That Devil's Madness (24 page)

Jamilah came out of the bedroom, totally covered, except for her face, by a black abayah and hijab. She held out another set to Nicolette.

‘I know what you're thinking,' she said before Nicolette could comment, ‘but we'll be safer; sometimes it's simply wiser just to bend. Here, I have something else for you. Remember this?'

Nicolette looked into Jamilah's hand and her eyes filled with tears. She picked up her great-grandmother's chain and crucifix. ‘You kept it all this time,' she whispered. ‘Did you wear it?'

‘No, I couldn't. But I always treasured it. When you first gave it to me, I was frightened of it – didn't want to keep it. But I showed it to my mother, and she said it was a Christian talisman, and that if I kept it, I'd not only have protection from the evil eye from the hand of Fatima that I wore, but from the Christian
djennouns
as well. She didn't think I should wear it though, since it's gold. Just in case…'

Nicolette smiled and closed Jamilah's fingers over the cross. ‘I want you to keep it.'

‘But your grandfather gave it to you—'

‘He'd understand. And I have this to remind me of him. Look.' She pulled down the neck of her jumper to reveal a chain of alternating gold and silver links. ‘It used to be the chain of his fob watch, but I had a jeweller put a clasp on it so I could wear it around my neck. Keep the cross, Jamilah.' She smiled. ‘It's kept the
djennouns
away till now, hasn't it? Besides,' she added, ‘I've already gotten into trouble once by my mother for supposedly losing it. I don't know what she'd say if it suddenly turned up again, all those years later.'

While Jamilah returned to her bedroom to put away the jewellery, Nicolette put on the clothes Jamilah had given her then looked around the living room. It was simply furnished, just the bookshelves, a couch, a round leather ottoman, a side table with photographs in frames – Jamilah's children, an elderly man, and one older photo of an elegant woman with short blond hair, wearing a smart two-piece suit and heels, holding the hand of a girl of about ten.

‘Who's this?' she asked when Jamilah came back into the room.

‘My mother and I.'

‘But it can't be. These people are both blond – and your mother never wore European clothes.'

Jamilah laughed and took the photo from Nicolette. ‘It's us,' she explained. ‘Like I tried to tell you, there's a lot you don't know about what went on. You'd left already, but there was a time when the French decided they would “emancipate” us. Free us from the veil, they said. So they conducted unveiling ceremonies, started women's circles, ran propaganda campaigns on radio and at the movies, all to free us from this perceived oppression. Of course, they didn't think it should also include stopping the violence they inflicted on our women, the rapes and the torture, and the destruction of our homes. They wanted to get to the FLN through its women, you see. They thought that by “modernising” us, they'd bring us to their side, that we'd turn against our men, and in doing so damage the very structure of Muslim society.

‘They were wrong, of course, but we played along. The French had always known it was forbidden for a man to touch us, and they'd always respected that. But when the trouble started, that no longer happened. The police and the soldiers started searching Muslim women – veiled women – but they never searched Europeans women. So we changed the way we looked. Cut and bleached our hair, wore the latest European fashions, looked as European as we could, so that we wouldn't be searched. It worked, and for a long time we were able to move weapons and explosives and messages to the various cells across town. They eventually found out, of course, and started searching everybody, so then we went back to the veil.'

‘But why? Why go back?'

‘Because it's who we are. Do you think it was easy for us to pretend to be European? It wasn't just a matter of playing dress-ups, you know. To do it properly, to be convincing, we had to deny our beliefs, our traditions. It was only temporary, true, but it was a struggle all the same. Imagine if you had to pass as a Muslim, act like one well enough to convince everyone – refute your religion, your customs. Because if you failed, you knew it would mean the life of your brothers, your husband or your father…'

‘Yes, but—'

‘But what? Do you think wearing the veil means we're oppressed? Oh, Nicolette, if we'd waited for the Westerners to liberate us, we'd still be waiting. Westerners don't understand, because they don't know the code. But here, for us, being liberated also means choosing when to play along. Have you ever thought that by wearing the veil, we may be making a political statement? But apart from that, sometimes I wear the veil, sometimes I don't. But when I do, it's for safety, or because I want privacy, because I want to become anonymous. And it allows me to observe without being observed – a protection against intrusion, as it were. Can you understand that?'

‘Kind of… “Choosing when to play along” – I like that. You've given me an idea.'

‘You're going to keep wearing this veil?'

Nicolette laughed. ‘No, not that. But something along those lines. Are you in a hurry to get back this evening?'

‘No, not really. Why?'

‘I'll tell you as we go…'

#

Steven knocked on Nicolette's hotel room door. He knew she was in, but she hadn't come down to dinner.

‘Nicolette? Are you okay?' He listened at the door, heard a noise.

‘I'm in bed. Sleeping.'

‘Open the door.'

‘Steven, I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Did you find your friends?'

‘Tomorrow, Steven.'

Steven knew she'd found Jamilah, Massa had told him of the cold reception she'd received. She probably didn't want him to know – was probably moping.

‘I've got something to tell you.'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Is it urgent?'

‘No.'

‘Tomorrow, then.'

‘Ok. Goodnight, Nicky.'

Nicolette didn't answer.

#

‘So, what did you have to tell me last night?' Nicolette asked, pulling a chair from Steven's breakfast table and sitting down.

‘I found— Whoa! When did that happen?' he asked, indicating her hair. Instead of the usual long blond ponytail, Nicolette's hair was now dyed a rich brown, and cut into a pixi-ish cut with a soft fringe. The combination of pale olive skin, blue eyes and dark hair was stunning.

‘Last night. Jamilah helped.'

‘Okay… Can I ask why?'

‘Do you like it?'

‘Yeah, it's alright. But tell me why.'

‘I thought it made me look more professional. Ponytails are for kids. And a lot of people think blonde equals dumb.'

Steven hid a smile behind his serviette. Nicolette signalled to the waiter and ordered a large cup of hot chocolate and toast.

‘And Jamilah helped you?'

‘Yup.'

‘Last night.'

‘Yup.'

‘Here? In your room?'

‘Yup.'

‘So Massa found her for you, then?'

‘No, Massa didn't find her. I did. And I didn't need a babysitter, thank you very much. I sent her home when we got to Jamilah's. And Jamilah's fine, thank you. She's married and has four children.'

‘And?'

‘And nothing. That's it. We talked, it was nice.'

Steven nodded, watching Nicolette. Something was different, and it wasn't just the hair, but whatever it was, she didn't want to talk about it. As she flipped her fringe back, he noticed a bruise on her temple.

‘What happened there?'

‘Banged my head against something. I was carrying Jamilah's little boy and didn't look where I was going. It's nothing. So what did you have to tell me?'

‘Ah, well, I did some asking around yesterday. That arms-drop? They got dobbed in by some local farmer – a Frenchman – who saw the plane, or knew it was coming or something. He rang the police. I thought we could go talk to him.'

‘You know who it is?'

‘No, but I found out where he lives. As far as I know no other reporter's been to see him yet.'

‘Great. Amoud's waiting for us?'

‘He should be.'

‘Let's go, then.'

#

A fine drizzle was falling when the car stopped by a grove of chestnut trees beside a laneway that lead to a farmhouse.

‘Is that it?' Nicolette asked, peering through the car window.

‘I think so.'

‘Looks deserted. Look – no smoke from the chimney. You'd think in this weather…'

‘Maybe they're in the paddocks working. Let's go see.'

Amoud turned into the laneway and drove to the farmhouse.

Nicolette heard the faint whine of a dog as soon as she got out of the car. She followed it.

‘Steven, come quick.'

Lying at the side of the house was a dog of indiscriminate breed. He was entangled in the chain that kept him captive, and had twisted so much that his neck had swollen to the point where the collar was only just visible. It could barely breathe. Beside it food and water bowls were overturned.

‘He's choking. Help me get the collar off.'

‘Be careful, he might bite,' Steven said. ‘I'll get Amoud to help you while I check the house.'

Amoud picked up one of the bowls and filled it with water. He scooped some in his hand, then showed Nicolette how to drip it onto the dog's mouth. The dog, which had been without water for some time, licked the drops with a swollen tongue. With the animal thus occupied, Amoud worked the buckle of the collar. The dog whined and snapped at Amoud's hands, then looked at Nicolette and whined again, as if to apologise. Still Nicolette dripped water onto its mouth, all the while holding its head down on the ground with her other hand. Amoud worked at the buckle until he managed to undo it, and the dog yelped at the pain of release, but the collar was off. He disentangled the chain and the dog dragged itself away towards a shed, still whimpering, as Steven came back outside.

‘Someone got here before us. They're all dead.'

Nicolette picked up the camera and bag she'd dropped by the dog and went into the house.

They had been killed during a meal. A middle-aged man was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of stew and potato congealed before him. His arms hung by his side and his head was thrown back. Around the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead, from the centre of his eyebrows spreading outwards like a fan, were orange-red lesions tattooed by gunpowder grains. There was surprisingly little blood.

At Nicolette's feet lay a woman. She, apparently, hadn't died as quickly as the man. She had obviously been standing by the stove, for an iron pot with more of the stew was spilt there. A trail of blood, faeces and stew lead from the stove to the woman now face down at Nicolette's feet. There was a bullet wound in the middle of her back, another at the back of her head, with fragments of bone and tissue sprayed on the blood pooled beneath her.

Nicolette felt bile rise in her throat and turned towards the window for some air. She didn't want to take photos of these people. Felt she was intruding on the most private moment of all. But another part of her argued that she must, that it was her job, her responsibility, her duty. Her duty? What would her photos achieve, in the end? She had told herself that she wanted to become the sort of photographer whose images help change peoples' opinion of war, of violence, of man's inhumanity to man, like the photos she'd seen of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, but was this the real reason? Or did she really just like the
idea
of being such a photographer? Would taking photos of these poor people here in this room really change anything?

‘Got all you want?'

Nicolette jumped – she hadn't heard Steven enter the room. She shook her head. ‘I feel a bit sick.'

‘Well, get your shots and get out of here. It stinks to high heaven in here.'

Nicolette raised the viewfinder to her eye. She was trembling. She took a deep breath to steady herself and held it as she focussed on the woman. Took another shot of the spilt pot, then changed to a wide-angle lens and took a couple of shots of the room, encompassing both victims. She considered a close-up of the man's face, focusing on the bullet hole centred on his forehead, but couldn't bring herself to take such a shot. She put her camera back in her bag.

‘We have to call the police,' she said.

‘I'll do that. Go outside and get some air.'

She nodded and went back to the car. Amoud was behind the wheel.

‘I don't suppose you'd have a cigarette?'

He smiled and reached into his pocket for a crumpled pack. Nicolette lit one and coughed. The tobacco was strong, rough, and the cigarette had no filter, but it stopped the nausea. Steven came out of the farmhouse.

‘Did you ring?' she asked. ‘Are they coming?'

Steven shook his head. ‘The phone cord's been cut. We'll have to ring them from town.'

‘We can't just leave.'

‘What do you want us to do? Wait here till someone drops by?'

‘Couldn't we cover them up or something?' What Steven said made sense, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to just leave them here.

‘I don't think the police will be too happy if we start messing things around. We probably shouldn't even have gone in. We're supposed to be in Algiers, remember? Boumedienne? As it is, I'm going to have to do some discreet bribing if you want to be able to use those shots you just took. We'll stop off in town, then we're going back – no arguments.'

She could think of nothing to say; Constantine was quickly losing its attraction. She got in the car and opened the window wide as Amoud started the engine and turned the car around.