Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet (korean novels in english TXT) 📕

then a couple offellow Zionists pass by. They are humiliated, and cower by a wall. TheJew spots them:

—Quick, quick, brothers. Quick, to the consultant! Quick to theJoustees of the Peas!… The rest of you, you saw him…. you saw himbeat the old man up!

As if they'd seen him!… I don't think so.

… Things are getting lively in old Sid'Omar's shop…. The proprietorrefills their cups, and relights their pipes. They chat on, and theylaugh fit to burst. It's such a pleasure to see a Jew beaten up!… Inthe middle of the hubbub and smoke, I slip out quietly; I want towander in the Jewish quarter, to see how my Jew's coreligionists, aretaking their brother's outrage….

—Come to dinner tonight, m'sier, the good old Sid'Omar shouted….

I agree and thank him. I go outside. In the Jewish quarter, there isturmoil. The matter has already attracted a lot of attention. Nobody isminding the store. Embroiderers, tailors, and saddlers—all Israel isout on the street…. The men in their velvet caps, and blue woollenstockings fidgeting noisily in groups…. The women, pale, bloated, andunattractive in their thin dresses and gold fronts, have their faceswrapped in black bandages, and are going from group to group,caterwauling…. As I arrive, something starts to move in the crowd.There's an urgency and a crush…. Relying on their witness, myJew—hero of the hour—passes between two rows of caps, under a hail ofexhortations:

—Revenge yourself, brother, revenge us, revenge the Jewish people.

Fear nothing; you have the law on your side.

A hideous dwarf, smelling of pitch and old leather, comes to mepitifully, sighing deeply:

—You see! he said to me. We're hard done by, we Jews. How they treatus! He's an old man. Look! They've practically killed him.

It's true, my poor Jew looks more dead than alive. He goes past me—hiseyes lifeless, his face haggard—not so much walking as dragginghimself along…. Only a huge compensation looks likely to make himfeel any better; after all, he is going to the consultant, not to thedoctor.

* * * * *

There are almost as many consultants in Algeria as there aregrasshoppers. It's a good living, I'd say. In any case, it has thegreat advantage that you can just walk into it, without passingexaminations, or leaving a bond, or being trained. In Paris you becomea lawyer; in Algeria a consultant. It's enough to have a bit of French,Spanish, and Arabian, and to have a code of conduct in your saddle bag;but above all else, you need the right temperament for the job.

The agent's functions are very varied: he can be in turn a barrister,solicitor, broker, expert, interpreter, money dealer, commissioner, andpublic scribe; he is the Jack of all trades of the colony. OnlyHarpagon has a single Jack of all trades; the rest of the colony has asurfeit, and nowhere more than Milianah, where they can be counted indozens. Usually, to avoid office expenses, these gentlemen meet theirclients in the café in the main square and give theirconsultations—did I say give?—between the appetiser and the afterdinner wine.

The dignified Jew is making his way towards the café in the mainsquare, with the two witnesses at his side. I will leave them to it.

* * * * *

As I leave the Jewish quarter, I go past the Arab Bureau. From outside,with its slate grey roof and French flag flying above, it could betaken for the village town hall. I know the interpreter, so I go in andhave a cigarette with him. In between fags, this sunless Sunday hasturned out quite well.

The yard in front of the Bureau is packed with shabbily dressed Arabs.Fifteen of them, in their burnouses, are squatting there along thewall, turning it into a sort of lobby. This Bedouin area—despite beingin the open air—gives off a very strong smell of human flesh. Movingquickly past…. I find the interpreter occupied with two large,loud-mouthed Arabs, quite naked under their filthy blankets, madlymiming some story or other about a stolen chain. I sit down on a mat ina corner and look on…. The Milianah's interpreter's uniform is veryfetching, and how well he carries it! They are made for each other. Theuniform is sky blue with black frogging and shiny gold buttons. Withfair tightly curled hair and a light-skin, he cuts a fine figure, thishussar in blue, and is full of fun and strange tales. He is naturallytalkative—he speaks many languages, and is a bit of a religioussceptic; he knew Renan at the Oriental School!—a great amateursportsman, he is equally at ease in an Arab tent or at theSub-prefect's soirées. He dances the mazurka as well as anyone, andmakes couscous better than anyone. To sum up, he's a Parisian, and he'smy sort of man. No wonder the women are mad about him…. He is a sharpdresser, and only the Arab Bureau's sergeant is in the same league, thesergeant—who, with his uniform of fine material and mother of pearlbuttoned leggings, causes envy, and despair, in the garrison. Our manis on attachment to the Bureau, and he is excused fatigues and is oftenseen in the streets, white gloved, his hair freshly curled, and largefiles under his arm. He is admired and he is feared. He isauthoritative.

To be sure, this story of the stolen chain threatens to become an epic.

Bye-bye! I shan't wait for the end.

The Bureau area is in uproar as I leave. The crowd is crushing round atall, pale, proud, local man dressed in a black burnous. A week ago,this man fought a panther in the Zaccar. The panther is dead; but theman has lost half his left arm. In the morning and at night he comes tohave his wounds dressed at the Bureau, and every time, he is stopped inthe yard and has to re-tell his story. He speaks slowly, withbeautifully guttural voice. From time to time he pulls his burnous toone side and shows his left arm, strapped to his chest and wrapped inbloody blankets.

* * * * *

The moment I come into the street a violent storm breaks. Rain,thunder, lightning, sirocco…. Quickly, I take shelter in the firstavailable doorway, and fall