"Who?"
"The guest who vanished."
"I'm getting married at the end of Ramadan," I said. "To the girl who slept in the living room?"
"To the mayor's daughter."
"The one from Fouka by the Sea?"
"The one from Fouka by the Sea."
"All this for that," said my sister, raising her eyebrow. "I don't want her moving in here."
"Who?"
"The mother."
"Don't worry, she won't stay forever. Just long enough to get rid of the spell," she said, leaving the kitchen. She took a look around the living room and exclaimed she had never seen such a shambles, and she wondered how on earth I could live in such mess and filth, and how my guest could last even one night in the stench and dust, and where on earth she could even have lain down, and then she opened the door to the balcony. She picked up the empties that were scattered here and there, and the books and pencils and paper, and she moved the furniture around and put it back in place, and she shook and plumped the cushions, and ordered me to bring her the vacuum cleaner right away and the rags and the cleaning products and the garbage bags …
Hours later, when everything was finished, and the apartment did shine like new, my sister said, "Do you know Loubna Minbar well?"
"By name …"
"Only?" she said, astonished. "Yes. Why?"
"How do you explain the presence of all her books here?
Several copies of each?"
"What books?"
"Loubna Minbar's books. Those are the only books you have." And she listed the titles. The Sultan of Saint-Germain. The
Kidnapper from the House Across the Street. The Time of Punishment. Djamila and Her Mother.
"Anyone would think you spend your time reading these books over and over. There are notes on every page, passages underlined. Something about a swallow, and a woman with a crippled foot, and a young amnesiac …
"There's a manuscript with that title," she said, glancing over at a ream of paper carefully piled on the coffee table. "The dedication is astonishing," she added, with sudden, deep sadness.
Trembling, I picked up the manuscript and read, My thanks to Driss for his trust and his outspokenness. I felt suddenly, overwhelmingly jubilant. "It is Driss, then," I whispered, turning the pages. "Unfortunately," murmured my sister, wiping away a tear. "Apparently he recognized himself in the story," I said. "He read it?"
"Everyone's read The Sultan of Saint-Germain and everyone knows that Driss is angry with Loubna Minbar for stealing his life," I said. My sister shot me a glance, half-anxious, half-intrigued. "Because Loubna Minbar wrote that, too?" she said, staring at the manuscript I still held in my hands. "Who else would have written this book where she talks about our cousin as if he were an Islamist who's almost lost his mind, exiled in Inuit territory, looking for Mecca and struggling with the time zones at the North Pole?"
"It's an image," said my sister. "Insanity."
"I knew Driss was well-acquainted with that woman, that they spent a lot of time together, but I didn't know anything about this text," said my sister, thoughtful. "And I wonder how it ended up here, at my place …"
"If the text really is by Loubna Minbar, as you seem to think, you must have found it at Driss's when you were getting rid of his things," she sobbed. "What things are you talking about? And why are you crying?" I asked, irritated. "It's just that I can't seem to forget June 23, 2006."
"At some point or another, the apron strings must be cut," I said, thinking of the day when, determined to break with my own mother, I had gone into the real-estate agency … "But the way he did it …"
"Never mind the way. It happens even to women. Even to you," I said, taking in her bare head and legs. "Right after the sermon … So young and handsome. So full oflife. Two widows. Four children."
"Who are you talking about?" I asked, just as her cell phone began to ring. "It's Kenneth," she said, blowing her nose. Then, suddenly radiant: "I have to go. Don't forget to take the garbage bags down. There are a ton of them. It will take you a while."
"Who's Kenneth?" I asked, raising my voice. "My English lit teacher, a specialist on Christopher Marlowe. A great guy. Remember to call the old lady, you can tell her that I came by to see you, that will reassure her a bit, but above all don't breathe a word about my life, or about Driss, I'm counting on you," she barked, before slamming the door. I wanted to catch up with her, but the elevator was already on the ground floor. I grumbled and suppressed the anger I could feel welling up in me, and went to sit facing the roofs of the city as I tried to piece together my days from the time I left my mother's until my sister's unexpected arrival. Nothing but the life of a troglodyte. All that remains is to get back in touch with your origins. Return to your upbringing, your values. That's right. Dead right. Don't spoil it all, Arab. All has not been lost. Shit, I swore. And went to lie down.
At dawn, before they'd even drunk a coffee, he said, my mother and her acolyte were building a fire in the fireplace, in order to use the embers to fill a brazier. Once they'd had their coffee, the fumigations began—benjamin, musk, amber, root of I know not what tree with invincible properties, according to the Moroccan woman—filling the apartment until the odors spilled out onto the landing.
I had ended up taking my vacation earlier than planned, and I spent it locked in my room, reading, thinking, scribbling, writing, ordaining that I was not to be disturbed for any reason. Except, obviously, for those manipulations where my physical presence was required.
At dusk, at the end of the day, my mother came to scratch at the door. "It's bath time," she proclaimed. A bath scented with orange flower water, to which was added drops of holy water from Zamzam, imported from Mecca, and essences of all sorts. With my private parts hidden beneath a loincloth, I plunged into the bath, beneath the grave gaze and incantations of the disenchanter, incantations that my mother echoed with equal gravity. Once I had dried off and gotten dressed, I carried my dinner back into my lair. At twilight, the two women lit forty candles, then coated the baseboards, along with the soles of my feet, with henna. At the end of the fortieth day, the Moroccan woman decreed that the spell was broken. We sacrificed a sheep, not in the bathtub, but at a specially conceived abattoir. Half of the beast was given as an offering to the mosque on the rue JeanPierre-Timbaud, and the other half was cut up and placed in the freezer compartment. Taking with her a quarter sheep and a few wads of euros extricated from yours truly's bank account, the Moroccan woman departed. My mother stayed behind. When she saw the stupefaction on my face she came out with the excuse that she had things to take care of in Paris. "And Mahmoud?"
"Mahmoud is a big boy. Besides, he's getting married soon."
"Before me?"
"So?"
"What will people say, my mother?"
"People have other fish to fry, my son …"
And the nightmare continued. Equipped with a cell phone, which she handled like an expert, she called me to inform me that she wouldn't be back for lunch, that she was at the hammam, or in a store, in the checkout line … Or that she was at a girlfriend's, Madame Lisa's. She was looking after her daughter. Probably until late that evening. I was as sure of the order of events as of the succession of day after night, night after day, the rotation of the earth around the sun … All is not lost, Arab. Control and vigilance, said the voice, trying to rouse me. But I could not halt my downward spiral.
As my mother still did not want to go home, I prolonged my vacation, devoting my time to The Sultan of Saint-Germain, reading and rereading, underlining phrases, jotting them down, analyzing them, taking note of anything that clearly indicated that this "Sultan" had absolutely nothing to do with me. That it was indeed about Driss, and Driss alone. For need I remind anyone of the fact that I had neither the desire nor the inclination to end up in Inuit territory. Nor anywhere else, other than in my nest. My little Versailles. A free man, that is what I was. A free man, privileged and civilized, and I intended to remain so.
>
And a pox upon Greenland. A pox upon glaciers. A pox upon the inferno of Venus. That's right. Dead right, I muttered, sinking ever deeper.
When I suddenly noticed that my mother was no longer unrolling her prayer mat, I went into a panic and informed her that I was ready to marry, my mother …
"Do you have someone in mind, apple of my eye?"
"The mayor's daughter, my mother."
"The one from Fouka by the Sea?"
"Do you know of another?"
"My son, my adorable child."
"I've taken a special leave, which will give me the time to organize both the wedding and our departure for Mecca. Mahmoud and his wife. Ourida and Ali. My wife and I. And you, of course … Is this not what you wanted, my mother?"
"I am exhausted, my son. But we'll talk of it again."
Yawning, leaving me with my herbal tea and the television, she went into the bedroom from which, once the witch had left, she had summarily evicted me.
Am I not your mother?
The next morning, I performed the morning prayer out loud, so she would hear me and so that, reassured about the fate of the "apple of her eye," she would face the facts and go home, back to her young son, to her own walls and devotions. But at around nine o'clock, my mother was not up yet. I went over to the bedroom. I placed my ear against the door, hoping to hear her breathing, or moving around. The door was so thick that no sound could penetrate, neither her breathing, nor any noise that might indicate she was alive, so I pushed it open.
My mother was sound asleep, wearing a red silk nightie and a beatific smile on her face. "Aoudhou-billah-mina-achaïtan-errajim!" I conjured Satan at the top of my lungs, and with all my strength. Startled, tugging at the comforter, my mother in turn began to scream. "What happened?"
"You are almost naked, my mother."
"Forgive me, my son."
"It is past nine A.M., my mother."
"I was awake all night long, my son."
"Doing what, my mother?"
"Reading, my son." On the nightstand was a book that did not belong to me. "I'm taking out a new lease on life, my son. And it's exhausting …" She buried her head under the pillows and went back to sleep until noon.
I am lying down in my "temporary" bed, staring at the plumes of smoke above the roofs, when I hear my mother's voice.
"What do you think?"
I turn my head: she is standing on the threshold, her eyes large and dark, her eyelids creased, her hair long and wavy, neither gray nor white nor even black, but as blonde as a field of ripe wheat … "Well?" I am speechless. "You don't like the dress, is that it? Or the makeup? Or the hair color? Louisa helped me."
"Who's Louisa?"
"Your concierge."
"Lisa. Madame Lisa."
"Madame Lisa is just to keep her position. Like you, Basile I-don't-know-what … She's one of us. She's been living in France since—you know when. Fear, the arbitrary nature of things, blood. And her apartment—you have to see it to believe it, it's overflowing with books, my son. Piles all the way to the ceiling. She's the one who lends me the books I devour night after night. In exchange, I babysit Pauline for her."
"I know who she is. Her name is Minbar. Loubna Minbar.
She's a writer."
"Her name is Louisa and she is not a writer. She's a concierge."
"What else are writers, they're concierges, my mother, they feed on other people's lives."
"I can assure you she is not a writer, poor woman. She inherited all those books from the previous tenant, who moved to a retirement home … And in the evening, just the way I, your mother, used to do, she's bent over her sewing machine, she spends her nights embroidering tablecloths, caftans, caps, sheets, and she's ruining her eyes and her hand, it's so bad she sometimes bleeds."
"A typewriter, my mother. She's bent over a typewriter, not to embroider but to mess with people's lives. That woman is a public menace. It's not only her hand she's ruined, but everything she touches. Driss spent time with her, too, and she stole his life, my mother. Without even condescending to provide him with an explanation. She vanished. When it is all over, she moves on."
"I don't want to hear about that non-believer, what he did."
"It happened because of that Louisa who calls herself Lisa and who is none other than Loubna Minbar. A woman who rejected her family, and only meets them to find fuel for her literary projects. She'll do the same with you, my mother. I have all her books. I don't know how many times I've read them."
"I know, my son. Your sister Ourida talked to me about them. She's thrown them out."
"I know her characters by heart, down to the most minute detail. I've even met them. Women who've lost their way, not one who could save one another, and it's all her fault. Anyone who comes near that woman, that stealer of lives, is bound to lose their mind. That's the fate that awaits you if you go on seeing her, my mother."
"You're imagining things, my son, that poor woman is struggling to make ends meet to raise her child. No father or mother. Just her and her daughter in this world full of sharks where she's forced to sell her embroidery for nothing to the big couture houses …"
"She stole my notes and in their place she left some sort of text dedicated to Driss."
"You'd do better to get some air … By the way, I'll be back late tonight, I'm having dinner with a friend. A West Indian woman I met at Zoubida's place."
"You are seeing that non-believer again?"
"A mother is duty-bound to forgive … And why so much spite? She's your sister, your blood … She's going to organize a lovely party for her son's circumcision, and she's going to take the opportunity to change his name. She has chosen Mohamed. In your honor."
"May Allah reward her with good."
"You should get out more, see your friends. I don't want my presence here to upset your habits."
"I'm organizing our trip to Mecca, my mother. And my wedding."
"You spend your time admiring the rooftops of Paris, my son."
"That's just your impression, my mother."
"As for the pilgrimage … we're still young. We have our whole life ahead of us to cleanse our sins."
"Yes, my mother." What good would it do to lecture her? She was losing her mind, but it wasn't her fault. No, it was with that opportunistic, subversive, manipulating, intriguing transplant and stealer of lives with whom I had to settle my accounts. Oblige her to rewrite the book. To restore dignity to all those she has misrepresented, starting with Driss, whom she portrayed as a sybarite and a villain. Lock her up. Gag her, if need be. But what would the neighbors think? That a Muslim was living among them? But violence was not programmed in the genes of my wise ancestors. Like my grandfather, I am incapable of attacking even the vilest cockroach invading my apartment. I need to come up with a stratagem, and implement it in a subtle way. Stop my mother's metamorphosis. Cancel my exile into Inuit territory. Thwart that woman's premonitions. Get things rolling with the mayor's daughter. Organize the wedding. Speed up work on the house with garden. Get the Renault Espace. Rings and wedding bands. Solid gold bracelets. Gold-embroidered caftans and robes. Wedding ceremony. Ululation fit to bleed out a woman's tonsils. And my life as a free man? "Fine, my son," said my mother, as if I had just approved of her reasons for canceling the pilgrimage. "And anyway, the pilgrims are about to turn around and head for home."
"And the mayor's daughter, my mother? Our promise? The house I just bought?"
"I didn't want to tell you, but she got married. Since you couldn't make up your mind, her parents gave her to another family."
"I already sent in my notice to move out of this apartment. The work on the house on rue Jean-Pierre-Timbaud is finished."
"You'll be comfortable there, my son. You'll eventually find the right girl. That little blonde from the agency, that Agnès you often talk about, you should introduce her to me. She would be perfect for you …"
"She's a Christian, my mother."
"She belongs to
the People of the Book, my son … As for your apartment, I'd be happy to take it over."
"How will you pay for it?"
"God will provide."
"The rent is really high, my mother."
"Forgive me, my son, but I came across one of your pay slips by chance …"
"So?"
"Well, someone who doesn't have a family, my son, can very well start helping his mother who has sacrificed everything for the sake of the apple of her eye, and who has never asked for a thing in return. Look at you, my son, you're a sultan. Thanks to whom? Thanks to your poor mother, who also deserves to live. I still have some good years ahead of me, my boy … All my life I have satisfied your every whim. With you I've toed the line, to the detriment of poor Mahmoud, who spends his time cooped up with his mother or at the neighborhood mosque. And his fiancée has just broken off their engagement. Without warning. No explanation. If only someone could reason with him and persuade him to Gallicize his name, he'd blend in better."
"He cares about his principles, my mother."
"Faith inhabits the heart, my son."
"He must be suffering in your absence, my mother."
"If you could just get him to come along with us, my sul tan …"
"Your dress—"
"You don't like it, is that it?"
"Too short. Too red."
"Who does it bother, my son? We're in Paris, my boy, in Saint-Germain."
"You'll remember to take it off before the guests arrive," I said off the top of my head. "Are you expecting people?"
"Forty pilgrims."
"I'll put the veil back on to greet your guests, my son."
"That's right, my mother. What would they think of us, otherwise?"
"Yes, my son."
I had just emerged from my dream, he said, when the phone rang. I lit the lamp and read the name on the screen. "You've reconnected your phone, my son."
"Good morning … my mother."
"You sound out of breath, my son."
"I just had the most terrible nightmare."
The Sexual Life of an Islamist in Paris Page 15
