by Karim Miské
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.
48
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.
Playlist
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.