by Karim Miské
21
Abdelhaq Haqiqi, self-styled imam of the semi-clandestine Srebrenica prayer room, is pissed off beyond belief. For the past two hours, since the end of Fajr prayers, he’s been there, watch in hand, listening to these good-for-nothings’ endless discussion of the extremist comic Dieudonné’s last TV appearance. They take turns to speak, saying the same thing a hundred times over, giddy on consensus. Haqiqi’s followers are developing an infuriating tendency to confuse the prayer room with the local coffee shop. And as head of this community of true believers, he finds himself playing the part of the café owner who’s unable to chuck out the embittered soccer fan, the one who spends the morning after a game running a postmortem on the match, or the boozed-up, Le Pen–supporting unemployed dude who thinks everything’s gone to shit because of the Arabs and the blacks (the Jews too, though he’d only say so in select company). No way he can throw out this handful of unholy, hopeless down-and-outs and losers: they’re his clientele, his butts in the seats. Nothing they like more than churning out great streams of verbal diarrhea, with the usual suspects always bobbing on the surface like hippo crap: the CIA and the Jews were in on 9/11; Dieudonné getting banned from the air by Zionist media puppets; the rector of the Grande Mosquée de Paris is in the pocket of the Freemasons; halal that’s not halal . . . Abdelhaq does his best to cling to a branch on the muddy bank. It’s strange for him, though, because not long ago he thought just like them, bathing in the same filthy water, taking comfort from its amniotic warmth. This was before he met Aïssa. Before he developed an interest in the material nature of the world for the first time in his life. The fact is he does still think like them, but he no longer gives a damn. His goals are now terrestrial rather than celestial. And that’s changed everything.
The morning regulars are there: Mahmoud, Brahim and—the worst offender by far—Robert.
“Did you see him saying . . .”
“Yeah, but what about the Jews, the media . . .”
“Okay, obviously, man, they run it all!”
“Yeah, tell me about it, it stinks! Every time it’s the same . . . He dresses up like a Jew, so he’s anti-Semitic. Just like that, yeah. Know what I’m saying?”
Abdelhaq tries his best to leave them to it and think about his own situation. Shit! Just when everything’s starting to go like clockwork, Aïssa wants them to hit the brakes. It’s because of that girl. He’s still not sure why she was such a threat, but Aïssa seemed to know what he was doing . . . Anyway, if everything has gone to shit then it hasn’t got much to do with him. All he did was make a small selection error by sending his three best players to the meeting at Sam’s. Only Moktar had stood firm. Time had been of the essence, Sam lost his cool and cobbled together a plan B which involved pairing up a psychotic Sahelian Salafist with a psychopathic killer from Alsace. From then on, the entire operation was a free-for-all. Right now everyone’s stuck in neutral, wasting time, and it’s not good. There was something divine about the way it was all panning out until this happened. But the time has come for compromise . . . Perhaps he’s being tested, as they say . . . On top of this, he has to keep his people sweet, and they’re not the easiest to chill out. Same for those other idiots who barely ever get off their asses. Benefit-scrounging Islamists who live with their parents and don’t give a shit about anything! Fucking hell, roll on the day when someone like Sarkozy takes over . . . No jobs, no cash! These three guys wouldn’t even be capable of carrying out a suicide attack—what are they good for, honestly?
“Oi, Abdelhaq! No jokes, man, the Jews, they’re mocking us, aren’t they?”
“You know, Robert, the Prophet, may God’s peace and blessing be upon him, said that they were all liars. Inshallah, when the dawla islamiya is reestablished, they will know their rightful place as dhimmi. But the majority, I am sure of it, will, like you, take the right path that leads to truth.”
“But I’ve never been a Jew!”
“No, Robert, of course not, and the Prophet himself, may God’s peace and blessing be upon him, certainly preferred the Christians of all the people of the Book. What I’m saying is that you have found the way, you have opened your heart to the light, and that they will too, without a doubt . . .”
Answers like this come naturally to him. It’s what he has always thought, for as long as he’s been aware of his thoughts. But he can no longer bear spewing out such babble. The moment he hears himself say it he can practically feel Aïssa’s look of contempt. “Don’t you think that you’re above all that, Abdelhaq? Why do you give a fuck about Jews, Christians, cretins? Would you join the jihad? Would you go and blow yourself up just to kill five Iraqi soldiers and some redneck from Kansas? Do you really believe there’s any sense in that? And don’t tell me that everyone has a part to play in this great struggle, that everyone has the chance to attain the longed-for status of martyrdom . . . I can see in your eyes that you don’t believe it anymore. The virgins, the rivers, the delicious fruit and the houses made of gold bars . . . You wanted them so much that you couldn’t wait until paradise to obtain them!”
“Hey, Abdelhaq, have you seen this? Sweets with gelatin made from halouf. It’s only come out because of that mad cow shit . . . They’ve been making us eat pork all along! That was their plan, yeah—to make us come here to eat pork. To turn us into pigs. Shit, man, I swear it, one day I’m getting the fuck out of here. Inshallah, I’ll go to Mecca or Medina. I swear it, brother!”
“Inshallah, Brahim, inshallah . . .”
How much longer am I going to have to put up with this bullshit, let alone answer it? How much longer? Fucking hell, Aïssa! What the hell are you doing to me?
Sure enough the telephone decides to ring right then. It’s Mohand.
“Hey, can I swing by?”
“Salaam alaikum ya khouya. Lucky you called—I’ve been so busy I nearly forgot about our meeting. I’ll meet you at Onur’s as planned.”
“At Onur’s, okay . . . I’ve got to go to there anyway. I’m in a rush.”
“Barak allahu fik, my brother, see you in a bit.”
A forced smile on his lips, Abdelhaq turns to the three worshippers. Sitting or half-flopped on their prayer mats, they’re wearing the requisite uniform: prayer cap, white kamiss down to below their knee, three-quarter-length Nike or Le Coq Sportif track pants, and sneakers sporting the same logos. How can they afford all that on jobseeker’s allowance? Fair enough, they don’t spend anything because they still live with their parents. Fuck, why was I born an Arab? I’d have been right at home with the Front National!
“Brothers, I have a meeting. A young believer who is making his first steps on the path but is not yet fully ready. I’ve got to shut the prayer room for two hours. I’ll be back in time to lead the next set of prayers . . . 1:57 p.m. today.”
Ten minutes later, Haqiqi is standing outside Onur’s. He smiles at the owner while he nods at a young man sitting in front of a glass of tea. Mohand—twenty-five years old, well-pressed jeans, Burlington moccasins, Lacoste polo shirt—joins him outside; they walk side by side up to parc de la Villette, the imam and the supposed brother who’s seen the light. They head up the park’s central walkway, dodging the crowds of people. When they reach the Grande Halle, Mohand goes on the offensive.
“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?”
<
br /> 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.