EQMM, July 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Hinda also slipped in a word. “Madame Azoul, with all due respect, I believe the best way to promote tolerance is by practicing what you preach."

  "And that's not all,” Mathieu pursued, clicking his tongue. “Our position as an independent publisher is precarious. These days, a book's fate depends a lot on the media. We've seen a decline in sales of all our literary works recently. If this trend were to continue...” Mathieu left his sentence hanging.

  * * * *

  Thursday, October 4

  Gabrielle was putting away groceries in the kitchen cupboards. She had left her husband, taking Maeva with her, and had settled in her parents’ place while they were away on holiday. She had decided to erect a wall between Maeva and her father. Gabrielle glanced at her watch: 11:45 A.M. This was Antoine and Yasmine's big day. “Let them make the most of it. It won't last,” she muttered as she switched on the radio. She turned the dial and tuned in to the station broadcasting Both Sides.

  * * * *

  11:50 A.M.

  Antoine and Yasmine got out of a taxi and entered the studio building. The security guards had them go through a metal detector before directing them to the elevator.

  Yasmine took a deep breath and, clenching her fists, looked up at Antoine. “Why should I be afraid? I won't give them that satisfaction."

  Antoine smiled approvingly. He had not yet told Yasmine about the results of the cigarette-stub analysis: None of the fingerprints had showed up in the national database. The police had nothing solid to go on.

  * * * *

  12:00 noon

  Gabrielle raised an eyebrow as she heard the program begin. “With us today are Yasmine Azoul and Antoine Dufour. Yasmine Azoul is the author of the novel Skin Deep, published by Dufour-Planchon."

  The audience welcomed the guests with applause.

  Solange Dumas's familiar voice continued vivaciously. “Two Muslim women, one veiled, the other not, exchange lives for a day. The reader follows the adventures and the reflections of the two protagonists. The novel is largely inspired by a real-life experiment conducted by Yasmine Azoul and her co-author Hinda Wafi, who has chosen not to join us today. Let's start with you, Yasmine. How did this idea first come to you?"

  "In a writer's workshop!” Yasmine answered. “I'd seen Hinda there regularly and took to her very quickly. We shared the same religious beliefs, but our views were different when it came to wearing the veil. Suddenly it occurred to us, why not try switching skins for a day?"

  "You were born in Algeria and Hinda in France?"

  "That's right. She wears the veil and I don't. My real reason for coming to France was to experience equality of the sexes. At the university in Algiers, girls have to fight to exist without the Islamic veil. Before meeting Hinda, I used to berate Muslim women who wanted to wear the veil when they'd grown up in France. I thought it was just a fad."

  "And today?"

  "Writing this novel, I learned that whether you're veiled or not, it's no use feeling victimized by your own history. Or guilty about it. Wearing the veil is natural for Hinda. And she doesn't see herself as a scapegoat for her religion. The role of a writer is to be an impartial witness. I think there's great value in finding words to explain the way other people feel. Hinda and I have refused to confine ourselves to a simple definition of a complex reality. In our book, the two women attempt to break down any preconceived ideas the other may have had."

  The presenter turned to Antoine. “Antoine Dufour, you have exposed yourself to the wrath of extremists. Does the publication of this novel have anything to do with activist literature?"

  "The idea never crossed my mind until I was threatened. Let's just say the book's publication has bothered a few narrow-minded cranks. I would never have become a publisher, you know, if I hadn't read Sartre. The most important word in existentialism is probably the word ‘choice.’ For me, the publication of certain books constitutes a personal commitment to the search for truth. I made the decision to publish Skin Deep; now I must bear the consequences. Yasmine and Hinda have truly captured their times in this novel. I was taken in right from the very first page of the manuscript."

  Questions shot from Solange Dumas's mouth in rapid fire. “Audacity? Or just a commercial ploy? In a recent article Clémence Boulouque wrote: ‘So many things are being published on Islam, good and bad. Are publishers putting a match to the fuse?’”

  Solange Dumas asked these questions point blank and Antoine responded in a voice taut as a bowstring. “Let's not get everything mixed up."

  Then his voice softened. “Why publish this book now? Because in France, by tradition people mostly only talk about literature in the fall. And believe me, this is something I deplore! Literature is the great encyclopedia of social reality. It expresses the nature and fabric of a society. This is especially true of the novel, where we're free to escape from our taboos. Literature has an essential role to play. It helps us anticipate the stream of continual change that is life."

  The audience applauded vigorously.

  "It gives independent voices a chance to express themselves, so they can help resolve pernicious misunderstandings,” Yasmine added.

  Antoine went on, “And that's why, in spite of the pitfalls, literary publishing is indestructible. Utopian? Passionate? I'm a bit of both, I guess!"

  Solange Dumas turned back to Yasmine. “What do you remember most about your day in the skin of a veiled woman?"

  "The heat. It's hot under that veil. And the people staring at me."

  "And Hinda's day without a veil?"

  "She felt it was like...” Yasmine had trouble finding the words. “...taking off her clothes. The Egyptian novelist Ahdaf Soueif, who doesn't wear a veil, has quite rightly written: ‘The veil, like Islam itself, is at the same time sensual and puritan, it is contradictory and formidable.’ Hinda and I both aspire to a peaceful form of Islam. Hinda hides her hair under a piece of cloth and me, I keep my head bare, but this doesn't prevent us from exchanging our ideas, our reflections. Writing this novel with Hinda did me a lot of good!"

  "Do you think this book might help cool debate around the veil?"

  "I hope it will help focus some other people's minds on public-spiritedness and modernity,” Antoine offered. “In closing, I'd like to quote Aragon, if I may: ‘Literature is the art of saying things that are forbidden using words that are not.’”

  Solange Dumas thanked Antoine and Yasmine and then repeated one last time for the listeners, "Skin Deep, published by Dufour-Planchon."

  * * * *

  12:30 P.M.

  As Dumas uttered her final words, Gabrielle flicked off the radio. She felt overwhelmed by the anger that now colored her face. She had been gone for three days. Antoine must certainly have moved in with Yasmine by now (or the other way around). To protect her! She decided she had to know. In her agitation, she opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of beer, and poured herself a generous glassful.

  "Mommy!” Maeva's young voice made Gabrielle jump, beer spilling onto her bandage from the glass she held in her trembling hands.

  "Yes, darling?"

  Maeva was coming down the stairs. “I'm hungry. What's for lunch?"

  "Macaroni and cheese?"

  Gabrielle unwrapped the bandage on her right hand, revealing an ugly burn—still painful—as Maeva appeared in the doorway.

  "My tummy approves of the menu. On one condition!"

  Maeva gave a mischievous little smile to which Gabrielle responded, “More cheese than macaroni! And what about you setting the table?"

  "Right away.” Maeva hesitated an instant, then said, “Mommy, you said we were just at Grandma and Grandpa's to look after their house while they're away. But I can tell things are different between you and Daddy. I miss him."

  Gabrielle did not answer.

  * * * *

  1:00 P.M.

  Antoine and Yasmine left the studio feeling quite satisfied with their performance.

  "We did a pretty good job defe
nding our book, didn't we? What do you think, Yasmine?"

  "You were right. Never let fear determine your actions."

  "You learn fast. You also look dead tired."

  "I am! I think I need a nap,” Yasmine admitted as she hailed a taxi.

  "Shall I see you home?"

  "No, thanks. Don't worry, my mother's moved in for a few days."

  Before closing the taxi door behind her, Antoine bent down and said, “I'll give you a call tonight."

  * * * *

  7:00 P.M.

  Savoring a cup of jasmine tea with shortbread, Yasmine's mother sat absorbed in the paper: "Skin Deep. Indignant reactions from some quarters. Publisher threatened. An author's life endangered."

  The telephone rang and she picked up the cordless. “Hello?"

  It was Antoine Dufour. “How is our heroine of the day faring?"

  "Better. She had a long rest and resurfaced about an hour ago. I..."

  A noise that sounded like a muffled, strangled cry diverted Madame Azoul's attention. Was it coming from the garage?

  "Madame Azoul?! What's happening?” The concern in Antoine's voice was very real.

  Madame Azoul moved the phone away from her ear and called Yasmine several times. There was no answer. The silence was not normal. She pulled herself together and headed down the hallway, a lump in her throat. “I don't know, Monsieur Dufour ... I ... I'm going to look for Yasmine."

  Her daughter's room was empty. Madame Azoul advanced cautiously toward the railing of the stairway leading to the garage. As she opened the door on the landing, she was surprised by the cool draft that raised the hair on her forearms. Then she caught sight of the words painted on the hood of Yasmine's tiny Renault Twingo and stared in horror: BETRAYAL = PUNISHMENT.

  "Yasmine? Yasmine?!” Madame Azoul's voice rose several octaves.

  "Monsieur Dufour ... Come quickly! Come quickly! Someone's broken into my daughter's place!” she wailed into the receiver.

  In the trunk of a car speeding down the highway, Yasmine lay jammed against the spare tire struggling for breath.

  * * * *

  10:30 P.M.

  "We're going to make announcements on all the television and radio stations. And some backup units are being dispatched to help out with the search.” Alexandre Suzuki, Criminal Investigation Officer, was making every effort to sound solicitous, but confronted with the anxiety in Madame Azoul's eyes and the deathly pallor of her face, it wasn't easy to be reassuring.

  Antoine was sitting at the dining-room table, lost in thoughts of his own. Studying him out of the corner of his eye, Suzuki promised himself that he'd have a chat with him later. Suddenly, the telephone rang, making them all jump. Madame Azoul rushed for the receiver, then struggled to regain her composure, taking a deep breath before picking it up.

  "The exchange will take place tomorrow at eleven P.M. The ransom is twenty thousand euros. In fifty-euro bills. You'll receive further instructions one hour before delivery."

  The voice was harsh and sounded disguised. The most accurate description Madame Azoul could come up with was to say that it sounded fake.

  "Impossible to locate the call,” interjected a police officer.

  "Twenty-four hours, only twenty-four hours!” Suzuki cursed.

  They had just hung up the phone when it rang again. Antoine leaped from his chair and snatched up the receiver. “Hello? Hello?"

  "It's me, Hinda.... They're asking for a ransom? Oh my God, that's awful!” She was clearly very agitated.

  An instant later, Mathieu knocked at the door, panting for breath. “When did Yasmine disappear?"

  Madame Azoul explained the circumstances surrounding the kidnapping before leaving the room, her footsteps heavy with fatigue.

  "Monsieur Dufour,” said Officer Suzuki cautiously, “we have examined the threat letter and found no conclusive evidence. No fingerprints. The culprit hasn't left a trace."

  "Quelle merde!" Antoine exclaimed.

  Suzuki went on calmly. “We've brought in the extremists we know to be connected to Islamic groups for questioning. They've made no secret of their religious fanaticism, but we failed to find anything incriminating when we searched their premises. We've turned up nothing to confirm our fears."

  With a perplexed look on his face, Suzuki mused, “Why ask for only twenty thousand euros? And no allusion to the promotion of the book. Strange."

  "But that's made very clear in the threat letter."

  "Precisely! That's what intrigues me. This time round, he's stated no conditions in that regard. Unless..."

  "Unless?"

  "He has no intention of letting her go. We have twenty-four hours to solve all this."

  "Why he?" Antoine's voice trembled just the right amount.

  "There must be a connection between the thug who assaulted Yasmine in your bookshop, the explosion, and the kidnapper. Given the urgency of the situation, you should contact your distributors immediately and tell them to stop everything for the moment. Nevertheless, you're quite right. We must remain open to any possibility."

  Taken aback, Antoine exclaimed, “Give in to threats?"

  "Let's just say we need to calm things down a bit. In your eyes, who, other than a lunatic, might hate Yasmine so much that they'd..."

  "As far as I know, she doesn't have any enemies."

  "A witness noticed a metallic-grey Renault Clio hatchback parked in front of Yasmine's home toward the end of the afternoon. They couldn't make out who the driver was, but he or she was obviously watching the place."

  "A Clio, you say!"

  "That's right, a Clio.” Suzuki was all ears.

  "My wife Gabrielle drives a grey Clio. She thinks I'm having an affair with Yasmine. I've asked for a divorce. Her pathological jealousy is poisoning my life. She's staying at her parents’ place at the moment with our daughter. In a sudden fit of madness she might conceivably have come by here, looking for some sort of evidence to support her phony accusations. Gabrielle is definitely unpredictable, but she's not a criminal."

  "Unpredictable?"

  "She drinks too much."

  "What does your wife do for a living?"

  "She's the director of a chemical laboratory."

  "Perfect profile for putting together a homemade bomb like the one that wrecked your bookshop."

  "Hold it right there. You're going too far. And you've got things wrong. She was at work that day. I'm not trying to find alibis for her, but it would be hard to imagine Gabrielle's trembling fingers assembling a bomb. Since she hit the bottle she's been plagued by clumsiness, even at work. In fact, just recently she burned herself preparing a solution without her gloves on. She was handling acid like a beginner."

  "Like a beginner?"

  "Yes. You hardly need to be an expert to know that you add acid to water and not the other way around. That's high-school stuff."

  "I don't remember what I learned in chemistry at high school!"

  "I'm married to a specialist on the subject."

  "Exactly! Now, there's a lead worth exploring.” Despite Antoine's display of scepticism, Suzuki's voice was charged with innuendo.

  "Il n'y a pas de fumée sans feu, Monsieur Dufour."

  "If you're trying to be funny, think again."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fumée, feu, Dufour."

  "You strike me as very defensive about the matter.... How would you describe your relationship with Yasmine Azoul?"

  "I'm just her publisher and a friend. Gabrielle imagines the most dramatic betrayal scenarios every time a woman gets anywhere near me."

  * * * *

  Friday, October 5, 9:00 A.M.

  Antoine informed all the relevant people in the book industry about the measures that had to be taken given the seriousness of the situation. As he hung up the phone, he glanced at his desk diary. Ten thousand copies sold in two weeks! With a look of near triumph on his face, Antoine crushed the fax his accountant had sent on September 21 with the words “...
declare bankruptcy...” The media were giving the shocking event wide coverage. Skin Deep was selling like hotcakes.

  Mathieu popped into the back office. “Gabrielle doesn't suspect a thing, Antoine!"

  "That's the whole idea!” responded Antoine, slipping on his coat.

  Mathieu stepped to one side to let him by. “Where are you going?"

  "I've got an appointment with the accountant, and later this morning I'm seeing my lawyer, Maître Legrand. I won't let that bitch take my daughter away from me!"

  The accountant shook Antoine's hand warmly and offered him a seat.

  "Your increase in profits couldn't have come at a better time, Monsieur Dufour."

  "I really thought it was game over."

  "So did I. But fortune has smiled on you."

  Antoine sighed heavily. “I wouldn't put it that way."

  "Please excuse my lack of tact. I've been following the whole business in the press. This story is really taking on unbelievable proportions."

  Sensing that the conversation was moving toward an embarrassing subject, the accountant handed Antoine the latest inventory and offered him a quick overview of the new state of his finances. The situation was so encouraging that when he left the accountant's office—despite the gravity of the circumstances—Antoine could no longer contain his joy and executed a little dance in the corridor. As he did so, he felt his cell phone vibrate.

  "Maeva, my little sweetheart."

  "How are you, Daddy?"

  "Almost better now that I hear your voice. Everything all right with Mommy?"

  "Yes. But I've got a feeling we're going to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's forever!"

  "That's just a feeling, sweetheart. Everything will soon be back to normal."

  "Have you made up with Mommy?"

  Antoine evaded the question and said he was sorry to have to cut the call short. He promised his daughter that he would see her again soon.

  * * * *

  9:50 P.M.

  The kidnapper was going to call in approximately ten minutes to give his instructions. Antoine emerged from Yasmine's bathroom, where he'd been splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to wash away the stress he was feeling, and joined the others in the living room/library. Officer Suzuki was pacing to and fro between the window and the desk where the telephone sat in its place of honor. The two police officers positioned on either side of Madame Azoul were trying to reassure her. The poor woman was distraught. Hinda sat silent and nervous, holding her head between her hands and massaging her temples impatiently.