We passed a rectangular opening that was a doorway leading to a courtyard. I had a glimpse of stars and the outline of one of the kasbah towers. We turned left here into another passageway. A yellow gleam of light showed at the end of it. It was the entrance to a room and, as we went by, I saw the glow of a brazier and figures huddled round it. The only lights were the carbide flames flickering from their wall hooks. Steps led upwards then — a staircase that followed the square walls of a tower. And suddenly we were out in the open on a roof top. Below us stretched the darkness of the palmerie and away to the right the shadowy bulk of the walled village of Ksar Foum-Skhira, from which gleamed little points of light — the gleam of braziers and flickering flame lights in rooms that had only holes in the walls for windows.
We crossed the roof top and entered the open doorway of another tower. There was a shallow flight of earthen stairs and then we were in a square room with two thick window embrasures, the small, square openings of which were closed by broken wooden shutters. The place was very cold and had a musty smell. It was completely bare. The floor was of hard-packed earth and the walls of dried mud. The ceiling was high, raftered with the soft wood of palm stems. The man who had brought us here lit the two carbide lamps, hung them on hooks provided in the walls and then left us without a word, taking our guide with him.
It was bitterly cold. The temperature was just on freezing and a little wind was driving in through the cracks in the shutters and the carbide flames flickered wildly. ‘They’ll bring cushions and rugs in a minute,’ I said.
Jan nodded, glancing uneasily about him. ‘Can I smoke?’
‘Yes.’
He brought out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The only sound was the whistle of the wind in the chinks of the shutter and the singing from the village and the beat of the drums, which was so clear that they might have been in the courtyard below. Ai-yai-yee Ai-yai-yee Ya-ee Ya-ee Yai-i.
‘There’s a fire in Ksar Foum-Skhira,’ Jan said.
I went over and peered through one of the broken shutters. In some courtyard of the village flames were flickering in a lurid glow that lit up the corner of a tower and the piled-up walls of some houses. ‘They have to have a fire to heat the drums and so stretch the hides to the required pitch,’ I said.
The drums were beating faster now. The tempo of the singing increased, became shriller and then stopped abruptly. The drums went on for a few seconds and then ceased on a beat. In the sudden silence we heard the murmur of voices below us in the kasbah and then the scuffle of sandals on the stairs. Men crowded into the room, their arms piled with cushions and silks and hand-woven rugs. A big square of carpet was spread out on the earthen floor, the cushions were arranged round it and draped with rugs and silks. A brazier was brought, a red glow of warmth, and stood in the corner. A copper kettle was set on it. A great silver tray was placed on a low table that was barely six inches from the ground. Coloured glasses were carefully arranged and a silver tea chest and a white cone of sugar were placed beside it.
One of the men who had carried these things up was Moha and I reminded him that we were relying upon him to guide us back. He nodded and disappeared with the rest of the men. The room was suddenly empty again. We sat down cross-legged on the cushions and waited.
The minutes ticked slowly by. I found myself wishing the singing would start again in the village. Harsh and primitive though it was, at least it was a reminder that there were human beings around. The kasbah seemed quiet as the grave.
But at last there was movement again on the stairs and then an old man entered, walking slowly. He wore a spotlessly white djellaba of soft wool, the hood neatly arranged to frame his features. His beard was white and rather sparse, cut like a goatee, but extending along the line of the jaw almost to the ears. His skin was pale, far paler than mine, and his eyes were a steely blue. He was of pure Berber stock, unmixed with Arab or any of the desert races that so dilute the Berber blood of the south. ‘Merhba bikum!’ His gesture of greeting had great dignity. He motioned us to sit and he himself sank on to a cushion, folding up neatly and gracefully despite his age. Summoning one of the two men who had entered with him, he bade him make the tea for his guests, at the same time apologising to us in French for not doing it himself. He then made us a little speech of welcome in a frail voice that only occasionally paused to search for the right word. ‘You should have given warning that you were coming to visit me,’ he finished reproachfully. ‘I would have arranged a difa for you.’
‘It is very kind of you,’ I replied. ‘But things are difficult for you now.’
‘Yes, I know. But for our friends it is still possible to entertain them as I would wish. It is my people who suffer.’ He paused and then said, ‘You were with Monsieur le Capitaine this morning?’
I nodded.
‘Did he say when the food would arrive for my people?’
I explained about the two trucks that had broken down.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But why does he have to go to Agdz? Is he gone to bring the food here?’
I couldn’t tell him that Legard had gone to Agdz because of us. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he has gone to bring the food trucks.’
‘Good. But he must come soon. The people lose so much of their supplies in the disaster of the souk.’ He said this to himself rather than to us, nodding his head slightly. His age showed then, for he looked suddenly peevish and irritable.
‘They’ll be here tomorrow, I expect,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Insh’ Allah!
‘I believe your son is here in Foum Skhira?’ I said.
‘My eldest son, you mean? Ali?’ He nodded. ‘Oui. There is dancing in his honour in Ksar Foum-Skhira tonight. You know him perhaps?’ His eyes had clouded.
‘Yes, I met him in Tangier.’
The pale lids closed almost wearily. In those dropped lids I saw suddenly a similarity between the son and his father. He sighed and changed the subject, talking about the rains and how the souk had been destroyed. And then the tea was made and the hot, sweet, mint-smelling glasses were placed in our hands. ‘Alors,’ the Caid said, ‘you say that you are friends of the Capitaine Duprez.’
I explained that it was Jan who was Duprez’s friend and that he had been with him when he died. The old man nodded and motioned the men, standing like shadows in the doorway, to withdraw. Only the man seated behind the silver-laden tea tray remained. He was small-bodied with a cast in one eye, but he had the old man’s features and he was called Hassan, so that I presumed he was one of the Caid’s sons.
‘Now,’ the Caid said. ‘You have come to talk with me about Kasbah Foum, eh?’
I nodded to Jan to go ahead, and he told him how he had met Duprez, how they had worked together against the Germans in Essen and how Duprez had died there.
The old Caid shook his head and sighed. ‘It is a sad end for him,’ he said.
‘He was serving France,’ Jan pointed out.
‘Mais oui. He always served France. He was a Frenchman. But he should have died here. This was his home and my people were his people also. He was a fine man.’ Remembering what Ali had told me, I was surprised at the warmth in the old man’s voice.
The man behind the tea table rose and replenished our glasses. ‘It is many years ago then that Monsieur le Capitaine died.’ There was a hard shrewdness in the old man’s eyes as he stared at Jan. ‘Why is it only now that you come to tell me how it happened?’