Arab Jazz

by Karim Miské

  20

  Down at reception, Jean picks up the keys to an unmarked vehicle parked outside the Bunker. He starts it gently and follows the same route as Rachel the night before. After the bridge on rue Ordener, he slows down, closely surveying the area around the telephone booth. There’s a space in a loading bay just in front. He parks, lights a cigarette, and clears his head. He lets the place wash over him. His eyes wander, stopping at a book case. There, lined up, as if on parade, are the crappy paperbacks he used to jerk off to in secret back in Saint-Pol-de-Léon. Son Altesse Sérénissime, his favorite, because underneath it all it was fascist, racist, misogynistic trash. Everything that was forbidden for him. It was the really hackneyed fantasies—like when the Air Africa stewardess sucks off Prince Malko Linge on an airplane—that gave him the biggest boner. And they were amazing for staying hard for ages, since every two pages there was another sex scene or, even better, some torture. Yup, the torture scenes . . . They were the most exciting. Like with the cat.

  ALMOST KILLING AN ANIMAL

  A LIVING BEING

  GETTING OFF ON ITS SUFFERING

  The shop. Looks like a second-hand shop. Various old books and curios in the window. Enough light from inside to see it’s a real mishmash. A huge, oddly familiar shadow comes to the entrance, then pulls back into the cavern, followed thirty seconds later by a second, normal-sized guy, who scrutinizes Jean for a second before disappearing too. Bit tricky to go in asking questions like “Did you see a murderer making a telephone call on June 18 at 9:30 p.m.?” His watch says 10:45 a.m. Too late. If he wants to get to Rachel without the flashing lights he needs to take off now.

  At Le Gastelier, which looks out over the Montmartre funicular and Sacré-Coeur, he orders a pain au chocolat and a double espresso. Le Parisien and Libération are right there, but he doesn’t want to get bogged down with the din of the world. He can’t wait for that wonderful first bite. The pains au chocolat here are light and flaky, not at all stodgy. Their quality comes from their substance and texture as much as from their taste. Every time he comes here it astonishes him that such a place can survive, wedged between a Häagen-Dazs ice cream parlor and a supposedly authentic old-style bistro. What was it Debord said? “The true is a moment of the false . . .” Indeed.

  Rachel arrives at the same time as his order. She lets the waiter serve her colleague, asks for the same, and then sits down. Not the customary kiss on the cheek, just a silent smile that lights up the world.

  “I saw Mercator—he managed to give me the creeps! He’s got this way of speaking about evil, like something out of Dante’s Inferno . . . No, hold on—let’s begin with life, not death. Last night, I decided to move out. The twelfth is a horror show: far-right white boys and Arabs on Prozac. I want to be in a neighborhood that’s alive. The eighteenth, the tenth . . . somewhere like that. Or the north of the ninth? Somewhere with some bars or clubs. People, humans, you know.”

  Rachel listens, still smiling.

  “About time! I was really beginning to wonder why you were refusing to leave that dingy tower block on that dreadful road. As soon as this case is over I’ll help you find the perfect place. The tenth would suit you, in the Tamil neighborhood, that bit between La Chapelle and Gare de l’Est. I’m sure you’d like it there. And I’ll take you for a masala dosa—they’re delicious! Before you tell me about Mercator, I’ve got something to tell you too. One thing in particular that troubled me this morning.”

  “Troubled you? You seem so happy! Like you’ve won the lottery, or you’ve met the man of your dreams. Reminds me of that Canadian song when the dude asks in his Québecois accent: ‘Do you take water in your whiskey?’ and she answers: ‘No, I take it neeeeeeeeeeat . . .’”

  “Hey, anyone ever told you that you’re a complete ass?”

  “Err, yes . . . You, mainly. Okay, sorry . . . I feel like talking crap this morning, just to get it off my chest . . .”

  “What makes it even trickier is that stupid remark of yours is not that wide of the mark . . . Listen, I’m going to tell you something that I shouldn’t. So keep it to yourself and no lame comments. It’s just I need to talk to somebody about it, and since it’s linked to the inquiry, that can only be you.”

  “Okay Cross my heart, et cetera et cetera.”

  “This morning, just before leaving, I got a call from Taroudant.”

  “And that’s what’s been troubling you? If I’m seeing this right, Taroudant calls you at 10:00 a.m. and you’re . . . you’re overjoyed! You do realize that you’re in the process of being chatted up by a half-wit Arab who’s a suspect in a murder investigation that you are carrying out with yours truly?”

  “Yes, I am aware of that.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be the case. The girl, Laura, had her vagina slashed by a knife with a blade that was—what?—three, six inches long . . . He, he had keys to her place, he has no alibi . . . He is still in the picture. I’m still wondering why we haven’t brought him in!”

  “Because we both know that it wasn’t him! Here’s why: he doesn’t have the build or the profile. And we’re not going to waste any time going down a dead end. We don’t have twenty-four hours of custody time to play with.”

  “I can just imagine what we’re going to say to Mercator. ‘It can’t be him, Lieutenant Kupferstein has got a crush on him . . . Trust us, Commissaire, sir . . .’”

  “Enough! You didn’t let me finish. What are you, jealous? He called me to say he’s going back to his psychoanalysis and that he’s going to work at the bookshop with Monsieur Paul.”

  She stares at Jean, her eyes at once firm and imploring.

  “I’m talking to you as my partner and as my friend. I’m not keeping anything from you because this is not just about my private life, it’s about a criminal investigation, and I’m well aware of that. Yes, his call moved me. Especially when he admitted that the main reason for calling me was to hear the sound of my voice. It unsettled me, and that’s why I need you. Ahmed . . . Ahmed has made a very profound impression on me. I could even feel myself wavering over at his place yesterday. In the evening, before going to sleep, I thought about him, I saw his face, and then this morning he calls me . . . So if we want a word for that, then maybe it’s ‘love’, yes, I’m falling in love. Beginning to, at least. The very, very beginning . . .”

  Rachel is emotional, on the verge of tears, but she pulls herself together.

  “I’m asking you not to judge me, but to help me keep my judgment. Having these feelings for someone . . . It doesn’t come around every day . . . But there’s no question of it compromising the investigation. So if you sense I’m losing control, tell me. All I’m saying is . . . be fair!”

  “Uh, okay. That’s not going to be easy. For starters, I’m jealous, obviously. Even if I know things would never work between us, deep down it does hurt a little. But . . . I adore you, Rachel, I really do, and I’m telling you today that I have no doubt that I always will, so remember that . . . I adore you completely, and I’ll never do anything to hurt you. But you need to know that what you’re asking of me is major, really major. As far as the rest is concerned, I’m with you. Ahmed doesn’t fit the murderer’s profile, not for a second. But I’m still going to check . . . I’ve got this meeting with his doctor. Other than that, watch how you go! Keep your distance big time until the investigation’s over. Imagine what’d happen if this came out . . . Just imagine . . .”

  “I’ll be sensible. But I did ask him to call me if he found anything out. And he told me that he’ll do anything to find a good reason to call me or to see me again. I . . . I’ll know how to handle it.”

  “Definitely let me know if that happens and we’ll go and see him together.”

  “Alright.” She stops herself, looks at Jean, smiles, mouths a “thank you,” gathers her breath and continues, “Let’s move on to the serious stuff. In the night I got a call from Bintou and Aïcha. They asked me if I had Skype, some application for making free calls via the I
nternet.”

  “I know the one.”

  “Ah, I hadn’t heard of it. They’re meant to be coming around tonight at about 3:00 a.m. so that we can talk to Rébecca on Skype.”

  “Yes! Great news. Where’s Rébecca?”

  “I didn’t ask them for the moment. Far away, in any case . . . Straight after I switched on my computer and there was an e-mail from Gomes who’s managed to organize a meeting for me this afternoon with an ex-Witness from Niort.”

  “Ahmed, Kevin . . . All these men at your every beck and call . . .”

  “Very funny! Your turn—fill me in on Mercator.”

  “Hold on. Before Mercator, I’ve got something to show you. You remember 75-Zorro-19?”

  “The rap group with Bintou and Aïcha’s brothers, Moktar and Ruben?”

  “Precisely. I found a mixtape of theirs from 2000. Have a look.”

  The photograph shows the four of them looking into the camera like gangsters in front of the Rotonde de la Villette. They’re all making the same sign: little finger touching the thumb with the three middle fingers splayed apart.

  “That symbolizes Allah in Arabic. They’re all doing it, even Ruben. It was a pretty good way of winding people up and it worked with the white kids from the schools in the sixth. They would brave marché Malik on a Saturday to buy the latest tunes from the hot new ‘ghetto’ artists. The dedication is the most interesting thing: ‘To our first fans, our little sisters, our homegirls Rébecca, Aïcha, and Bintou.’”

  “You mean Ruben is Rébecca’s big brother?”

  “Yup. And you know what—I remember seeing them at a gig.”

  “You went to one of their concerts?”

  “I went to check them out once. The girls must have been seventeen. They did a dance routine up on stage just before the first song. I didn’t recognize them yesterday because I’d totally forgotten about that concert. Plus their style was completely different. They hid their curves under really baggy tracksuits. But their dancing . . . There was something wild, untamed about it . . . Everything’s coming back to me now. The band started at the community school when four local kids met: two black guys, an Arab, and a Jew. They became pals, learned about life, messed around with music. They ended up at the same secondary school and decided to form a hip-hop band: 75-Zorro-19. Aside from Moktar, who you know already—he was the beatmaker—there’s Mourad, Aïcha’s brother, Alpha, who’s Bintou’s brother, and Ruben . . .”

  “Rébecca’s brother.”

  “Exactly! When I moved to the neighborhood, they’d just started college. Their tag was on every wall, their lyrics ringing in everyone’s heads. Two years later, after they’d graduated, Moktar had his breakdown and the group didn’t survive after that. This morning I dug around and I found the sleeve to their mixtape, and also one of their rap tunes on my old MP3 player. Have a listen! Ruben is the first to rap.”

  Rachel tries not to look too disgusted as she inserts the questionably clean earpbuds. It starts with a stripped-down beatbox, followed by a plucked guitar riff that she could swear had been lifted from Prince, before a Kool Shen-esque vocal kicks in.

  The life of a A-rab, the life of a brother,

  It’s not worth nothin’ round here,

  Every day, wallah!

  Society’s vengeance on those it mistreats

  Shot like rabbits, strangled between our sheets

  Treated like the enemy

  As if we was back in some colony

  Blanking our lives from your memory

  But we’re in this, we’re from this vicinity

  We’re here you hear me, fuck you to anonymity.

  A break with a heavy bass line, AC/DC-style, then a new voice takes over. It’s rougher, more violent. Rachel takes out an earbud and raises her eyebrows at Jean, who mouths “Mourad” back at her.

  From the lowest of the low, I’m gonna raise my cry

  We were born into a trap, suckled on fear

  Nothing to lose, we can fuck it all up here

  Our fathers faced the wall, waiting for the trigger

  The Arab’s the pariah, yeah we remember Algeria

  Now the black boy’s the danger, the savage they can’t keep in

  Way back when it was the Jew, made to purify and free the Aryan

  I’ve not forgotten a thing, purgat’ry’s my cousin

  Black on Jew, Arab on brother

  We eat each other, fuck each other, make each other suffer.

  Another change—this time Rachel doesn’t need Jean to guess that it’s Alpha, whose tone is sweeter, at times verging on a stammer.

  That’s enough, that’s going too far, don’t take me for the enemy

  Unity I tell you, that’s our life guarantee

  The system’s always lining up the next victim

  Int’rested in one thing: to nail you for a crime

  To shut you in a box, to put you in the dock

  So eager for it they call upon their Book

  What am I asking? That our lives be worth something

  I’m free of hate, I’ll say it again

  Don’t go thinking you can get us complying

  With a fifty-cent coin just ’cause of the gold lining.

  Rachel pulls out the earbuds.

  “I don’t get it . . . How did they switch from politically minded young guys to the closed-up individuals they are now? Long story short, Ruben joined the Moroccan Hasids, and his sister looked like she was going the same way until her mysterious disappearance. As for Alpha and Mourad, they’re regulars at the same prayer room as Moktar on rue Eugène-Jumin. So how come Aïcha and Bintou never caught the fundamentalist bug?”

  “Why would they? During major epidemics, some family members are affected while others aren’t. One of life’s great mysteries.”

  “A mystery, yes, perhaps. But imagine what it must be like seeing your brother going down that path, becoming someone else? Must be weird.”

  “Well you’ll have all the time in the world to ask them tonight at your little Skype-party. Tell me, do you remember who the imam at the prayer room is? It’s our friend Abdelhaq.”

  “Abdelhaq Haqiqi—I’d forgotten about him! His little brother Hassan . . . He went down, didn’t he?”

  “No, still on remand. But I reckon it would be a plan to pay Haqiqi a visit, just to catch up on any family news . . .”

  Rachel pauses for a moment before continuing.

  “Three Salafists and a fanatical Lubavitcher. One of their younger sisters is reported missing, and the other two are anything but fundamentalists. Their best friend gets murdered, the crime scene smacking of religious impurity. What does it mean? Common sense—not to mention the current climate—demands that we focus on the Salafists, but then there’s Rébecca’s disappearance . . . Radical Muslims and Jews involved in the same mess—doesn’t it seem a bit much to you?”

  “I’m not going to start quoting Goebbels again, even if you are asking for it . . .”

  “On the other side there’s Laura’s family history. In Niort, Commissaire Jeanteau paid the parents a visit to tell them about their daughter’s death, and he called me afterward. Their reaction was bizarre, as though it had absolutely nothing to do with them. The wife spoke about devils, made out that their daughter only ever visited to sully them, to cover them in ‘the filth of the earth’. Something must have gone wrong when Laura last visited. Something out of the ordinary. The mother’s words were too precise. We’ll probably have to question her on her own because, according to Jeanteau, her husband stopped her from saying anything more.”

  “It’s been slammed since last night! We’ll have to knuckle down if we’re going to follow all these leads . . . Oh yeah, about Mercator . . . He’s suspicious of our dear friends in the eighteenth, Enkell and Benamer. Basically he’s convinced that Enkell is lying to him, that he knows something about the call from the telephone booth, but that he’s deliberately holding back some info. When I asked him if Benamer was still Frédéri
c Enkell’s right-hand man he replied: ‘Evil exists, Hamelot, and sometimes it gets itself together.’ Those were his exact words. He also spoke about the stench of death. By that point I thought I was going to suffocate. I had to get out of there—meet you somewhere lively instead of at HQ.”

  Rachel turns pale, repeats the name, “Benamer . . .”

  “What about Benamer? What is it?”

  She shakes her head slowly before deciding to go on.

  “Benamer . . . A brief encounter that’s left me feeling grubby ever since. He ran a seminar at Cannes-Écluse when I was a trainee officer. He had this magnetism about him that attracted me right away. I wanted him—a bit like when you want to get off with the guide at ski camp. Little did I know that what I’d mistaken for magnetism was really malice. That I discovered at the end of the internship. He had no qualms in presenting the most horrific things as though they were perfectly normal, always in this insidious manner. For him, it was purely a matter of technique: how am I going to get a confession? It barely mattered whether the suspect was guilty or not. Screwing was all about technique too. He was relentless. He made me orgasm the first time. After that, I felt like if I didn’t fake it, he would just keep on going, that . . . I don’t know—he scared me, I think. He thought I’d faked it and he gave me this look of real scorn. He was testing me, ultimately. And I was glad I didn’t pass. Deep down he reminded me of the devil . . .”

  She falls quiet, closes her eyes, and then snorts.

  “Alright, come on—action! How about we warm up by seeing Haqiqi? No, let me get it! My treat . . .”