The Influence Peddlers Page 3

  For the resident general the film had become a matter of state and Nahbès the place where a highly respectable film was being made. The United States had come there to make a film about a good Arab, a film about a sheikh, not a hypocritical pillager or a fanaticized rebel, no, a noble horseman, head of a tribe, adversary then friend of infidels and progress, and played by a world-renowned star. The word had ultimately come down from Paris: one had to move with the times. On close scrutiny, the screenplay was not subversive; it was a hymn to a well-understood fraternity uniting Europeans, natives, and Americans in the joyful celebration of a balance that had just been established for the entire century to come. Some colonials even came to defend that policy. They said that one had to feed the rats to save one’s provisions. The real Prépondérants called them dangerous.

  3

  HONORED GUESTS

  Gabrielle Conti would sometimes visit Rania early in the morning, to enjoy the countryside in the remaining coolness of the night; it was her discovery. “You know,” the journalist said, “I am what they call a hypocrite, I can write ‘the fields hum softly against misfortune,’ but I’m incapable of putting a name to any plant.” They walked slowly but with a good stride—the air wasn’t yet a burden, the earth smelled good—Gabrielle saying, “Men would say our stride isn’t very feminine, not hobbled enough.” She stopped often, asked: “What’s that? They’re everywhere!” She pointed at a stem with green leaves that were just opening up, topped with white umbels.

  “A witch’s plant,” said Rania, “hemlock.”

  They started off again.

  “And you can eat that.” Rania pointed at a hedge of cactus whose large fruit were covered with red and yellow bumps, “Karmus ensara, the ‘Barbary fig,’ which you call prickly pear . . . but our term is correct, you imported it . . . Huge cactus to make your first enclosures . . . You can eat it, but it has to be picked carefully: the thorns are dangerous. We’ll do it another time.”

  Up in the sky, on their left, a blue-gray hawk was gently moving its wings, almost immobile some sixty feet above the ground.

  “He’s hunting,” said Rania, “I see him whenever I walk. I like to think that it’s always the same one, a friend, but I’m not sure, and if he stays close by, it’s probably because we’re upsetting the shrews and the field mice. We’re his beaters.”

  Gabrielle waited until they returned to the veranda of the farmhouse to tell Rania about the parties at the Grand Hôtel. They sat down across from each other in front of a breakfast that made the journalist sigh; she pushed away a plate full of honey and almond pastries after taking one or two and then reaching for a third, to go with her second cup of coffee . . . She started to tell her story, incapable after a time of knowing how many pastries she had eaten. Rania refrained from interrupting her. Once, though, she asked if those evenings resembled the balls at the Opéra, she had seen drawings and paintings in the Paris magazines. Gabrielle laughed, replying that the women at the hotel weren’t dressed the same way, and promised to bring her photos. Rania was mad at herself for asking the question; she was also a bit mad at Gabrielle: Why did she laugh? Because I don’t know anything? Because it has become a world where it is ridiculous not to know the difference between Opéra balls and parties at the Grand Hôtel? I thought that knowing the difference between Stendhal and Zola was enough, but she laughs, not to be hurtful, but that makes it worse, when I wasn’t expecting it, I shouldn’t feel out of touch, I’m the one who is hurting myself, throughout the day, sa’atuna ka diba’u . . . our hours are hyenas, and it’s what we read in novels and magazines that makes us want to go to those parties where I’m not allowed to go . . . Rania also tried to get Raouf to talk, but he replied tersely that he didn’t know anything and had no desire to know. The tone was forced and probably expressed something other than the words, but Rania didn’t insist. She refrained from telling her cousin that he was lying and that he was quite free to go whip himself into a frenzy with foreign women at a hotel.

  She was mistaken. Because it wasn’t at the Grand Hôtel that Raouf had seen the life he had been leading up to then turned upside down. He had just received his baccalauréat, and he didn’t dare appear in such a place yet. It was on the request of his father, the caïd Si Ahmed, who was the sovereign’s representative in the region of Nahbès, that he met the Americans the day after they arrived.

  “I would like,” Si Ahmed had told him, “for you to take care of the two most important people, the one they call the director and his wife, the actress . . . They should be treated . . . as our honored guests . . .”

  Raouf had understood: they should not allow the French to be the only ones in charge of the Americans’ stay. But he didn’t want to become the instrument of paternal politics, a strange politics, in line with those of the French—“You must always swim close to the boat,” repeated the caïd—but he sometimes drifted unexpectedly and then returned to the right path just as unpredictably, and now he had to be pleasant to the foreigners about whom his father nonetheless said: “Their declarations on the rights of peoples . . . democracy . . . is madness . . . communism!” The father assigned the son the task of making the newcomers’ life easier; he, himself, would remain in the background, like that . . . in the event of problems . . . No, his father wouldn’t do such a thing, not that hypocrisy, and yet “Hypocrisy is the weapon of the conquered” was one of Si Ahmed’s favorite sayings. Raouf ultimately said that he would do what was asked of him, though the tone of his voice made it clear that he wouldn’t be putting too much energy into the effort; when you had your life in front of you in a country like this you had to be just as cautious of Americans as of the French. “One group goes down, another climbs up,” repeated his friend Karim, less fascinated than his other friends with everything that came out of Europe or America.

  And that evening, in the gardens of the caïd’s residence, at the welcome party that his father and the contrôleur civil, Claude Marfaing, were hosting for the entire film crew, Raouf had refused to be impressed by that Kathryn Bishop whom everyone was surrounding. As soon as she turned her smoldering gaze on a man, the chosen one puffed out his chest, the most talented without appearing to do so, others, on the contrary, while placing a hand above their heart and standing on tiptoe; still others played with their mustache and devoured the actress’s face with their eyes, a square, soft face, a wide mouth, well-shaped ears; some even lowered their gaze to what the dress allowed them to contemplate from its low neckline; and they all began to talk louder, other women trying to get closer to the actress to take advantage of a few leftover scraps of gallantry.

  Raouf was being watched. He was expected to act predictably, the high school student in front of the blond of everyone’s dreams, the native before a famous Westerner. His smile was shy and friendly without being indifferent, but since he didn’t want to elbow his way in, he ended up in the second row. He left the circle to go from group to group to greet the other Americans, all those people exuding the open sea, who congratulated him on his scholarly English. Raouf thought he had reached the top of his game.

  A bit later, Kathryn Bishop, escorted by her court, had said to him when their paths crossed, “I hear you’re going to keep us from doing anything stupid in a country we know nothing about?”

  Raouf had responded that he might not be able to devote all his time to that more than pleasant task—he had to begin preparing for his entrance into university—but it would be an honor if the occasion were to arise in the coming weeks (Good to say weeks, Raouf said to himself, not days, you’re not their flunky, well played!) to show Madame Bishop and her husband some of the monuments in the city.

  Kathryn had smiled, Who does this kid think he is, with that suit that has forgotten to grow with him? He has intense black eyes, lovely lips, straight shoulders, but that is no reason!

  Then she said, “That would be perfect,” and she walked away.

  Raouf had understood. David Chemla, his childhood friend, was right. T
hose Americans, as soon as you didn’t do exactly whatever they wanted, they abandoned you. That was capitalism in all its arrogance. Raouf was not a hotel bellman—he had his own life to lead! He was mulling that over when he felt someone take his elbow. It was Ganthier, the colonist whom his father had forced him to see for years, Ganthier saying to him, “So, we’re being haughty?” Ganthier had seen everything.

  “Not at all,” Raouf replied, “but I really won’t have time to take care of them, and the lady didn’t like that . . . My father is going to say that I did it on purpose, especially if you tell him.”

  Ganthier began to chuckle: “What’s the matter with you? She’s gorgeous, I have rarely seen a woman with such a perky behind. She smells good, she looks at you, and you send her packing? Do you think such a package bounces back to you like a handball?”

  Raouf didn’t answer. He simply looked at Ganthier, a man in his forties, dry, elegant, the largest landowner in the region, a former seminarian and reserve officer. “The only Frenchman whom domination has not rendered an idiot,” his father had said to him one day, “Learn to challenge him, it will make you stronger.”

  Ganthier knew Raouf well. They had begun to talk when Raouf was twelve. Ganthier had given him books and had been astonished to see him arrive at his house the next day with Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea or Voyage to the Center of the Earth, eager to discuss them with him. “You are a frightening reading machine, young Raouf,” said Ganthier. “Yes, master!” Raouf responded, in a mocking tone. Ganthier didn’t have any children, he was a bachelor, and in Nahbès that young Arab was one of the rare people who was interested in books and literature. It was the only thing they had in common. On all other subjects their exchanges were but a long series of confrontations that became increasingly heated as Raouf grew older and Ganthier hardened into a pure and stubborn colonial.

  Raouf and Ganthier had taken a few steps together on the paths of the caïd’s residence; then Raouf again began circulating alone among the guests. Some French people would raise their voices when he approached: “Those people . . . the right to vote? Not for another six generations at least.” Others lectured on the new arrivals: “What you’ll notice is their fatalism . . . History, progress, that doesn’t interest them.” He also received from time to time forced compliments on passing the bac, the first ex aequo in all of North Africa along with one of his French friends from the Victor Hugo lycée, the son of the head of the Sûreté générale. He thanked the people who looked down on him and whom he wanted to insult. He ended up mixing with the youngest Americans of the film crew, boys and girls scarcely older than he. They were direct, laughed a lot, and were not easily impressed. They liked the future. Raouf had been enjoying himself, then, catching a look from his father, he left his new friends and walked over to the director, Neil Daintree, who was talking with a Frenchman on the terrace.

  He was wondering how he was going to approach the director when he heard him say that he was reading Eugénie Grandet. The man he was talking to assumed a knowing air, and Raouf boldly interrupted:

  “Has Charles already arrived in Saumur?”

  “He’s just landed,” Daintree had said, “and it’s magnificent!”

  “The noble genre that is slumming it in the provinces,” Raouf had added.

  “That fellow Balzac knew how to create a contrast. I’d like to make a film about it.”

  Daintree and Raouf were leaning on their elbows on the railing of the terrace.

  “This place,” Raouf said, “is like the provinces for the French . . . but it comes with a sense of superiority.”

  They delved into The Human Comedy. Daintree’s favorite book was The Lily of the Valley.

  “I prefer Lost Illusions.”

  “Ah, so your Balzacian hero is Rubempré, the poet!”

  “No . . .”

  “Rastignac?”

  “No . . .”

  “Bianchon, the doctor?”

  “Not him, either . . .”

  “I give my tongue to the cat,” Daintree said, jokingly translating the French expression.

  “De Marsay!”

  “The man in power?”

  Daintree had glanced over the crowd of uniforms, dresses, dark suits, and djellabas that were teeming below, then: “Are you really that interested?”

  They had indulged in an orgy of references. Raouf started to talk about The Last of the Mohicans. Daintree kept anyone who might have tried to join their conversation away with a withering look, and seeing that her husband was hiding away at a party where he was the guest of honor, Kathryn approached them:

  “You’re kidnapping this young man. You’re preventing him from preparing his entrance exam into the university.”

  “Can you believe it? He has read Eugénie Grandet!”

  Behind the actress, some men were cursing themselves for not having read Balzac recently.

  “Ah, my husband’s latest passion! That girl was pitiful, when you want a man you take him . . .” Then, in a burst of laughter:

  “Ask Neil what happened to him four years ago!”

  Raouf tried not to look at the actress’s throat. He stared at her gray eyes, and she added: “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy, you’re going to have to get used to it. Do you know the war cry of our parties in Hollywood? Let’s drink and fuck!”

  Daintree clenched his teeth. Raouf had understood most of it, and started blushing . . . He found the strength to respond that with that war cry they were dismissing many fictional characters, who in general were more patient. Kathryn then assumed a serious tone:

  “Yes, the ‘delaying of love’ . . . whereas at thirty you’ll be finished . . . the art of French novels . . .”

  “Oh, Raouf has also read The Last of the Mohicans,” Daintree said. “He speaks English!”

  “Just a little,” Raouf said, happy to change the subject.

  “He’s having dinner with us tomorrow, and he’s going to teach me Arabic!”

  “That’s it, my husband wants to seduce you, but be careful, we can be big bad wolves!”

  “He’s also read White Fang,” Daintree had added.

  In the weeks that followed, Raouf did what his father had asked. He spent hours with the Daintrees and he became enthralled with movies, finally understanding the enthusiasm of his former teacher Jules Montaubain: “It’s an art, Raouf, it’s going to take over all others, it’s going to complete them, in the Hegelian sense of the word!” Montaubain had communist sympathies, couldn’t read Das Kapital, and liked to make references to Hegel. He was, like Ganthier, very proud of Raouf’s having passed his bac.

  When he was with Kathryn Bishop, Raouf had to put up with her provocations. She had decided to treat him like a teenager. He treated her like a respectable lady on purpose, which made her mad, and Ganthier commented: “Two wounded vanities, young Raouf, it’s a true beginning!” Once, Kathryn had said to Raouf: “Neil wanted you with me so I wouldn’t go looking for company elsewhere!” Raouf had disappeared for two days. Since Neil was worried, she came to apologize:

  “We’d be better off friends, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” Raouf had replied, and very happy with his reply. They started to walk together, arm in arm. People greeted them. He was happy not to experience the emotions that Kathryn provoked in the men of the town. He continued to go say a few words to Rania when he noticed her carriage on avenue Jules-Ferry, but not when he was with Kathryn, even if he knew that Rania had seen them. Rania watched him; she didn’t mind, but she thought it was stupid to act like that. She said to herself, They could come over, he could introduce her to me, she could become my friend, what he’s doing is petty, I’m sure he knows it, he’s not stupid, so why is he doing it? Rania couldn’t come up with a satisfying answer, but it didn’t upset her to discover such behavior in a boy who everyone said would have a brilliant future.

  4

  AND . . . ACTION!

  And then there was one afternoon . . . a few mile
s south of Nahbès, in the middle of the first dunes, where the Americans had set up their clutter of trucks, tents, mobile dressing rooms, lights, scaffolding, and canvas folding chairs. In front of a Bedouin tent, there was a couple, a woman whose eyes were no longer her own, in the arms of a handsome man who was speaking to her urgently.

  Raouf was standing some fifteen yards from the actors, at a good distance, far enough to see everything that was going on, whole bodies, the movements of the lower bodies, the chests, everything glued together, everything that is disturbing when you watch a couple and you can also see the details, the fingers, the lips. He watched, arms hanging at his sides, his mouth open. He wasn’t used to what he was experiencing; boys of eighteen didn’t know women. He kept thinking of something a friend had said, a friend who had read one book more than all the others: “A woman is natural, that is, abominable,” and then you go to a brothel, or you dream of a goddess, or both at the same time, but you are repulsed at the idea of being glued to a real woman, of flesh, whose will is not your own. Raouf hadn’t learned the words to make plans and decide “I will have her” to end his stupor. He couldn’t detach himself. He suddenly wanted to call Kathryn a whore and punch the pretty boy in the face, but she was his friend. But a whole lot of things were battling in his head and in his trousers, violence, sweetness, images, echoes of conversations between friends—the one who tells you in the tramway that he went all the way and that he didn’t find it all that fun, in any case, brothels are disgusting—Kathryn’s dress, slit on the side, revealing her entire naked leg. He had once heard her say: “I’ll never be a great star, I don’t have Ziegfeld legs.” Raouf didn’t know what a Ziegfeld leg was, and didn’t dare ask anyone, but he found Kathryn’s leg magnificent. He watched her, watched her face, her leg again, without being seen. He wanted to remain cool but everything was battling in him, very ancient poems hasartu bifawday ra’siha, I took her by the temples . . . fatamayalat ‘aleyya, and she leaned toward me . . . Kathryn ten yards away, short hair, a large, lovely mouth, I took her by the temples, a pre-Islam ode hasartu . . . But it was that pretty boy Francis Cavarro who was leaning over her, her temples . . . Enough to make you close your eyes for a moment, his hands traveling down to her waist, hadima lkash’hi, her slender waist . . . squeezing it, open your eyes, remain cool, Ziegfeld leg, Kathryn standing on tiptoe, slender ankles in sandals, and again Baudelaire, “and your feet fell asleep in my fraternal hands,” panic, alexandrines that blended with fourteen-centuries-old odes, tamata‘tu min lahwin biha gheira mu‘jali, I took my pleasure in entertaining myself with her . . . without haste . . . And something that resists everything, a real woman, not the woman of the poem, and in the arms of another, let her stay there, I took her by the temples, leave, leave those two rubbing against each other, and we stay, we’re one too many, but you never know what can happen . . . They must be looking at me . . . She leaned toward me . . . without the eyes of a dead fish, looking at that greasy idiot who is taking her in his arms for the third time, and the other one over there who shouts in his megaphone and who couldn’t care less that his wife is in the arms of another, and who shouts “Action!” so she’ll start rubbing again . . . They must be watching me.