Visions of Isabelle (24 page)

A cold breeze rustles the palm leaves and the black tents of Sidi Lachmi's encampment. Beautiful fringed flags, like the wings of huge prehistoric birds, flap upon their staves. She lingers about the camp, wandering first among groups of spectators, then sitting close enough to smell bread baking in the ovens, and the aroma of coffee boiling in kettles on the fires.

At first light the camp is quickly packed onto camels, and when Sidi Lachmi's escorts begin to mount their horses, Isabelle mounts Souf, too. Fumbling, she lights a cigarette, incapable of removing her eyes from the great pavilioned tent in the center. Four black Tunisian musicians, dressed in silks that glow in the dawn's light, begin to pound upon huge drums made of camel skin stretched taut. Other musicians come forward, shaking tambourines above their heads. Finally, with a grand gesture, a man throws open the flaps of the tent, and the sheik appears, dressed in a long robe of green silk, his head wrapped in a turban.

Isabelle is struck at once by his posture, noble and erect, his dark skin, jutting beard,
 
hooked nose and weathered face. His wise black eyes glisten, and there is a hint of cruelty in the arch of his brows. Suddenly out of the crowd comes a cry–trembling, immense:

"Greeting, great son of The Prophet!"

The sheik, calm, unreachable, grave, acknowledges the salutation by a slight expansion of his chest.

It is repeated, over and over, faster and faster, while the musicians beat their drums to climax and the tambourines shake madly in the air. Horses rear up, their eyes fearful, their mouths spewing foam. And still the great man stands in the portal of his tent, gazing forward with immunity to praise.

An aide brings forward a white horse–a horse so fine that Isabelle cries out at its beauty. The sheik mounts his saddle, barely altering the angle of his head, and, as the magnificent animal prances to the cheers of his followers and the music which has now risen to a deafening roar, he raises his arm and thrusts it imperiously toward the east. The procession begins.

She rides with those on the wind-swept flank, parallel to Sidi Lachmi and his aides. The advance is stately, slow, aimed at the rising sun which is still hidden by the enormous dunes that shield El Oued. As they make their way out of the blue shadows of Ourmès, beams of golden light suddenly appear. Then, at the same instant, the silent empty dunes all around give birth to mobs. Entire tribes come riding out to join and wait in a great half circle far away.

As the procession approaches, Isabelle begins to hear their chant, at first nothing but a barely audible murmur, but becoming, the closer she rides, a thunderous savage song of war. Suddenly a thousand horsemen appear scattered on the heights of all the dunes, standing at equal intervals, rearing on their horses, shaking long-barreled muskets in their arms.

Then a great whoop below as a hundred men break from the center of the circle and charge toward the sheik at full gallop, twirling their rifles around their heads and discharging them in attack. The luminous air fills with smoke, but the column of Sidi Lachmi continues its march, while the men who have taken part in the circle behind join the other followers on its flanks. Now the vast circle parts, giving way to Sidi Lachmi's column, and as it passes through the center, the chant of war becomes an obeisant hail:

"Welcome, peace, O saint of God, Sidi Mohammed Lachmi, son of The Prophet, great sheik of all the Kadrya, whose name shines east and west across the sands."

And looking to the holy sheik, Isabelle sees that still his countenance is without expression, hard and strong, showing not the slightest sign that he has heard.

She admires him most of all for this, for though she is moved by the great spectacle of his welcome as she has never before been moved by any human gathering, still the ultimate grandeur of the day is that its hero accepts everything as his due.

L
ater, before the gates of the Kadrya monastery in El Oued, Isabelle watches the ceremonies in honor of Sidi Lachmi's return. He sits upon his magnificent white horse, watching acrobats, singers, riflemen and an exhibition of equestrian skills.

Isabelle cannot restrain herself, works up her courage, then goes to one of the Kadrya officials and begs to be included in the competition. Her wish is granted and she plunges out on Souf, a fine lithe figure, galloping and halting, turning around in her saddle, twirling a borrowed saber like a mad Cossack. She knows that her riding style is different from the others, filled with boldness and risk, but the spectators like her, begin to applaud, and for her creditable performance she is chosen to be among those presented to the sheik.

Then, so close to him that she can smell the perfume on his beard, she kisses his hand and asks, with perfect equanimity, if he will grant her an audience alone.

The men around are shocked, but Sidi Lachmi seems amused. He stares her in the eye, and then, after what seems to her the longest moment of her life, he asks the reason for her request.

"So that I may enter the brotherhood of the Kadrya," she says. The men around click their tongues, and murmur disapproval at her effrontery, but the sheik gravely nods.

"Perhaps," he says, "perhaps, my son. It may be possible."

"When may I come to you?"

"Tomorrow night. And be prepared to be examined by the wisest of my men."

She nods and moves to the side, thrilled at her boldness, for she knows that if she'd applied the normal way, her request would have been rudely denied.

T
hat night at dinner, when she tells Slimen what she has done, he turns away and frowns.

"Be careful, Si Mahmoud. Sidi Lachmi is ruthless. He will never accept you once he discovers you're not a man. And then you'll be his enemy."

"Nonsense. He's a great sheik. Not the sort who splits hairs over a petty matter of sex."

"When he was young and there was fighting in the Souf, he skinned his captured enemies alive."

"Ah," she says, "I might have known–that's why you refused to come. You Spahis fear the sects. You know that if there's an uprising you'll be considered traitors to the French."

"I'm not a traitor and I'm not afraid."

"Good, Slimen. Good. I wouldn't love you if you were. But take care, dear brother. From what I've been told the tortures begin with castration. I would not like that to happen to you! "

Slimen shudders, then they embrace and laugh.

Later, when they are smoking kif by the small dome on the roof of their house, he asks again if she's determined to join the Kadrya.

"I want to know the desert, Slimen. So, if they'll have me–
yes
."

He nods then, and seeing that he understands she reaches to him, meets his liquid gaze and fondles his moustache.

T
he next evening she dazzles her examiners, a trio of old men with long beards. Her knowledge of Koranic science and law, her deep interpretations of scripture confound them, for she has lived in Tunis and Bône, talked of religion with the finest minds in the Maghreb. Unused to such erudition, the wise men declare themselves satisfied. Then they usher her into Sidi Lachmi's court.

He reclines, in his green silks and white veils, upon a pile of sheep hides lit on one side by a single thick candle set on a brass tray. The room is huge, the floor and walls covered with fine carpets. Black servants squat in dark corners. A brazier provides a modicum of heat.

Sidi Lachmi confers with his wise men, then motions Isabelle to sit down. While a servant pours tea he studies her face.

"My examiners give me good reports," he says in French. She is surprised that he has chosen her language, and also by the elegance of his accent which reminds her of the best she's heard in Parisian salons. She starts to speak but he raises his hand.

"Say nothing until I am finished."

She lowers her eyes.

"We must be frank. Otherwise nothing is possible. On the other hand, if you are honest, then many interesting things may occur."

She looks at him and nods. He grins, for the first time displaying warmth, though she feels it's blended with craft. "You are European, of course."

"I am a Moslem."

Sidi Lachmi waves his hand again.

"Never mind about that." He stares at her most closely, his lips curling to a strange smile.

"Tell me, my child–why do you dress like a man?"

For a moment Isabelle is afraid.

"You see that?"

"I saw it instantly."

"But how?"

"It is my business to read faces."

"Then others see it."

"Perhaps. And then, perhaps, many are deceived. But that doesn't interest me. You must answer my question."

"I don't know."

"The truth," he demands. "Otherwise we have nothing more to say."

"I disguise myself so that I may live here as I like."

"And for no other reason?"

She shakes her head.

"Then you do not spy for the French?"

"Of course not. They loathe me. Most likely they think I'm mad."

He strokes his beard.

"Yes–that is what I've heard."

"You've heard of me?"

"Who has not?"

"But, I..."

"My daughter, you are not a fool. You have a deep understanding of our religion, and are devout besides. Surely you realize that your presence in the desert has been observed. The problem with a disguise, especially one as shallow as yours, is that when it's uncovered people wonder at its purpose. In Touggourt I was approached with the proposition that you be killed."

"But why?"

"Because you wear two faces, and are therefore presumed dangerous. But none of that matters to me. Other women have been admitted to the brotherhood, though not very many, I confess. It depends on the person, you see. A good human is a good human just as a good horse is a good horse. In the end the only thing that matters is quality."

Again he grins, and she finds herself taken with him, though frightened a little, too. Clearly he is no primitive, but a man of subtle sophistication. He has an ulterior motive–she is certain of that–and that he speaks in French so that servants will not understand.

"Do you play chess?"

She nods.

"Good. We will play."

He snaps his fingers, a servant creeps forward on his knees, and the sheik growls something into his ear. A moment later an inlaid board is set between them, a box of carved pieces, and a fresh pot of tea.

"Help me set them up."

They arrange the pieces and begin, Sidi Lachmi immediately preparing a strong defense. Isabelle feels he is testing her, and wonders if etiquette demands that she should lose. But she plays as well as she can, and soon they are embroiled in a complicated position with dozens of possibilities, and no clear sign of victory on either side. She decides to clarify–Vava's favorite strategy–and starts a series of exchanges which he cleverly turns to his advantage. Then he begins to attack, his game full of duplicity and tricks, poisoned pawns, deceptive sacrifices, lines of attack suddenly revealed. Soon she is decimated and gives up the game.

"Your play is clever," he tells her, "but you lack experience."

"Even that would not aid me against so great a lord."

"If I may characterize your game, it is much like the way you ride your horse. Direct, without caution or tact–plain and strong and wild."

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be. It's the way you live. But don't expect longevity."

Isabelle, shaken, recalls his earlier remark.

"Why," she asks suddenly, "would anyone want me killed? I bother no one. I do no harm."

Sidi Lachmi strokes his beard.

"I'm not sure. There are always people who fear what they cannot understand. And you are difficult to understand."

"But I don't do anything except ride the dunes and sometimes tend the sick."

"Perhaps that's the problem. You don't appear to do anything, and that raises the question: what do you really do?"

She thinks for a moment, then asks for his advice.

His face turns blank, as if the silk veil that frames it has been pulled across. A silence–she can hear the snores of men asleep in distant chambers.

"You shall become a Kadrya," he says, finally, "and enter my protection. Then those who wonder what you do will know that you serve me."

"You accept me?"

He nods.

"The rites are simple, the rituals are for fools, and the secret signals will amuse you. But you must know that the sects are political parties, the members soldiers in a long and devious war that makes chess seem like a children's game. Right now the French favor the Tidjani, who acquiesce to their rule. We are weak because we are divided, and the French use this to manipulate us, keeping strength from a single group. My aim, of course, is to gain dominance, control of the desert. But the days of armed uprisings are over, and now everything is politics, trickery, deceit. In my youth I was like you–reckless, direct. But now, in middle age, I've become crafty, for that is the only means I know to accomplish my ends."