Country of Vanished Dreams

Philip Brebner

Description

'Sad is the day when the children of our revolution become our enemies.'1987. Algeria is on the brink of civil war. In the market square in El Oued, a political fugitive Muhammad Madani poses as Rahwun, the storyteller. With tales that roar back and forth through time, he narrates the history of that magical and formidable country, fables of intrigue and of strife, of children sold and of women forsaken, of families uprooted and of families emigrating to France, of disillusionment and disappointment, of wars and war. Drawn by Madani's wit, wisdom and compassion, his listeners return week after week to piece together the ragged fragments that make a mysterious, sinister and subversive whole. But Madani is unaware his chronicles of Algeria past and present are being recorded by an undercover policeman-or is he?'A brilliant combination of the historian and the teller of tales. Readers are likely to be reminded of Midnight's Children, but Brebner is an absolute original.' - Penelope Fitzgerald. Booker Prize & National Book Critics Circle Prize Winner.'The sheer pleasure of all these storiesheavy with saccharine and irony but beautifully told and wandering like footsteps lost in the desert until finally, in a quite outstanding ending, eventually coming back on themselves.' - Time Out.'A dauntingly assured new voice.' - The Sunday Times.'The Country of Vanished Dreams is remarkable for its original style and potent, poetic prose.' N J Dawood - The Times. 'North African enthusiasts will be entranced.' - Daily Telegraph.

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 29 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843962816
• Langue: English

Extrait

A COUNTRY
OF
VANISHED DREAMS


Philip Brebner





THAMES STREET PRESS
Published by
Thames Street Press

Copyright © 1992 Philip Brebner
Ebook edition 2014

Author s website
www. philipbrebnerbooks. com

Philip Brebner has asserted his
right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified
as the author of this work.

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-281-6

A CIP catalogue record for
this ebook edition is available
from the British Library.

Cover design by Andy Fielding
www. andyfielding. co. uk

ePub ebook production
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Acknowledgements


Grateful acknowledgement is made to Penguin Books for permission to quote from the following:

Farid ud-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds . Trans. Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis. 1984.
The Song of Roland . Trans. Glyn Burgess. 1990.
Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth . Trans. Constance Farringdon. 1967.
The Koran . Trans. N. J. Dawood.
Poems in Chapter 2 translated from A. Memmi, La Po siealg rienne de 1830 nos jours: Approches socio-historique . Paris, Mouton. 1963.
Pierre Lou s, Bilitis.
Author s Note


Most of this novel is based on my ownresearch and personal knowledge of Algeria. However, I am indebted to:

Bourdieu, P. , Equisse dune th orie de la pratique , Librairie Droz, 1972; Horne, A. , A Savage War of Peace, Algeria 1954-1962 , Macmillan, 1977; Lettres du Mar chal de Saint-Amaud , 1855, Vol. 1 2. : Berard, Jh-P, Les deux villes de T nès et Bou-Maza, 1864; Desparmet, J. , L Oeuvre de la France en Alg rie jug e par les indig nes, Bulletin de la Soci t de g ographie d Alger et de l Afrique du Nord, Vol. 15, No. 2 4, 1910; Le RPA Giacobetti des P res Blancs, Recueil d nigmes arabes populaires , Aldolphe Jourdan, Algiers, 1916; and various numbers of Les Temps Modernes. I include also Sir Richard Burton s translation of The Book of the Thousand and One Nights.
Contents


Title Page
Copyright Credits
Acknowledgements
Author s Note

January 1987
The First
The Second
The Third
The Fourth
The Fifth
The Sixth
The Seventh
The Eighth
The Ninth
The Tenth
Dossier: 3429/987-77
October 1988
January 1987


IF THE CROWDED PAVEMENT allowedyou to pause to consider the fa ade of the building, it would appear as manyothers appear: a ghost of the French era in Algiers. But cross the street totry to enter, and a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a tin mask, hiding a lostface, will stand suddenly from the shadows of the vestibule in his brownburnous like a hooded hawk, and in stridulant Arabic demand from you a specialpass. Only after his approval will the elegant, double iron doors be permittedto open, barely illuminating the red-and-jet terrazzo veiled by the layeredgloom of the unlit foyer beyond. Then there, after a few doubtful steps, youcan snatch at the gleam of a polished timber rail, and quickly ascend thespacious staircase which curves up to the offices lined along the first floor.
Lieutenant Haddad, Colonel Bedjami will speak to you now.
The noise of the traffic from outside brushed and stippled colour into the greyness of the room. Hung upon the far wall was a portrait of president ChadliBendjedid, with grandfatherly white hair and a sharp blue three-piece suit. Thecolonel sat beneath this at a metal desk. Haddad stood to attention, andsaluted.
Atease, Lieutenant. I would ask you to sit down, but, as you see, there are nochairs. A conference, I believe.
Sir!My father asked me to convey his regards.
ColonelBedjami nodded. He began to revolve a gold propelling pencil betweensurprisingly delicate fingers. Beside him a Havana cigar smouldered, untouched,in a saucer.
TheNovember riots in Constantine: four died; one hun­dred and eighty six werearrested. The charges varied from disturbance of the peace, to damage toproperty; the sen­tences ranged from two to eight years. I wonder if the stu­dentsfind life in their cells any better than the tuition and living conditions theyprotested about? What do you think, Lieutenant?
Enemiesof the state, sir.
No,Lieutenant. Pawns.
Yes,sir. Pawns, sir.
Hissuperior continued twisting the propelling pencil. Later the security serviceshunted out and detained three academics and a lawyer thought to have beenbehind the riots. These I rank as the real enemies of the state. However, wesuspect a fifth evaded us. He opened a file, and spoke in a new voice. MuhammadMadani. Born 1952 in Touggourt. At Constantine University studied History...
Awave of dates and facts drilled at school, and inculcated by the media, surgedover Lieutenant Haddad. The demise of Turkish rule and the capture of Algiersby the French in 1830; the Setif bloodbath in 1945; the war of Independence in1954, Independence in 1962, the coup by Houari Boum dienne in 1965. History hadbeen a constant struggle in which there were some winners, some losers, andsome traitors. Haddad had disliked history at school, and this antipathy he nowconstructively targeted onto Muhammad Madani.
He s turned up at El Oued. Innocentthough he might be, personally I d trump up a charge to arrest him now. However, the word is that President Chadli is going to pardon all thoseconnected with the riots later this year as part of the twenty-fifth year ofIndependence celebrations.
Unannounced, a shaft of sun burst intothe office, lighting clouds of hanging dust.
Sir! You require me to make a file onhim?
It s a little more complicated thanthat. During the week he works in the packaging room at a date factory in LeSouf, a few kilometres away. He then plays the role of Rahwun the story-tellerat the Friday market. It seems he pulls quite a crowd.
Unlawful assembly, sir!
Story-tellers have wandered Algeria aslong as anyone can remember. Of course, it s difficult to prove subversivenessfrom a tangle of tales, songs, riddles, and whatever else. What worries us isthat he might start peddling it around other towns, such as Ouargla, orLaghouat. It could spell the end of the Front de Lib ration Nationale as thesole political party of the state. Extremists are lurking everywhere, and theyoung are hungry for a cult hero. Their ingratitude to their elders and the FLNgalls me. Sad is the day when the children of our revolution become ourenemies. Lieutenant, you volunteered for this assignment, I believe?
Yes, sir. A woman, sir.
Your reasons are your own. But two tothree months in El Oued will not be easy. You are required to attend theseweekly performances; also, see what else you can add to his file. Any action wemay take against Madani will be decided on your final report andrecommendation.
Sir!
The colonel pushed a manila envelope across the desk. Air tickets. Hotelreservations. Identity. And our dossier to date.
Outside,a moped stuttered by. A nod from the colonel indicated that the interview wasover. Lieutenant Haddad saluted, tucked the envelope under his arm, turned andleft.
Cloudsshifted and vied with the sun for the winter day. The lieutenant plunged intothe push of the thoroughfare; eventually his slow advance brought him to theCaf Brazza­ville. Inside he chose a seat adjacent to the window.
Shoeshine?
Haddaddeclined. The gaunt-faced young man took his wooden box and services elsewhere. A waiter appeared from behind, emptied the ashtray on to the floor, and ran astained cloth over the top of the table.
Onecoffee.
Themanila envelope had not been sealed. Before with­drawing the contents, thelieutenant tapped out a cigarette from a packet of Gauloises, and lit it. Thecoffee arrived in a tiny chipped cup. He stirred in sugar from a sachet printedwith the logo of the state food-processing giant, SN-SEMPAC.
Thedossier on Muhammad Madani was brief. He had been exempted from militaryservice (reason unspecified). He had a brother working in Paris, and he hadtravelled overseas six times. He had been an active member of various studentgroups at university. An application for a grant to pursue a doctorate at theUniversity of Aix-Marseille had been refused. He was married with two children,both girls.
Apassport-size black-and-white photograph revealed a balding man with atriangular face, a serious mouth, and strong eyebrows above dark, incisiveeyes.
Anidentity card had been made out for Lieutenant Haddad with the alias of SlimanDjerri. A telex in this name confirmed a reservation for an indefinite stay atthe Hôtel El Souf in El Oued. The red and white Air Alg rie ticket indicated that Sliman Djerri was due to fly to El Oued very early the nextmorning.
Apostcard, sir, or a pen?
Irritated,Haddad waved away the kid and his cardboard tray of odds and ends.

MOST PEOPLE TURNING AT the heights of the Place Addis Ababa, on to Avenue Boudjemaa Souidani, would try to glimpse the view of Algiers as it drops with the beauty and chaos of anavalanche to the curve of the bay and the blueness of the Mediterranean Sea. Lieutenant Haddad, however, glanced right to the whitewashed edifice of theBritish Council, for fifteen months ago he had enrolled in English classesthere, and had met Anissa, a student at the Institute of Law. She had prettyfeatures; she had a good figure; but what had attracted Haddad to her most ofall was her candour. It thrilled him when she referred to the party leaders as the dinosaurs or was scathing about his sports car, Swiss watch and poloshirts by Lacoste. Too soon she had left to spend the summer vacation with herfamily in the Kabylie, three months in which they had yearned for each other ina way they had interpreted as love, yet they had voiced