the garden of allah-第34章

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most　terrible　in　all　the　Sahara。〃

Domini　laughed。

〃Madame　does　not　know　her；〃　said　Batouch；　imperturbably。　〃But　Madame
can　ask　the　Arabs。　Many　of　the　dancers　of　Beni…Mora　are　murdered；　each
season　two　or　three。　But　no　man　would　try　to　murder　Irena。　No　man
would　dare。〃

The　poet's　calm　and　unimpassioned　way　of　alluding　to　the　most　horrible
crimes　as　if　they　were　perfectly　natural；　and　in　no　way　to　be
condemned　or　wondered　at；　amazed　Domini　even　more　than　his　statement
about　Irena。

〃Why　do　they　murder　the　dancers？〃　she　asked　quickly。

〃For　their　jewels。　At　night；　in　those　little　rooms　with　the　balconies
which　Madame　has　seen；　it　is　easy。　You　enter　in　to　sleep　there。　You
close　your　eyes；　you　breathe　gently　and　a　little　loud。　The　woman
hears。　She　is　not　afraid。　She　sleeps。　She　dreams。　Her　throat　is　like
that〃he　threw　back　his　head；　exposing　his　great　neck。　〃Just　before
dawn　you　draw　your　knife　from　your　burnous。　You　bend　down。　You　cut　the
throat　without　noise。　You　take　the　jewels；　the　money　from　the　box　by
the　bed。　You　go　down　quietly　with　bare　feet。　No　one　is　on　the　stair。
You　unbar　the　doorand　there　before　you　is　the　great　hiding…place。〃

〃The　great　hiding…place！〃

〃The　desert；　Madame。〃　He　sipped　his　coffee。　Domini　looked　at　him；
fascinated。

Suzanne　shivered。　She　had　been　listening。　The　loud　contralto　cry　of
the　Jewess　rose　up；　with　its　suggestion　of　violence　and　of　rough
indifference。　And　Domini　repeated　softly：

〃The　great　hiding…place。〃

With　every　moment　in　Beni…Mora　the　desert　seemed　to　become　moremore
full　of　meaning；　of　variety；　of　mystery；　of　terror。　Was　it　everything？
The　garden　of　God；　the　great　hiding…place　of　murderers！　She　had　called
it；　on　the　tower；　the　home　of　peace。　In　the　gorge　of　El…Akbara；　ere　he
prayed；　Batouch　had　spoken　of　it　as　a　vast　realm　of　forgetfulness；
where　the　load　of　memory　slips　from　the　weary　shoulders　and　vanishes
into　the　soft　gulf　of　the　sands。

But　was　it　everything　then？　And　if　it　was　so　much　to　her　already；　in　a
night　and　a　day；　what　would　it　be　when　she　knew　it；　what　would　it　be
to　her　after　many　nights　and　many　days？　She　began　to　feel　a　sort　of
terror　mingled　with　the　most　extraordinary　attraction　she　had　ever
known。

Hadj　crouched　right　back　against　the　wall。　The　voice　of　the　Jewess
ceased　in　a　shout。　The　hautboys　stopped　playing。　Only　the　tomtoms
roared。

〃Hadj　can　be　happy　now；〃　observed　Batouch　in　a　voice　of　almost
satisfaction；　〃for　Irena　is　going　to　dance。　Look！　There　is　the　little
Miloud　bringing　her　the　daggers。〃

An　Arab　boy；　with　a　beautiful　face　and　a　very　dark　skin；　slipped　on　to
the　platform　with　two　long；　pointed　knives　in　his　hand。　He　laid　them
on　the　table　before　Irena；　between　the　bouquets　of　orange　blossom；
jumped　lightly　down　and　disappeared。

Directly　the　knives　touched　the　table　the　hautboy　players　blew　a
terrific　blast；　and　then；　swelling　the　note；　till　it　seemed　as　if　they
must　burst　both　themselves　and　their　instruments；　swung　into　a
tremendous　and　magnificent　tune；　a　tune　tingling　with　barbarity；　yet
such　as　a　European　could　have　sung　or　written　down。　In　an　instant　it
gripped　Domini　and　excited　her　till　she　could　hardly　breathe。　It
poured　fire　into　her　veins　and　set　fire　about　her　heart。　It　was
triumphant　as　a　great　song　after　war　in　a　wild　land；　cruel；　vengeful；
but　so　strong　and　so　passionately　joyous　that　it　made　the　eyes　shine
and　the　blood　leap；　and　the　spirit　rise　up　and　clamour　within　the
body；　clamour　for　utter　liberty；　for　action；　for　wide　fields　in　which
to　roam；　for　long　days　and　nights　of　glory　and　of　love；　for　intense
hours　of　emotion　and　of　life　lived　with　exultant　desperation。　It　was　a
melody　that　seemed　to　set　the　soul　of　Creation　dancing　before　an　ark。
The　tomtoms　accompanied　it　with　an　irregular　but　rhythmical　roar　which
Domini　thought　was　like　the　deep…voiced　shouting　of　squadrons　of
fighting　men。

Irena　looked　wearily　at　the　knives。　Her　expression　had　not　changed；
and　Domini　was　amazed　at　her　indifference。　The　eyes　of　everyone　in　the
room　were　fixed　upon　her。　Even　Suzanne　began　to　be　less　virginal　in
appearance　under　the　influence　of　this　desert　song　of　triumph。　Domini
did　not　let　her　eyes　stray　any　more　towards　the　stranger。　For　the
moment　indeed　she　had　forgotten　him。　Her　attention　was　fastened　upon
the　thin；　consumptive…looking　creature　who　was　staring　at　the　two
knives　laid　upon　the　table。　When　the　great　tune　had　been　played　right
through　once；　and　a　passionate　roll　of　tomtoms　announced　its
repetition；　Irena　suddenly　shot　out　her　tiny　arms；　brought　her　hands
down　on　the　knives；　seized　them　and　sprang　to　her　feet。　She　had　passed
from　lassitude　to　vivid　energy　with　an　abruptness　that　was　almost
demoniacal；　and　to　an　energy　with　which　both　mind　and　body　seemed　to
blaze。　Then；　as　the　hautboys　screamed　out　the　tune　once　more；　she　held
the　knives　above　her　head　and　danced。

Irena　was　not　an　Ouled　Nail。　She　was　a　Kabyle　woman　born　in　the
mountains　of　Djurdjura；　not　far　from　the　village　of　Tamouda。　As　a
child　she　had　lived　in　one　of　those　chimneyless　and　windowless　mud
cottages　with　red　tiled　roofs　which　are　so　characteristic　a　feature　of
La　Grande　Kabylie。　She　had　climbed　barefoot　the　savage　hills；　or
descended　into　the　gorges　yellow　with　the　broom　plant　and　dipped　her
brown　toes　in　the　waters　of　the　Sebaou。　How　had　she　drifted　so　far
from　the　sharp　spurs　of　her　native　hills　and　from　the　ruddy…haired；
blue…eyed　people　of　her　tribe？　Possibly　she　had　sinned；　as　the　Kabyle
women　often　sin；　and　fled　from　the　wrath　that　she　would　understand；
and　that　all　her　fierce　bravery　could　not　hope　to　conquer。　Or　perhaps
with　her　Kabyle　blood；　itself　a　brew　composed　of　various　strains；
Greek；　Roman；　as　well　as　Berber；　were　mingling　some　drops　drawn　from
desert　sources；　which　had　manifested　themselves　physically　in　her　dark
hair；　mentally　in　a　nomadic　instinct　which　had　forbidden　her　to　rest
among　the　beauties　of　Ait　Ouaguennoun；　whose　legendary　charm　she　did
not　possess。　There　was　the　look　of　an　exile　in　her　face；　a　weariness
that　dreamed；　perhaps；　of　distant　things。　But　now　that　she　danced　that
fled；　and　the　gleam　of　flame…lit　steel　was　in　her　eyes。

Tangled　and　vital　impressions　came　to　Domini　as　she　watched。　Now　she
saw　Jael　and　the　tent；　and　the　nails　driven　into　the　temples　of　the
sleeping　warrior。　Now　she　saw　Medea　in　the　moment　before　she　tore　to
pieces　her　brother　and　threw　the　bloody　fragments　in　Aetes's　path；
Clytemnestra's　face　while　Agamemnon　was　passing　to　the　bath；　Delilah's
when　Samson　lay　sleeping　on　her　knee。　But　all　these　imagined　faces　of
named　women　fled　like　sand　grains　on　a　desert　wind　as　the　dance　went
on　and　the　recurrent　melody　came　back　and　back　and　back　with　a　savage
and　glorious　persistence。　They　were　too　small；　too　individual；　and
pinned　the　imagination　down　too　closely。　This　dagger　dance　let　in　upon
her　a　larger　atmosphere；　in　which　one　human　being　was　as　nothing；　even
a　goddess　or　a　siren　prodigal　of　enchantments　was　a　little　thing　not
without　a　narrow　meanness　of　physiognomy。

She　looked　and　listened　till　she　saw　a　grander　procession　troop　by；
garlanded　with　mystery　and　triumph：　War　as　a　shape　with　woman's　eyes：
Night；　without　poppies；　leading　the　stars　and　moon　and　all　the
vigorous　dreams　that　must　come　true：　Love　of　woman　that　cannot　be　set
aside；　but　will　govern　the　world　from　Eden　to　the　abyss　into　which　the
nations　fall　to　the　outstretched　hands　of　God：　Death　as　Life's　leader；
with　a　staff　from　which　sprang　blossoms　red　as　the　western　sky：　Savage
Fecundity　that　crushes　all　barren　things　into　the　silent　dust：　and
then　the　Desert。

That　came　in　a　pale　cloud　of　sand；　with　a　pale　crowd　of　worshippers；
those　who　had　received　gifts　from　the　Desert's　hands　and　sought　for
more：　white…robed　Marabouts　who　had　found　Allah　in　his　garden　and
become　a　guide　to　the　faithful　through　all　the　circling　years：
murderers　who　had　gained　sanctuary　with　barbaric　jewels　in　their
blood…stained　hands：　once　tortured　men　and　women　who　had　cast　away
terrible　recollections　in　the　wastes　among　the　dunes　and　in　the
treeless　purple　distances；　and　who　had　been　granted　the　sweet　oases　of
forgetfulness　to　dwell　in：　ar