Somewhere in the distance, she heard a sound. Pick … pick … pick … pick … pebbles hitting glass. A soft spray of hail on the windowpane. She knew instantly who it was: Mouloud, in the garden, looking up at the window.
“Wait a moment,” she whispered. “I’ll close the curtains.”
Sundry Names Given to the Sexual Parts of Man
Know, O Vizir (to whom God be good!) that man’s member bears different names, as:
El dekeur, the virile
El air, the member for generation
El ablil, the liberator
El nasse, the sleeper
Nelly thought of Olivier Fare, then of other men she’d known, and laughed out loud till tears ran down her cheeks.
El zodamme, the crowbar
El hamama, the dove
El molki, the duellist
El aouasa, the vast one
El aride, the large one
Abou belaoum, the glutton
El mokaour, the bottomless
El bazzaz, the restless
El mezour, the deep one
El zeunbur, the wasp
El ladid, the delicious one
Following on the lexicon of excitable parts was a passage that struck her as cruel, or at least, misplaced: a description of how the member appears in dreams, and what it means. With the confidence of a sorcerer, the Sheikh left no doubt that a man’s power and glory lies in his loins, his frailty too. The news of dreams is often bad.
Demons and desire enter by one door: the mind.
As regards the names kamera and dekeur, their meaning is plain. Dekeur is a word which signified the male of all creatures, and is also used in the sense of “mention” or “memory.” When a man dies, they say, “His member has been cut off,” meaning, “His memory is departed from the world.”
Hard-soled boots with heavy heels, the girlish sprint gave her away. Nelly knew without looking that the footsteps on the staircase were Magali’s. She heard the front door open, waited for the second set. Surely Piers would follow her. But he didn’t.
There was a draft in the hall, the front door carelessly left ajar. Turning the deadbolt, she slid the chain lock into place, thinking: this is no time to take chances with so much rushing about. If she plans on returning before dawn, I’ll have to come down and let her in.
TWENTY-FIVE
CAESAR WAS HUDDLED on the doorstep as Magali stepped into the night. One whiff of her presence and he cried out.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, scooping him up. “You’re supposed to sleep in your basket, little one. Who let you out? Oh, you’re shivering. Come on, crawl inside my jacket. That’s good. Stay close to me. I’m glad you’re here. Don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid. There, there, calmly, little one. Close your eyes and be safe.”
Mouloud was standing inside the gate. He heard her voice, the soft cooing sound. It was not for him.
When she saw him, said his name, he stepped back into the shadows, fists clutched in his pockets. Nothing there but a handful of stones. He backed away, she followed, whispered his name.
“You lied,” he said. “It is him, isn’t it? All along you’ve been—”
“That’s none of your—”
“Liar!”
The angry mood terrified Caesar. He struggled to get out from her grasp. Magali unzipped her jacket and stroked his head.
“You know who this is?” she said softly, in a voice she hoped would calm him down. “It’s Caesar. Look how cute he is. A little baby kitten. His mum died in a bloody mess. They say it was a wolf that did it, but that’s hard to believe. Anyway, we nursed him back to life, didn’t we? His mummy and his brothers and sisters all died too. It took hours and hours of feeding him, one drop of milk at a time. But he’s fine now.”
Her words were a lullaby full of warmth and love, but Mouloud felt accusation in her look, accusing and pushing him away. He wanted desperately to be the kitten, and not the object of her steely gaze. But it was no use wanting. The sadness choked him. He leaned against the garden gate, dry sobs rising from the bottom of his heart. Caesar sniffed despair and let out a sudden, terrified screech. His limbs stiffened. He started clawing at her chest and, with one powerful leap that sent Magali reeling, sprinted into the night.
It scared her, and stopped Mouloud’s sobs. “Caesar, come back!” she called. But he was already out of sight. “He’s not coming back,” she murmured. “He’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Mouloud said.
“It’s not your fault,” she sighed.
Mouloud wheeled round and strode off. The sight of his thin frame, the familiar slump as he followed the path the kitten had taken filled her with sadness. Suddenly it seemed important that he not go off like that, with the heaviness of a few ill-chosen words ringing in his ears. It all happened so quickly. The scratches on her breast were bleeding, a thin line of red staining her t-shirt. She went after him, calling his name, but he didn’t stop. He started walking faster. She caught up and grabbed his jacket sleeve, slipped her arm though his and walked with him until their steps fell into time. Under the alien lights of a town she’d never wanted to know, she wished time would roll back, and instead of the lazy Rhone, they were in Paris, somewhere near the Seine, making friends and full of plans. She wished Caesar hadn’t run away, she needed to hold him in her arms like a baby and sing him asleep. When they reached Mouloud’s front door, he pulled free and said, “Go back home.”
“I have no home,” she said.
“Go to Piers Le Gris, then,” he said.
“Mouloud …”
“I accept my destiny.”
“What do you mean?”
“I love you, that’s all,” he said, his voice flat. “Don’t be afraid. I would never, ever harm you.”
She believed him. Every fibre of her body knew his word was good. She leaned over, kissed him gently on the neck. He stared at her, impassive. “Do you want me to come upstairs with you?” He shrugged.
“Mouloud, listen to me: I haven’t made love to— to anybody, not Piers Le Gris, or anybody else, since you. I don’t know what that means. Probably nothing. But it’s true. Are you listening to me? Okay, yes, I would have done it with him, but you threw stones at the window and called me and so now here I am.” He stared at her, then turned and headed up the stairs. She followed. When they were in his room, he leaned against the wall, a familiar pose, as though he needed the wall to keep standing. She pressed her body against his, touched his sex. He was aroused.
“Crazy, crazy, Mouloud,” she murmured. She pulled him down onto the bed and kissed him till he unthawed and wrapped his arms around her. They were like two playful kittens who had been away from each other far too long. She was glad she had chosen to be with this sweet grateful friend who loved her in his bones. When she’d gone, Mouloud turned on the light and downed a full bottle of water. His lips were sore. Sitting on the side of the bed, he felt a terrible emptiness settling in. Not the feeling he’d imagined would follow making love to Magali. He’d thought of nothing while they did it. Finally, he’d been able to stop thinking and let go. The act had cleared his head, brought her down to earth. He thought of his vow; he’d sworn to keep it no matter what. It didn’t trouble him at all. The vow gave meaning to all he’d said and done till now. Made the moment pure. The future, easy. He threw on his jacket and headed out into the street.
Only when she’d bolted the door did Nelly realize how cold the house had grown. A sudden drop in the temperature made the ancient radiators creek. She headed upstairs. Piers’ door was ajar, from the room behind a strange golden light. He must have turned on the small gas heater she’d given him to take off a chill. She knocked, intending to remind him not to fall asleep before turning it off. When he didn’t answer, she peeked in. The light came from a dozen candles placed at various levels, on the empty bookcases,
the nightstand, both windowsills. There was an open bottle of liquor on the table, Magali’s sweater and bra lay in a heap on the floor. Piers was stretched out on the bed, asleep. At least the rhythm of his breathing suggested sleep.
Why would Magali run off? she wondered. Had he said something to frighten her? Or sent her away? That hardly seemed possible, and yet he was by all indications asleep, or lost in a dream state. Drugged, maybe, or terribly drunk. His mouth was open in the careless slack-jawed position of a sleeper, one leg raised slightly in a bend, the other straight. The back of one hand was resting on his forehead, his arm twisted in an uncomfortable gesture suggesting guilt or pain; the other lay limply on his chest. He was breathing through his nose, the heavy sighs of dark thoughts. His sex was firm. Names came into her head: the pigeon, the tinker, the liberator, the sleeper …
The thunder of the Sheikh’s ribald litany made her smile. He might have been standing nearby. His hectoring tone seemed to fill the room, giving the moment a strange air of unreality so that she wasn’t alone with a sleeping man but somehow wide awake with a powerful one whose voice rendered all thoughts naked and alive. As if hearing the booming voice in her head, his member moved. She couldn’t take her eyes away. Resting one knee on the side of the bed, she leaned over, took it in her hand. Piers stirred, his torso rising gently. Without opening his eyes he slid his arm away from his forehead and reached out. She inched forward onto the bed. It was an easy distance to kneel over him. Taking the member in both hands, she began to stroke slowly, then more quickly, finally bending down to kiss. He tasted like the sea, soft at first, then hard as an eel. All those careful nights with Roland had taught her how to touch a man stealthily, silently, with a minimum of fury, stroking, kissing, licking until he grew into the rhythm of her movements. A powerful experience, pleasurable and familiar, her open thighs pressed against the taut muscles of his legs, moving to the beat of his breathing, sharing the ascent, her thoughts in perfect harmony, as if his desire was also hers.
Suddenly he pulled away, and reaching for her hips, swung her around until she was lying on her back. Sliding his hands under her nightgown, he began a long, slow caress of ribs and breasts, reaching around to her back until he was holding her, lifting her, suspended. She felt weightless, overpowered, brittle, as though her body might break in two. A terrifying charge as he entered, rough at first, and painful. She cried out. His heart pounded against her head, thrusts growing stronger, more insistent, then a rush, he groaned, collapsed. She was overwhelmed with a desire to cry, a strange mixture of relief and sadness. Her chest hurt from holding back. As if sensing the swell of emotion, he cradled her head in one hand and pressed her body into him with the other. She could taste the salty warmth of his chest. The familiar scent of his ritual morning kisses was deeper, more intense. Hardly daring to breathe, she lay still for what seemed like a long time, wondering how she could escape. Every muscle remained taut, his mind whirling. She counted slowly to ten, shifted position. His grip loosened and she was able to slip out, pull the rumpled nightgown down past her waist and head for the door. She looked back, a glance only. He was watching.
TWENTY-SIX
LÉONCE WAS SITTING at his desk when the telephone rang. Piles of ledgers and stacks of bills covered a wide table facing a window that looked onto vineyards and distant mountains. A routine dating from a time when his weekdays had been busy, he counted on Sunday to catch up on his paperwork. Lately, though, he tended to spend the morning gazing out the window or reading. Hours passed without the sound of a human voice.
The clang of the telephone caught him in deep reverie. Expecting a stranger, he answered with a brisk bonjour. Nelly’s voice was a shock, as if she’d suddenly come into the room and laid a hand on his shoulder. Her presence always affected him. Once their eyes met, he was fine. The ritual smile, an old code of indifference carried him along. But hearing his name spoken with urgency took him back decades, to a time he had learned to forget.
“Léonce … I’m afraid it’s bad news.” Followed by silence, as she waited for him to speak.
“What is it? … Is it Magali?”
“No, the Moroccan boy. He’s had an accident. At least it seems so. The police wouldn’t say much. Something about an attack of wild dogs. Monsieur Le Gris has gone to the hospital. He’s going to phone. You’ll have to contact your man, bring him down right away. He doesn’t drive, does he?”
“No, Ahmed doesn’t drive.”
A deluge of information, shock then relief, the final note made him angry. He hated the way people of a certain generation referred to immigrants as Your Man, The Moroccan, as if they were personal possessions. Typical bourgeoisie who lived in big houses and towns, read Le Figaro and rarely spoke with anyone who didn’t share their own shallow anxieties. He was reluctant to count Nelly among them, though the temptation restored distance, provided the jolt he needed to take charge.
“But you’re saying Mouloud is all right?”
“I wouldn’t know. They plucked him out of the Rhone, of all places. If he didn’t drown, he may be poisoned. That water is rank. He was carrying a note addressed to Magali, with her phone number. Imagine! She’s hysterical. Oh Léonce, I don’t know what to do. I suppose it’s my fault. I’d no idea — a girl her age. It’s awful, just awful. What will Paul say? Oh dear, I don’t know—”
“Nelly, Nelly, don’t think so far ahead. I’ll call on his father, we’ll leave immediately. Where is Mouloud? Which hospital?”
Ahmed heard the knock on his door through a cloud of sleep. Thinking it might be a dream, he lay still. The second knock told him months of worry had come to a head. He was silent on the drive to Avignon. Worry beads wrapped around one hand, he hadn’t the strength to move his fingers as he prayed.
Piers Le Gris was sitting in the hospital corridor beside a rotund little man. “This is the man who saved Mouloud,” he said, introducing his companion. “Indirectly, that is. His dogs pulled him from the river. They saw him fall from the St. Bénézet Bridge and went in after him.”
Fall from the bridge. Ahmed heard the words and cried out in Arabic, a grief-stricken wail. The little man clutched his arm. “It’s all right, monsieur. Your boy’ll be fine. Don’t let them put down my dogs, please. They saved his skin. He jumped off that bridge and I sent the dogs after him. I don’t want my dogs blamed for nothing they didn’t do. I’m not asking for a reward or anything. Don’t get me wrong. But if it wasn’t for my Laurent and Julia—”
Piers nudged him and whispered, “Shhh. I told you, let him see Mouloud first.”
A nurse appeared and took Ahmed off to Intensive Care. When they were out of earshot, Alonzo started up again about the dogs, and Piers said, “Monsieur Martel, would you be kind enough to make a call on behalf of my friend? Actually, I can vouch for the dogs in question. They wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“I saw the boy jump,” the man huffed, his eyes bulging. “We were walking near the bridge. He was bent on doing himself in. I sent them after him. If there’s flesh wounds, I’ll swear the lad fought back. But he’s alive, you can see for yourself. If I hadn’t put my dogs at risk, that kid’d be dead by now, by his own doing. It’s not right, making the dogs pay.”
Léonce looked at Piers, then at the stranger who seemed ready to explode. “All right, give me the details. I’ll look into it.”
Piers took out a cell phone, fed in a number and handed it to Léonce. A few seconds into conversation with the police department receptionist and it was clear a personal appearance would be required. Piers agreed to wait with Ahmed while the stranger took Léonce to rescue the dogs.
Ahmed went limp at the knees when he found Mouloud stretched out on the hospital bed, eyes closed, tubes stuck into his nose and arms, forehead and limbs bound in white gauze. He had a nasty bruise on his cheek. He was so thin his body left the impression of a child under the white sheet. At Ahmed’s greeting he opened his eyes and clos
ed them again, either too weak to concentrate or fearful of the lecture he knew was sure to follow. Standing by the side of his son’s bed, Ahmed looked down as if looking into a coffin, and recited his thoughts in a low murmur. The nurses, who didn’t understand Arabic, assumed he was praying and tiptoed out of sight to leave the two in peace.
His words were not a prayer, they were the summation of all that he had learned during thirty years in France, the essence of his grief following the loss of Fatiha, his resolutions, the hard residue of many long nights when he had lain awake wondering where his beloved youngest son could be, what dark alleys his soul would find on its journey through a hostile land. His words had the soothing cadence of a litany, though the import was hard. Mouloud listened with his eyes closed. As his father spoke, the darkness deepened. He felt a heavy weight pressing on his chest. But midway through the talk, he remembered the light he’d seen as he stood on the edge of the bridge, his back to the water, a few seconds after he’d let go and was falling into the Rhone. A glimpse of stars, and then the light, a reminder of the lights his mother must have seen in the last seconds of her life. The light filled him with hope.
“My son,” Ahmed began, “you have done a terrible thing. Brought disgrace to our family, but it is nothing next to the danger to your soul. The twenty-ninth line of the Nisa verse of the glorious Qur’an clearly forbids the taking of one’s life. Had you succeeded you would be damned forever, lost to our family and all time. Someone or some force intervened and so you were saved. Praise Allah, you were saved for greater things. Even had you died, my beloved son, I would not have despised you. These past few weeks I have prayed incessantly for your salvation. What this French woman has done to you is terrible. Tonight you have been saved from a danger as great as the French girl. Now you must be rescued once again. You do not belong here in this decadent place. You are weak. You do not know how to gird yourself against the infidels. But you can learn, I am sure, and you must learn. I will make arrangements for you to study and train. You will go back home to a school in the countryside, where you will learn many things: a true and profound understanding of the sacred scriptures. How to be strong of mind and body in the light of Allah. Your teachers will know how to put your talents to use. When you return to your family, you will not be the weak child I see stretched out before me. You will be a man, able to defend yourself, your family, your faith, the word of Allah. Sleep now my son, a miracle has redeemed you. Your father, Ahmed Mourabed, honours all those who have brought us to this moment of salvation. Allah is great, Allah is good.”
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