The Mosque of Notre Dame

by Elena Chudinova

  Loder’s face turned gray in a split second. Trembling with his whole body, he stared at his prisoner.

  “I was a driver, Maurice,” explained Abdullah gladly. “A driver! And then suddenly they pushed me into the army, and they sent me here. I didn’t want to go. You know me—I never would have chosen something like this myself, Maurice!”

  “I know. You value your own skin too much.” Loder’s voice was lifeless. “But your skin will have to pay. They drove our mother to the cemetery when you joined the pigs.”

  “But what could I do? She refused, she refused! She refused to accept Islam! Maurice, you can’t kill me, you’re my brother!”

  “There are different kinds of brothers. Did it occur to you that Abel should have killed Cain?”

  “Don’t, Maurice. Maurice, don’t! We’re brothers!”

  “Brothers...” Maurice’s gray face was terrible, but he spoke slowly and calmly, as if he were thinking through a philosophical problem. “Perhaps Cain and Abel don’t have anything to do with this... I never had a brother named Abdullah. No, we’re not brothers.”

  “Don’t kill me!”

  “I won’t. If you were my brother, I would kill you. But since you’re not, I won’t. I’ll take you where you need to go. Just don’t be too happy about that. In the end, it’s unlikely that anyone will grant you a reprieve. But it’s better that things follow their due course. I don’t care. Let’s go!” Maurice pushed the prisoner with his Kalashnikov.

  * * *

  With the trophy rifle on his shoulder, Eugène-Olivier descended the winding stone steps into what seemed like an abyss. Grandfather Patrice must have passed here hundreds of times, he thought, a little enviously. And did Grandfather know how to ring the bells? In his place, he could not have resisted learning.

  * * *

  “They’re attacking, they’re going to attack us!” In the last few hours, imam Mosvar Ali had lost his voice. “They’re attacking, the Maquisards are attacking, the kafirs are attacking! And those children of the devil there, in the headquarters, in our own government, have done nothing yet!”

  “But our side is also attacking, most respected Mosvar Ali,” a young man from the religious guard dared to correct him. “Do you hear that there is a battle being fought over there?”

  “Attacking? They gave up as soon as night began to fall. Since then, there hasn’t been a single shot fired! And that’s exactly when the kafirs turned to attack us!” It was good that the imam of the Al Franconi Mosque was not disposed to listen to words of consolation.

  * * *

  “I’d like to know where that sniper disappeared to, the one with the infrared rifle,” exclaimed Paul Guermi cheerfully.

  Bullets were bouncing off the cobblestones, and the danger from ricochet was far greater than that of actually being shot. The enemy was shooting blind in the dark.

  “What’s the matter, are you complaining?

  “Not especially!” Paul didn’t even know whom he was answering but it didn’t matter.

  “I’m going toward the façade alone!” Roger Moulinier pulled a grenade from his pocket. “I’m going to open the door for you in a dignified manner, more dignified than an English butler!”

  Roger arrived at the end of the staircase. Now everything depended on just one thing—luck. The latches on the door were old, cast in bronze. The oak panels were so thick that he would have to open the door with an explosion.

  Roger Moulinier placed the grenade on the door and dived to the side.

  The explosion was felt inside. Mosvar Ali, convulsed on the couch in the guest room, watched with horror as a pile of books being used to block the window toppled over. It seemed that only moments ago, it had served as a shield for a policeman with a rifle. But now there were far fewer rifles and policemen in the mosque than windows.

  The books did not fall by themselves. Immediately afterwards a Maquisard appeared in the window. He paid no attention to the imam ; he turned to pull up the colleague behind him—the man whose shoulders he had been standing on. And look, Maquisards were already jumping onto the floor of the residence!

  Here and there shots could be heard.

  Hearing an explosion, Eugène-Olivier jumped back from the stairs. The door of the Portal of Final Judgment fell toward him.

  “Lévêque! How did you get here?” Roger Moulinier was standing in the door.

  “Look at this!” Eugène-Olivier showed him the trophy.

  “I was wondering where the sniper was!” As Roger pulled up his Kalashnikov, a group of five policemen fled into the side gallery.

  Notre Dame filled with Maquisards, but things went much more slowly than they should have. There were too many convenient places to hide that were difficult to search. The Muslims hid on the second, “women’s” floor, in the imam ’s apartment, in the altar section, in the crypt.

  It was easiest to deal with those who revealed their position by shooting—those were taken care of in seconds. But in order for the Mass to be successfully held, the whole space had to be combed. Individual screams and shots were heard for a long time, between pauses as long as half an hour.

  “It’s the first time I’m standing here freely,” Father Lothaire smiled at Sophia.

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself, your reverence. Don’t forget that we have no one who can replace you.”

  “The most dangerous thing is when a man knows he’s irreplaceable, while around him, others are risking their lives. Don’t worry about me, Sophie. I think the Lord wants this Mass. If that’s the case, He’ll protect me.”

  “You know, they say one should count on God, but keep the powder dry.”

  “Protestant hypocrisy—a mask for a lack of faith.”

  The conflict finally ended: The Maquisards led the last six hold-outs from the inner hallway. They were three men—the imam and two young men without beards—and three women in chadors, one of whom carried a child in her arms.

  “We didn’t want to kill these, Sophie. I know your opinion, but perhaps we should make an exception,” said a young Maquisard whom Father Lothaire did not know.

  “You wouldn’t dare kill me, kafirs !” Imam Mosvar Ali appeared to have suddenly collected his courage. “I am the imam of Al Franconi Mosque...”

  “You’re wrong in both respects,” said Sophia, pulling a pistol from her pocket and pressing the barrel to the imam ’s temple. She held it there a while, watching his confidence fade into horror.

  “Who are you talking to, son of a bitch? I’m Sophia Sevazmios. No need to fall to your knees. Although I see they’ve buckled on their own. All right, look, I’m putting away the pistol. You can try standing on your feet again assuming, of course, that you want to. So, son of a bitch, you’ve understood your first mistake. We certainly would dare to kill you. But you made another mistake. You’re not the imam of Al Franconi Mosque.”

  “Yes, I am the imam , the imam of Al Franconi Mosque, these are my witnesses! I’m the one! Who would dare to falsely present himself as a man—”

  “Shut up and listen.” Sophia raised the pistol. “You’re not the imam of Al Franconi Mosque because from this day forward, Al Franconi Mosque no longer exists. You’re just an unemployed imam of no consequence.”

  “What? But how?” The imam gaped as if he saw a skeleton dancing in front of him—although he was in fact looking at Father Lothaire in his black cassock.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Sophia. “From this day forward and forever, this is once more the Church of Notre Dame.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, woman!” insisted the imam. Strangely, Mosvar Ali had grown tired of being afraid at the very moment when he had most to fear. “You’re very wrong! You might stay here for a week or even a month! But all around you is France under sharia law! Do you really think they’ll let your hornet’s nest stay here? Really, women have no brains—and those who listen to women, even less!... And this building will again become the Al Franconi Mosque. There is no other way poss
ible!”

  “But of course there is.” Sophia pushed her pistol into her pocket. “Notre Dame will never be a mosque again. How we are going to ensure that, it’s too soon for you to know. And that’s why, unless your mind explodes trying to figure it out, it’s not your time to die. We’re letting you go.”

  “You’re releasing me?” The imam suddenly turned green, swaying on knees that had again grown weak.

  “Yes, you and your whole entourage. You’ll have an escort as far as the barricade and they will release you. You will bring them interesting news. That there will never be a mosque here again. That Holy Mass is being offered here. That the crescent has been defeated. Defeated by the Cross.”

  Sophia waved her hand. Three Maquisards took the prisoners toward the exit. The imam walked with a stagger. On one side he was supported by one of the women, on the other, by one of his sons.

  “Go, you’re free!” Eugène-Olivier urged the woman with the child, pointing the way for her to follow the others. She obviously didn’t understand lingua franca, or was too frightened to move. “No one will touch you. You can go with the others.”

  “Listen, kafirs ...” The woman spoke with a strange accent. “Can I stay? You won’t kill us? I have heard that you do not kill women and children. I hear this, not from one man, but from many. I do not know anything else about you, kafirs . I did not go to school, I do not know how to read. But I can work for you. I know how to do various tasks that are done by servants. I swear I am a good housewife.”

  “But why?” Eugène-Olivier managed to mumble in his confusion. “You’re the imam ’s youngest wife, aren’t you?”

  The woman’s entire body trembled.

  “Yes...”

  “You know what, daughter?” said Sophia in an unexpectedly gentle voice. “For a start, take off that rag.”

  The young woman jumped in fright and sighed out loud; then suddenly, as if she were afraid Sophia would reconsider, she tore off the chador. It turned out she was not only young, but very young, slender, with blue eyes, light-colored lashes, and almost colorless hair.

  “Now why did you have to hide such a beautiful face? What is your story? But tell it quickly, we don’t have time to waste.”

  “I’m certain that my life cannot be worse with the kafirs than with those of the true faith. They gave me to the imam because my parents wanted a family relationship with an influential man. But he ...You see, Madame, this is my son! You see that he has light-colored hair... My husband wanted... He wanted—”

  “He wanted to present him as a child from the ghetto?” Sophia suggested. “He wanted to sacrifice him in order to save himself?”

  The young woman barely nodded, clutching the child to her breast more firmly.

  “It’s an old game.” Sophia appeared not to notice the looks exchanged by her associates. “Yes, of course, no one will force you to go after him. Lévêque, take her to the metro. Put her in one of the groups for evacuation. Right away, please.”

  “Let’s go!” said Eugène-Olivier to the young woman. He knew that he must not catch her by the hand, lest he scare her to death. “Come on, don’t shake like that. So what? You gave your husband talak .”

  “A wife cannot give her husband talak ; only the husband can do that.”

  “But you’ve done it anyway!” Eugène-Olivier said, chuckling. “We have to hurry. Do you want me to carry the boy?... Oooo! He’s not so light!... Don’t cry. Maman didn’t go anywhere—she’s right next to us. After this, you can consider yourself baptized, petit bonhomme.”

  The Maquisards slowly left the church, returning to their positions. There were only six or seven young people and de Lescure left. Sophia had not noticed de Lescure when he entered.

  “There is no reason to turn this back into a bishop’s throne.” Father Lothaire’s voice could be heard. “There is no bishop here today, anyway! Simply take it out of here, as far as you can—so it’s not in the way during the procession. Richard, Denis, take those idiotic microphones and shove them... May God forgive me... De Lescure, do we have enough charcoal?”

  “Why insult me, your reverence? Did I ask you if you forgot the chalice at home? Thank God, the old altar is almost intact. It was used by some neo-Catholics as a flower stand. Here they simply made it a bookshelf! They probably did not know what it was, or they would have destroyed it.”

  Another voice asked, “Your reverence, what shall we do with this? Come and look!”

  Meanwhile, Sophia could not deny herself the pleasure of climbing up the circular stairs to see the panorama of Paris. The view really justified the effort, as they always said in the tourist guides of her youth. It took her breath away even now, when the city was still wrapped in darkness—although the night was beginning to fade. Summer nights in Paris are short. In the black skies, one could already discern the silhouettes of buildings and Paris streets, resembling the beds of dry rivers, soon to be filled with rivers of people.

  But there already seemed to be a lot of people in the streets for such an early hour. Sophia leaned on the balustrade and strained her eyes into the distance.

  Last night, the Muslims had dug in with a large army. But compared to this, it had been tiny! Let it be as it may! What else can they do to us?

  They were afraid, the sons of bitches. They were afraid to use artillery, but didn’t mind using cannon fodder. That’s how they want to defeat us, and to do so as soon as possible. She understood them now. They were nervous, jumpy, threatening...

  Something glittered at her feet. Good, someone had dropped his cell phone. She had wanted one several times in the past twenty-four hours, but she hadn’t had the opportunity. If she hadn’t found this one, she would have had to run down the stairs.

  “I’m glad that it’s you, Sophie!” Larochejaquelein answered immediately. “What is your situation?”

  “I’m not calling to tell you about our business, but about yours. Henri, it’s time for you to take out the machine guns, missile launchers, artillery; there’s no point in hiding our arsenal any longer.”

  “Sophie, they’ll answer with cannons.”

  “They won’t. They didn’t even think to bring them.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Where do you think I am now, Henri? On the roof of Notre Dame.”

  “From that, I conclude that everything there is fine.”

  “Yes, more than fine.” Sophia brushed aside a lock of hair that the breeze had blown into her face. “I think the church is already taken care of, to the extent that is possible. We need no more than three hours for everything. Henri, we are counting on the fact that they don’t know how little time we need. I don’t know if we’ll be able to talk again. In two and a half hours you’ll have to give the sign to withdraw.”

  “All right. In two and a half hours we’ll begin to move the defensive line.”

  “No, start to move it in two hours. Henri, it’s going to be a mess.”

  “We’ll hold the bridges. Don’t worry, Sophie.”

  “I know. And one more thing, Henri...”

  “Yes?” His voice over the telephone became tense.

  “Don’t remember me for the bad things.”

  Sophia hung up.

  * * *

  The worst thing was that in such a short time they couldn’t do anything with the Muslim foot-washing basins. It was good that they were upstairs, hidden from view, where the organ once stood.

  “For true Gregorian chant, an organ is not necessary,” Father Lothaire told de Lescure. “As I recall, organs were invented much later.”

  “Like the round notes you don’t know how to read?” De Lescure asked, unpacking boxes of candles.

  “Why would I need them, when everything is so clear with square notes?” answered Father Lothaire. “And why do you need five lines? No, don’t even try to explain it to me, I won’t understand. Did you have a chance to admire the city, Sophie? We’re going to begin soon.”

  “A moment!” Sophia r
aised her hand. There was something in her voice that made everyone stop—like the moment in Sleeping Beauty when the Princess pricks her finger on the spindle and time stops in the kingdom. The cook’s helper stops with his hand extended toward the hen, the cook with his ladle above the hearth, the servant beating the carpet. The hand of de Lescure with a candle just taken out of the box stopped in mid-air. Yves Montoux paused at the door with a pile of small prayer rugs he was taking out to throw away.

  “In a few minutes, the enemy will begin to attack the bridges,” continued Sophia. “The ensuing battle will make yesterday’s look like a fender bender. I know, I know very well, that many people would like to be at Mass today, at the Mass in Notre Dame, at the Mass that testifies to our victory. Another pair of hands may not mean much on the barricades. But... Father Lothaire, what is the minimum number of people you need to serve the Mass?”

  “I need the altar server. And it would be good if at least one member of the laity were present. That is the minimum minimorum .”

  “We also need someone who will blow everything up. I will manage that without assistants. Today I will receive Communion and that is why I will be at the service; I will thus represent two people. Furthermore, an extra pair of hands will not significantly influence the course of the fight. I have no right to demand anything, and I am not demanding anything. Everyone must decide for himself whether he has a right to attend Mass at a moment when others may be dying. Everyone must decide for himself, and everyone will decide alone. Please begin, your reverence.”

  Thomas Bourdelle’s eyes filled with tears.

  Yves Montoux gritted his teeth.

  “I’m going back to the barricades. Three here is enough.”

  “I’m going, too.”

  “Me, too, of course. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Roger,” said Sophia, “Take one man and hurry to the depot in the metro. We didn’t dare risk bringing the plastic explosives here in advance. But now we have to bring them quickly. The person on duty in the depot knows how much to give you. Try to come back in half an hour.”