Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

* * *

  * * *

  Matilde didn’t see Eliah until Friday, when the convention had finished against a background of tension and zealous security, but with a positive tone and predisposition for change. In Al-Saud’s opinion, the document drawn up by the participating organizations and political parties, which they were planning to present to the United Nations Council, the Knesset and the Palestinian Legislative Council, would come to nothing. Shiloah, on the other hand, seemed elated. The convention had occupied the front pages of the most important newspapers and the news headlines, and his name and political party, Tsabar, had become ubiquitous in these reports. He was completely unconcerned when a rumor started that the attack had been staged by his party to attract the press but had simply laughed and quoted Oscar Wilde: “There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

  Absorbed in the activities and responsibilities of the event, they didn’t discuss the argument with Gérard, from whom they had heard nothing, even though Al-Saud called him every day and left messages on the answering machine. He wouldn’t accept that a friendship of so many years could end in such a stupid, infantile way. Perhaps the illness had started to ravage Gérard’s nervous system. Otherwise, he couldn’t explain his friend’s hatred or distorted view of reality.

  Eliah’s great plan for Matilde to meet her favorite writer, Sabir Al-Muzara, vanished after the attack. As soon as Sabir had finished his opening speech on Wednesday, Dingo and Axel escorted him in a helicopter to Le Bourget, where he boarded Al-Saud’s Gulfstream V destined for Atarot Airport, on the outskirts of Jerusalem. The Silent One left Paris with just the tiny, battered suitcase he had arrived with and a dozen bags of gifts that Al-Saud’s secretaries had been busy buying for his two-year-old daughter, Amina. He left without giving interviews to the press and, after working hard with Shiloah on Tuesday afternoon, asked Eliah to take him to visit his sister Samara’s grave in the Muslim cemetery in Bobigny, five miles to the northeast of Paris. Al-Saud never found visiting his wife’s grave easy; it brought back the old demons that tormented him intermittently, sometimes loosening their grip but on other occasions digging surprisingly deep.

  He needed Matilde. He no longer questioned his obsession with her, nor that this dependence was at odds with his Horse of Fire nature and chaotic, nomadic life. He went to pick her up on Friday at the institute, nervous as a teenager. When he saw her appear on the sidewalk, he felt an overwhelming happiness that entirely dispelled the exhaustion of a hellish week. He walked toward her to take her tiny, perfumed and smiling form in his arms. He suggested to Matilde and Juana that they have dinner with him and Shiloah at the Costes restaurant, on Rue Saint-Honoré, which was famous for its exclusive stores, jewelers and delicatessens; Thérèse had booked a table for four.

  “Since Mat knew we’d be seeing you today, she spent all morning cooking.”

  “I thought you might like to eat at home,” Matilde explained, “and relax a little, but we can go to that place if you like.”

  He had spent the week dining out with potential clients and strangers, as he often did. With Matilde, he yearned for the seclusion of home and a home-cooked meal, made by her.

  “I’ll ask Thérèse to cancel the reservation and tell Shiloah that we’re expecting him at Rue Toullier.”

  Soon after they arrived at the apartment, while they were taking off their coats and washing their hands, the buzzer rang. As Juana didn’t understand a word, she passed the receiver to Al-Saud.

  “They’re bringing something up to you,” he said to Matilde severely, and she looked at him in surprise. “I’ll go down.”

  He returned with a package; it was clear from the way that it was wrapped that it was a painting. Matilde let out a little yelp when she saw what it was.

  “My painting!” she exclaimed.

  Juana grabbed a small envelope stuck to the gold-leaf frame and opened it. Matilde was admiring the oil painting with a smile. Her eyes looked as though they had turned to liquid silver.

  “It’s from Roy,” Juana said, and passed her the card.

  Matilde read it wordlessly, her face unchanging, and put it on the table. Al-Saud took advantage of the fact that she had her back turned, absorbed in the oil painting, and picked it up: “Just as I got your painting back, I’ll get you back. You’re mine, Matilde. I love you. Your husband.”

  His face clouded over and the lines around his mouth hardened. How dare that son of a bitch talk to his woman like that? Had Blahetter been there at that moment, Eliah would have reduced him to a blubbering wreck. He made a mental note of the name and address on the back of the card: Ezequiel Blahetter. Mannequin. 29 Avenue Charles Floquet, troisième étage. There was also a cell phone number.

  Matilde, still staring at the painting—a girl in profile looking at a snail in her hand—felt Al-Saud’s presence behind her.

  “This was me when I was five.” She saw his dark, hairy hand reach over her to caress the outline of the tiny nose. “My aunt Enriqueta painted it for me. I adore this painting.”

  “And that jerk Roy,” Juana intervened, “sold it when Mat left the house. Now he’s acting like he’s all chivalrous because he got it back for her. Mat, isn’t it possible that he lied to you? That he never sold it and is now playing the big hero? Where would he have gotten the cash to get this painting back? Your aunt’s works are worth a lot.”

  “Juana, please,” Matilde begged, “I don’t want to talk about him. I got my painting back. That’s all that matters.”

  Shiloah Moses’s arrival changed the mood immediately. They left the story of the painting to the side and set the table. Eliah and Shiloah tucked into the lasagna with Bolognese and cream sauce until they were licking their dishes clean.

  “I’ve never tasted such an exquisite lasagna!” Shiloah declared.

  “Wait until you try the dessert,” Juana said. “Tiramisu!”

  Al-Saud saw how Matilde blushed. He reached across the table and traced the outline of her oval face with his fingertips.

  “The food was exquisite, my love. Thank you.”

  Matilde’s blush deepened; he had only called her “my love” on a very few occasions and always when they were alone. She smiled, avoiding Al-Saud’s look, and stood up to clear away the dishes. Once they had finished dessert and had coffee, Shiloah expressed his desire to go out dancing. Juana wanted to go with him. Eliah and Matilde exchanged a look.

  “We’ll stay here,” Al-Saud stated.

  Once they were alone, while Matilde washed the dishes, Eliah answered a call from Shariar and returned another from Alamán. When he went into the kitchen, he found her taking a pill.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” she answered. “Vitamins.”

  “I’m glad you take vitamins. Given how little you eat, you’re in danger of getting malnourished.”

  “I’m just fine,” she promised him, and Al-Saud detected a certain annoyance in her tone. He took her by the waist, sat her on the counter and spread her knees so he could get between her legs.

  Matilde swept her hands over his forehead and through his hair. Al-Saud threw his head back, closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Are you tired?” she asked him, her lips on his neck.

  He was, not to mention beset with worries. A few security contracts had fallen through after the attack, the Dutch insurance companies were pressuring him to hand in the results of the investigation into the Bijlmer disaster, Céline had called him every five minutes and finally there was the telephone conversation with Joseph Kabila, which made him especially uneasy.

  “Yes, very tired. It was an intense week.”

  Matilde felt a tickle between her legs at seeing his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down under the tight skin of his neck. She touched it. Al-Saud opened his eyes, finding her waiting expectantly, her eyes wide, like a little girl caught being naughty. Matilde hurried to ask him, “Is there any news about the attack? What did the pol
ice say?”

  He wouldn’t tell her that Edmé de Florian had called him that morning to confirm his suspicion: the murder of Rani Dar Salem had been carried out with a Beretta 92 loaded with hollow-pointed dumdum bullets that caused an enormous wound in the victim’s head, like an explosion. Little was known about Dar Salem: he was Egyptian, had a French work visa and lived in a dark little room in a pension in the Dix-Neuvième Arrondissement. The neighbors described him as a quiet, timid and very religious young man; they often saw him following the Azala, the five daily prayers. Going through his belongings didn’t offer any clues, nor did studying the list of guests at the George V.

  “The police haven’t found anything relevant. The bellboy’s murder is the work of a professional—no prints or clues were left.”

  Al-Saud also wouldn’t mention that he had spent a fruitless, sleepless night at the base on Avenue Elisée Reclus studying the security-camera videos of the attack. Above all, he was looking for a face, one from his past that remained burned on his retina.

  “Right now I want to forget about the attack and everything else,” he said, and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the living room. He sat her on the edge of the armchair.

  “Lie down there”—she pointed—“and put your head on my legs.”

  He really did seem tired. The natural shadows around his eyes had become intense, almost the color of red wine. He was too tall for the sofa, so he hung his feet over the armrest. Al-Saud let out a little moan as Matilde massaged his hairy skin. Her voice soothed him as she told him anecdotes about her week. She told him that she had gone back to the Healing Hands headquarters to pick up the Expatriates Guide, a key document that they needed to study before leaving for the Congo.

  The word made Al-Saud uneasy, and brought to mind the telephone conversation he had had that afternoon with his friend General Joseph Kabila, head of the military staff of the Democratic Republic of the Congo’s army and eldest son of the president, Laurent-Désiré Kabila. The friendship between Al-Saud and Kabila had started two years before, when Joseph had spent six months at the barracks on Fergusson Island while Mercure turned him into a model soldier. It didn’t take long for Eliah to realize that Joseph was a born leader, not the kind that was prevalent in Africa—egocentric lovers of luxury and corruption—but rather thoughtful, circumspect and sensitive. “The history of Congo would be very different,” Tony Hill had opined, “if Joseph was in his father’s place.” That was why, when Joseph predicted that the Congo would be at war within a few months, Al-Saud didn’t take it lightly. His first thought was for Matilde.

  He sat up, moved to her side and drew her in to kiss her. Eliah liked to pull away quickly, while she was still in a trance, her lips slightly parted, shining with his saliva, and her eyes closed, so he could make out the web of veins under her transparent skin. Matilde opened her eyes slowly, smiled at him, ran her fingers along his mouth and nestled her index finger in the dimple in his chin.

  “Eliah, when we met on the plane, why didn’t you tell me that you were friends with Sabir Al-Muzara?”

  “And use my friend’s talents and fame to seduce a woman I was interested in? I don’t think so. I’m proud, Matilde. If I’m going to win a woman, I’ll do it on my own merits, not someone else’s. However, now I would like to tell you about a friend.” He paused, settled on the armchair. “Matilde, do you know who Joseph Kabila is?” She shook her head. “He’s the son of the president of the Congo, and a friend of mine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And what’s more, he’s the head of the military staff of his country. He knows the political situation in the Congo better than anyone. This afternoon he called me and told me that the situation with their neighbors, Rwanda and Uganda, is getting more tense every minute and that war is imminent.” Matilde opened her eyes wide and her mouth fell open. “The critical area is in the provinces of North and South Kivu, where you told me you were going with Healing Hands.” Matilde nodded, still disoriented. “Matilde, my love, you can’t go to the Congo. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Matilde untangled herself from his embrace and stood up.

  “Of course I’m going.”

  After looking at her in astonishment, Al-Saud jumped up from the armchair.

  “I’m telling you that there will be a war, a big war in the Congo. Do you have any concept of what that means?”

  “If my cousin Amélie is there, why not me?”

  “Amélie is a missionary who dedicates her life to the poor and needy.”

  “Who do you think I want to dedicate it to?”

  To me? Al-Saud didn’t dare to utter the question; it had taken him by surprise. He grabbed his head and breathed deeply. He felt the turbulence starting to rumble inside him. He knew and Takumi sensei had always pointed out that patience wasn’t one of his virtues, regardless of how Shorinji Kempo philosophy had taught him how to sharply rein in his impulses.

  “You can treat children in any other part of the world where there isn’t a war going on. I must ask: Do you have any idea what a war is?”

  “Only what I can see on television,” Matilde admitted.

  “Well, that’s nothing, nothing compared to the reality.”

  “And how do you know what war is like?”

  He wouldn’t answer that question. Not yet.

  “Matilde,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, “I don’t want you to go to the Congo.”

  “I’m sorry, Eliah.” Matilde shook off the weight of his hands. “I’m going to the Congo. I once told you that this is the reason I studied medicine, and I’ve got to complete my mission.”

  “You’re so stubborn! Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? The word war doesn’t frighten you?”

  “Yes, it frightens me, but those people need me even more if there’s a war.”

  Don’t you think that I need you?

  “I can’t let you send yourself into that hell! You won’t go to the Congo!”

  “What right do you have to tell me what I can or can’t do?” It was the first time she had raised her voice to him. “My whole life I’ve done whatever other people thought or wanted, and I was never happy. Not anymore! I’m going to live my life in whatever way I want and I’m not going to answer to anyone. If I want to go to the Congo, I’ll go. And another thing, Healing Hands takes care of their people. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.”

  “Healing Hands takes care of their people!” He forced a laugh. “But in a war like the one that’s about to happen in the Congo, they’ll be just as vulnerable as the Congolese themselves. As for the people who want to control your life, don’t compare me to them. I just want you to live freely and happily, but I want you to live, not to die in the attempt. If you go to the Congo the way things are at the moment, the chances are that you’ll be staring death in the face. Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

  “Of course! I fear it like nothing else in the world! It’s my worst enemy!”

  Al-Saud took a step back, astonished by Matilde’s reaction. She had transformed from a sweet, soft teenager into an aggressive woman; still, he sensed the panic that was beginning to take hold of her. Matilde sat on the sofa and rested her forehead on the armrest. Her little back rose and fell as the air flooded into her lungs. Still crumpled there, she stated, “I didn’t come to Paris to get involved with a man who wants to control my life. I want you to leave and to let me do what I came here to do. Please,” she added in a strangled voice.

  She couldn’t work up the bravery to lift her head and watch him go. She stayed in that position until the click of the door closing let her know that she was alone.

  Eliah Al-Saud stormed down the stairs, driven by rage, impotence and his shattered pride. The frozen air hit him like a punch to the chest, and the cyclone raging in his head faded away. It was replaced by anxiety and a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He was surprised by the ringing of his cell phone. He looked at the screen. Céline, of course. He decided
to answer.

  “Allô?”

  “C’est moi, mon amour. Céline.” She didn’t speak in Spanish if she could possibly help it.

  “Are you in Paris?”

  “I arrived this morning and on Monday I’m traveling to Abu Dhabi. But first I want to see you, Eliah. It’s been so long since we were together.”

  “I want to see you too. We need to talk.”

  “Tomorrow I have a party. Would you like to take me?”

  “Just for a moment. Then we’ll go to a quiet place. I need to talk to you.”

  “D’accord,” she said, elated. “Come and get me at eight.”

  Before he opened his eyes, Claude Masséna tasted the metallic tang of blood. He explored his mouth with his tongue and the aftertaste intensified, along with a pain in the back of his neck. He realized he was sitting and that his head was hanging backward. As he straightened his neck, slowly so as to avoid making himself any more queasy, images danced in his head. He tried to reconstruct the last few hours.

  That Friday, at around seven in the evening, the system alerted him that Udo Jürkens was returning the car to Rent-a-Car. He typed frantically to find out the address of the agency.

  “Bravo!” he exclaimed, startling his assistants. Jürkens wasn’t just returning it in Paris, but to the agency on Rue des Pyramides, a few minutes from Avenue Elisée Reclus, if the traffic wasn’t too bad.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he announced to his employees, and ran to the elevator that would take him to the surface.

  At number fifteen Rue des Pyramides, there was a sign with the Rent-a-Car logo pointing to an underground parking lot. He parked his car in the street and went down the ramp on foot. In the dim light, at the far end of the cavernous space, the small Rent-a-Car office stood out, occupied by an employee who was talking on the phone. Probably, he thought, Jürkens and the other employee were checking the mileage and state of the car. He used a small halogen flashlight on his keychain to look at the license plates. When he heard footsteps, he looked up. A figure was coming toward him.