Arab Jazz

by Karim Miské

  Enkell takes a left down rue de la Chapelle, heading north. Raymond opens an eye and looks around him; lets out a yelp at the faintest of movements as he tries to sit up straight. He collapses in a heap. Benamer smiles at him.

  “With that dislocated shoulder of yours, I wouldn’t move too much if I were you. Tell me, just between the two of us, and since we’ve got some time on our hands, I wanted to ask you to clear something up for me: the three orchids laid out on the toilet seat . . . What was that about? I get the pork joint, but the orchids . . . I can’t figure them out . . .”

  Raymond gives him a look of pure hatred. Shuts his eyes. Silence.

  Francis can’t stop himself from laughing.

  “Something funny?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, on one condition.”

  “Go on then . . .”

  “There’s a Godzwill in the breast pocket of my coat—let me pop it? May as well, right . . .”

  Raymond opens his eyes and hisses, “Francis, no!” He lurches toward his brother but falls back heavily into the seat with a terrible groan. Benamer ignores him, reaches for the pill and places it on his colleague’s tongue as if he were performing the Eucharist. Francis swallows the Godzwill dry, inhales deeply, and pauses. Enkell turns right at porte de la Chapelle. On boulevard Ney, Benamer asks his question again.

  “So, the orchids?”

  Francis smiles, as if there’s some in-joke only he gets.

  “You didn’t notice the little tattoo on the inside of his wrist?”

  “No.”

  “Three dots. That mean anything to you?”

  “‘Death to the pigs!’ His father and brother are in the force, and the police cover him for all his crimes.”

  “Jealous. He’s always been jealous. He couldn’t handle it when he flunked the entrance exam. Too thick to even direct traffic. So one day he got himself that tattoo. My father unleashed one of his major beatings. It was his last, but it was one hell of a walloping! And then most recently, with that drug . . . I don’t know, he was inspired. There was something beautiful about it, wasn’t there? Something poetic.”

  Francis Meyer falls silent, the pill starting to take effect. He feels good. Happy that he is able to reflect upon his end. The corrupt, criminal officer resigned to his fate. He understands. His consciousness is reaching the cosmos. His role on Earth has been and will be to inflict harm, which is no small matter. He’ll have his place in the Great Scheme, the infinite Oneness. Enkell and Benamer are at a higher level. It is their lot to continue. To do evil for evil’s sake; to fulfill their destiny as they halt his. He realizes—albeit a little late—that crime is a serious business. It’s not a vacation. They’re professional evildoers, while he was just an amateur. Step aside. Give way. Case closed.

  FINAL JOURNEY

  Too thick to even direct traffic! Francis’s words are spinning around his younger brother’s head. On boulevard MacDonald he sits up gently, trying suppress the pain. The car slows down, turns left, and heads down an alleyway. Raymond is pure, cold fury. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t give a fuck about dying. He just wants to kill his older brother. To murder him. Show him the man he holds in such contempt.

  The Scenic comes to a stop in front of a warehouse. An orange lightbulb glows dimly above a metal door. They’ve got to usher the victims toward their fate, in the belief that one more minute of life is acceptable, because it’s better to kill inside than outside. Absurd, blind obedience. Works most of the time, but it’s never a given. Enkell gets out of the vehicle and opens Francis’s door, keeping him in his sights all the time. Benamer does the same on Raymond’s side, but he doesn’t move an inch. His brother is already approaching the orange halo at the entrance, followed by the commissaire central of the eighteenth arrondissement and his non-standard-issue Glock. Benamer loses his patience.

  “Raymond, stop fucking around and get out.”

  “I can’t. It hurts too much.”

  The situation is in danger of dragging on. They can’t afford to delay too long. Enkell’s voice is cold.

  “Do it there. It’s fine, we’ll clear it up.”

  “No—I don’t have a silencer. Plus I don’t want to have to lug his great big corpse inside afterward.”

  Benamer moves closer to the hulking Raymond, who appears to be suffering horribly. Even real professionals sometimes slip up. Everything happens very quickly. Meyer the Younger grabs the barrel of the Kabyle commissaire’s weapon and in the same movement cracks the man’s forehead against the top of the door before taking the gun out of his hand. By the time Enkell’s turned around, Raymond is standing opposite him, pistol to pistol.

  “Just let me kill my brother and I’ll vanish into thin air. I’m not interested in you and your piece of Arab shit.”

  The two men trace out an elegant curve as they move, never taking their eyes off each other, until Francis finds himself midway between the shooters, facing his brother. The older Meyer is now high as a kite. He addresses his brother in full living-god mode.

  “What you are looking for is not here. You’re killing me when I’m becoming divine. You’re killing me when I want death. Oh how much better to be in my shoes than yours! How long will it take for you to realize? How life is . . .”

  Bang, bang, bang. Three shots bring his sermon to a close. One in each knee, and one in the balls. Enkell turns to face Raymond, who’s backing slowly away into the darkness.

  “Pain will cut through any drug. You can finish him off, I couldn’t give two fucks—he’ll die knowing what his brother is made of.”

  For a moment, the commissaire central thinks he’s hallucinating himself: all that’s left of Raymond is a sardonic grin floating in the night.

  37

  At the Sarah-Bernhardt, Jean has been studying the bubbles in his bottle of Perrier for twelve minutes when Léna makes her entrance with a tall man of about sixty—almost thin, his shoulders slightly hunched. Once the introductions are over, drinks are ordered. Cappuccino for the psychiatrist; rum and coke for the social worker. Dr. Germain checks his watch.

  “So, you want information on Ahmed Taroudant. Information that I am not within my rights to give you . . . Léna explained the situation to me, and I trust her inherently. Nevertheless, I need to emphasize two points: firstly, this meeting never happened. We’ve never seen each other. Is that clear?”

  His sky-blue eyes drill into Jean’s.

  “Perfectly clear, Doctor.”

  “Secondly, I will tell you only the bare essentials. Just enough to let you see that he is innocent. If I thought for a second that he might be guilty, I definitely wouldn’t say a word to the police. I would, quite simply, keep my mouth shut. Psychiatrists—and particularly psychoanalysts—are not in the business of sending people to prison . . .”

  “Just out of curiosity, Doctor: is that true? If you thought he was guilty, you wouldn’t do anything at all?”

  “Just out of courtesy, Lieutenant: what I would do does not concern you in the slightest . . . Now, let us begin. I have known Ahmed Taroudant for five years. He came to me after entering a state of delirium. He was found walking along the périphérique without any idea where he was. He no longer knew who he was, and was uttering incomprehensible words. He stayed at Maison Blanche for twenty days. After that, I monitored him at my clinic. You should know that his mother had been a patient for schizophrenia at Maison Blanche since he was a teenager. One could say that he brought it upon himself. I consider his delirious spell normal given what he had experienced. Quite healthy, even—it was definitely either that or ending up schizophrenic himself.”

  “And his mother?”

  “The last time they saw each other, it went . . . It went very badly. I advised Ahmed not to visit her again. It was the only way for him to keep himself on the straight and narrow, psychologically speaking.”

  “Sorry to push you, Doctor, but what do you mea
n by ‘it went very badly’?”

  Germain’s eyes are like two poison darts.

  “Nothing more than it would appear to mean, Lieutenant.”

  Hamelot takes the barbed comment without flinching. He waits.

  “To avoid any misunderstanding, it was she who behaved aggressively toward her son. Happy with that?”

  “We’ll make do, Doctor, we’ll make do . . . While we’re on the subject, how was his behavior toward the other patients? Was he at all aggressive?”

  “Ahmed is not the sort of person who provokes others, nor is he one to be pushed around. His stay went more or less smoothly. Only a few passing difficulties with a local acquaintance, I believe. Without it getting out of hand, however.”

  “A local acquaintance? Who was that? Moktar?”

  Dr. Germain’s jaw twitches slightly.

  “Listen, Lieutenant Hamelot. I’ve already said too much, and I’m not about to share with you the extent of my knowledge of any one of my patients. I really need to leave now. I have a session beginning in fifteen minutes.”

  “Doctor, it’s extremely important. It relates to an atrocious murder that was very carefully crafted. Crimes like this one are often followed by others. Please answer one final question: the ‘local acquaintance’ he had trouble with was Moktar, wasn’t it?”

  Somewhat disarmed, the psychoanalyst looks across to Léna, who nods reassuringly: it will go no further than here.

  “Yes, it was him. I really have to go now. Bearing in mind the circumstances, I grant Léna permission to talk to you about this particular case. She would have anyway. Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

  “Goodbye, Doctor. And thank you.”

  Fifteen minutes later and Jean has moved on to the Guinness. Léna’s sticking to the rum and coke.

  “Moktar was in, like, full-on mystical delirium. Think bad trip . . . A real handful! We were all a target for him. He never stopped talking about Anna . . .”

  “The girlfriend he’d been banned from seeing?”

  “You know the story already, I remember it clearly when you told me. That night we’d had a few too many of those Cameroonian beers at Mireille la Fine’s on rue Marcadet?”

  Jean can’t help but blush at the memory of that night, which he’d completely wiped from his memory. The morning after, dragging himself out of Léna’s bed with some difficulty, he hadn’t the first idea what had gone on between them. He had a thumping headache, and turned up in the kitchen looking rough and hunting for aspirin, only to find the social worker from Brittany, all freshness and smiles, making breakfast. Why was she feeling the need to bring up that humiliating episode, let alone add salt to the wound?

  “You remember, the evening before that morning when you didn’t have the guts to ask me what had happened between us.”

  Jean goes bright red and desperately tries to backpedal.

  “Ummmm . . . Oh yeah, that night.”

  Léna is sparkling now.

  “You still don’t want to know?”

  Jean gathers himself with a smile.

  “Léna, we’re still in the professional part of the evening. If I’ve got any questions about that night, I reserve the right to ask them later, when I’ve finished work for the day. In any case, what I do remember is that you have never wanted to tell me anything at all about Moktar’s time at Maison Blanche.”

  “The professional part of the evening?”

  Léna leaves the question mark hanging in the air. And Jean realizes that tonight it won’t be necessary for them to drink themselves to oblivion. He thinks back to Rachel teasing him about Léna. How had she known that there was still a connection between the former lovers from Saint-Pol-de-Léon?

  “So, Moktar . . .”

  “Patient confidentiality. If I start ratting to the police about my patients’ behavior . . .”

  “To the police?”

  “Well done, you’re catching on. Look, I like you a lot, Jean, but in our line of work it’s vital we stick to the rules. Starting with keeping professional stuff hermetically sealed from our private life.”

  “What are you playing at, Léna? Your colleague just exempted you from your patient confidentiality. And, more importantly, we’re closing in on a gang of killers which is potentially made up of religious fundamentalists and crooked policemen. So anything you can tell me about Moktar is incredibly valuable. For everyone. You and me, in our different jobs, we’re both doing our part for society, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve never thought about it from that angle . . . I wouldn’t be prepared to give in on this point for anyone in the police other than you. Let’s just say that you’ve won this time. Our friend Moktar saw the world as being split into two irreconcilable factions: Muslims and everyone else. And when he said Muslims, he meant the real ones, the purists. This was really tough for the female staff at the hospital. We couldn’t be close to him, even by accident, let alone stand next to him. Great when you’ve got to provide care and dole out drugs! In consultations he would give free rein to his aggressive ranting. At that point, Anna really inspired murderous thoughts in him. He’d endlessly repeat the word ‘Shaytan, Shaytan’. Sometimes, when one of us was passing nearby, he’d start reciting verses from the Koran in that tone of his. It freaked us out. After a bit he calmed down, finally noticed that he’d never get out if he kept on spouting off like that. You know how it is: we can’t keep everyone locked up forever. Plus he’d never hurt or killed anybody, even though he did smash up his house. So he left, and after that we didn’t hear a peep.”

  “What’s his diagnosis?”

  Léna has a sip of her drink, takes a deep breath, and looks Jean straight in the eye.

  “This goes no further, okay?”

  “Léna, a woman is dead, and there may be more to come. I’ll keep it to myself and to Rachel. And my chief. There’s no way I can avoid telling them this sort of information. But it won’t be written down anywhere.”

  “Rachel . . . Fine, I’ll try not to let my jealousy get the better of me. Degenerative paranoid psychosis. There’s no cure and it’ll only get worse. Whether or not he’d act on it is another issue, for sure. I’m no psychiatrist, but if you describe the murder to me a bit then maybe I can tell you if it stacks up.”

  “Okay”

  Jean describes the scene of Laura’s murder. The meat, the orchids, the balcony.

  “Hmmm . . . Strange. Sounds more like the work of a perv. My gut reaction is that if—if—he killed her, he wasn’t responsible for the grisly sideshow. Seems over the top. How’d you say . . . ? It’s as if someone knew his profile and attempted to make him a scapegoat.”

  “At the moment, it seems more likely they’re trying to make Ahmed the scapegoat . . .”

  “Ahmed! Him? No way! Absolutely not. As Dr. Germain said, he’s categorically not the type. Neither a pervert nor an aggressive paranoiac. Just a bit spaced out, in his own world, but not a threat to others. Right, that’s enough work—I’m starving: let’s go and eat! Also, if I have another drink I’ll be over the limit and you’ll have to lead me away in handcuffs . . .”

  Clicking into flirtatious mode, Léna looks him directly in the eye. He manages to hold her gaze without blushing.

  “Over the limit? You’re already there after those two rum and cokes. I could always swing by the police station and grab the cuffs if you’re happy to wait?”

  Later, they will have this conversation:

  Jean: Why that night?

  Léna: Because you were ready.

  Jean: How did you know?

  Léna: Because I’m an observant woman.

  But that happens later. Hours, months, even years later. An eternity later.

  38

  Bintou, Aïcha, Alpha, and Mourad. Onur’s place. Only Moktar, Ruben, and Rébecca are missing to bring back the good old days. 10:45 p.m. A table at the back, far from the tourists. The atmosphere is charged with both love and pain. Brothers and sisters estranged for years without ever asking
themselves why. Silence to start with, then tea appears before each of them, set down by the owner who knows them all well. The boys drop in two little sugar cubes, stirring them in. The girls watch them, happy beyond belief. How they’d looked up to their big brothers! Loved them so much. Until they argued and went their separate ways. Moktar, Alpha, and Mourad one way, Ruben the other. The Muslims and the Jew. All the girls know is that it all happened when Moktar went crazy. Their brothers had never offered the tiniest explanation. From that moment on, they simply ignored Rébecca, their ex–best friend’s little sister. As if the Aboulafia family in its entirety had ceased to exist from one day to the next. This had really upset them. Then when Ruben displayed the same attitude toward them, they had decided to laugh it off together . . .

  The boys know that they are expected to talk. Mourad takes up the challenge, even though he’s always found words hard when the beats aren’t rolling.

  “We fucked up, right . . . But you got to see things from our side, too. In this world, Muslims . . .”

  The two girls stare at him in disbelief. Alpha places a hand on his friend’s arm to bring him back to the reality of the situation.

  “No, no, not that . . . I mean . . . We didn’t do anything . . . That’s the thing—we didn’t do anything . . .”

  Mourad’s voice falters. As if it’s finally dawned on him, right there, his glass of tea nearly drained in front of him. Alpha speaks instead.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it: we didn’t do anything and that’s what’s eating us up . . .”

  He looks up at the ceiling. Breathes in. Blows out hard.

  “Every day I wake up and I think of Laura. She’s there when I go to sleep. Through the day she comes back again and again. Her wheelie case, her uniform . . . Every day. And them too: Sam, Moktar, that pussy Haqiqi who didn’t even show up . . . And there was this other bizarre guy in the background, this real bruiser, who watched us without saying anything. Every time I think of him I get the creeps . . .”