Daughters of Casbah

Original by Isabelle Eberhardt
Translated, from the French, by Donald Mason

I

The sun burns down upon the pale, cobbled streets below. A bluish line of shadow, defeated by the glare, retreats behind the pillars beneath the arcades. With all the grace of two small kittens cuddling in the bright sun, Zoh’r and Yasmina make their way hand-in-hand along the sun-drenched streets. The Boulevard Bab Azzoun and the huge floodlit expanse of open square of the Place du Gouvernement is their domain.  They live there even at night, the clear pale moons of the electric lamps alternating with the reddish flare of the gaslamps overhead . . .

Zoh’r is six-years-old. Her small nimble features are very brown, and crowned by an unkempt mass of curly black hair, her frail body draped in a pale pink rag. She is very coquettish, and knows already how to disguise the small rips and tears of her dress beneath her skillful pleating. With a smile of her plump lips and her huge caressing eyes, she holds out her little brown hand, singing out to the passers-by and pursuing them, skipping along like some cunning little sparrow well-accustomed to the ways of the city—

 “Athini sourdi! M’siou, madame, sourdi!”

Yasmina is the taller of the two, her tawny brown hair veiling her waxen pallor. All skin and bones, her youthful form clothed in a vast green mlahfa. Unconscious of her sad demeanour, Yasmina begs silently, without saying a word, contenting herself with a simple imploring gesture.

The two children met on a street-corner one night. Zoh’r’s mother, a true daughter of the Casbah, had been imprisoned, and the little girl had fled the ancient district, making her way towards the city centre, to the city of the roumis.  It was winter, and a freezing wind was sweeping down the hard pavement of the deserted streets. Yasmina and Zoh’r, the one orphaned and the other abandoned, snuggled up against each other, seeking warmth and shelter in the recess of some doorway.

By day, in Algiers, the southern sun arrays poor misery in all the brilliant splendour of its colour, tossing golden sequins and tints of purpled azure about the squalid rags of its beggars. The gloom and anguish of the destitute, so common in in the northern cities of Europe, are unknown here, where the sun alone is sovereign, the great consoler of its peoples.

With all the impudence and tenacity of young street urchins, Zoh’r and Yasmina soon learned to master all the little ways of the street—those perverse and perilous little games which blossom and bear fruit beneath the greasy red blossoms of the flowering chechïyas passing in the street.

When the takings are good, Zoh’r and Yasmina go and sit themselves down in some Arab tavern in the Rue de la Marine, savouring the spicy dishes and the greasy red chorbas of the place. Other days they nibble dry bread beneath the arcades. And they carry on in this way, growing and blossoming like charming small flowers born of the warm ferment of the gutter . . .

II

Beneath the delicately sculpted marble of its casement and portico, its stone facade cracked and weathered with age, a massive low door, studded with brass nails, guards the ancient house.

As night falls, an old metal grill on the door opens and a sheaf of light shines forth, gliding in shadows across the confusion of dark pavements and the overhanging structures of the buildings without. Zoh’r and Yasmina appear behind the grillwork, illuminated by some invisible lantern within, their bodiless faces floating weirdly in the light. Zoh’r is wearing a red silk scarf embroidered with emerald peacocks, a wreath of white jasmine encircling her neck, while some large gold rings dangle from her earlobes. A smile, as of old, still plays across the voluptuous lips and in the warm shadows of her eyes.

Behind her stands Yasmina, as if suspended in some dreamworld—enveloped in the pale blue covering of her veil. A diadem of solid silver hung with small ornaments of coral encircles her head, securing the veil. And the crimson bits of coral rain down like little drops of blood upon the pale contours of her brow.

Silent as always, the pale blue azure of Yasmina’s eyes, like little pieces of sky, seem to contain all the mysteries of her world. And her pale lips, faintly touched by rouge, which never smile . . .

Some men pass by, the roumis, jews, and the turbaned bedouins; small groups of zouaves or sailors; the chasseurs-d’Afrique, the red-breasted spahis . . . and Zoh’r calls out to them all, affectionate and cajoling like when she was a little child begging on the open square of the Place du Gouvernment. She jingles her jewellery; she laughs and cries out, her deep-throated laughter—which she knows disturbs and troubles the passing men— rising and motioning warmly from beneath the straw-colored satin of her pleated blouse . . .

Sometimes the men are tempted to enter, and the tumult of the street then intrudes upon the quiet slumber of their old dwelling, where the passing centuries have left their marks upon the shadowed walls. The jangling of the soldiers’ sabres and spurs, the heavy clatter of their hobnailed boots, echoes about the narrow stone stairway leading up to their rooms.

Yasmina follows the men slowly, as indifferent to continuous chatter of her friend as she is to the pleasantries, insults and gropings of the men. She and Zoh’r extract from the men their payment, even as they formerly used to beg for their bread from the amused foreigners wintering over in Algiers. No one, however, gives them money out of simple charity anymore—they are too beautiful. And thus have these two charming flowers blossomed and taken root in the ardent ferment of the gutter, in the smoke and the stench of the alleyways and poor lodgings.

III

Their naked feet treading wearily through the reddish-brown dust of the road, their backs bent beneath their heavy sacks, laden with the moist grasses which they continue to hawk along their way, Zoh’r and Yasmina once more approach the outskirts of Algiers. The setting sun, flushing crimson, descends in all its glory. Toothless, withered, and broken by age, dressed in tattered rags, their eyes sunken and bloodshot, the two old friends continue to drag their wearied limbs, already stiffened with exhaustion. And as they pass by the fronts of the flowering villas, Zoh’r halts and cries out once more, her voice hoarse and trembling with fatigue—

“Sweet grasses for the rabbits, sweet red and blue pimpernel . . .”

Yasmina walks on, silent, indifferent. When their sacks are empty, the two old crones slowly climb the old steps, wending their way towards the Casbah. They make their lodgings there in an old abandoned shop in some obscure corner of the ancient quarter. The queer dilapidated hovels and lodgings of this place, cracked and settled with age, continue to prop one another up in sisterly fashion.

Some dried twigs suffice to boil their old vegetables, carefully selected that morning from the crates of refuse about the local market. After eating, they stretch out on a pile of rags where, groaning and complaining tiredly, they quickly fall to sleep. They are mostly silent now, for they have begun to forget, gradually falling into the silence of despondency and resignation, like poor broken beasts lowering in the face of their coming death. Sometimes, however, Zoh’r still attempts to converse, seeking to evoke some distant memories of their nights in the Casbah—those once-ardent nights of love and drunken passion. But Yasmina, her eyes dulled by time, now remains resolutely silent, removed as always from the things and beings about her.

As soon as night falls—for want of any light—they quickly fall to sleep. Before daybreak, they must rise and re-descend the ancient steps, taking their poor sacks and making their way through the animated streets below the Casbah; the dawning sky beyond Matifou bathed in a soft, purpled mist; the opening expanse of the rose-colored bay stretching out there before them . . .

Zoh’r et Yasmina

I

Le soleil brûle le pavé pâle des rues. L’ombre bleuâtre, vaincue, se tapit sous les arcades, derrière les piliers.

Zoh’r et Yasmina, se tenant par la main, vont dans la gloire du soleil, promenant leur grâce de jeunes chat câlins.

Bab Azzoun, le boulevard, la grande nappe de lumière de la place du Gouvernement sont leur domaine. Elles y vivent, même le soir, dans la clarté alternée des lunes électriques blanches et des becs de gaz rouges.

Zoh’r, six ans, très brune, petit visage fin aux traits déliés, auréolé d’une chevelure bouclée et inculte, très noire, drape son corps frêle en une loque rose pale. Elle est coquette et sait déjà cacher les déchirures de sa robe par des plis savants. C’est en souriant de ses lèvres charnues, de ses larges yeux de caresse, qu’elle tend sa menotte de couleur d’ambre, gazouillant à la cantonade:

Athini sourdi! M’siou, madame, sourdi!

Elle poursuit les promeneurs, sautillant devant eux comme un moineau de ville, familier et rusé.

Yasmina, plus grande, d’une pâleur de cire, voile sone épaisse toison brune à reflets fauves, et sone corps maigre dans une vaste mlahfa verte.

Yasmina est triste, sans savoir, et elle mendie en silence, se contentant d’un geste implorant.

Elles se sont rencontrées un soir, au coin d’une rue. La mère de Aoh’r, fille de la Casbah, était en prison, et la petite fille avait fui vers la ville des roumis. C’était l’hiver et un grand vent froid balayait le dur pave, la rue déserte . . . Yasmina l’orpheline et Zoh’r l’abandonnée se blottirent l’une contre l’autre dans le renfoncement d’une porte, pour avoir plus chaud et pour y dormir.

Mais dans le jour limpide, le soleil pare la misère de couleurs splendides, en Alger, et jette des paillettes d’or, des reflets de pourpre sur la pouillerie des haillons. Les tristesses et les angoisses de la misère du Nord sont inconnues ici, où le soleil lest le souverain, le grand consolateur . . . 

Zoh’r et Yasmina, très tôt, ont appris les jeux pervers, avec les ciradjou impudents, la moisson dangereuse qui pousse dans la rue, sous la floraison rouge des chéchiya graisseuses.

Quand la recette est bonne, Zoh’r et Yasmina vont s’attabler dans quelque gargote arabe, rue de la Marine, et savourent des plats épicés, des rouges chorba bien grasses. Les autres jours elles grignotent du pain sec sous les arcades. Et elles poussent ainsi, très vite, dans la rue indifférente, petites fleurs charmantes nées de la fermentation chaude du ruisseau.

II

Dans la façade lézardée d’une maison très vieille, sous un porche en marbre délicieusement sculpté, une porte basse et massive garde encore son dessin compliqué, ses mosaïques de clous en cuivre.

Dès qu’il fait nuit, un judas grillé grince et une gerbe de lumière glisse dans la rue obscure, coule sur le pavé noir, enchevêtre d’ombres capricieuses, le fouillis des porte-à-faux dorés par le temps.

Zoh’r et Yasmina apparaissent derrière le grillage. Bien étranges ces deux têtes sans corps, dans la lumière d’une lampe invisible.

Zoh’r, coiffée d’un foulard de soie rouge brodé de paons vert émeraude, le cou enroulé de couronnes de jasmin, de larges anneaux d’or aux oreilles, a gardé son sourire d’antan, sur ses lèvres voluptueuses, dans ses yeux d’ombre tiède . . . 

Derrière elle, Yasmina semble rêver, enveloppée d’un voile bleu pale, retenu sur la tête par un diadème d’argent massif, avec des ornements de corail qui retombent sur le front pale, comme des gouttelettes de sang . . . 

L’azur des yeux de Yasmina recèle toujours le même mystère de tristesse et de silence. Ses lèvres pales, que le rouge avive à peine, ne sourient jamais.

Des hommes passent, roumis, juifs, bédouins enturbannés, bandes tapageuses de Zouaves, de chass-d’afs, de matelots, de spahis en vestes rouges. Et Zoh’r les appelle, câline, enjôleuse comme jadis, quand elle était petite mendiante. 

Elle fait cliqueter ses bijoux, elle rit, de son rire de gorge, qu’elle sait troublant et qui soulève voluptueusement le satin paille de son casaquin plissé.

Parfois, on se laisse prendre, on entre, et le tumulte de la rue envahit le vieux logis où les siècles ont jeté une moire de mystère et de silence. 

Dans l’étroit escalier de pierre, aux marches très hautes, c’est un cliquetis d’éperons, de sabres, un grand bruit de lourds souliers ferrés.

Indifférente au gazouillis continu de Zoh’r, aux plaisanteries, aux injures, aux caresses et aux bourrades des envahisseurs, Yasmina les suit, lentement, mollement. 

Elles demandent des sous, Zoh’r et Yasmina, à tous ces hommes, comme elles en mendiaient jadis aux hiverneurs amuses. Maintenant, personne ne leur en donnerait plus par charité : elles sont trop belles. 

Les deux fleurs charmantes s’épanouissent dans la fermentation plus ardente des ruelles saures et des bouges odorants. 

III

Dans la poussière rousse de la route, pieds nus, courbées sous de lourds sacs d’herbe humide, Zoh’r et Yasmina s’en viennent vers Alger, dans la gloire rouge du soleil couchant. Cassées par l’âge, sous leurs haillons fauves, le visage ride, l’œil cave et sanglant, la bouche édentée, elles traînent leurs pauvres jambes desséchées, déjà raidies . . . 

En passant devant les villas fleuries, Zoh’r crie leur herbe pour les lapins, leur mouron. Sa voix devenue chevrotante et rauque. 

Yasmina passe, indifférente, silencieuse. Quand les sacs sont vides, les deux vieilles remontent vers la Casbah. Elles se tiennent dans une boutique abandonnée, au fond d’une impasse obscure où les masures se tassent et se fendent, s’étayant mutuellement, dans leur vétusté fraternelle.

Elles font bouillir sur des brindilles sèches les débris de légumes soigneusement choisis le matin dans les caisses à ordures. Puis elles s’étendent sur des tas de chiffons et elles s’endorment en geignant. 

Elles son silencieuses, car elles commencement à oublier, tombant peu à peu à la résignation morne de l’animalité finissante . . . Parfois pourtant, Zoh’r parle, essayant d’évoquer les souvenirs de la Casbah, les nuits ardentes de soûlerie d’amour.

Mais Yasmina, l’œil éteint, garde ce silence éternel qui, toute sa vie, la retrancha des êtres et des choses.

Elles s’endorment dès qu’il fait nuit, faute de lumière, et parce qu’elles devront se lever et redescendre, avec leurs sacs de chiffonnières, vers les rues animées, dès que le soleil se lèvera là-bas, au-delà de Matifou baigné de brume lilâtre, sur le grand golfe voluptueux et rose.

Isabelle Eberhardt (1877-1904): Exiled at birth, the daughter of a Russian anarchist, Isabelle Eberhardt was also exiled in her death, drowning in a flash flood in the Sahara Desert in 1904. Of the existing translations of Eberhardt’s work, only Paul Bowles’ small collection of stories, The Oblivion Seekers (1975), captures the full impact of her writing. Daughters of the Casbah hopes to build upon that legacy. Eberhardt’s work is in the public domain.

Donald Mason has published translated stories in Brick, Exile, and The Antigonish Review, and has edited four popular anthologies for Penguin Canada. He is currently working on a small book of translated stories by Isabelle Eberhardt, entitled Daughters of the Casbah.

Translator’s Note:
Eberhardt’s work is full of implicit revolution directed primarily against the colonial regime in French Algeria, as well as against systems of female oppression, particularly within European and North African contexts. Daughters of the Casbah speaks specifically to the will to break free from oppression at the three distinct stages of the two characters’ lives.