by Maryse Conde
He got up, whispering in the ear of his sister, who was somewhat surprised.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”
He went out and found himself on the main road. Since the arrows of the sun’s rays were becoming sharper and sharper, sweat began to roll down his face. He had no idea where the station at Fontainebleau was and decided therefore to hitchhike. He had to wait until a fifth car stopped, and a fair-haired boy at the wheel of a Volkswagen popped his head through the window.
“Where are you going, my friend?” he asked affably with a smile.
Coming from a complete stranger, Ivan was surprised by his familiarity.
“I’m going to the station at Fontainebleau.”
The fair-haired guy burst out laughing.
“You’re going in the right direction. If you walk straight for another twenty or so kilometers you’ll get there.”
Faced with Ivan’s bewildered look, he continued.
“I’m joking. Get in. I’m going to the station myself so I’ll drop you off.”
He went on with the same familiarity.
“My name’s Harry. What’s yours? Where do you work?”
Ivan was incapable of answering such a question.
His companion insisted.
“At La Pallud’s? At Dumontel’s? What’s the name of the stud farm?”
“I don’t work on a stud farm,” Ivan protested. “I was invited to a concert.”
“A concert? I thought you worked at Dumontel’s. They employ a lot of people like you.”
Like you? What did that mean? Harry, therefore, had taken no notice of his elegant wild-silk suit, his fine stiff-collar shirt, and his expensive shoes, the elegant leftovers from his time with Mansour. All he had noticed was his color. All he had memorized was the black man, the nigger, as they used to say, and in his eyes Ivan could only ever be a subaltern. Before switching on the engine Harry rummaged among the CDs in his car.
“Shall I put on Coluche? Would you like to listen to him? It’s a repeat of his best sketches.”
Ivan was caught unawares and could only stammer a reply.
“Coluche? I don’t know him.”
He had a vague memory of a fat man in overalls, his hair in a fringe over his forehead. But he had never paid attention to his monologues.
“I can’t believe it,” Harry exclaimed, staring blue-eyed. “You’ve never heard of Coluche or his Restos du Coeur charity?”
Aujourd’hui on n’a plus le droit,
Ni d’avoir faim ni d’avoir froid.
Dépassé le chacun pour soi,
Quand je pense à toi je pense à moi.
(Today we have no right
To go hungry or be cold.
Gone is everyone for himself
When I think of you I think of me.)
What fault have I committed? Ivan wondered as the car drove off. Did Harry know the names of the famous drummers from Guadeloupe and Martinique? Fortunately they soon arrived at the station and Ivan mumbled his thanks.
When he arrived at Villeret-le-François, Mona was reading the cards in the living room.
“Back already?” she said, surprised. “Where’s Ivana?”
Thereupon she continued without waiting for an answer.
“Today the cards are predicting nothing but misfortune. Black on black. Jack of spades on jack of spades.”
Relations between Mona and Ivan had taken a turn for the better. In the early stages she had agreed with Hugo and considered Ivan a good-for-nothing. She constantly compared him to her son, a minor history teacher who was highly rated in his college in the provinces. Gradually she began to treat Ivan differently. We might think it was because of his attractive physique. His penis squeezed into his tight trousers always seemed on the point of popping out, and reminded Mona, partial to handsome males, of the time when she accumulated lover upon lover. Let’s not get carried away, however. Let’s say rather that Ivan’s character and helpfulness brought out the best in him. He would accompany her to the market at Croix-Nivert, pushing her caddy loaded with provisions which he then hauled up the steep stairs of Tower A.
Ivan sat down in front of the television, determined to wait for an explanation from his sister. What pleasure did she take in the company she kept? Had she forgotten the plans she had made when they lived in Guadeloupe? Unfortunately, around 10 p.m. Ivana called Mona to say she was spending the night at Maylan’s. Increasingly depressed, Ivan opened his futon and tried to get some sleep.
The next day Ivan once again went to meet Imam Amiri Kapoor to force him to confront his problems. Ivan found him immersed in his Koran while sipping a cup of coffee.
“What brings you here?” he asked warmly. “I only hear good things about you. The youngsters say you’re an outstanding teacher.”
Ivan curled up in his chair and answered glumly, “It’s not the impression I get. In my opinion nothing seems to be going right.”
Thereupon he began to describe in detail his latest misadventures and made no attempt even to hide his setbacks with Ulysses.
The imam listened to him attentively without interruption. When Ivan had finished, surprising even himself at having plunged into the waters of this malaise which he carried deep down and had never really suspected, the imam drew a typewritten sheet from a drawer in his desk and handed it to Ivan.
“First of all you must read,” he ordered. “Read. Only knowledge can save you. There are answers to a lot of the questions you ask.”
Ivan cast a look at the list of books. He found the names of authors and books that Ismaël had indicated when Ivan was a member of the Army of Shadows, and even further back when he was at school with Monsieur Jérémie at Dos d’ne: Frantz Fanon, Eric Williams, Walter Rodney, and Jean Suret-Canale. He had never taken the trouble either to buy them or study them, something which he now regretted.
“Wait a minute,” Ivan said. “I haven’t told you what is torturing me. You know full well what my twin sister means to me. I would even say she is everything for me. But here, we are growing further and further apart. She is absorbed by her studies and the life she leads in France. I mean nothing to her anymore and that’s what is extremely painful for me.”
The imam shrugged his shoulders.
“Women are narrow-minded,” he let out. “I would say frankly you love your sister too much. It’s an unhealthy feeling. If she is growing apart from you, let her go. It will be good for both of you.”
Nobody had spoken so brutally to Ivan. What a cage, what a dungeon, what a prison his life would turn into if Ivana no longer illuminated his existence. The imam continued.
“Put your words into action, that’s what you need to do. I’m going to send you to a group of young men who will help you become a man, a real man. I understand what you mean. Western society, in which we find ourselves immersed, will perish because it is too sure of itself and accumulates blunder upon blunder. What matters is that it doesn’t drag us down with it.”
The following weeks Ivan felt increasingly alone despite the promise the imam had made him. Ivana was away most of the time: language courses abroad, vacations in the sun. Together with Maylan she had traveled to Faro in Portugal, a small seaside resort. She even managed to go three whole days without calling her brother.
In the meantime Hugo and Mona, feeling cramped in their apartment, urged the two youngsters to find their own accommodation. Mona, who had more than one string to her bow, found some lodgings, though badly situated, it must be said, opposite the Croix-Nivert market. From morning to evening you could hear the market vendors shouting their sales pitch on such and such an item. All day long there was also the stench of fruit, vegetables, meat, and fish. Unfortunately the deal didn’t go through as the twins’ income was inadequate. This merely disheartened Ivan further. He knew all too well there was no place for him in th
is country which proclaimed so generously to be the home of human rights. If he disappeared who would even notice? Ivana perhaps. Then she would find consolation nestling her forehead against Maylan’s breast.
It was on October 2nd that Ivan finally met Abdel Aziz Isar, whom the imam had recommended. Remember this fateful date of October 2nd, since we believe it marks the beginning of the end. Abdel Aziz Isar lived in Villeret-le-François in an apartment block in slightly better shape than Ivan’s. Here, the elevators worked and the entrance halls were not overcrowded with drug dealers. Ivan got a cold reception since Abdel Aziz distrusted the lame ducks Amiri Kapoor insisted on sending him. Although a Muslim, he was born in Varanasi in India, on the left bank of the Ganges, the holy river where his father, Azouz, owned an elegant women’s clothing shop. In 1948, during the bitter partition of India, Azouz had refused to leave the country of his birth, believing that every religion could live together in harmony. When his shop was burned down for the third time and he was left for dead on the sidewalk he made up his mind to move to Dhaka with his family. Abdel Aziz therefore had grown up with tales of violence and terror.
He asked Ivan curtly, “What do you expect from me? What do you want to do with your life? Do you want to stay in Europe or leave for one of our countries?”
“I would prefer to remain in Paris,” Ivan replied, thinking of Ivana from whom he never wanted to be separated. “But whatever the case, I’ll carry out any mission you want me to do and wherever you think fit.”
Abdel Aziz inspected Ivan from head to toe.
“Do you know how to use a weapon? And explosives?”
“Yes, I do,” Ivan claimed. “In Mali I was a member of the national militia where we learned those sorts of things.”
Abdel Aziz looked him straight in the eye.
“Have you ever killed a man?” he suddenly asked.
Ivan hesitated then repeated his usual explanation.
“Yes, but I was part of a commando whose members had been delegated. I was obeying orders. It was not a personal decision.”
Despite his surliness, Abdel Aziz, nevertheless, offered him mint tea served by a young woman with a ravaging smile and fawn-colored hair covered by an elegant black scarf.
“My wife, Anastasie,” he said by way of introduction.
And with an unexpected lyricism, he added, “We met in Fallujah. Yes, the desolation of Fallujah was the setting for our love, a love so strong it has resisted many a pitfall. We have three children. Three sons.”
Ivan was heading for the door, having finished his tea, when Abdel Aziz let fly an arrow.
“You don’t have a beard.”
Ivan stopped in his tracks, his hand on the doorknob.
“A beard?” he repeated, a little surprised.
Abdel Aziz’s beard in fact was silky and well-combed and added a certain maturity to his still-juvenile face.
Ivan continued apologetically.
“It’s a recommendation in the Koran, not a commandment.”
From that day on, however, he grew a beard, which Ivana and Mona unanimously criticized. However much he rubbed his cheeks with essential oils, the beard remained skimpy and sparse and didn’t suit him at all. After several weeks he resigned himself to shaving it off.
What Abdel Aziz didn’t say was that during his numerous stays in Fallujah he was on intimate terms with the highest dignitaries of the regime. He worked on behalf of the committee that administered the city. He was in charge of implementing convictions pertaining to the law and was thus involved in all the public executions. He executed adulterous women by shooting them in the head. He cut off the hands of thieves. He branded deserving criminals with a hot iron. In short, he was nothing more than an assassin. What Abdel Aziz didn’t say either was that his wife, Anastasie, was the daughter of one of Saddam Hussein’s generals.
Ivan was not to see Abdel Aziz for another two or three weeks and even thought he had forgotten him. It was then he received a text message summoning him to a meeting where he encountered a dozen boys, some of them very young, still teenagers, no more than seventeen or eighteen. Most of them lived in Syria, Lebanon, Iran, or Iraq and had taken part in numerous punitive expeditions. They were in Paris prepared to obey orders from the supreme commanders to carry out attacks. What type of attack, nobody knew yet. Ivan was struck by the presence of two girls, two twins, Botul and Afsa. Originally from Turkey, they had lived in Brussels and had recently settled in France. In Brussels they had been part of an ensemble, The Amazones, hoping one day to become famous singers. Unless death mowed them down beforehand; an eventuality of which they were not afraid. Wasn’t death the supreme consecration? Botul and Afsa were to have a considerable influence on the life of Ivan. He became their friend and visited them daily in their apartment on the outskirts of Villeret-le-François. They impressed on him a host of complex feelings. He admired their slender silhouettes, their sparkling eyes, and their thin upper lips which revealed two sets of dazzling white teeth. Above all, he admired their turn of mind. He would have liked his sister to be like them: rebellious and ridiculing, casting a critical eye on society and manifesting a permanent distrust of the West. Instead of which, Ivana became more submissive and conformist by the day. She accompanied Maylan to movies and concerts and enthused about films and books that were devoid of interest, but for her were remarkably successful.
“You’re not interested in anything,” she blamed her brother. “You don’t like anything. You complain about everything.”
She was right, Ivan told himself. He very likely deserved to be blamed. But how could you pretend to be someone else?
Since Botul and Afsa had given him tickets for a performance by a group with the surprising name of The Singing Berbers, he didn’t hesitate to invite Ivana, who to his surprise categorically refused to accompany him.
“You don’t want to go?” he asked.
She put on her poker-faced look.
“I assume that most of the spectators will be North Africans. Quite frankly, I don’t like Arabs.”
“You don’t like Arabs!” Ivan exclaimed, stupefied. “How can you say such a thing? It’s as if someone said they don’t like Blacks. The Arabs are our friends. Or rather, our brothers,” he corrected himself, remembering Monsieur Jérémie’s lessons. “I even consider them to be role models, intellectual leaders. They were colonized like us. In Algeria they paid a terrible price fighting for their freedom.”
Ivana remained unflustered.
“Perhaps you’re telling the truth,” she said. “What I do know is that Arab men cannot look at a woman without flirting with her and making crude advances. And the women with their ridiculous headscarves stand there watching them as if they were gods.”
The twins, Botul and Afsa, soon confided in Ivan a hidden secret in their lives. Up to the age of twenty, stuck in a family obsessed with their problems of survival, their father a night watchman, their mother a cleaning woman, they had been lovers. No man or woman suited them. They slept in each other’s arms and made passionate love. Only the contours of each other’s body satisfied them. One night their sleep had been brutally interrupted. They had seen the archangel Gabriel seated in tears at the foot of their bed. Looking straight at them, his eyes brimming with tears, he told them how the nature of their relationship offended God. They were committing a crime which would close the gates of Paradise to them forever. This scene had had a devastating effect on them. They had become conscious of their fault and no longer sinned, putting an end to their relationship.
You can imagine the effect such a confession had on Ivan. Of course he had always known that, twin or not, the feelings and desire he felt for Ivana were unnatural. He had never thought, however, that they offended God. He reassured himself by saying he had never committed a reprehensible act. He had never brushed against his sister’s body in an indecent manner. Had he voluntarily deluded hims
elf and hidden the truth? Was Ivana in fact a cause for damnation?
Henceforth Ivan’s malaise became acute. His fear of guilt constantly haunted him. Apart from that, he told himself, his life was beyond reproach. He prayed five times a day, he fasted during Ramadan, and on Fridays he never failed to go to the mosque. Moreover, despite his meager income, he gave alms whenever it was possible. He piously read and reread his Koran.
If there was someone who realized Ivan’s radicalization, it was Henri Duvignaud, the lawyer, who learned about his quarrel with Ulysses. The reasons appeared obvious, but he decided to invite Ivan to dinner to be clear in his own mind. Henri Duvignaud was a fervent adept of the pleasures of the night. For him life began at sunset. Paris was a series of bars where alcohol overflowed, restaurants where you ate well, and places where you met open-minded and sophisticated individuals. He took Ivan to The Caravansérail, situated at the Porte Maillot, whose chef had lived for many years in Japan then China before settling down in Paris. Underneath his frivolous appearance and the perpetual celebrity smile on his lips, Henri was an excellent judge of men. He sensed that Ivan belonged to that species of humans who could be turned into the most dangerous of rebels.
As soon as they were served the starter, a delicate pastry stuffed with scallops, Henri interrogated Ivan.
“I hear you no longer see Ulysses?”
Ivan downed his glass of grenadine and nodded.
“What have you got against him?” Henri insisted. “He’s a nice boy and very deserving as well.”
“Very deserving?” Ivan exclaimed. “Do you know the job he’s doing?”
Ivan burst into a fit of anger.
“He’s a prostitute for women in exchange for money.”
Henri looked Ivan straight in the eye.
“Would you have preferred he stayed in Cambrésis and continue to be raped because of his looks and insulted because of his color, or that he continue to do humiliating jobs for a few euros a time and in the end be beaten to death like Mansour? Is that what you would have wanted? Is that what you would have wanted? That he stays in hell? The world is a nasty business and, as the African proverb says, nobody gets out alive.”
