Arab Jazz (14 page)

Slouched on the futon, back against an Ikea Gosa Gott pillow—twenty-five inches by twenty-five—Ahmed is straining his ears. He often does this: to forget, to escape his head. He picks up on the muffled noises from all around the poorly soundproofed building. Most of the time, like tonight, it’s the television. He can’t bear it when the news is on: violence piercing him through the walls, even if he can’t decipher the words. The rhythm, the frequency, the tone . . . All of it is aggressive, deceitful. Ads are too shouty. No, what he likes is the anesthetizing effect of the dubbed French versions of American series. He could never bear a television in his own place, but the dull sound of the programs through the cheap concrete . . . It’s like popping a Valium. Which is lucky, as he’s been off that for a while now; insomnia and alcohol have to be better than an addiction to prescription drugs. He also rejoices in silence when his neighbor puts TF1 or M6 on the TV. As he listens he feels the stress easing gently.
Fffffoooooooo
,
vvvooooshhhh
,
bzzzzzzzzzisssssh
,
ooooohhhhhhhh
. Eyes shut. No need to go anywhere. Just stay put. Then he opens them and stares at the crack in the white ceiling. Opens his eyes wide. Stays still. Five more minutes.

Up he gets, slowly, slowly. He goes back to the table and drinks the untouched glass of water. Taking hold of the letter, he sits down on the orange folding chair, grabs a sharp knife, and opens the envelope. It starts with the only Arabic words he’s able to read:
Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim
, “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.” The rest is mainly in French:

Dear cousin,

Alhamdulillah
, my year at university is over and I am on vacation. So I am writing you this little note to let you know that I am coming to spend the summer with you in Paris. I hope you do not mind? Soon, then, we will have the joy of seeing each other again. I’ll leave it there, dear cousin, but not before taking the opportunity to thank you as ever for welcoming me like a brother.

May God bless you. See you soon,
inshallah . . .

Mohamed.

Deep in thought, Ahmed puts the letter down. Mohamed is coming back. Strangely he’s excited about seeing him, even if sharing living space with anyone for four months fills him with dread. And even if there was a bit too much of all the
bismillah
,
alhamdulillah
,
inshallah
, and
may God bless you
nonsense in the letter. Especially after the thing with Moktar this evening. Some John Lydon lyrics pop into his head. “Religion”: one of the songs he knows by heart. The first verse cuts right to the chase:
God and lies; stained-glass windows and hypocrites.
Still sitting down, Ahmed hums the bass line.
Toodoodoodoo doodoo, toodoodoodoo doodoo
, then that guitar riff that never lets up.
Tananana nananana tananana nananana, tananana nananana tananana nananana.
It’s in his head now, just like it was when he was fifteen and discovered PiL through this little tune, not long after he’d first heard “Sympathy for the Devil.” After that, he feels stable, immune from Moktar’s bullshit. Now he’s on his feet, singing at the top of his voice, body and voice disjointed.

Ahhh! Nothing like a bit of blasphemy. Blasphemy and dancing. Ahmed feels lighter immediately. Strange how Islam has been such a burden on him despite the fact his mother never taught him about it nor imposed it on him in any way. Not that she’d have been able to anyway . . .

He stretches out on his bed and calmly, unhurriedly reflects on what he’s got: Moktar, his
“halouf”
insult, and the pork joint. No, no, no! Not a coincidence. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift off. The strange expression worn this morning by Sam, the Jewish barber, becomes superimposed onto the face of the black Salafist. He unpicks the scene with Moktar in slow motion. He walks past him, turns back, notices he’s gone. Moktar should have gotten as far as the fruit and veg shop, just after the barber’s. So he could have entered either no. 15 or Sam’s. He’s a local guy—nothing to say he doesn’t have friends or family living at no. 15. But no. A shiver runs down his spine—the paranoiac Soninké went to Sam’s. And it doesn’t seem likely that it was for a haircut . . . What could this mean? Even though he can’t figure out their motives, Ahmed does know what’s going to happen: they’ll wait for their chance to pin the blame on him by saying something to the police. Maybe not directly, but in passing—perhaps via Fernanda, or by sending an anonymous letter. He’s got to find a way to get ahead of them. Anticipation and reaction. He’s got to find something—a lead, anything—before he sees Rachel and Jean again. The fact he’s good at playing the fool will work to his advantage. The most important thing is they don’t realize he’s awoken from his slumber! Ahmed the space cadet has got to stay in character: Monsieur Paul, Franprix, the baker’s. And tomorrow at around 10:00 a.m., when he gets back from the shrink, he’ll go for a haircut at Sam’s. Been two months anyway—well overdue. Time to take off the thinking cap. Time to sleep. To sleep and dream.

11:00 p.m.

14

The man is alone in the gloomy meeting room, the weak light coming from the street lamp on the pavement opposite. He is sitting stock-still in the black office chair, leaning forward with his head in his hands. On the table in front of him, his Sagem cell starts vibrating. He looks up and stares at the telephone, his eyes wild. Unlisted number. He picks up on the eighth ring.

“Hello . . .”

“Hi, it’s me, Susan.”

After a short hesitation he answers in strongly accented English.

“Hi, Susan.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you . . .”

“A surprise?”

“I’m going to be in Paris this weekend. Isn’t that great?”

“But . . .”

“Don’t worry! James has taken care of everything. You’ll have a perfect excuse for your wife.”

“I can’t leave now, Susan!”

“Tomorrow you’ll receive travel instructions from the Center. I’ll be waiting for you at the Concorde Lafayette Hotel, room 1727. Saturday at 3:00 p.m. Ohhh, I’m so excited! Please tell me you can’t wait to see me!”

He tries to steady his voice but can’t stop it from cracking.

“It will be a pleasure, Susan, of course.”

Susan hangs up with a kiss. He returns the telephone to its place and resumes his afflicted stance.

*

In a telephone booth, a man sparks up his lighter to make out an 800 number written on a piece of paper. He dials, listens to the recorded instructions read out by a female voice, then enters a Paris number followed by the hash key. After the fourth ring a man picks up; it’s one of those old telephones with a gray receiver and ’80s-style keypad. He’s sitting in front of a mirror in the half-light smoking a Café Crème. He keeps on smoking and leaves it to the other guy to get the ball rolling.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Listen . . .”

“No, you listen! You have seriously fucked up. I gave you a very simple task and look where we are now!”

“But it was that fat fuck’s decision to get his brother on board. What was I meant to do?”

“Fat fuck or no fat fuck, you should have stuck to the plan. For the moment, tell your people that we’re shutting everything down, then zero contact with anyone.”

“Even the stuff already underway?”

“What’s underway is underway. When that’s done, until you hear otherwise, we lie low.”

The cigarillo-smoker hangs up and then redials, this time a cell number. Two rings, then a gruff voice with an indistinguishable accent answers.

“Hello, is that you?”

“Who else would it be?”

“I’m busy, it’s time for . . .”

“I only need a minute. Has my nephew left?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Make sure he does what he’s been told. Afterward, we’re taking a vacation. We put everything on hold for a while.”

“But why? We’ve got plans, needs . . .”

“It won’t be for long . . . Anyway, that’s how it has to be for now. We’re following orders,
ya khouya
, we’re following orders . . .”

*

The man from the telephone booth is now walking down the deserted street. A shadow appears by his side as if from nowhere.

“
Salaam
.”

“Yeah yeah,
salaam
.”

“What’s up? You seem nervous.”

“Someone’s fucked up. You’re going to have to sit tight for a bit.”

“Not right now; give us a bit more time. We haven’t even reached twenty percent of our target.”

“Ten percent, twenty per cent . . . I couldn’t give a fuck! We’re stopping. We’ll wait for the storm to pass and then we’ll see. You’ve got your guys under control, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There we go. End of discussion.
I
will contact
you
.”

“Peace be with you, brother.”

“Yeah yeah, and with you. Right, goodbye!”

*

Rachel is sleeping like a baby—carefree, dreamless, breathing deeply—when the telephone rings. Before she even opens her eyes she knows that it’s 3:00 a.m. and that it’s Bintou and Aïcha. She grabs her cell, checks the time—3:06—and the name of the caller—Aïcha (VIP)—before hitting the green button.

“Hello.”

“Hello . . . Lieutenant Kupferstein, it’s me. Aïcha. I’m with Bintou. Sorry for calling so late.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“We’ve got a technical question for you.”

“A technical question?”

“Are you on Skype?”

“Skype?”

“You know, that thing for making free calls anywhere in the world.”

“No, I don’t have it. Why?”

“Because Rébecca has agreed to talk to you on Skype this time tomorrow, so long as we’re there too.”

“I see. Well I’ll get it installed for then. All you need to do is come around here at 2:30 a.m. We don’t have to do this at the station . . . Tell me, did you ever hear Laura mention ‘filth’? As in ‘the filth of the earth’? Ring any bells?”

“Hold on, I’ll ask Bintou . . . No, Lieutenant, not as far as we can remember. But it does sound like something a Jehovah’s Witness might say . . . Ask Rébecca tomorrow . . . Laura confided in her the most about her past. Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

“Goodnight, Aïcha . . . And since you’re phoning me at three in the morning, you might as well call me Rachel.”

“Okay, Lieutenant . . . Uh . . . Rachel. We’ll try. Oh, er, do you know Sam, the barber?”

“As in Sam’s . . . the men’s barber shop. Why?”

“Well, I don’t know . . . Err . . . It might be worth . . . keeping an eye open . . .”

“Is that all you’re going to give me?”

“That’s all for now . . . See you tomorrow, Rachel. Sorry again for waking you.”

Lieutenant Kupferstein just manages to get her “See you tomorrow” in before the line goes dead.

Fully awake now, she goes online, finds the Skype website and downloads it. She hears the “ping” signaling a new message . . . Sent by Kevin Gomes half an hour ago. He’s managed to have a chat with an ex-Witness from Niort who seems to have a few things to say about the Vignola family. Damn he’s good! Ball’s in her court . . . The guy is willing to see her, she just needs to send him a message confirming the time and place. Tomorrow, 3:00 p.m., at Le Thermomètre in République. Rachel writes an e-mail to [email protected] before sending a quick “thank you” to Kevin. Seventeen minutes later and she’s asleep again. Not so bad.

15

Watchtower Society, Brooklyn. Twenty-one months earlier.

A file entitled “Shipments/Belarus” tucked under her arm, Susan pretends to be lost as she wanders the endless corridors that she knows like the back of her hand. Though it does take a while to familiarize herself again with the contours of this labyrinth of interlacing tunnels lit by cold, neon strips, glass-clad capillaries feeding the countless rooms and blocks that make up the complex known as the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society. Built a century ago at the foot of Brooklyn Bridge, the global headquarters of the Jehovah’s Witnesses is a veritable hive, and one which the faithful never have to leave. This amniotic universe, with its central heating in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, provides them with everything they could possibly need. The Watchtower . . . Susan Barnes had lived there with her father, Abel, and her brother James since their return to New York in the month she turned four.

An expert at maneuvering the twists and turns of the building, the young lady slows her pace to give herself time to decide whether or not to go for yet another coffee in the cafeteria. She checks her watch and gauges that it’s time to make a brief appearance at her work station. She forks right, nods at ten new faces and a former colleague from Office Supplies, stops and opens a door. Logistics: European Department.

Three sets of middle-aged female eyes home in on her immediately. Unflustered, the young lady—slender, beautiful, detached—heads toward her desk and sits down. Her boss whispers to her in a voice that manages to convey both venom and sweetness.

“Susan, where have you been?”

“I was fetching the Belarus file—look!”

“And that took you a whole hour . . . ?”

No answer. It’s just a game. For nine minutes Susan plays the role of employee, flicks through the file, and completes seventeen lines of her Excel spreadsheet. She then excuses herself in an aloof fashion.

“Right, I’ve got some errands to run. I won’t be joining you for lunch.”

She leaves. The three frustrated women don’t even look up. The boss settles for a malevolent hiss under her breath.

“That one . . . If it wasn’t for her father . . .”

She walks at an assured pace, subtly taking out her cell from her black leather handbag, which is virtually identical to the ones slung over the shoulders of the mass of people packed together in the wide corridor leading to the exit. With a discreet glance right and left to make sure she’s not being watched, she cups the phone in the palm of her left hand and opens the text message that James sent that morning. A smiley flashes up on the screen, causing her second giggle of the day. Susan is twenty-eight today; James is on a mission in Belize, so she’s got no one else to celebrate with. No way can she confide in anyone: she mustn’t let herself disobey the primary rules of the organization, no matter how senior her father is. This makes her brother’s text all the more precious. It reminds her that she is not alone. Since they were nine, every September 23, she and James have found a way to do something special, something nice together. Or at least to send each other a sign or a secret message. James is away, so she’ll permit herself a little solitary treat at lunchtime. A treat she prepared herself for by fussing over her choice of clothing in the morning. An unusual outfit, even if sartorial sobriety is big among the Witnesses. Full-length skirt, long-sleeved cream blouse and navy-blue anorak, and then the final touch that she pulls out of her bag once she is a safe distance from the checkpoint—a green, felt beret into which she manages to squeeze her entire head of Nordic-blond hair, a marker of her proud Estonian heritage on her mother’s side.