The Battle of Algiers Page #14

She looks at the large electric clock which is hanging in the center of

the room; it is forty minutes past six.

65CAFETERIA RUE MICHELET. INSIDE. DAY.

It is six forty-four by the cafeteria clock. The second hand is moving.

There are more or less the same people. The old man is still seated on

the barstool, and continues to chat.

Hassiba's bag is still at his feet; the second hand is racing. A five-

year-old child hands a coin to the waiter:

CHILD:

Ice cream ...

The father and mother are watching him, delighted. The waiter smiles at

the child and points to the cash register. He speaks to the child in

the usual tone of a grownup when speaking to children:

WAITER:

You have to go there first ... and then

come back to me.

The second hand reaches twenty-five, then thirty. The child goes to the

cashier and pays. The cashier smiles at him and gives him the check.

CASHIER:

What a good boy ...

The child returns to the counter. The waiter has already prepared the

ice cream for him, and hands it to him. The child is standing on

tiptoes.

66CAFETERIA MICHELET. EXPLOSION. INSIDE. DAY.

The second hand, the explosion: bodies flung into the air, arms, legs,

white smoke, screams.

Bodies thrown outside, the doors unhinged, the windows broken, empty.

The people watch from their windows, the passersby move closer, they

bend down to look at those who are writhing on the ground.

Astonished and incredulous faces. No one speaks. Only screams and

weeping. Sirens which are drawing nearer. Firemen and police

arriving ...

67MILK BAR. RUE D'ISLY. OUTSIDE. DAY.

The ambulance sirens on rue d'Isly, one car after another.

At the Milk Bar, the people go to the doors to look at the ambulances

which are racing toward Place Bugeand. The sirens fade in the distance

and move away. The jukebox is again loud: "Brigitte Bardot, Bardot ..."

The people re-enter the bar, chattering, to have their apéritifs. It is

six fifty:
the explosion.

68 MILK BAR. EXPLOSION. OUTSIDE. DAY.

The jukebox is flung into the middle of the street. There is blood,

strips of flesh, material, the same scene as at the Cafeteria; the

white smoke and shouts, weeping, hysterical girls' screams. One of them

no longer has an arm and runs around, howling despairingly; it is

impossible to control her. The sound of sirens is heard again. The

crowd of people, the firemen, police, ambulances all rush to the scene

from Place Bugeand.

The ambulances arrive at rue Michelet.

They are already loaded with dead and wounded. The relatives of the

wounded are forced to get out. The father of the child who was buying

ice cream seems to be in a daze: he doesn't understand.

They pull him down by force. The child remains there, his blond head a

clot of blood.

The policemen try to bring order to the chaos, are forced to shout,

push, threaten. The wounded swarm around the ambulances. A Commissioner

sends off the first one.

COMMISSIONER:

What time is it?

POLICEMAN:

A quarter to seven.

The Commissioner goes to the second ambulance, pulls down a man who is

trying to enter by force, slams the door, and shouts to the driver. His

face is pale and drawn; the veins of his neck are swollen.

COMMISSIONER:

Go away, for God's sake!

The auto leaves and now, the third explosion resounds in the distance.

It is heard clearly and violently from the Mauretania section.

The Commissioner stops midway in his last gesture, and likewise, all

the others, who are paralyzed with fright, incapable of taking action

again, of accepting such reality for a third time.

In Place Bugeand, there also, the people are motionless. All of them

are looking in the same direction. Their faces are alike in their

terror, alike in their sense of impotence, alike in their deep sadness.

69STREET. EUROPEAN CITY. OUTSIDE. DAY.

The sun appears, then hides behind black clouds. There is a cool wind.

It is ten in the morning, and the European city has its usual rapid and

efficient rhythm of every day at this hour, only there is terror

written on the face of every person. That same terror has remained, and

suspicion, and despairing impotence.

Patrols of soldiers and policemen move around the city, search

Algerians and some Europeans, stop automobiles, trucks, buses, and

trams that they block at both doors.

At the entrance to every shop, the owner searches every customer before

letting him enter.

He does so politely with a drawn smile, and methodically rummages

through every handbag, every package.

So too in the bars, in the offices, in workshops ... And now that it is

already late afternoon, also outside the brothels, the cinemas, the

theaters.

70LEMONS STREET. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.

A young Algerian boy thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing sandals

without socks, trousers that reach to his ankles, walks quickly

carrying a cardboard box tied with a cord. It is dusk.

A European woman sees him pass in front of her, looks at him, and

follows him with her glance.

On the sidewalk there are some youths. The woman points to the Algerian

boy, says something. The traffic is heavy. Her words are unclear. One

youth calls to the boy who is by now thirty feet away:

YOUTH:

Hey, little rat ...

The boy turns around for a second, his face frightened, and quickens

his step. The youths follow behind him and the boy begins to run. The

youths too begin to run and others join them, people who are passing.

They form a small mob and are shouting. The boy shoots into a

sidestreet, drops his box, and races ahead.

While some chase the boy, others stop around the box, make way, look

for a policeman, a soldier, an officer. A circle continues to form

around the box. A patrol arrives. One of the soldiers has a Geiger

counter. He moves near the box, carefully placing the counter above it,

then ceasing to be prudent, he takes his bayonette, cuts the cord, and

tears open the box: lemons.

71STREET CORNER. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.

The boy has been cornered, surrounded, pinned down, kicked, hit with

umbrellas, until he is exhausted and can no longer defend himself. He

is no longer moving. He is lying on the ground, dead. The air is gray

now, and slowly all the colors unite to form gray. Lights are lit in

the city and contrast with the whiteness of the Casbah high above. The

sky is still clear, the black profiles of the mountains, the straight

coasts on the sea, the sea itself that seems to be land until it

reaches the horizon where the moon rises between the clouds.

SPEAKER:

"Following a lengthy discussion, the

General Assembly of the United Nations has

decided its agenda for the forthcoming

debates:

(1) re-unification of Korea

(2) disarmament

(3) the Algerian question.

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