Chourmo (17 page)

The old man's face looked familiar to me. An emaciated face. High cheekbones. Thick lips. Curly, graying hair. He looked the way my father would have looked if he were alive today. When my father was young—I'd seen photos of him—he'd looked like a Tunisian. “We come from the same womb,” he used to say. From the Mediterranean. So, inevitably, we're all a bit Arab, he'd say when people teased him about it.

“Did they take Naïma?”

He shook his head. “They were hitting me when she walked in. She'd just come back from school. She surprised them. She screamed and ran out. One of them ran after her. The other hit me hard, on the nose, and I passed out.”

On these narrow streets, a car stood no chance against a young girl running. She must have gotten away. For how long could she keep running? Where could she have gone? That was another story.

“So there were two of them?”

“Yes, right here. One of them held me down on the chair. The other one asked questions. The one with the signet ring. He'd stuffed my medal in my mouth. If I cried out, he said, he'd make me eat it. But I didn't cry out. I didn't say anything. I was ashamed, monsieur. For them. For this world. I think I've lived long enough.”

“Don't say that,” Mourad whined.

“God can take me now. There's not much that's pleasant to see on earth these days.”

“What did these men want to know?”

“If Naïma came back here every evening. Where she went to school. If I knew where she'd been on Friday night. If I'd ever heard of someone named Guitou . . . But I didn't know anything. Apart from the fact that she lives here with me. I don't even know where her school is.”

My worst fears were confirmed.

“Didn't she tell you anything?”

The old man shook his head. “When she came back on Saturday . . . ”

“What time was it?”

“Around seven in the morning. I'd just gotten up. I was surprised, because she'd told me she'd be back on Sunday evening. Her hair was in a mess. Her eyes were wild. She wouldn't look at me. She went up to her bedroom and locked herself in. She stayed there all day. In the evening, I knocked at the door, and asked her to come downstairs and eat something. But she wouldn't. ‘I'm not feeling well,' she said. But she came down later and went out to phone. I asked her what was happening. ‘Just leave me alone,' she said. ‘Please!' She came back fifteen minutes later, and went back upstairs, without saying a word.

“The next morning, she got up late. She came down and had something to eat. She was more civil. She apologized for the day before. She said she was sad because of a friend. A boy she really liked. But it was over. Everything was fine now. And she gave me a nice kiss on the forehead. Of course, I didn't believe a word of it. You could see it in her eyes that things weren't fine. That she wasn't telling the truth. But I didn't want to upset her any more than she already was. I could tell it was serious. An unhappy love affair, I thought. She'd broken up with her boyfriend, that kind of thing. You know how they are at that age. So all I said was, ‘You can talk to me if you like, OK?' She gave me a little smile, but I could see how sad she was. ‘You're sweet, Grandpa. But I'd rather not.' She was almost crying. She kissed me again and went back to her room.

“In the evening, she came down to make another phone call. This one was longer than the day before. So long, in fact, that I was worried when she didn't come back. I even went out on the street to keep a lookout for her. She ate just a little, then went to bed. Then yesterday morning, she left for school and—”

“She doesn't go to school anymore,” Mourad cut in.

We all looked at him.

“Doesn't go to school!” his mother almost cried out.

“She doesn't want to. She told me she feels too sad.”

“When did you see her?” I asked.

“Yesterday. Outside school. She was waiting for me. We were supposed to be going to a concert together in the evening. To see Akhénaton. The singer from IAM. He was doing a solo concert.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing, nothing . . . What I told you last night. That she and Guitou were over. That he'd gone. That she was sad.”

“And she didn't want to go to the concert anymore?”

“She had to see a friend of Guitou's. It was urgent. Because of Guitou and all that. It made me think maybe it wasn't all over between the two of them after all. That she still cared about the guy.”

“And she hadn't been to school?”

“That's right. She said she wouldn't be going for a few days. Because of all that. She said she really wasn't in the mood to listen to the teachers.”

“This other friend, do you know him?”

He shrugged. It had to be Mathias. Worst case scenario: She'd seen Adrien Fabre. And he'd told everything to Mathias. I could imagine the state they both must have been in. What had they done then? Who had they talked to? Cûc?

I turned to the old man. “Do you always open the door like that, when someone rings?”

“No. I look through the window first. Like everyone here.”

“So why did you let them in?”

“I don't know.”

I stood up. I'd have liked another beer. But Marinette had gone. The old man must have read my thoughts.

“I have some beer in the fridge. I drink one, from time to time. In the garden. It's good. Mourad, go get a beer for monsieur.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'll get it.”

I needed to stretch my legs. In the kitchen, I took a big swig directly from the bottle. It relaxed me a little. Then I took a glass, filled it, and came back into the room. I sat down next to the bed and looked at the three of them. Nobody had moved.

“Listen to me. Naïma is in danger. Mortal danger. The people who came here will stop at nothing. They've already killed two people. Guitou wasn't even seventeen. Do you understand? So, I ask you again, why did you let these men in?”

“Redouane—” the old man began.

“It's my fault,” Mourad's mother cut in.

She looked at me with those beautiful eyes. In them, instead of the gleam of pride mothers usually have when they talk about their children, I could see only an infinite sorrow.

“Your fault?”

“I told Redouane everything. Last night. After your visit. He knew you'd been there. He always knows everything that happens. I get the feeling we're always watched. He wanted to know who you were, why you'd come. If there was a connection with the other man who'd asked after him in the afternoon, and . . . ”

Suddenly, it was all falling into place.

“What other man, Madame Hamoudi?”

She'd said too much. I sensed her panic.

“What other man?”

“The one they killed. I think he was a friend of yours. He was looking for Redouane.”

I wondered whether to stop or go on.

The screen in my head was flashing
Game over
. What was it I'd said to Fonfon yesterday? “As long as you're betting, you're still alive.” So I bet again.

Just to see.

A
ll three of them were looking at me, in silence. My eyes went from one to the other.

Where could Naïma be? And Pavie?

Both of them had witnessed death first hand, for real, not on a screen, and both had disappeared, both were on the run.

The old man's eyes were closing. The sedatives would soon take effect. He was struggling against sleep. Yet he was the one who resumed talking first, anxious to say what he had to say so that he could sleep afterwards.

“I thought the man who talked to me through the window was a friend of Redouane's. He said he wanted to see Naïma. I told him she wasn't back yet. He said he wasn't in any hurry and asked if he could come in and wait for her. He didn't seem . . . He impressed me. He was well dressed, in a suit and tie. So I opened the door.”

“Does Redouane have friends like that?”

“He once visited me with two men who were well dressed like that. Older than him. I think one of them has a car dealership. The other one owns a store near Place d'Aix. They got down on their knees in front of me and kissed my hand. They wanted me to take part in a religious meeting. To talk to our young people. They said it was Redouane's idea. The young people would listen to me if I talked about religion. I'd fought for France. I was a war hero. So I could explain to them—the young people—that France wasn't their salvation. That it actually took away their self-respect. With the drugs and the alcohol and all those things . . . And even the music they all listen to these days . . . ”

“Rap,” Mourad said.

“Yes. Too noisy for me, that music. What about you, do you like it?”

“It's not my favorite kind of music. But it's like jeans, it suits them.”

“You're right, it must be their age . . . In my day . . . ”

“This guy listens to old Arab songs,” Mourad said, indicating me. “What's the name of that singer of yours?”

“Lili Boniche.”

“Oh!” The old man smiled. For a moment he was lost in thought, lost, I was sure, in a place where life was good. Then his eyes focused on me again. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. According to Redouane's friends, we had to save our children. It was time our young people came back to God. Time they learned our values again. Tradition. Respect. That was why they were asking me.”

“You mustn't blame Redouane for turning to God,” Mourad's mother cut in. “That's his path.” She looked at me. “He did a lot of stupid things before. So I'd rather he said his prayers than kept bad company.”

“That's not what I'm saying,” the old man replied. “You know that. Taking things to extremes is always bad. Too much alcohol, or too much religion, it's the same thing. It makes you sick. And it's always the ones who did the worst things before who want to impose their views, their way of life. I don't mean Redouane. Although lately . . . ”

He took a deep breath.

“In our country,” he went on, “in our country, he'd kill your daughter. That's what it's like now, down there. I read about it in the newspapers. As soon as a girl there is happy, as soon as she sings, they rape her. I'm not saying Redouane would do something like that, but the others . . . That's not what Islam's all about. And Naïma's a good girl. Just like this boy's a good boy,” he added, indicating Mourad. “I have nothing against God. What I'm saying is that it's not religion that should tell you how to live, but your heart.” He turned to look at me. “That's what I told those men. And I said it again to Redouane, when he came here this morning.”

“I didn't tell you the truth, when you came before,” Mourad's mother said. “Last night Redouane told me not to get involved with these things. He said it was up to the men how his sister should behave. It was up to him. My daughter, can you imagine?”

“He threatened her,” Mourad said.

“I was afraid for Naïma. Redouane left first thing this morning. He was out of his head. He wanted to bring her back home. This business with the young man was like the last straw. Redouane said he'd had enough. He was ashamed of his sister. She deserved to be punished. Oh, I don't know what's going on anymore . . . ”

She put her head in her hands. It was all too much for her. She was torn between her role as a mother and an upbringing that had taught her obedience to men.

“And what happened with Redouane?” I asked the old man.

“Nothing. Naïma didn't sleep here last night. I was very worried. It was the first time she'd done that. Left without telling me where she was going. On Friday, I knew she was spending the weekend with friends. She'd even left a phone number where I could reach her, in case anything was wrong. I've always trusted her.”

“Where has she gone? Do you have any idea?”

I had my own idea, but I needed to hear it from someone else.

“She called, this morning. Telling me not to worry. She'd stayed in Aix. With the family of an old school friend, I think. Someone she'd been on vacation with.”

“Does the name Mathias mean anything to you?”

“That might have been the name.”

“Mathias!” Mourad said. “He's a really nice guy. Vietnamese.”

“Vietnamese?” Mourad's mother said.

She was out of her depth. Her children's lives had slipped away from her. Redouane, Naïma. Mourad too, most likely.

“On his mother's side,” Mourad said.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“A little. He and my sister were going out together for a while. I used to go to the movies with them.”

“The same story,” the old man resumed. “She was having problems. That's why she wasn't feeling too good. I had to understand her.” He paused for a few moments to think. “I wasn't to know. That terrible thing. Why . . . why did they kill that boy?”

“I don't know. Naïma's the only person who can tell us what happened.”

“How sad life is.”

“What happened with Redouane this morning?”

“I told him his sister had already left. Of course he didn't believe me. He wouldn't have believed anything I told him. Only what he wanted to believe. Only what he wanted to hear. He wanted to go up to his sister's room. Make sure she really wasn't there. Or see if she'd really slept there. But I wouldn't let him. So he started shouting at me. I reminded him that Islam teaches us to respect our elders. That's the first rule. ‘I don't respect you anymore,' he said. ‘You're just an infidel! Worse than the French!' I took my stick and I showed him. ‘I can still punish you!' I cried. And I threw him out.”

“And yet you let that other man in.”

“I thought if I talked to him, he could make Redouane see reason.”