They had just got up and, barefoot and in dressing-gowns, were waiting for Mahmoud to bring them breakfast out on the terrace. Étienne Vincent, an old friend of Glatigny’s, had asked them to stay at this villa of his in the Balcon de Saint-Raphael for as long as they remained in Algiers. Glatigny admired the white city rising in regular tiers above the bay where two cargo boats, reduced to minute proportions, described two long parallel furrows in the early morning sea which was as smooth and grey as silk. In a soft voice, without turning round, he said: “A sailor friend of mine once told me that on the heights of Algiers the early morning air had a peculiar quality, unique in the world, a mixture of brine, tar, pine, virgin oil and flowers. I like Algiers, but with a slight feeling of uneasiness. It’s a disconcerting town which has always surprised me with its reactions. The French of Algiers, well, you’ve only got to look at the Vincents . . . They’ve got five thousand acres of vineyards and are considered one of the wealthiest settler families in the Mitidja.
