settle up. I’ve got a thirst.’

They pushed their way to a café on the square, and sitting round a table Julius ordered drinks. He spoke rapidly and the boys could not follow his meaning.

‘We’ll turn it into francs for shares,’ he was saying; ‘first mule a hundred francs, and three at a hundred and ten, four ten, and two at sixty, five hundred and sixty francs. D’you agree? five hundred and sixty francs, which gives us an equal share of a hundred and twelve francs each, minus my three per cent commission, which works out at sixteen francs.’

‘Commission?’ began Pierre stupidly—

‘Yes - three per cent for running the show and selling the beasts. Any complaints?’

‘Oh! all right.’

‘Here we are, then, a hundred and twelve, not so bad. Better than I expected.’

Julius pocketed his share and then, well satisfied with himself, stretched out his hand for a drink. He had sold the first mule for eight louis and the last couple for five and four; he had swindled the boys out of an extra hundred and twenty francs besides his three per cent commission and the well-stuffed purse he had stolen off the Arab merchant, who was probably dead. He tilted on his chair and laughed at them over the rim of his glass.

What fools they were, not an ounce of brain in their thick heads. Even sharp little Toto was stupid from drink.

Fools! Wine was a good servant but a bad master. Fill yourself to the brim by all means, but don’t lose hold of your senses. Be a glutton, but don’t be sick from your gluttony. Grandpère Blançard used to lose his brains and his body; Julius was determined never to lose anything at all.

He was hungry now as well as thirsty. He wanted food and plenty of it.

‘Give us something to eat, for the love of Allah!’ he said, and he smiled when a bowl of thick curried chicken, garlic-flavoured, and rice was put before him.

Marcel had fallen asleep with his head on the table, his mouth wide open. Boru the half-caste had gone down the street to be sick. Little Toto’s head was nodding and Pierre was staring stupidly before him.

Julius crammed his mouth and then paid for another round of drinks.

he sang. He had drunk more than all of them put together, but his head was clear.

‘Let’s go home to bed,’ began Toto sleepily.

‘Too early,’ said Julius scornfully, and he swaggered out of the café, sniffing at the night that had fallen swiftly, soft and tropical, and he wished there would be a fair in Alger and a whirling painted horse to ride.

A cart was rumbling down the street. He swung himself on to the back of it and dangled his legs, still singing, waving his hand triumphantly to the boys left behind on the pavement, who rubbed their eyes and yawned.

The smell of Alger was good, the deep moss that lay at the roots of the trees, the thick leaves, the folded flowers, the hundred-and-one scents intoxicating and disturbing wafted down on the air from Mustapha.The cart was carrying Julius downhill towards the port. He could hear the inevitable hum and throb from the distant Kasbah, the murmur of voices and a thread of music, the tune that was no tune and the beating of a drum.

Not the Mustapha scent now but the odour of a little dark street, spices and amber, a naked painted foot beneath a silk gown, a whiff of cigarette smoke curling in the air.

Julius swung off the cart that disappeared in the direction of the quays.

He went to the house of Ahèmed, the carpet seller, and climbed the rickety stairs to the dancing floor above. The place was packed, he had to wedge himself tightly between two old men to be able to see at all. They hunched their bent shoulders, moving irritably, cursing that a boy should force his way amongst them.

He squatted on his heels, his eyes round.The music continued, stupid and monotonous, like one who banged with a stick on a tin kettle.

The atmosphere was thick with smoke and breath, and the pungent smell of dark-skinned people.

Naïda the dancing girl moved slowly round and round in a little circle, shaking her hips and her stomach. Her fingernails and her toe-nails were painted. She wore a girdle round her waist.

As the tin-kettle music thumped louder and the beating quickened, so did her step quicken and her heel tap louder on the floor.

Her breasts and her stomach moved up and down, and she held her arms above her head, the heavy bangles jingling on her wrists.

Julius watched her critically, she was too thin to his taste, and her hips stuck out. He was amused at the old men next to him; they were counting money between them to see who should muster the most and would have her. One old fellow was clutching at the other, his eyes starting out of his head.

When Naïda had finished her dance, Lulu the fat woman took her place. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd. She was well over fifty and her hair was dyed bright red. She had great pouches under her eyes. But she was very popular. ‘Lulu makes more money than the rest of the girls,’ whispered someone behind Julius. ‘She never has less than fifteen every night. They say she is good for anyone suffering from shivers or staggers.’ ‘Oh! Lulu is experienced,’ came the answer. ‘You know Ali, who could not give his wife a child? He lay with Lulu five summers ago and now his wife has four healthy boys.’

The fat woman stamped on the floor and clapped her hands. Julius did not care for her much; she was funny for a moment, but she bored him for long. He hated her little beady eyes in the rolls of flesh, besides, she smelt too strong, even for him. He began to feel sleepy. His eyes were closing in spite of himself, and he knew it was getting late. The tin-kettle music droned on and on like a drug. It throbbed in his ears as though it were part of him. He waited to see Elsa, the little French girl, smuggled over to Alger from Marseilles three months ago. Elsa was only ten, a lovely slim child with jet-black hair and enormous eyes. She ran on to the floor stark naked, her nails painted too, and she clapped in time to the music, smiling and wriggling her little behind.The men shouted in admiration, and when she had come to the end of the dance they took her upon their knees and petted her, but she was too young as yet to work with the others. She would have to wait until she was twelve. She smiled over her shoulder at Julius. He liked to watch her dance; she was beautiful and sexless, she did not shake herself at you. She was quiet, too, with grave manners. Sometimes he met her in the mornings at the market, and he would show her how to bargain and where to find the best produce. It flattered him to see the adoration and hero-worship in her eyes. It made him feel fifteen and very grown up, and she was only ten.

‘I made some money to-day,’ he told her carelessly, and pulled out a handful of coins. Her black eyes grew round.

‘How clever you are!’ she said.

He laughed; he felt generous.

‘Here, you can have five francs if you like,’ he said, and he pressed the coin into her hot hand. Then he pushed his way out of the room and down the stairs into the street.

Supposing the Rabbin was waiting up for him? He would be punished, of course. It was nearly midnight.

Julius looked towards the house of Moïse Metzger at the end of the street.

There were no lights and everything was dark. The Rabbin and his old servant must have gone to bed. Sleeping was a waste of time, thought the boy; it didn’t give you anything. Now he was free of the atmosphere of the dancing-room he did not feel so tired. He could still hear the throbbing music muffled from behind the walls.

Julius picked up a stone and threw it gently at the shutters outside the window of Nanette the
blanchisseuse
. In a minute or two she opened them, yawning, stretching her arms.

‘Have you got anyone with you?’ he called.

She looked down at him lazily.

‘No, baby - what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?’

‘I’ve had a glorious day,’ he said. ‘I’ve sold six mules at the cattle market. Stole ’em off an old merchant. I made the boys drunk, too.’

She laughed, her white teeth gleaming.

‘Come on then and tell Nanette about it.’

He vaulted up to the window and landed with a thud inside her room. She was ready for bed; the sheets were turned down and the candle was lit under her crucifix. She settled herself yawning in the arm-chair and Julius sat on her lap. She fumbled with a box of sweetmeats and put one in his mouth.

‘Well, it was all owing to me,’ boasted Julius, his cheeks bulging. ‘The fellows were scared stiff. They hid in the trees and I waited in the ditch for the merchant to come.

‘“Hullo, you old flapdoodle,” I said, and I stung him one in the eye with a stone. Down he fell like a wounded turkey-cock. Off we galloped on the mules, thundering down the road for dear life, and when we came to the top of the hill everyone fell off except me. We were thirsty as troopers, and the boys got roaring drunk. Mind you, I’d put away double the quantity they had, but it don’t make a whit of difference to me.’

‘Oh! little chatterbox,’ teased Nanette.

‘May I be struck dead if I’m not speaking the truth!’ swore Julius, his eyes turned to heaven. ‘Well, to continue, I took the beasts myself to the cattle-market and seizing the hammer from the auctioneer, I sold every mule for ten louis apiece.The crowds gaped up at me. I’d had enough by then. I went and swallowed another drink, took some hashish, and spent the rest of the evening with the dancing girls.’

Nanette laughed and fumbled for a sweet; she did not believe a word of it.

‘You’re a fine fellow, no doubt,’ she said, ‘but it’s time you were in bed! What do we look like if Monsieur le Rabbin comes over to fetch you?’

Julius wriggled impatiently.

‘Moïse Metzger is in bed and asleep,’ he protested. ‘Nobody is coming to fetch me.’

He settled himself more comfortably and laid his head against her shoulder. Nanette was lovely all over. She had a rich smell.

‘Let me stay, Nounounne,’ he pleaded.

She grunted lazily, pushing away his hands. ‘No, baby, go home.’

‘Please, please, Nounounne, I want to so badly, like last time, you remember.’

‘Oh! You’re a pest, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m a man, I’m fifteen.’

He clung to her, blotting himself against her, burying his face in her warm flesh. She caressed him gently, feeling his narrow hips, his hard thighs.

‘You’re a bad boy,’ she said.

He bit her ear, murmuring nonsense; he rubbed his cheek next hers and tugged at her hands, whimpering impatiently like a spoilt, greedy puppy.

‘Please, Nounounne,’ he begged.

‘Go on, then,’ she said. And she blew out the candle and crossed the room to close the shutters.

 

Julius was growing up. Already at sixteen he was as tall as the Rabbin, Moïse Metzger; he shaved every morning, he smoked innumerable cigarettes - he thought himself a fine fellow. Daily the Rabbin perceived that his pupil was getting beyond him: this boy would never be a minister in the Temple, he was made for the business of life itself, for gain, for success, for men and for women.

Julius would sit now in the reading-room with his legs crossed and a smile on his face, not even troubling to hold his book before him, but the smile on his face said, ‘I know all this and more. Why am I wasting my time on you?’ The Rabbin would wonder, watching the curving nose, the thin lips, the black eyes set in the pallid face, and he thought, ‘To what end? Where is he going? What will he make of his life?’ Sometimes he would bring himself to ask Julius what his plans were for the future. ‘Have you decided? Are you always willing to become a minister of God?’ But Julius would put him off, would frown and bite his fingers. ‘I’m only sixteen - there’s time enough, isn’t there?’ And to see him in attendance at the Temple, his silence, his attitude of worship, his utter denial of the world when in the presence of God, the Rabbin would be puzzled once again, would stroke his beard in bewilderment. Does he mean it; is it only his youth that makes him arrogant and rebellious? Perhaps his brilliance and his insolence were part of his business of adolescence. He would grow out of them into a sound wisdom, a wisdom that rejected life for the service of the Temple. To see him at prayer, he could not be anything but a student in preparation for the ministry, this boy with his hands folded over his book, his head low, his lips murmuring the soft Hebrew words as he swayed backwards and forwards in a strange ecstasy, and he would offer nothing but worship in this atmosphere of peace and restraint as though nothing would ever exist but the vision of the iron gates, and the golden candlestick, and the Rabbin himself chanting the Kadisch. ‘That is the real Julius, there, standing at prayer,’ said Moïse Metzger, and in his ardour he would cry out to God to look down upon this young servant Julius, to hold him, to cherish him; and when the service was over after sundown he would see the boy sitting at his table with his books around him, his face eager, intent, and ‘That is the real Julius, too,’ he would say.

But later, much later, when darkness had come and the moon had risen, the table would be lonely and the books scattered, and there would be the window open wide filling the silent room with the scent of moss and eucalyptus, and the Rabbin in his narrow bed sleeping the sleep of God’s chosen people, would be unaware of the significance of that empty room and that open window; would neither waking nor sleeping have any knowledge of Julius, his real Julius, swinging his legs over the ledge and dropping to the ground below, nor the hasty flight across the dark street, nor the thrown pebble and the candle flickering behind the shutters, nor the lazy tread of Nanette the
blanchisseuse
as she unfastened the latch and stood for a moment, her arm upraised, black and mysterious, outlined against the sky. Nor would the Rabbin recognise his real Julius in the boy who lost himself in the night, who forgot the world as well as the Temple, who cared little for profit and less for dreams, and whose secret city was surely to be found in this furious intimacy, this building and breaking of power, this victory that was no victory but a sharp death, poisonous and strong.