Arab Jazz (20 page)

“Why did you change meeting places?”

“There were three idiots there I couldn’t shift. The prayer room has turned into some local hangout . . . Plus there’s been a change of plan. We’re putting everything on hold for the moment.”

“What do you mean ‘putting everything on hold’? Are you taking me for a prick or what? I’ve got orders, clients waiting.”

“There’s been a supply chain issue. I’ve got nothing at the moment. A problem at the source, apparently.”

Mohand makes to grab Abdelhaq by the throat.

“My brother, you wouldn’t lay a finger on a man of God?” He looks him in the eye with a menacing smile. “You wouldn’t do a thing like that now, would you?”

22

Ahmed is perched before a mug of steaming coffee. Monsieur Paul drinks his, making a racket like an old man who’s beyond caring. Ahmed ends up copying him. The bookseller finally reaches his decision.

“How much do you need a month to resume the sessions?”

“Well . . . Between one hundred and fifty and two hundred . . .”

“Right—and since you need to pay in cash, you’ll want cash from me. No paperwork, eh?”

“No.”

“Very well, very well. I don’t like paperwork . . . You can come for an hour or two a day to move books around, keep an eye on the shop, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, okay—no problem.”

“Perfect, wonderful.”

Silence. He’s lived with death for so long he’s got all the time in the world. Ahmed looks at him in an unhurried way. The summer he turned thirteen, when he bought his first Horace McCoy, Monsieur Paul was already what might be described as an elderly man; nowadays, it’s a different story altogether. It’s like he’s from a different world, with a subtle hint of Clint Eastwood or Morgan Freeman. The sort of person who has lived; who knows that the end is near and that it always has been. The sort of person who loves life because he’s looking death in the face. You don’t learn that when you hit eighty. Ahmed will be like him if he reaches that age. Monsieur Paul knows it—that’s what binds them. The young man enjoys another loud slurp of his coffee. He’s like an old man. He’s old. He likes it. He keeps quiet.

“And Laura . . . Is this reawakening because of her?”

“Yes. They killed her. And I’m not sure, but it occurred to me that I might have loved her, that I loved her in my own way. I imagined the life we might have lived together . . . It went as far as children, divorce . . . Most of all, I felt I had to do something. For her. For me too, out of loyalty to what we hadn’t lived. And to avoid falling into their trap.”

“How did you find out about it, this trap?”

Ahmed isn’t surprised. Monsieur Paul knows everything.

“Glances, comments. Sam, Moktar, Ruben . . .”

“Good, you’ve learned a few things. You’re ready to fight. To use your weakness as a weapon. You know they won’t see you as a threat; they will be reckoning they can play around with you. That’s a good start. What about the police?”

“I . . .”

Ahmed shuts his eyes and replays the police officers’ visit from the day before. Everything is ingrained in his memory. The feelings come back in slow motion. Maggie Cheung’s patterned dress . . . Rachel’s red hair . . . Slowly, for all eternity. He opens his eyes.

“The lady’s in her thirties. Ashkenazi Jew, beautiful, with the same freckles and the same eyes as Esther, the first girl I kissed at school. I’m in love with her,” he adds, surprising himself. “She reads Ellroy—
White Jazz
is her favorite. Like me. You know I’ve always been convinced that I could only ever truly love an Ellroy fan, but believing that such a woman doesn’t exist. Well, not an attractive one, at least.”

Monsieur Paul says nothing, finishes off his mug, takes it all in, waiting. The beginnings of a smile form.

“The guy also likes crime novels. More into the classics. I saw his eyes stop for a long time on
No Pockets in a Shroud
by McCoy. As if it brought back memories. It’s strange, I hadn’t realized I’d taken all these details on board. He’s the same age as her. Not Jewish, maybe a Breton, with a washed-out face . . . I can remember their names, too: Rachel Kupferstein and Jean Hamelot . . .”

“Rachel, daughter of Aaron Kupferstein, a furrier. His workshop wasn’t far from here, on rue des Carrières-d’Amérique. Originally from Vilnius, the ‘Jerusalem of the North’, easily the largest Jewish city in prewar Europe. Thankfully he got out of there in 1938 with his family when he was a youngster. He was hidden in Seine-et-Marne just when his parents were shipped off after the Vél d’Hiv roundup. They died, but he survived. He stayed single for a long time before marrying late, a Romanian Jew called Alicia, whose parents had survived Buchenwald. They then fled as quickly as they could from the anti-Semitic clampdown in Communist Bucharest. Rachel was born in ’69—I watched her grow up. Hamelot . . . he’s the son of Breton Communists. Came to the neighborhood six years ago; his first posting. He comes in from time to time to pick up a new Hammett. He doesn’t say much—like you.”

“But how . . .”

“Oh, I was there. The Nazis didn’t have anything against the Armenians, so I spent the war here, in peace. Well, more or less . . . Aaron I knew as a youngster. Let’s just say I saw certain things. Things which have strange echoes nowadays . . . I was practically there when Rachel was born . . . Ahmed and Rachel . . . Yes, I like all this. I like it a lot.”

The young man senses that now’s not the time for asking questions. Monsieur Paul looks at him and laughs.

“You need a haircut, you do!”

It’s the first time Ahmed has heard him laugh. It’s a slightly hoarse laugh that’s been given a serious working over by cigarettes and coffee. This peculiar turn in their relationship knocks him off guard. Indeed he had already decided to go to Sam’s that morning; not with any clear agenda, just to check out the lion’s den, play dumb, and test the water.

“Yes, you’re going to play dumb. They take you for a harmless imbecile, that’s why they’re trying to put the blame on you. Sam’s a devious idiot. He thinks mechanically, like a dominos player. I’ve been watching him operate for thirty years since he arrived from Tiznit. Always the same—one move after the other. Tack, tack, tack, tack! And that works, of course, in this neighborhood. Everyone else is busy surviving, trying to create some breathing space between their money difficulties and the oppressive religious leaders. What will be the sum of Sam’s moves? The thing is, he plays alone . . . But this is a different sort of game. This time it seems like he’s out of his depth. Quite a bit out of his depth.”

“Sam—so he is involved! It’s not just me going crazy in my own head? But what did he want from Laura?”

“Oh, her, nothing. He didn’t want anything at all. But just as you thought, he’s wrapped up in this thing you’ve been telling me about, this business with Moktar and Ruben . . . A few others too. The motive? The people really pulling the strings? I still can’t see that clearly. But there’s some weird stuff going on with the Muslims and the Jews. Stuff that’s not very halal and not very kosher. You know, evil is not some single entity that can be grasped in one go. It’ll all fall into place. It’ll all play out in front us, you’ll see. In the meantime, you shouldn’t hang around here too long . . . Perfect time to go to Sam’s. He’ll be delighted that you’re his first customer—simply delighted! What’s more, it’s the Sabbath this evening . . . Listen, watch, play dumb. Oh yes, and don’t forget to tell him that from now on you’re helping me in the shop. Then report back to Rachel. Oh, and give her my best wishes.”

23

Avenue C, Alphabet City, Manhattan. One year earlier.

The room is practically empty. Their refuge. This is the first time a stranger has stepped into James and Susan’s hideout. There are three blue pills are on the table.

GODZWILL

James had been captivated by the name. He saw a gleaming future for them bound up in it. Three magic beans; three coconspirators. Susan introduced Dov to her brother the previous week at the Starbucks on the corner of First Avenue Loop. A chai latte with soya milk for him (he’d eaten a pastrami pizza at Kingston Pizza Kosher before taking the subway, and since his
teshuvah
he has scrupulously obeyed the laws of
kashrut
: he must therefore abstain from consuming any dairy products in the eight-hour period after eating meat); mochas for them. The two guys had hit it off immediately, which made Susan heave a huge internal sigh of relief. James knew that there was nothing sexual going on between her and Dov; if there had been, the meeting would never have taken place—the idea of being around his sister’s lovers repels him. This is why she had gotten into the habit of dumping her men after half a day. No danger of becoming attached; love falling apart. As for James, he never mentions his sex life, leading her to believe he doesn’t have one—a bit of a loner who prefers to spend most of his time on the computer. He needed to for work, but also to arrange the new life that tomorrow was going to bring them. Just one more throw of the dice was needed before they could take vengeance on their father and leave behind the fake life they had been forced to lead. It is this stroke of genius they are about to discuss now before they drop their beautiful blue pills.

To mark the occasion, Dov has traded in his Borsalino hat for a green, yellow, and red yarmulke. James opens a bag of Lay’s Flamin’ Hot chips—guaranteed pork-free—unscrews a bottle of 7 Up, fills the plastic cups, and takes the floor.

“Okay. To summarize: we have the product; I haven’t tried it, but Susan has explained its effect to me. The commercial potential seems immense. All we need is a market. Preferably somewhere far away, to ensure it doesn’t get traced back to us. You have contacts in Paris and Antwerp who could distribute it. We need to find a way of transporting it to Europe. That’s where Susan comes in. She has many disguises—Salome, Judith, Bathsheba . . . whatever the situation calls for—all drawing from our mutual religious heritage. As we speak, a foreign elder of the Jehovah’s Witnesses is making a stop-off at headquarters. Yesterday, our father, bloated with his usual self-importance, introduced us to him as a friend from France who has come on a one-week placement. ‘A friend with a brilliant future,’ were his exact words. Susan flashed her most charming smile, and the look he returned her proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, and despite his devout adherence to the strict precepts of the organization, that he is ripe for the picking. Now it’s just a matter of logistics—I’ll take care of all that.”

James finishes as abruptly as he started. Over to Dov.

“The rebbe has confirmed that plans are gradually falling into place in Paris. Seven or eight months from now the dealing network will be operational across France, Belgium, and Holland. Aside from that, at a wholesale price of twenty-five dollars per pill, we should easily reach our targets in the first six months.” Then he turns to Susan and says, “Um, listen—I really like you. I don’t know how to put it, but . . . Are you sure you want to go ahead with this? Maybe there’s some other way . . .”

Susan smiles cheerfully, like a little girl.

“It’s fun, you know. You’re sweet to worry about me, but I’ve never done anything I didn’t want to do. Sure, he’s a bit old, but that doesn’t bother me. The truth is, I love leading these old guys astray, the ones who think they’re above everyone and everything, as though they’ve already got one foot in heaven! And there am I, waiting to trip them up, to deny them peace. Forever. Mmm, can’t wait! Nothing better . . . Right, we’ve covered everything, I think. Shall we go and get him?”

A moment’s contemplation. The three partners in crime swallow their pills with a 7 Up chaser. A ritual made all the more magical by its profound ordinariness. Each of them gets ready, waiting for ascension to commence. Dov sits on the floor, his back against a slightly grubby white wall. The Barnes twins slide onto a pair of canary-yellow plastic chairs. They exchange the odd sentence, more or less devoid of meaning, just to maintain contact. The strangeness sets in. It’s a new sensation for James; Dov and Susan are rediscovering the joy of that omnipotent state. Two dimensions, one superimposed on the other. That’s the incredible thing: being the Barnes twins in this world and in another at the very same time. Nothing like acid, where the high is so intense it makes you lose the power of speech. Not like coke, either, which makes you think you’re cleverer than everyone else. No. They are completely and utterly present in the shitty apartment where they are, 7 Up bottle and ridged white plastic cups in hand. And they are gods. No, they are
God
. This is a monotheistic drug: Christian, to be exact, with its Trinity of Gods, or early Jewish, with its YHWH, Adonai and Elohim. They divide the roles between them: Susan plays Elohim and the Holy Spirit—a woman, plural and playful . . . yes, that works. Like a good Hasid, Dov is YHWH, G-D—he who cannot be named—the tetragrammaton, the spirit of Kabbalah made flesh . . . and Jesus, because, regardless of any misgivings, he’s not letting some goy take that role. Then James is Adonai and God the Father, suiting his loner profile nicely.

Seeing double. Feeling double. Above, below, everywhere. Perfect harmony. Thoughts, words become one—they finish each other’s sentences without opening their mouths. Beauty, plenty, fullness. An alternate creation: Eden basking in the innocent glow of its gardeners; heavenly boredom.

TO BECOME GOD

WE MUST FIRST ACCEPT THE NEED FOR EVIL

No free will; a monotone eternity. No evil, no action, no story. God created Man in His image. Murder, envy, adultery, theft. God created Man to stave off boredom. All three of them, all six of them understand that. They are God! They know! They have eaten of the tree of knowledge. They are God, they know. They are Man and Woman, they know.

TO DO EVIL IS TO DO GOOD

It is to ensure that God be kept from boredom. To ensure that everything keeps moving for the sake of eternity. An infinity of years where nothing happens. Absoluteness. Their plan is on high. They know that Dov-YHWH-Jesus was divinely inspired to dream up this drug.
The tree of fucking knowledge
. And their eyes are opened. Human. So human. With their fizzy drinks—seventy-five cents for a half-gallon—their French fries and their love of trivial worldly pleasures. Swimming pools, weed, flat-screen televisions, skateboards, forbidden DVDs . . .
Whatever
. And they laugh.