At Home, in Algiers

Words by Safiya Cherfi

Art by Sandra Eckert

Afternoon tea at her aunt’s house with Mother was Isabelle’s idea of a battle she couldn’t win. An afternoon of criticism, her perceived flaws being scrutinised, no defence she could offer. Today she was being admonished by the older women about her passion for painting.

Painting was a respectable hobby, endearing even, but it had become an obsession, they insisted. When Isabelle had first taken up painting, Mother had been enthusiastic; Lord Astor’s son was an avid painter. It would make her stand out amongst the other women vying for his attention. Isabelle wanted his attention as much as she wanted her mother’s but that was irrelevant. She was a pawn with which Mother wanted to climb higher in society.

It wasn’t only that Isabelle wasted whole days in her studio when she could be attending social visits with her mother, it was what she painted: the city of Algiers, Alger La Blanche. The white buildings of the Casbah, the Moorish architecture, the port, occasionally an Algerian woman in her white haïk in the foreground. Mother couldn’t abide this fixation; she had never felt at home there the way Isabelle had.

Throughout Isabelle’s childhood, they had spent their winters in Algiers. When Papa died seven years ago, the Algerian winters died with him. As a child, she never wondered what links Papa had there, causing them to return yearly. Years later, upon reflection, she recognised his ties with the colonial government. The realisation grieved her, sullied the memory of her soft, caring father, a different man altogether.

As Isabelle’s reprimand continued, she made an effort to appear cautioned, nodding along. She kept her turmoil inside. The city that she painted during her waking hours was the same one she saw in her dreams. Which one caused the other, she couldn’t tell. Her paintings never satisfied her. It was impossible to conjure the vivacity she wanted to create from childhood memories alone.

“I think, Isabelle,” her aunt said, “you need a change of scenery. A break from the drab English weather. It might spark a change in you.”

“What do you think, Isabelle?” her mother asked.

“It depends where.” Isabelle was intrigued, although she resented the notion that she needed to change.

“Lucy is going on a trip to Italy with her aunt—her father’s sister, you know, the unmarried one. A warmer climate might revive your spirit.”

Isabelle’s eyes had lit up at ‘Italy’ and her aunt was satisfied: she had found the solution. A change of scenery. Maybe it would make her forget about Algiers. Maybe she would finally be able to move on, paint something else at least.

Sometimes she asked herself why her adoration of Algiers persisted. The place, the people, she had loved immediately. There, she had been able to mingle with different classes and was looked after by an Algerian woman, spending every day with her children. She spent the days running in and out of the mosques, learned Arabic (since forgotten) from her nanny and playmates. In England, when she would go to church on Sundays with Mother, she sat passively, never feeling she was quite where she should be, thinking instead of the minarets of the mosques of Algiers.

The rules had been different for her there. In London, she couldn’t socialize with anyone below her station, the ‘commoners’ that Mother loathed. The people left were all of the same ilk as Mother, ambitious to climb higher.

During those winters in Algeria, Isabelle could be herself as opposed to who Mother wanted her to be. It was the setting of many fond memories with a woman and children who were now lost to her. The truth was, Algiers was the only place she’d ever felt at home.

* * *

Isabelle had been to continental Europe before, not to mention the trips to Algeria. She was used to travelling across the seas, spending days and weeks on a ship. But she had never experienced such a wicked storm. She was sharing a cabin with her cousin Lucy and the unmarried aunt. The other two women were shrieking in fear while Isabelle held her jaw rigid. They were flung against the walls of their cabin, trunks flying open and the insides scattering across the room. Lucy had vomited and the room was filled with an acrid smell.

Isabelle’s fear was underneath her exterior of resolve. All she could think was how cold the water would be when it came for her. In a distant corner of her mind she also thought, if this was to be it, at least the sense of misplacement would go with her. No more feeling as though she had left something behind in Algiers that was to be forever out of reach.

The storm waned throughout the night. The women were exhausted. A steward passed through their corridor informing them the ship would dock in a nearby port to repair any damage.

* * *

In the morning, after consoling her cousin and refreshing herself, Isabelle went up onto the deck to see where they were. She gasped at the sight before her. It was the city of her dreams and her paintings: Algiers, a safe harbour welcoming her into its arms. Tears clouded her view of the white buildings climbing, clinging to the hill, contrasting the vivid blue of the Mediterranean sea.

She sent a heartfelt thanks skyward. She’d been given an opportunity. She knew this would be her only chance to have a life that she chose and she wouldn’t hesitate to take it. Where would she stay, what would she do? She dismissed those questions. It would work itself out, simply for the fact that she was here again, against all odds.

Isabelle returned to their cabin and mentioned, with what she hoped was nonchalance, that they were in Algiers. The women, along with the other passengers, disembarked the ship so the crew could assess it.

The harbour was bustling: fishermen returning with their catch from an early morning’s trawl, ship crew from different lands mingling. The British passengers were being guided from their ship amongst the native Algerians working at the port and the Europeans overseeing them, clearly separate, within reach yet worlds apart.

“Isabelle, why have you brought your trunk?” Lucy asked when she saw Isabelle trailing behind, pulling her luggage.

“I didn’t like to leave it there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Take it back to the cabin,” Lucy’s aunt told her.

“No, I’d rather it stay with me.”

The aunt’s eyes widened at Isabelle defying her. An argument ensued, with each woman becoming more resolute. Isabelle decided she had no choice but to say why she wouldn’t part with her trunk.

“I’m not going back on the ship. I’m staying in Algiers.”

The aunt grew red in the face, Lucy’s mouth fell open. People had been taking notice of the argument, both the locals and other passengers. One local in particular was observing the scene with keen interest. She couldn’t understand what was being said but she could guess from the gestures. The stubborn English lady dragging the trunk looked familiar. The Algerian woman drew nearer, to be sure it was who she thought.

Lucy and her aunt pulled on the trunk. Now they were in a tug of war.

“Non! Je ne pars pas. Je reste ici!” Isabelle resorted to French for the benefit of the occupying soldiers mingling nearby, reiterating that she was not leaving. With those words, the curious local understood, thanks to her brother’s efforts to teach her the French he knew.

The Algerian woman moved closer to Isabelle and pulled on her sleeve. As Isabelle turned to her, she lowered the shayla which was covering her nose and mouth, sure that once Isabelle saw her smile and dimples, she would recognise her.

“Hassiba! Is that you?” Isabelle grinned at her childhood friend, laughing in delight that another unexpected welcome had found her. It was Hassiba’s mother who had been her nanny for many a winter. Hassiba replaced her shayla, but Isabelle could see her eyes crinkled into a smile. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around her friend, relinquishing her grip on the trunk. Isabelle turned to retrieve it but Lucy and her aunt had placed it behind them. Isabelle moved towards them and the aunt gripped her wrist in a vice.

“Let me go!” Isabelle cried.

Hassiba pulled her away and in a mixture of French and Darija tried to convince her to leave the trunk. Isabelle resisted at first but then Lucy caught the attention of a steward, calling for help. They would force her to leave. She let Hassiba steer her away and they ran hand in hand. Hassiba was wearing a haïk and in her hareem trousers, baggy around her legs and clinched at her ankles, she was able to run faster than Isabelle in her long, layered skirt. Hassiba knew the streets intimately and guided them away from the port, weaving through alleys and around corners. Hassiba led her to the Casbah, entering the oldest quarter of the city where Isabelle had first fallen in love with it.

Hassiba still held her hand in a firm grip even as they left their pursuers behind and Isabelle knew then that she would never let her take a step alone here. An Arabic word she learnt as a child in one of those winters came back to her, alhamdulillah; all praise to Allah. Hassiba stopped in front of a large wooden door with an arch built around it in the stone of the building. Isabelle passed the threshold of the doorway into what would become her home.

It was fitting, Isabelle would later realize, that she lost her trunk. She was starting a new life and she couldn’t do it in her English dresses, all picked out by her mother. She wouldn’t miss them, or her, only her paints. But she was here, in the subject of her paintings: at home, in Algiers.

About the author

Safiya is a writer and book reviewer living in Scotland. She writes short fiction and is also working on a full length speculative fiction manuscript which was long-listed for the 2021 Laxfield Literary Launch Prize. You can find her as @safiyacherfi on Twitter or @safiyareads on Instagram.

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi. Additional works are available here.