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  ‘I will only attend if you let me pay for the lambs,’ he said. ‘That is my price.’

  ‘There aren’t many of these left,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s mostly dirty notes now, the value of which changes from day to day.’

  ‘Who gave that to you?’

  ‘An old caravan driver,’ he replied without exactly lying, or telling the truth either.

  ‘Have you got many of them? This is what they used to pay the guides and camel riders with,’ the other man said knowingly. ‘Did you know that?’ he said, adding later with an ironic smile: ‘I signed up with the “great caravan” but ten days later I started spitting blood so they rejected me saying that I wouldn’t make it to Tripoli.’ He shook his head as if he still found it hard to believe how fate had intervened. ‘I’ll be ninety soon,’ he continued. ‘But there’s nothing left of the “great caravan.”’

  ‘How did you manage to cure yourself of tuberculosis?’ Gazel asked. ‘My eldest son and my first wife both died of it.’

  ‘I made a pact with a butcher in Timbuctu,’ the old man said.

  ‘I worked for him for free for one year and in exchange he let me eat the raw humps of every camel he slaughtered,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘I became as fat as a barrel, but I stopped spitting blood. Almost two hundred camel humps!’ he exclaimed. ‘I haven’t gone any where near one of those damned animals ever since. I’d rather walk for three months than get up on one of those things.’

  ‘You’re the first Imohag I’ve ever met that’s not keen on camels,’ Gazel remarked.

  ‘Maybe,’ he added smiling. ‘But I’m probably the first Imohag to have survived tuberculosis.’

  The beautiful girl with fine plaits, pert breasts, jewelled hands and red, painted palms, tuned the one string on her violin and plucked at it. The instrument let out a sharp wail, which sounded like both a lament and a high-pitched laugh in one. Then, looking directly at Gazel, the visitor, as if she were dedicating the story to him personally, said:

  ‘Allah is great. Blessed is He.’

  She paused. ‘They say, although this did not happen in the land of the Imohag, or in Tekna, Marrakesh, Tunisia, Argel or Mauritania, but way over there in Arabia, near the saintly city of Mecca — which all believers must make a pilgrimage to at least once in their lifetime that a long time ago in the prosperous and populated city of Mir, the glory of Califas, there lived three cunning merchants. Now these three men had managed after many years of doing business together to amass a sizeable fortune, which, they decided, they should use to start up a new business with.

  It turned out, however, that the three merchants did not trust each other and so they put their riches into one bag and gave it to the mistress of the house in which they were living, to look after, with express instructions that she should not give any of it to any one of them, unless all three of them were present.

  A few days later they needed to write a business letter to the neighbouring city and were in need of a piece of parchment. So one of them said:

  “I will go and ask our good woman for one, she is sure to have some.”

  But when he went into the house, he asked instead for the money bag that they had given her and she said: “That I cannot do as your other friends are not present,” and even though the other insisted, she continued to say no until the cunning merchant said:

  “Look out the window and you will see my companions there in the street below. I’ll go down and ask them.”

  The woman did as she was told and watched as the merchant went outside and whispered to his partners:

  “She has some parchment, but she does not want to give it to me unless you ask for it as well.”

  Not realising that they were being tricked, they shouted up to the woman to do as he wished and so she gave him the bag and the thief fled the city.

  When the men realised that they had been tricked and that the money had gone, they blamed the poor woman and took her before a magistrate in order to seek justice.

  It turned out that the judge was a fair and intelligent man, who listened well to both sides of the story and then, after some deliberation said:

  “I see that you have reason enough to make these demands and it is only fair that this woman returns the bag to you, or at least the value of its contents. But according to the pact that you all agreed on, it is imperative that all three of you are present when she returns it to you, so I believe that your time right now would be better spent in search of him. When you have found him, bring him here and I will make sure that the agreement is honoured.”

  And justice and reason triumphed, thanks to the cunning judgment of an intelligent magistrate.

  As Allah would have wished.

  Blessed be his name.’

  The girl played a note on the violin as if to put a full stop to the story and then, without taking her eyes off Gazel, added:

  ‘You, who seem to have come from such a long way away. Why don’t you tell us a story?’

  Gazel looked at the group of about twenty boys and girls, all gathered around the fire, over which two, big lambs were cooking slowly, emitting a sweet and intense aroma and said:

  ‘What kind of story would you like to hear?’

  ‘Yours,’ the girl replied quickly. ‘Why are you here, alone and so far from your home? Why do you pay with these ancient coins? What mystery are you hiding? Even through your veil you can see in your eyes that you are hiding a huge secret.’

  ‘It is only your eyes that want to see a secret where none other than tiredness exists,’ he assured her. ‘I have made a long journey. Maybe the longest journey that anyone has ever made on this earth. I crossed the “lost land” of Tikdabra.’

  The last one to have arrived at the party, a strong boy with a shaven head, a slight squint and a long scar that ran from his cheek to his throat, suddenly asked in a quivering voice:

  ‘Is it you, Gazel Sayah; inmouchar of the Kel-Talgimus, whose family was settled in the guelta of the Huaila mountains?’ His heart missed a beat.

  ‘Yes, that is I.’

  ‘Then I have some bad news for you,’ the boy said with a tone of regret. ‘I’ve come from the north, from tribe to tribe, from jaima to jaima,’ he continued. ‘The soldiers have taken away your wife and children. All of your own. Only the old Akli has escaped and it was he who said that they were waiting to kill you in the guelta of Huaila.’

  He had to make an extreme effort to stop himself from crying out as he struggled to contain his emotions, an effort that took much more strength than anything he had had to confront whilst in the depths of the “lost land.”

  ‘Where have they taken them?’ he said in a voice that did not betray his panic.

  ‘No one knows. Maybe to El Akab. Maybe even further north, to the capital. They want to exchange them for Abdul-el-Kebir.’

  The Targui got up and walked slowly over to the dunes as everybody watched in respectful silence. The cheer of the party had disintegrated and no one in the group had even noticed that one of the lambs was burning. The gri-gri of misfortune had spread through the flames of the fire and its fetid breath had dampened the suggestive looks and sparks of desire that might otherwise have led to happy unions later that evening.

  Gazel collapsed onto one of the dunes in the darkness and buried his face in the sand as he struggled not to cry out loud, burying his nails in the palm of his hand until he drew blood.

  He was no longer a rich man on his way to the peace of his home after a long adventure. Nor was he the hero who had rescued Abdul-el-Kebir from his enemies’ clutches and crossed the “lost land” with him, carrying him to safety across the border. All he was now was a stupid fool who had lost everything he had in the world, due to his stubborn insistence that his old fashioned laws, which no longer meant anything to anyone, be respected.

  ‘Laila!’

  A shiver, like a river of cold ice, ran down his back as he imagined her in the hands of those men in dirty uniforms, with their
thick belts and stinking, hard boots. He remembered their faces as they had pointed their guns at him at the door of his jaima and their filthy camp and the abusive way they had treated the Bedouins in El-Akab. A deep groan escaped from his lips, against his will, making him bite down hard onto the back of his hand.

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t keep it in. The strongest of men have the right to weep at a moment like this.’

  He lifted his face. The beautiful girl with long plaits had sat down next to him and reached out her hand to stroke his face, like a mother might do to her son.

  ‘It has passed,’ he said.

  She shook her head firmly.

  ‘Do not lie to me. It has not passed… These things don’t go away. They stay buried inside, like a bullet that’s lodged itself deep within you. I know because my husband died two years ago and my hands still search for him at night.’

  ‘She is not dead. No one would dare do her any harm,’ he said, as if trying to convince himself. ‘She’s only a girl. God will not allow any harm to come to her.’

  ‘The only God that exists is the one you want to,’ she said firmly. ‘You could leave it to Him if you want. But if you have managed to cross the “lost land” of Tikdabra then you are capable of getting your family back. I am sure of that.’

  ‘How can I do that now,’ he said despondently. ‘You heard; they want Abdul-el-Kebir and he isn’t with me any more.’

  The girl looked at him fixedly under the clear light of a full moon that had climbed high in the sky, turning night almost back into day.

  ‘Would you have accepted that exchange had he still been with you?’ she asked.

  ‘They are my children,’ came his reply. ‘My children and my wife — the only things I have in this life.’

  ‘You still have your pride as a Targui. I remember her. And from what I know of you, you are the proudest and bravest of us all.’ She paused. ‘Too much so, perhaps. When you warriors go off to fight, you never stop to think about what might become of us women that stay behind, who suffer the brunt of your actions but take no slice of the glory.’

  She clicked her tongue as if to stop herself. ‘But I am not here to admonish you,’ she conceded. ‘Fact is fact and you had your reasons for what you did. I came, because at a time like this a man needs company. Would you like to tell me about her?’ She tilted her head to one side.

  ‘She’s just a girl,’ he sobbed.

  The door flew open and Sergeant Malik-el-Haideri jumped up from his bed and grabbed the pistol lying on the table, but stopped as soon as he made out the shape of Lieutenant Razman, silhouetted in the doorway against the violent light that came flooding in from outside.

  Even though he was half naked, he still tried to maintain a military air by standing to attention and saluted as he clicked his heels together, which actually made him look quite ridiculous. But it was clear from the lieutenant’s grim expression that the business he had come about was no laughing matter. As soon as his eyes had got used to the darkness he went over to the windows, opened the shutters and pointing to the next hut with his whip, said:

  ‘Who are those people you have locked up in there, sergeant?’ he asked.

  The sergeant felt himself break into a cold sweat that started to seep out of every pore, but still struggling to keep his composure he said:

  ‘The Targui’s family.’

  ‘How long have they been here for?’

  ‘One week.’

  Razman turned to face him as if unable to believe what he was hearing and reiterated:

  ‘One week…?’ He was clearly horrified. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you kept women and children locked up in this heat, in this inferno, for one week without having informed your superiors of this fact?’

  ‘The radio was broken.’

  ‘Liar! I have just spoken to the operator, you gave an order of silence. That’s why it was impossible to communicate with you before I arrived here.’

  He stopped suddenly as his gaze fell on the completely naked figure of Laila, who out of fright had scurried over to the furthest corner of the room, where she was curled up on top of a threadbare blanket. His eyes flicked alternately from the girl to Malik-el-Haideri and finally, as if he could hardly bear to hear the answer, he asked hoarsely: ‘Who is that?’

  ‘The Targui’s wife. But it’s not what you think…’ he said trying to absolve himself. ‘She did it of her own free will. She agreed!’ he repeated, extending his hands out in front of him, as if begging for mercy.

  Lieutenant Razman went over to Laila, who tried to cover herself up with a corner of the blanket.

  ‘Is that true. That you agreed to this?’ he asked. ‘He didn’t force you?’ The girl looked at him fixedly and then turning round to face the sergeant said firmly:

  ‘He said if I didn’t agree he would give my children over to the soldiers.’

  Lieutenant Razman nodded his head silently, then turning slowly round and pointing to the door, he shouted to Malik:

  ‘Get out.’

  He tried to grab his clothes, but the lieutenant shook his head firmly:

  ‘No! You are not fit to wear that uniform again. Get out of here as you are!’

  Sergeant Major Malik-el-Haideri went out, followed by the sergeant, but stopped in the doorway as there, watching them expectantly, were all the men from the outpost, accompanied now by Razman’s wife and the enormous Sergeant Ajamuk.

  ‘Over to the dunes!’

  He obeyed, despite the fact that the sand was burning the soles of his feet and he walked on in silence, his head hung low, without looking at anyone, until he reached the start of the dunes.

  As soon as he realised that he could not go any further and that he would never make it up the steep slope, he turned around and was not surprised to see the lieutenant taking his regulation revolver out of its holster.

  One shot was all it took to blow his brains out.

  Razman stood still for a moment pensively, contemplating the body and then he slowly put his weapon back, retraced his steps and stood in front of everyone present. Nobody moved a muscle.

  He looked at each one of them, trying to read their thoughts and then finally took a deep breath, as if preparing to say something that he had been holding inside for too long and said:

  ‘You are the scum of the army. The kind of men I have always hated and soldiers I never would have chosen to be in command of: thieves, murderers, drug addicts and rapists and riffraff!’ He paused. ‘But in the end, you might be nothing more than victims, or a reflection of the country we have become under this government.’ He let them reflect a little on what he was trying to tell them and then, raising his voice, he continued: ‘But the time has come for things to change. President Abdul-el-Kebir has managed to cross the border to safety and made his first appeal to the people who want to see a return to democracy and freedom, to unite and fight.’ He paused again, this time more theatrically, aware that to rouse the men his speech needed to be dramatic. ‘I am going to join him!’ he finally said. ‘What I have witnessed here today has convinced me and I am ready to break with the past and start the fight all over again with the man in whom I really trust. And I’m going to give you a chance! Whoever wants to, can follow me across the border to join up with Abdul-el-Kebir.’

  The men looked at each other in astonishment, unable to believe that their prayers had been answered and that they were being given the chance to escape from that inferno. They were being freed from Adoras and being given the option to flee the country. Moreover, it was the very officer in charge of keeping them imprisoned there, who was offering them this freedom on a plate.

  Many men before them had tried to escape, but they had always been captured and shot, or imprisoned for the rest of their lives. But suddenly this young lieutenant in his wellpressed uniform, who had just arrived there with his attractive wife and a colossal, but good-natured sergeant, was trying to convince them to do something, that only yesterday, would have been consi
dered the most heinous of all crimes. Now, if they chose to leave that hellhole they would suddenly, as if by some crazy twist of fate, be committing a heroic deed.

  One of the men almost burst out laughing, while another jumped for joy. Then Razman, quite sure of what he was doing and of what that bunch of criminals would choose to do, asked those of them who wanted to join him to raise up their hands. A sea of hands bounced into the air in unison, as if they had been pulled up by some invisible, mechanical spring.

  The lieutenant smiled and looked at his wife, who smiled back at him. Then he turned round to Ajamuk:

  ‘Get everything ready. We’ll be leaving in two hours.’ He pointed with his whip to the hut where Gazel Sayah’s family were, watching the events unfold through the latticed window. ‘They’re coming with us,’ he added. ‘We’ll take them across the border to safety.’

  It was a long journey. He was unsure of which route to take home, not being exactly sure of where his home was and in search of his family, but not sure whether he still had any family.

  It was a long journey.

  First he went west, putting a day’s distance in between himself and the start of the “lost land” and then, once he knew it had ended, he veered north, aware that he was crossing the border once again and that the soldiers that seemed to plague his waking hours, might appear at any time.

  It was a long journey.

  And a sad one.

  He had never, not even during the very worst moments of his journey through Tikdabra, with death as his only companion, imagined that this would happen. Being a warrior from a race of noble warriors, death was always considered to be the ultimate defeat. But he had suddenly realised, like a punch in the face, that dying was nothing compared with the hideous reality that your family had become the victims of your own personal war. This was truly the defeat of all defeats.

  Images of his children and the voice of Laila came into his head and scenes of their peaceful and solitary lives at the encampment, at the foot of the large dunes, tortured his thoughts.