For a few seconds, nothing happened. A crowd has a certain energy, a momentum, like that of a flock of circling birds, which takes time to change direction. Inès stood motionless, facing Saïd, making no effort to hide her face, or to retrieve the fallen veil. Saïd and his companions were subjected to the full impact of the smiley.
‘Shame?’ said Inès. ‘Is that what you see? My son has made a fool of you. Yes, my son. A fool, and worse. He has pulled a veil over your eyes. He has made you forsake your daughter. Why do you think she ran away? Why did she try to kill herself? Why did she seek help from strangers – yes, even a kuffar priest – instead of from her own family?’
Saïd frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think you do. You spoke of shame. The shame is for a man to believe that when he lusts after a woman, she is the one responsible. Only a fool believes that Allah can be swayed by such miserable excuses. Your father may be a stubborn old man, but he is worth ten thousand of you.’
And then Inès turned round and addressed the people in the alleyway. Those closest to her fell back a step; the rest took a few seconds longer; ripples running through the crowd until at last there was silence.
‘Look at me, all of you,’ said Inès. ‘Look very closely at my face. This is the face of cruelty, of bigotry and injustice. This is the face of hypocrisy, of guilt and of intolerance. These things are not a matter of religion, race or colour. A crime committed in Allah’s name does not cease to be a crime. Do you think you are better than God? Do you think you can fool him with your talk of justice?’
The voice of the Woman in Black was strong, her eyes as hard as mica. She made no attempt to cover herself, but stood to face them squarely, with pride. One by one, they dropped their gaze. Even Paul-Marie Muscat was speechless, his red face turning white. Marie-Ange Lucas, who had been filming the scene on her mobile phone, dropped her hands to her sides. Even Roux stood motionless, staring at Inès with a look of slow-dawning comprehension in his eyes.
Once more Inès turned to Saïd. ‘Now take me to my son,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, 28th August, 11.40 a.m.
NO TREADMILLS TODAY. That’s peculiar: Usually here, inside the whale, the sound is a constant heartbeat. And yet, it is not silent. There seems to be a crowd outside – a market? I don’t think so. Every crowd has a certain pulse, a recognizable tempo. A congregation sounds different from a marketplace, a sporting event, a playground, a classroom—
I cannot make out individual voices, but it seems to me that the crowd is large – perhaps even as many as a hundred people, up there, in the real world.
In spite of my increasing fatigue, I cannot help feeling curious. The cadence of the voices suggests that some are French, some Moroccan. What would bring so many people out on to the boulevard?
Once more, I go back to the air-vent, where I can hear them more clearly. There is nothing to see from here, though: just the brick of the opposite wall and a few dandelions growing between the stones. I crane my neck to see more. Nothing. A demonstration? Some of the voices sound angry; others merely excited. But there’s a resonance in the air, like a string tightened to breaking point. Something is about to snap.
Once more I try to see through the grille. If I stand on the pyramid of crates, I can just see, in the blurry corner of the screen, a vague impression of movement, of shadows flirting with the ground.
‘Maya?’ My voice is almost gone. It sounds like a broken clock movement, clicking at the back of my throat. Calling for help is futile. Even at its most powerful, my voice could never cut through the noise. And yet—
That impression of movement again, this time closer, and accompanied by a pair of feet. I know they are not Maya’s. Under the hem of the long black robe, a pair of pale-blue sneakers.
‘Hey!’ I rasp in my ruined voice. ‘Down here!’
A moment’s pause. Then a face appears at the grille. It takes me a few seconds to recognize Inès Bencharki’s daughter. In those black headscarves, it’s sometimes hard to tell who’s who, and besides, the child has never spoken to me. I’m not even certain of her name.
The dark eyes widened, then came a smile, almost startling in that solemn little face.
‘So you’re Maya’s Jinni!’
That’s wonderful. I’m so glad my situation amuses you. I’ll have you know that so far I have granted all three of her wishes—
Another flurry of movement. A second pair of sneakers, or what might have been sneakers at some time or other. Now they are as grubby and disreputable as the face appearing at the grille. Jean-Philippe Bonnet, I presume, otherwise known to some as Pilou.
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘I think it’s a riot. It’s awesome.’
Awesome. What a word. All I need now is the damn dog.
‘We came here to get Vlad out of the way. He doesn’t like crowds.’
My wish has come true. A snuffling nose now appears at the grille, tipped with a wet black truffle. Vlad barks.
‘It’s OK,’ says Pilou. ‘They’ve come to get you out of here.’
‘What? All of them?’
‘Kind of. I think some people just came for the ride.’
That’s even better. Witnesses. When I walk out of here, dripping wet, with a three-day beard and a face like death, naturally the first thing I will want to see is half of Lansquenet, gawping at me. To say nothing of the police, or the fire brigade, or whoever else may have joined the circus. And Père Henri – will he be there too? Oh my God. Just take me now.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m awesome.’
‘Hang on. It won’t be long now.’
Suddenly, there comes a man’s voice close by, over the rumbling of the crowd. He is speaking Arabic, but I know Karim Bencharki’s voice. There comes a violent scuffling; the dog barks; the boy’s face withdraws; the long black robe blurs with dust. The pale-blue sneakers skid backwards in a sudden arc, then vanish from sight.
‘Hey!’ That’s the boy’s voice. ‘Hey! What are you doing? Hey!’
And then the girl begins to scream. The dog is still barking furiously, and for a moment the scuffed sneakers seem to indicate that some kind of tussle is going on. Then, there is a heavy thud; the boy falls against the wall. His head hits the ground just centimetres from the grille; I see blond hair; the curve of a cheek; a single, crawling line of blood.
Then a silence, deafening, even against the noise of the crowd.
And the door to the cellar swings open.
Saturday, 28th August, 11.40 a.m.
The scent of chlorine was like a slap after the dusty heat outside, and the light was so dim in comparison that it took me a few seconds to adjust before I could see clearly. A big, bare room, once painted white, but now mostly grey and patched with damp, with a row of machines to one side – treadmills and cross-trainers – and on the other, a rack of free weights. Right at the back of the room, two doors, one leading to the changing rooms, the shower room and the storage cellars; the other leading out on to the walkway that links all the riverside houses.
Roux led the way. Inès followed us. Joséphine was close behind, with Zahra trying to stop the crowd from entering the gym. Outside, I could hear Omi protesting: ‘Hee, will someone let me through? This is better than Bollywood!’
I turned to Saïd. ‘Where’s Karim?’
‘He went out by the back door. The priest is in the cellar.’
I looked at Roux.
‘Get Reynaud,’ he said. ‘I’ll go out and find Karim.’
Saturday, 28th August, 11.45 a.m.
The cellar was flooded and smelt of rot, wet plaster and the river. There was barely any light. Standing on a pile of crates on the far side of the room, Reynaud looked like a shipwrecked sailor on the smallest of islands; his face a distant blur of dismay, his hands outstretched as if in entreaty.
When he realized who we were he jumped down into the water – it was almost up to hi
s shoulders – and started to move towards us. He moved as if exhausted; one hand raised to shield his eyes. He looked like a man in the throes of a nightmare so vivid that he no longer even dares to believe that he may ever awaken.
‘Quickly,’ he rasped in a broken voice, as soon as he reached the cellar steps. All but the top two were submerged; he managed to climb halfway up, then stumbled and fell in the water. Joséphine took one of his arms. I took the other, and together we managed to haul him on to his feet and up the steps.
‘Quickly,’ he repeated.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You’ll be all right.’
In fact he looked anything but all right. His face was pale beneath the three-day growth of beard. His eyes were screwed shut against the light, and his breathing was harsh and asthmatic. A fit of coughing seized him, and for a moment all he could do was double up, trying to breathe.
‘You don’t understand,’ he told me. ‘Joséphine’s son. The Bencharki girl—’ Once more he succumbed to an attack of coughing, gesturing wildly with his hands.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He tried again. This time his voice was stronger. ‘Karim took the girl. In the alleyway. Pilou tried to stop him. I think he’s hurt.’ He waved an arm at the far wall, and I understood where he was pointing; to the narrow passageway that links the boulevard to the riverside. I knew it well; it was the place where Maya claimed her Jinni lived—
Inès was already out of the door that leads on to the walkway. Joséphine had dropped Reynaud’s arm, but stopped when he fell to his knees again.
‘Francis—’
He waved an impatient hand. ‘Don’t waste time. Just get the boy!’
And then, we both heard the screaming.
Saturday, 28th August, 11.45 a.m.
My eyes are unused to this dazzling light. The single bulb from the corridor has become the midday sun. I shield my gaze against it, but even so, it feels like looking into the eye of God. And against the brightness, three figures stand, enclosed in a triple corona of light—
I recognize Vianne and Joséphine. But who is the third? Could that be Inès? But the nimbus that surrounds her makes her hard to recognize, and the long robe looks like folded wings. Have I seen an angel? Much as I would like to believe in the possibility of a divine intervention, there is no time at present. I manage to tell them what happened – at least, enough to alert them to the danger Karim presents. The three of them run to intervene – I hope they are in time, père – leaving me at the top of the steps, half in and half out of the water.
The last of my strength is spent, père. A part of me just wants to die. But this is Lansquenet – like God, it will not let me go so soon.
Outside, I hear cries of alarm coming from the river. What is happening out there? I try to haul myself to my feet, using the side of the door for support. But my legs do not work any more; my head spins; my eyes hurt. And then I hear the sound of footsteps in the corridor; voices exclaiming in Arabic; the sound of the whale as it surfaces—
The light is still too bright for my eyes. All I can see are robes and feet; sandals, slippers, moccasins. These are the feet of my enemies. They will trample me into the dust.
A hand clasps my outstretched right arm.
‘Alhumdullila,’ says a voice.
Second only to Père Henri on the list of people I’d rather not see, it is Mohammed Mahjoubi. He lifts me from out of the jaws of the whale, and though the light still hurts my eyes, now I can see him quite clearly: white beard; white robe; face like a Gospel of wrinkles—
‘Thank you, I can manage,’ I say.
And then I go out like a candle.
Saturday, 28th August, 11.50 a.m.
WE CAME OUT on the boardwalk, on the far side of the passageway that links the river with the boulevard. It’s an irregular kind of walkway; in places, only a metre in width, but broadening as it reaches the gym, becoming a kind of terrace. These terraces are a feature of the disused tanneries; poised over the river like acrobats on their wooden stilts. Nowadays, few people use them, and all of them have been condemned.
Roux was by the balustrade. Karim was barely ten feet away. He was holding Du’a with one arm and a can of petrol with the other. Both of them were drenched in it; Du’a had lost her headscarf, and her hair and face were wet. The smell of petrol was everywhere; the air unsteady with its fumes.
Roux gave me a warning look. ‘Don’t move. He has a lighter.’
It was a Bic, a cheap plastic Bic of the kind you can buy in every newsagent’s in France. Easy to use; reliable; disposable as a human life. Now he dropped the petrol can and held the Bic in Du’a’s face.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ he said. ‘I am not afraid to die.’
Inès spoke to him urgently in her rapid Arabic.
Karim just smiled and shook his head. Even now, his colours gleamed without the slightest trace of fear. He turned to those of us watching from the jetty and the road, and I sensed the force of his charm again; the potency of his beauty. Even now, he expects to win. In a battle of wills between himself and Inès, he doesn’t believe he can possibly lose—
Still holding Du’a with one hand, he beckoned Inès with the other. The sun shone starkly on her face – pale after thirty years of niqab – her green eyes crazed with reflections.
Looking at them together now, I could see the resemblance; like something glimpsed underwater, reversed and fractured by the light. He has her mouth, with its tender curve; her arrogant cheekbones; her bearing. But there’s a weakness in Karim that is absent in his mother; something yielding, like spoilt fruit. It’s there in his colours; under the skin, a barely perceptible softness.
‘See what she is? The lying whore,’ he said, addressing the growing crowd. ‘This is her fault – just look at her face. Look at what she has done to me.’
Inès said, in French: ‘Let Du’a go.’
He gave a crack of laughter. ‘They’re all in it together, you know,’ he said. ‘Whores stick together. They always tell the same lies.’ He yanked sharply at Du’a’s hair, forcing her head back painfully. ‘Look at her! Look at those eyes and tell me she doesn’t know what she’s doing!’
Further down the walkway, I saw Paul-Marie in his chair, with Louis Acheron by his side. Alone of all the onlookers, they seemed to be enjoying the show. Roux was still standing ten feet away, too far to risk intervening. A second was all the time it would take for Karim to use the lighter. And yet Roux was considering it. I could see it in his posture; the tension at the back of his neck; the subtle shift to the balls of his feet—
Then, from the little alleyway, I heard a sudden cry of alarm.
‘There’s someone here! A body!’ It was Omi al-Djerba. ‘Hee, it’s my Du’a’s little friend—’ Clearly, from where she was standing, she hadn’t yet seen the tragedy beginning to play out by the Tannes. But Joséphine had caught her alarm. For a second she turned on Karim. ‘What did you do with my son?’
He shrugged. ‘He got in my way.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ she said. ‘I’ll kill you if you touched him—’
Around us, the crowd was silent. No one but Inès dared speak. In the sun, the reek of petrol was almost overpowering. The air seemed to shimmer with tension. From the jetty, I saw Paul-Marie, his face no longer flushed, but the colour of old ash. Could it be that Paul-Marie was actually afraid for his son?
Joséphine had already gone to see to Pilou in the alleyway. I couldn’t see what was happening; like Roux, I was fixed in place. Only Inès and Karim moved now, watching each other like wary cats.
‘Let Du’a go,’ said Inès. Her voice was low, but commanding. ‘I’ll do what you want. I’ll leave Lansquenet. I’ll go back to Tangier. I’ll never come back—’
‘As if that would do any good now!’ said Karim, his voice rising like an adolescent’s. ‘You’ve always been there to mess up my life. Reminding me I was born in shame. That wasn’t my fault!’
‘Karim,�
�� she said. ‘You know I never blamed you for that.’
He laughed again. ‘You didn’t have to! I saw it every day, in your face.’ Once more he addressed the onlookers: ‘See her face? It means she’s a whore. They’re all of them whores underneath. Even under the niqab, they’re watching you. They’re testing you. They’re always on heat. They’re Shaitan’s army, soft as silk, until they get their hands round your neck—’
Once more, he laughed. The Bic lighter – it was a red one, just like a strawberry lollipop – shone merrily in the sun. A click—
Du’a screamed. But the flame hadn’t caught.
Karim shot us that rainbow smile. ‘Oops. Try again.’
I moved half a step forward. From the door at the back of the gym, Saïd Mahjoubi was watching.
‘Why Du’a?’ I said to Karim. ‘Why choose her? She’s an innocent.’
‘How would you know?’ Karim said. ‘All I need do is look at you and I know what kind of woman you are. Where I come from, men know how to deal with women like you and your daughter. But here, in France, they talk about lifestyle choices, and free will—’
Now Alyssa was at my side. ‘Just let her go,’ she told him. ‘No one wants to see you hurt. And Du’a has done nothing wrong.’
The honey-kissed eyes lingered on her. ‘My sweet little sister,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Remember what I told you? Paradise opens its gates during the month of Ramadan. If only you’d had the courage to do what I am going to do, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. We could have been together. But instead you listened to Shaitan’s whisperers, and now—’
‘You think Allah is fooled, Karim?’
The voice that came from behind us was only slightly familiar. A strong, commanding, masculine voice, filled with wrath and energy. At first I thought it must be Saïd, but Saïd was still standing at the door. He looked like a man dragged out of a dream. His face was glossy with disbelief.
I turned and saw, to my surprise, old Mahjoubi standing there. But this was not the old man I’d seen at the al-Djerbas’ house. This was Mahjoubi transfigured; Mahjoubi revitalized and reborn. He approached the boardwalk, and the crowd stood aside to let him pass.
Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Page 35
