Arab Jazz (33 page)
Authors: Karim Miské
Tags: #FICTION / Mystery & Detective / International Mystery & Crime
Mercator contemplates the blank sheet of paper, his Sheaffer hanging in the air. A moment’s hesitation, then he shakes his head with a soft smile, lays down the pen and motions to the three lieutenants to come in. Kupferstein, Hamelot, and Gomes walk up to the desk, preferring to stay standing since their chief is not sitting down. Mercator starts speaking.
“So, this case is over.”
Gomes reacts with surprise.
“Over? But Vignola and Raymond Meyer are still at large. And the Barnes twins, and . . .”
“And the Hasids in Brooklyn. I know. We won’t catch any of them. Not for the moment, at least. We will, of course, do everything in our power to do so. Release descriptions, international warrants, notify Interpol . . . all that jazz. We’ll find one of them, sure: Vignola. My guess is that his body will appear not far from where we are now either tomorrow or the next day. He might even be engaged in killing himself as we speak, but who knows where? The Barneses will vanish into thin air; so will the chemist in Brooklyn. As for Rebbe Toledano’s Hasids, we’ll never be able to prove anything.”
Hamelot and Kupferstein are wearing wry smiles. Gomes looks furious. Mercator continues.
“The evil in all this, Gomes—the evil it was our job to vanquish—was Frédéric Enkell, Aïssa Benamer, and Francis Meyer. They walked among us, you understand? They were the rot, the antithesis of what we ought to be. As for the rest, we have done what we can, which is already not bad. But there’s no such thing as absolute victory. There is no end to this fight. It has been going on since time immemorial, and it will continue to go on forever.”
He laughs.
“Right! Time for a drink. We’ve deserved it. Fifteen-year-old Lagavulin. After that, you ought to go away for a few days, Hamelot and Kupferstein. You won’t be any use to me if you don’t.”
The Barnes twins, of course, never set foot in the Concorde Lafayette. After Vignola’s phone call the day before, just as they were leaving New York, they had changed their plans and booked a room at a small hotel in Saint-Ouen under the name Arthur and Melissa Kacynski, a young couple from Brisbane, Australia. In a public toilet in porte Maillot, they had switched outfits. A ginger wig for Susan; fake Trotsky-style beard and tortoiseshell glasses for James. After taking out Vignola, they’ll only need to change their appearance and identity one more time before boarding a night train to Madrid and from there a flight to Guatemala, then across the border to Belize where they’re supposed to meet up with Dov. Right now, however, they are in their room at Hôtel d’Aquitaine, busily preparing the details of the crime scene that Susan is so determined to devise. Nothing fundamentally all that original. Just a classic bondage session gone wrong. Her wheelie suitcase is packed: latex costume, handcuffs, whip, mask, gag.
From the moment Susan lets Vignola through the door of room no. 202 at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he is enchanted by what appears before him. The woman who has taken control of his fate is dressed from head to toe in dominatrix gear, an extremely beautiful Venetian mask covering her eyes. The shutters are closed, a dimmed light in the ceiling revealing the scene. A leather strap is dangling midair against the wall at the back.
He already knows everything. It’s why he came. To die by her hand. Nothing remotely commonplace: a certain beauty, even. Surprising that it’s happening in this room, with its peeling, shabby wallpaper, in a one-star hotel less than three hundred yards from marché aux Puces. Once his hands are tied behind his back and the noose has been placed around his neck, Susan makes her lover swallow a Godzwill pill. Only then does she gag him. She’d read in several books and on various sites that strangulation heightens the orgasm, intensifying it. Susan Barnes had always wanted to experience it. Not herself, but rather via a male, disposable subject. The gag in his mouth prevents Vincenzo Vignola from articulating the magnitude of his pleasure achieved by the combination of sex, strangulation, and the drug. Alas the precaution is necessary, what with the hotel being poorly soundproofed. But Susan will never forget his eyes. They look as though they are finally beholding the wonders of the Kingdom of Jehovah in all its glory.
Ahmed and Mohamed have gone to lend Monsieur Paul a hand. Lifting some crates, bringing others down. The bookseller was pleased with the way his present had proved itself useful. “Yes, it’s important to know how to confront the dead . . . Sometimes they can be as formidable as the living.” Every five minutes, Ahmed looks at his cell screen, as if by some chance he’d missed it ringing. Mohamed and Monsieur Paul catch each other’s eye and laugh. Ahmed ignores them. He’s eager to return home and wait for the visit he’s expecting.
When they reach the iron gate to his block of apartments, Ahmed gets a strange feeling at the back of his neck. He turns around to discover an enormous, familiar silhouette on the other side of the road. The embodiment of his fear. The man responsible for five years of drifting and internal exile. Mohamed realizes right away. He grabs Ahmed’s arm as it moves instinctively toward the Glock in his bag.
“Don’t be crazy, Ahmed. He’s a killer, a murderer. You’re a dreamer, a human being.”
Raymond Meyer is lost in thought as he looks up at the balcony of Laura’s apartment. As if it carried a secret that had until now been beyond his reach. A strange, marvelous thing to which he must bid farewell today. He lowers his head to see two young Arabs staring at him from across the street, one of them almost black and vaguely familiar. They know. They know everything. But they won’t do anything because they value their lives. He could cross the road and wipe them out like that, in thirty seconds and six stabs of his knife. The street is full of people. Way too many people. And there’s no shortage of police officers in the neighborhood looking for him. It’s time to vanish. To go and see if the grass is greener on the other side. So Meyer smiles broadly. He smiles and leans forward. And disappears. Ahmed tells himself that’s how it has to be. He did what he could. He’d been there for Laura throughout the inquiry. But he’s no superhero; just a man, a dreamer. And evil will continue to exist. The earth will never stop producing Meyers and Lauras. And Ahmeds. And Rachels.
He grabs his telephone with determination and dials the only number he’s got.
Four hours later, Rachel is sitting next to him on a Thalys bound for Amsterdam. They still haven’t kissed. But for that, there is forever.
- Pissing in a River
Patti Smith - It’s Magic
Dinah Washington - La femme des uns sous le corps des autres
Serge Gainsbourg - Glory Box
Portishead - Sidiki
Les Ambassadeurs Internationaux - Dil Cheez
Bally Sagoo - Religion
Public Image Ltd. - Sympathy for the Devil
The Rolling Stones - J’ai rencontré l’homme de ma vie
Diane Dufresne - Melody
Serge Gainsbourg - Ouais ouais
Booba
KARIM
MISKÉ
was born in 1964 in Abidjan to a Mauritanian father and a French mother, and grew up in Paris before leaving to study journalism in Dakar. He now lives in France and is making documentary films on a wide range of subjects including deafness, for which he learned sign language, and the common roots between the Jewish and Islamic religions.
Arab Jazz
is his first novel.
SAM
GORDON
is a translator of French and Spanish. He has translated a range of short stories;
Arab Jazz
is his first novel-length translation.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents