The Professor’s History

Rabelais was a larger town, and merited a French administrator, who welcomed his bedraggled compatriot with enthusiasm. He was a tall, square man with a round, lined face, and he clapped the professor on the back, causing small puffs of coloured dust to whisk about them. Ushering him into the tiled domain, he offered him a bed and a hot bath, and hospitality for as long as the professor cared to stay. He also offered a cigar, which the professor smoked luxuriantly, seated, filthy as he was, in a soft chair in the administrator's office.

Through the window, he could see Mustafa and Ibrahim watering their animals at the fountain in the cobbled square, waiting for his instructions. The professor was overcome by annoyance at the two men from Cassaigne whom he believed had cast such doubt on his mission. Their busied forms were reproachful, and he wanted them gone.

He excused himself from the administrator's office and, cigar in hand, called to Mustafa from the steps of the government building. The French flag snapped and billowed above his head. Pulling the wallet at last from his belt, he counted out half again as much as they had agreed, a thick wad of notes, and pronounced them free to go. He was not a man to feel absurd, and it did not occur to him that he looked odd, beneath the flag, his clothes grimy, his glasses slightly askew; nor that it was strange to grant freedom to two free men.

'I wish you a safe journey,' he offered, magnanimous.

'Inch'allah,' murmured uncle and nephew in unison.

'We wish you luck with your history,' called Mustafa, as the two men turned towards the narrow Arab streets at the edge of the square. The professor could have sworn he caught a smile quivering, insolent, in the Arab's beard.

The administrator, although he had been a decade in Rabelais, had no knowledge of the caves of the Sbéhas. He had not visited them, and showed only a bemused interest.

'I think you are mistaken,' he repeated several times. 'The enfumade–a great tragedy–befell the Ouled Riah, near Necmaria. That is the cave you should visit. Not that there could be anything particular to see.'

'I have been to Necmaria. I've just come from there. I want to see the caves of the Sbéhas. Was the then Colonel Saint-Arnaud not stationed near here in forty-five?'

'Perhaps,' said the administrator. He offered his guest another glass of local wine, holding his ruby glass to the light. 'You might think it was from home, no? The viticulture is improving so rapidly.'

He, too, to the professor's irritation, saw little point in the expedition. 'Even if there was such an incident, it is best forgotten, surely?' he asked with a smile, his lips disappearing among the lines of his face. 'Who wants to remember? In France, there is a war on: morale is of the essence. Who could wish to know about such a disgrace? These things are accidents of war; and our attention must be on the accidents at hand. I hear they are sending our boys to the front in taxis. May God save Paris from the Boche! Persistent buggers. Uncivilized.'

Washed and changed, the professor became again his unflappable, urbane self. He sat in the comfort of the administrator's drawing-room, his head against an antimacassar crocheted by Monsieur's charming wife. He opened the Colonel's letters, a leatherbound volume that he had carried with him from the city, all that way, and in which he had marked the relevant pages. He read again the correspondence from Saint-Arnaud to his brother, dated 15 August, 1845:

The same day, the 8th, I sent a reconnaissance to the grottos, or rather, caverns. We were met by gunfire, and I was so surprised that I respectfully saluted several shots, which is not my habit. The same evening, the 53rd came under enemy fire, one man wounded, measures well taken. The 9th, the beginnings of the work of siege: blocus, mines, grenades, summations, instances, entreaties that they should emerge and surrender. Answer: insults, blasphemies, shots fired. 10th, 11th, more of the same. So, on the 12th, I had all the exits hermetically sealed, and I made of the cave a vast cemetery. The earth will cover forever the corpses of these fanatics. Nobody went into the caves–no one . . . only I know that interred therein are 500 brigands who will no longer slit French throats. A confidential report told the commander-in-chief everything, simply, without terrible poetry and without descriptions.

Brother, nobody is good by taste and nature as I am. From the 8th to the 12th I was sickened, but I have a clear conscience. I did my duty as a leader, and tomorrow I will begin again. But I have taken Africa in disgust–and am taken with disgust for Africa.

The professor closed the book and wiped his glasses. He had found no record anywhere of the confidential report, and no mention was made of the event in histories of the campaign. But the professor believed. He closed his eyes and smelt again the cave at Necmaria, the air of death, and he was certain that Saint-Arnaud had not lied to his brother. The secrecy had been his military triumph: the deaths, expedient, had furthered the battle, and the dead could not speak.

'Perhaps I could speak to the locals?' he suggested over supper, served at the administrator's oval dining table, brought by boat and train from France and carrying with it the heavy smell of French polish.

'Perhaps,' said the administrator's wife, who spoke little and, when she did, waved her plump, pale hands like mittens in the air. 'Perhaps the professor should consult our hermit.'

The administrator emitted a jolly snort and slapped the professor's forearm on the table. 'Naim will take you to the hermit. If you find nothing else, he, at least, will provide a subject for study.'

'What sort of hermit is he?' asked the professor, gingerly retrieving his arm from the administrator's grasp.

'Up in the hills,' said the wife, 'we have a hermit. A count, no less, and a very extraordinary man. He has wandered the desert for–how long, mon cher?'

'Decades.' The administrator gulped his wine. 'He is, indeed, a man of God, ordained by ... I forget by whom. But our church doesn't seem to be a priority. He doesn't preach, or even venture very often into Rabelais. He seems to prefer the company of natives, although I don't believe he has any intention of converting them. He has been known to deliver the Muslim prayers for the dying when the need arises. A sideline as an imam, if you like.'

'I like him,' said the wife. 'He's a gentle man, and has taken the time to listen to these miserable people. They trust him. Whereas with us'–she fluttered her hands, a glinting implement in each this time–'Who can say? I don't like to be here when my husband goes away, because their faces . . . their eyes . . . you do not know.'

'They carry the history we have forgotten,' said the professor. 'Our beginnings here were brutal.'

'They have no interest in history,' said the administrator. 'The past to them is like their soil in summer, scattered on the wind. At Necmaria, you know, the caid is descended not from the Ouled Riah, over whom he rules, but from their enemies. And they don't know it, or care. Like dust, it's gone.'

'They know,' countered the professor, with new understanding born simply of dislike of the administrator. 'And they won't ever forget. They live in front of their defeat, and it is always with them. But they're different from us. They know what is necessary for survival.'

'And they will use it when they can,' said the wife, sombre now. 'Don't think, mon cher, that they won't. They harbour it like a seed, and nurture it in secret. One day, we will all pay.'

'This is why the stories must be told,' said the professor, eager yet again to convey his vital purpose. 'There is a war in Europe now. We must learn from the past before mistakes are made. Do you see? For the progress of France, here and at home, the truth must be known. Knowledge . . . ' he stammered, flushed from the wine and conviction, 'knowledge is the only salvation. For the past and the future both.'

'Noble sentiments indeed,' said the administrator. 'But I suspect you have only the experience of your library. Forgive me, but I speak as a former military man, and I can assure you, the maps of old battles are of very little use in the field. Wits and courage are what's called for: the rest is a waste and a distraction.'

The professor did not respond.

'Tell me, what good is it? What difference will it make, to tell your story, even if it is true?'

This time, the professor did not bother to try.