The Garden of Allah | Page 4

THE VOICE OF PRAYER BOOK III.
THE GARDEN BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY BOOK V. THE
REVELATION BOOK VI. THE JOURNEY BACK

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH

BOOK I. PRELUDE
CHAPTER I
The fatigue caused by a rough sea journey, and, perhaps, the
consciousness that she would have to be dressed before dawn to catch

the train for Beni-Mora, prevented Domini Enfilden from sleeping.
There was deep silence in the Hotel de la Mer at Robertville. The
French officers who took their pension there had long since ascended
the hill of Addouna to the barracks. The cafes had closed their doors to
the drinkers and domino players. The lounging Arab boys had deserted
the sandy Place de la Marine. In their small and dusky bazaars the
Israelites had reckoned up the takings of the day, and curled themselves
up in gaudy quilts on their low divans to rest. Only two or three
/gendarmes/ were still about, and a few French and Spaniards at the
Port, where, moored against the wharf, lay the steamer /Le General
Bertrand/, in which Domini had arrived that evening from Marseilles.
In the hotel the fair and plump Italian waiter, who had drifted to North
Africa from Pisa, had swept up the crumbs from the two long tables in
the /salle-a-manger/, smoked a thin, dark cigar over a copy of the
/Depeche Algerienne/, put the paper down, scratched his blonde head,
on which the hair stood up in bristles, stared for a while at nothing in
the firm manner of weary men who are at the same time thoughtless
and depressed, and thrown himself on his narrow bed in the dusty
corner of the little room on the stairs near the front door. Madame, the
landlady, had laid aside her front and said her prayer to the Virgin.
Monsieur, the landlord, had muttered his last curse against the Jews and
drunk his last glass of rum. They snored like honest people recruiting
their strength for the morrow. In number two Suzanne Charpot,
Domini's maid, was dreaming of the Rue de Rivoli.
But Domini with wide-open eyes, was staring from her big, square
pillow at the red brick floor of her bedroom, on which stood various
trunks marked by the officials of the Douane. There were two windows
in the room looking out towards the Place de la Marine, below which
lay the station. Closed /persiennes/ of brownish-green, blistered wood
protected them. One of these windows was open. Yet the candle at
Domini's bedside burnt steadily. The night was warm and quiet,
without wind.
As she lay there, Domini still felt the movement of the sea. The passage
had been a bad one. The ship, crammed with French recruits for the

African regiments, had pitched and rolled almost incessantly for
thirty-one hours, and Domini and most of the recruits had been ill.
Domini had had an inner cabin, with a skylight opening on to the lower
deck, and heard above the sound of the waves and winds their groans
and exclamations, rough laughter, and half-timid, half-defiant
conversations as she shook in her berth. At Marseilles she had seen
them come on board, one by one, dressed in every variety of poor
costume, each one looking anxiously around to see what the others
were like, each one carrying a mean yellow or black bag or a
carefully-tied bundle. On the wharf stood a Zouave, in tremendous red
trousers and a fez, among great heaps of dull brown woollen rugs. And
as the recruits came hesitatingly along he stopped them with a sharp
word, examined the tickets they held out, gave each one a rug, and
pointed to the gangway that led from the wharf to the vessel. Domini,
then leaning over the rail of the upper deck, had noticed the different
expressions with which the recruits looked at the Zouave. To all of
them he was a phenomenon, a mystery of Africa and of the new life for
which they were embarking. He stood there impudently and
indifferently among the woollen rugs, his red fez pushed well back on
his short, black hair cut /en brosse/, his bronzed face twisted into a
grimace of fiery contempt, throwing, with his big and muscular arms,
rug after rug to the anxious young peasants who filed before him. They
all gazed at his legs in the billowing red trousers; some like children
regarding a Jack-in-the-box which had just sprung up into view, others
like ignorant, but superstitious, people who had unexpectedly come
upon a shrine by the wayside. One or two seemed disposed to laugh
nervously, as the very stupid laugh at anything they see for the first
time. But fear seized them. They refrained convulsively and shambled
on to the gangway, looking sideways, like fowls, and holding their rugs
awkwardly to their