Chourmo (24 page)

There was another explosion. A burning pine crashed down on Arno's shack. It's over now, I told myself. Soon there'll be nothing left. It'll all be razed to the ground. In a year or two, there'll be Provençal housing developments on the site of what was once Saadna's scrap yard. To everyone's great joy. Young middle managers, happy with their lot, will settle there, eager to give their wives children. And they'll live happy lives, long after the year 2000. On the cold ashes of Arno and Pavie's tragedy.

I took off as the first fire sirens were sounding.

L
oubet bawled me out, of course. He was furious. He'd spent hours waiting for me. To make matters worse, Cûc had told him he couldn't see Mathias because she didn't know where he was anymore.

“Is she putting me on, or what?”

As I wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement, I didn't say anything.

“Since you're so intimate with the lady,” he continued, “advise her to find her son. As soon as possible.”

From where I was, I could see a thick column of black smoke rising into the sky from Saadna's scrap yard. Fire engines were appearing from all sides. I'd driven just far enough not to get caught in the middle. At the place known as Four de Buze, I'd stopped at a phone booth.

“Give me one more hour,” I said.

“What!”

“Just one more hour.”

He bawled me out again. He was right, but it was getting tiresome. I waited. Without listening. Without saying a word.

“Are you still there, Montale?”

“Can you do me a favor? Call me in fifteen minutes. At Pertin's station house.”

“Wait. Aren't you going to explain?”

“No point. Call me. And don't worry, I'll be along to see you. Alive, I mean.”

And I hung up.

Sometimes, the less you explain, the better. Right now, I felt like a wooden horse in a carousel. I was going around in circles. Not overtaking anyone. Always coming back to the same point. To the world's corruption.

I called Gélou.

“Room 406, please.”

“Hold on.” A pause. “I'm sorry, Monsieur and Madame Narni have gone out. Their key's here.”

“Is there any message for me? Montale. Fabio Montale.”

“No, monsieur. Would you like to leave one?”

“Just say I'll call back in two hours, two and a half hours.”

Narni. Good, I told myself. I hadn't wasted the whole morning. I knew Alexandre's name. A lot of good it did me!

 

The first thing I saw when I entered the station house was a National Front poster for the police union elections. As if Solidarité Police wasn't enough.

“What we are witnessing in the field of law enforcement,” said a leaflet pinned to the poster, “is a situation in which the majority of senior officers are afraid to give orders and force us to avoid confrontation as much as possible.

“This situation has led to a woefully inadequate police force and a massive increase in the number of wounded officers, whereas the criminals are free to select their targets at will.

“We must counter the nihilistic tendencies prevalent in our force. It should be the other side that feels afraid, not us. Especially as our adversaries at demonstrations are not honest members of society but scum whose main purpose is to attack the police. Give us the means to be the butchers rather than the meat.”

Clearly, if you really wanted to know what was going on, a visit to the station house was essential. It was better than the eight o'clock news on TV!

“It's just come out,” Babar said, behind my back.

“Roll on retirement, eh?”

“You said it. To me, that kind of thing stinks.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes. But it's like he had piles. He can't keep still on his chair.”

I went in without knocking.

“Don't mind me,” Pertin grunted.

I didn't. I sat down and lit a cigarette. He walked around his desk, placed his two hands flat on it, and thrust his red face in my direction.

“To what do I owe this honor?”

“I did something stupid, Pertin. The other day. You know, when they killed Serge. I've thought it over, and I'd like to sign my statement.”

He straightened up, surprised. “Don't jerk me around, Montale. Nobody's interested in some faggot thing. We've got enough on our hands with the Arabs and the niggers. You don't know what it's like! These kids, maybe they give the judges blow jobs. You collar one of them in the morning, by the evening he's already walked . . . So get out of here!”

“But that's just it. You see, I've been thinking maybe this wasn't some faggot thing that ended badly. Maybe Serge's death was an Arab thing after all. What do you think?”

“What did Serge have to do with the Arabs?” he asked, innocently.

“You should know, Pertin. Nothing escapes you. You told me you were really well informed, didn't you?”

“Spit it out, Montale.”

“OK. Let me explain.”

He sat down, folded his arms, and waited. I'd have liked to know what he was thinking about behind his Ray-Bans. But I was ready to bet at least a hundred francs he was dying to punch me in the face.

I told him a story I only half believed. But it was plausible. Serge had been “enlisted” by the security branch. Because he was a pedophile. At least that was what they'd managed to pin on him.

“Interesting.”

“It gets better, Pertin. You found out the security branch had sent an informer into the projects. To defuse potential networks like Kelkal's. That was no laughing matter, with bombs going off in Paris and Lyons. But you didn't find out the informer was Serge until a few months ago. When Serge slipped out of sight, and the security branch lost track of him. Nobody knew where he was staying. I can imagine the panic.”

I paused. To clear my mind a little. My thoughts were coming together. Whether Serge was gay or not, the kids in the projects were his life. He couldn't have changed like that, overnight. Become an informer. Fingered the kids. All the potential Kelkals. Passed the list to the cops. Who, when the time was right—and in the full glare of media attention, naturally—would simply have to pick everyone up in dawn raids.

There had already been some good hauls. In Paris, and in the suburbs of Lyons. There'd been a few arrests in Marseilles too. Around the harbor. And on Cours Belzunce. But nothing really serious yet. The networks in North Marseilles that supported the terrorists hadn't been touched. They were being saved till last, I supposed.

I was sure Serge would never have done such a thing. Even to avoid the shame of a trial or prison. Every name he gave to the police would become a target. And he knew perfectly well it always ended the same way. The big shots, the leaders, the people who gave the orders, always got away scot-free, while the small fry got life. Or a bullet in the head.

You could cut the silence with a knife. A thick silence. Like something decayed. Pertin hadn't flinched. He must be thinking hard. I'd heard the telephone ringing several times, but no call had come through to his office. Loubet had forgotten about me. Or else he really was angry with me. Having gotten this far, all I could do was continue.

“Shall I go on?” I asked.

“Sure, I'm fascinated.”

So I resumed my story. I sensed that what I was saying was increasingly likely, and I clung to that.

Serge had gotten it into his head to do something nobody had yet attempted. To go to the young men he'd identified and talk to them. To meet with their parents, their brothers and sisters. And at the same time, to pass the message on to the other kids. So that they would get involved. So that everyone in the projects should get involved. Like Anselme. The
chourmo
principle.

That was the way Serge had worked for years, the only way he knew. It was a good method. An effective method. It had produced results. The young guys who were working for the fundamentalists were of course the very same delinquents he'd been dealing with for years. But hardened by prison, more aggressive. And given a liberating fix of the Koran. Fanatics. Like their unemployed brothers on the outskirts of Algiers.

Everyone in the projects knew Serge. They listened to him, trusted him. Anselme had said it. “He was an OK guy.” He had the best arguments, because he'd patiently analyzed the way young Arabs were recruited. The war against the dealers, for example. They'd been chased out of Le Plan d'Aou and La Savine. Everyone had approved. City hall, the newspapers. “Such good young people . . . ” It was like they were talking about “noble savages.” But the heroin trade hadn't stopped, it had simply upped sticks and moved to the center of town. It had been restructured. And in the projects, nothing had changed. They still dealt in grass. A little prayer, a little smoke, Allah wouldn't mind.

The dealers were now being controlled by the very people who'd urged the young people to fight them. In Serge's notebook, I'd read that one of the prayer halls—the back room of a store selling fabrics, near Place d'Aix—was used as a meeting place by the dealers who supplied North Marseilles. The owner of the store was none other than Nacer's uncle. A man called Abdelkader.

“Where are you going with this?” Pertin asked at last.

“I'll tell you,” I said, with a smile. He was finally rising to the bait. “Firstly, the security branch asked you to track down Serge. But you'd already done that. Thanks to Saadna. Secondly, they wanted you to find a way to stop him screwing things up. In other words, to put a bullet in him. Thirdly, you're taking me for an idiot, pretending to listen to my story. You already know it by heart. Or almost. Because you've been in on it from the start, you and a few young mobsters who've turned into Islamists. Like Nacer and Hamel. I guess you forgot to hand those two over to the judges. Maybe you're the one they're giving blow jobs to!”

“Say that again, and I'll smash your face.”

“You know something, Pertin? For once, you could have said I'm not as stupid as I look.”

He stood up, rubbing his hands.

“Carli!” he yelled.

I was going to get it in the neck. Carli came in, and gave me a nasty look.

“Yeah.”

“Nice day, isn't it? How's about getting some fresh air? Over at the quarry. We have a guest here. The king of assholes in person.”

The phone rang in the station house. Then on Pertin's extension.

“Yeah?” Pertin said. “Who is this?” A pause. “Hi. Yeah, fine.” He looked at me, then at Carli. He didn't so much sit as sink onto his chair. “Yeah, yeah. I'll put him on. It's for you,” he said, coldly, holding out the receiver.

The first thing Loubet asked me was what I was doing with that jerk. “I'd almost finished, old buddy,” I replied. “What? Yes . . . Let's say . . . Wait. Have we finished?” I asked Pertin sarcastically. “Or are we still planning to visit the quarry?” He didn't answer. “Yeah, half an hour. OK.” I was about to hang up, but I decided to add something. To impress Pertin. “Yeah, yeah, a guy named Boudjema Ressaf. And while you're about it, see what you have on a man named Narni. Alexandre Narni. OK. I'll tell you all about it, Loubet.”

He told me I was a bullshit artist, and immediately hung up. He was probably right.

I stood up. I felt great. I was smiling again. I wasn't going to sully myself spitting in the face of that scumbag.

“Leave us alone,” Pertin roared at Carli.

“What gives with the performance?” he yelled when Carli had gone out.

“What performance? I don't hear anyone laughing.”

“Stop being a smartass, Montale. It doesn't suit you. And Loubet won't stop a bullet for you.”

“You wouldn't do that, would you, Pertin? Even sending your people to set fire to Saadna's place this morning wasn't such a good idea, if you ask me. Especially as the two kids—you know the ones I mean, don't you?—didn't even take the time to check if Saadna had burned or not. Not that I weep any tears over him.”

This time, he reacted. It was like fishing for tuna. They always weakened in the end. You had to hold out till they did, then strike.

“What do you know about that?”

“I was there, you see. He called you to tip you off about Boudjema Ressaf. He thought it was a really hot tip, and you'd be eternally grateful. I can even tell you who you called immediately afterwards.”

“Oh yeah?”

I was bluffing, but only just. I took out the notebook.

“It's all written down here. You just have to read it.” I opened the notebook at random. “Abdelkader. Nacer's uncle. It's a mine of information, this notebook. I'd be willing to bet he owns a black BMW, this Abdelkader. Like the one that showed up at La Bigotte the other afternoon. They were so sure they wouldn't have any trouble, they used Abdelkader's car. As if they were going dancing! Except that—”

Laughing nervously, Pertin tore the notebook out of my hands and leafed through it. All the pages were blank. I'd stashed the original in my car and had bought a new one before coming in. There was no reason to do that. It was just the icing on the cake.

“You fucking son of a bitch!”

“Sorry, you lost. Loubet has the original.” He threw the notebook on the desk. “Let me tell you this, Pertin. It really doesn't look good, you and your pals turning a blind eye to scumbags who manipulate kids into tearing France apart.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“That I've never had any sympathy for Saddam Hussein. I prefer Arabs without beards, and Marseilles without you. Bye, Four Eyes. Keep the notebook to write your memoirs.”

As I went out, I tore down the National Front poster and leaflet, rolled them into a big ball and aimed it at the trash can by the entrance. It went straight in.