by Simon Pare
“Is that you, Shehera?”
A feeble “Yes, Dad’ answered me, and it was so painful that I knew the kidnapper wasn’t bluffing.
I murmured, “Did he hurt you again, my girl?”
“Yes… It’s bleeding… Dad, it… hurts so much… He gave me some pills, but they don’t help one bit…”
Tears welled up in my eyes. My baby, my tiny, tiny baby. I had asked to be there when Shehera was born. The midwife had scowled at my request, muttering that it was a haram custom that invaded a woman’s privacy. I objected that my wife had agreed. Surprised by my stupidity, the midwife retorted that she was talking about her own privacy and that she refused to touch a woman’s private parts in the presence of a man! Nonetheless, the birth had taken place in my presence and my daughter had emerged from her mother’s sex like some strange astronaut visiting the Earthmen. Beside myself with joy, I had seen the infant smile at me as I stroked its head.
And now my mischievous astronaut was gulping down pills because a demented man from a different and evil planet had cut off two of her fingers! The black bile of pity rose in my throat.
“I’m sorry… I love you, my girl… I’m sorry… so sorry…”
“Dad, he’s definitely going to kill me… Just now, I begged him… Oh Dad, how I begged him… But he wouldn’t listen…”
She added in utter amazement, “Is there really nothing anyone can do for me, Dad?”
She had formulated her supplication in a tone that said “You are my father, after all. It’s up to you to protect me!” It was her heart-rending pre-adolescent voice, from back when she still thought me the most powerful man on earth.
It hit me with more glaring certainty than the sun – nothing, not even debasement through the worst kind of ignominy, was worth a jot compared to my daughter’s suffering!
“I swear on my own life, Shehera, that I will set you free!”
I didn’t hear her reaction. Instead I was rewarded with the kidnapper’s approval.
“Not a moment too soon. Now there’s a resolution I can second!”
He clicked his tongue.
“Now… A little patience while I leave your daughter’s room… We need to talk.”
I could tell by the screeching and rattling of metal that he was locking a door. He was out of breath when he next spoke.
“Yes, we need to have a little chat…”
Once more, his words were interrupted by a wheezing cough.
“He’s ill… or rather, old… The bastard’s old!” I thought and this realisation, along with its simplistic conclusion (an old man’s got less to lose) paralysed me.
“Pardon me, let’s call it… the emotion… Believe me – I’m just as overcome as you are. You’ve made up your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You won’t hold back at the last moment?”
“No, but you have to give me some assurance that you won’t hurt my daughter and that you’ll free her tomorrow… afterwards.”
“If you behave, tomorrow your daughter will be free.”
“That’s not good enough. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t, sonny. Here in Algeria not even the president has to keep his word. Why should I give you any guarantees? This matter is between the two of us; I decide and you accept my decisions. Otherwise, your daughter suffers the consequences. You’ve seen so far that I haven’t been joking. Is our contract clearer now?”
I managed to articulate an indeterminate yes. And almost without my realising it my lips stammered, “Why… me? Why… my family?”
“Let’s just say the story goes back a long, long way. Maybe one day, when you and I have become friends, I will tell you everything and you will understand, if you have the heart.”
He had spoken this last sentence without the slightest hint of mockery.
“Tell me, have you already chosen?”
“Erm, yes… I mean… no…”
He let out a strange, understanding laugh.
“Let me guess. You chose some unpleasant so-and-so and you hesitated at the last moment… You weren’t brave enough. Your weapon’s a knife? Or something similar, am I right? You’re not the kind of guy who could dig up a pistol. I bet you’ve never slit a throat, not even a sheep’s for Eid. You’re gentle by nature; the war that is sending this country to the dogs is nothing to do with you. At least that’s what you thought until today. Am I wrong?”
The bile rose into my mouth again.
“You see, the secret is to choose someone you can unleash your own hate mechanism against. You’ve had one since you were born, hidden away deep down in your guts. All you have to do, somehow or other, is to find the ‘on’ switch.”
His tone had grown passionate.
“I’m sure there are people you know whom you would hate if you really wanted to. But hating is a fulltime job; I know from experience. On the other hand, there’s no lack of potential prey in this country of ours: the corrupt, the cheaters, the thieves, the child rapists, people who murder entire families…
He stopped to catch his breath. It was obvious, in spite of the wickedness of his crime, that he didn’t include himself in the category of rapists and murderers.
“All right, those crooks are so much part of the scenery that it doesn’t even offend honest people to rub shoulders with them anymore. Often, in fact, they envy them for being richer and more powerful. Nobody ever got rich from being honest in our wonderful Algeria, just as having a virgin arse has never fed a girl’s stomach. But in this particular case, be more moral than you are normally: seek out the scum, even if they’re well dressed. You’ll know you’ve chosen your victim well if your reaction to someone else killing him were something like ‘Serves the bastard right!”’
You’re not just any old terrorist – you’re too articulate for that. You’re not some ordinary bearded, filthy ‘Afghan’ who can just about manage to mumble a couple of surahs before blowing himself up in the street! You’re probably middle-aged, educated, maybe even one of the dignitaries you’ve just portrayed?
“Think about what I’ve told you, Aziz, and sniff the air: vermin smells! Rapier-sharp hate and contempt; those are your weapons.”
“But what good does it do you if I kill an innocent person?”
“For the time being that’s none of your business. Keep to the terms of our agreement: you kill, I free; you don’t kill, I kill. Understood? While we’re on the subject, don’t ever turn off your mobile – I shall ring you several times today. I don’t want to miss any of our hunt; I want to savour every minute of it.”
He had stressed the words our hunt.
“To sum up: do you love your daughter more than your own life?
“Yes, of course. That’s exactly what a parent is for: to love his children more than his own life. That’s what your religion proclaims, isn’t it?”
I could have kicked myself for making such a scathing remark. But there was no trace of irritation in the stranger’s reply, just impatience verging on bitterness.
“You’re mistaken: I know that as well as you. And what’s more, I’ve known it for far longer.”
He concluded in a husky voice, “So everything’s very simple for you, Aziz. You agree with me that there is always a price to pay for fine sentiments. It’s payback time. Fair journey, brother!”
Immediately I thought of my wife, of the complex yet simple love I felt for her and of the lie I must now invent to protect her. At the same time, I readied myself for the awful possibility that Meriem might not love me by the same time tomorrow, when my soul had been sucked down into the mire of premeditated murder.
I rang Meriem. She answered immediately.
“Why did you put your phone on voicemail?”
And leaving me no time to explain myself: “At the office they told me that you left straight after you arrived, even though there was a delegation from the ministry… Why did you turn your mobile off?”
In her reproach bri
stling with anger there was still the same crazed grief that had not left her since the day before. I was tempted to confess everything to her, to share with her the burden of our daughter’s torture, but I had a premonition that my wife’s suffering, however strong and courageous she might appear, would be like a bottomless void, and that what she had endured up till now was nothing compared to what awaited her.
The only side I knew of Meriem was her ability to create happiness in a country that revered misery. I was now discovering the reverse of this skill: her utter fragility, like an immune deficiency, in the face of the cruelty enacted upon her family.
A rush of almost physical hatred for the author of this devastation swept up through my lungs. I had trouble swallowing the oxygen as it resisted my attempts.
Then, sick with compassion for Meriem, I began to lie.
“I’m sorry about the telephone. Battery problems. I managed to talk to the terrorist… Shehera… Shehera’s fine…”
“Oh,” she gasped.
“He’s going to free her soon.”
“Did he say that? Huh, did he?”
I detected in her question a battle between the scolding of her reason (You stupid goose, why would this sadist free her without anything in return?) and her desire to believe that she would soon hold her daughter safe and sound in her arms. I ran my tongue over my lips to wet them and realised that I had no saliva left.
“Yes. He sounded sincere… and… and…”
I couldn’t think of anything to add. I finished off miserably, “That’s it…”
“That’s all? Sincere? That’s all you can think of to tell me? But the guy’s a GIA madman! He’s going to… He’s going to… Everyone knows what they do to their prisoners…”
She didn’t burst into tears; she just produced a muffled gasp. It sounded as if an axe had come crashing down on her lungs.
I heard a crackling on the line as if someone was handling the mobile carelessly. Then another voice took over.
“Aziz, it’s me, Mathieu. Can I have a word with you?”
His voice was curt, almost commanding, unlike the shy, polite tone my father-in-law usually adopted with me, but he carried on before I could tell him to get lost.
“I’m in the kitchen, the women can’t hear us. The kidnapper contacted me. He inferred that he knew me well.”
“What difference does it make? Everyone in the neighbourhood knows you’re my father-in-law!”
“Let me finish. That he’d known me for a long time. You hear: a very long time. He called me Mathieu, son of Bernard.”
“Bernard?”
“That’s my father’s name. No one knows my father’s name.”
“Did he give you any other details like that?”
“No, except that he would refresh my memory when the time came.”
“What difference does it make to… to our situation?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Then, continuing a little more uncertainly: “Probably none.”
I looked at my free hand; it was shaking. I stopped myself from calling my father-in-law an impostor, for his voice contradicted his words.
“You haven’t told Meriem all of that, have you? What are his real demands?”
And without leaving me any time to invent a plausible answer, he demanded, in his newfound imperious tone, “We’ve got to talk about all of this, the two of us. Very soon. Where are you, Aziz?”
I sensed that my determination not to tell Meriem anything would melt like snow in the sun as soon as I met her anxious gaze. I knew my wife’s powers of persuasion, her ability to untangle the threads of my thoughts perhaps more effectively than I could myself. Yet I still went home, on the pretext to myself that I had to recharge the battery and repair the casing of my phone. During the whole drive, I considered which person I should sacrifice.
I double-parked the car at the foot of our block of flats. A kid selling peanuts smiled at me. I didn’t smile back – I didn’t feel I had the right to anymore. My father-in-law was waiting for me in the entrance. He wanted to talk straight away. I flatly refused.
“In a minute! I want to see Meriem first.”
Checking his anger, Mathieu’s face bore a senile expression of guilt. I watched my father-in-law out of the corner of my eye as we climbed the stairs. His tic was striking: one eyelid shut and opened so totally independently of the other that they no longer seemed to belong to the same person.
My wife was sitting staring at the window. She wasn’t crying. In front of her was a box of aspirin. When I came in she turned her head towards me and stared at me indifferently, as if I was no longer one of those who shared her pain. “Have I already lost you, my beloved?” I wondered, with a feeling that my heart was crumbling. Laying my hand on her shoulder, I murmured, “I spoke to the kidnapper. He promised me that…”
“Oh, he promised you… And you believed him?”
Her voice wasn’t even sarcastic. Meriem, my love, I don’t want to argue with you; these are perhaps the last moments of innocence that I’ll spend with you. Help me gather enough strength…
“And you believed him?”
… to cross over to the soul-killers…
“Why won’t you answer me, Aziz?”
“I have no choice. If I don’t believe the bastard, my only choice is to bury my daughter alive.”
Without meaning to I had raised my voice. Meriem’s mother glared at me before returning to her prayers. My wife stared at me wide-eyed. Shadowed by dark rings of exhaustion, her eyes hovered on the verge of anger before misting up. She took my hand, seemed to examine it with interest and then sighed in a defeated voice, “I’ll never cope. Find her, Aziz, I beseech you.”
“I will find her, Meriem, I promise you, I… whatever the cost.”
In my lying mind circled a black hawk, impassively observing the rabbit I had become as I ran back and forth in search of a non-existent hiding-place. My voice cracked. I broke off my oath just before I uttered the unutterable: I shall obey him, I shall kill not just one but a thousand strangers for you and for Shehera. I swear to you by… by I don’t know whom… but I swear to you!
I leaned towards Meriem’s ear and whispered the motto from our small family’s imaginary coat of arms: “The three of us form a solar system, and each of our celestial bodies stands united with its two companions.”
I had pronounced a different version of this maxim the first time we made love: “You are my sun and I am your planet. Together we form the beginning of a solar system!” Exhaling both her own fragrance, our intermingled sweat and the sperm between her legs, she retorted impishly, “The sun only exists because it is consumed by a perpetual fire. Watch out that you don’t get burned, you horny stargazer!”
The motto had changed when our little girl was born. Shehera became our sun and we, the planets, orbited around her! When we made love, I would sometimes nibble Meriem’s ear and whisper that I was no ordinary planet, I was a wild satellite that would forever spin around her so as not to miss a single curve of her buttocks, her breasts and her miraculous cavities.
Meriem looked up. For the first time since her our daughter had been kidnapped, a miserable smile flickered across her lips.
“Make sure, Aziz, that our little sun doesn’t die. A planet and its satellite cannot survive the death of their star.”
I had trouble choking back a sob. She accepted my allusion to our nights of joy even as we floundered in the deepest misery. Maybe, I tried to persuade myself, she meant that she still loved me despite the gangrene around us? I shook my wife’s hand in gratitude, but my throat was so tight I was incapable of returning a single sound.
“Aziz, let’s go and do some shopping, just you and me. Some vegetables, some coffee.”
I jumped. Mathieu was standing in front of me with his ridiculous peasant’s hat on his head and a basket in his hand. I would have burst out laughing if I hadn’t felt so sad. “Let’s go, you old fool. Let’s go off arm in arm to get some carr
ots and tomatoes, and you can give me your brilliant thoughts on my daughter’s kidnapping.”
“How about if you went on your own?” I tried, making no attempt to hide my loathing. “Perhaps I’d be more useful here?”
The face paled, the eyes hardened.
“I really need your help,” the old man insisted.
I was already in the doorway when Meriem called me back.
“You’re sure we shouldn’t call the police? What if we’re wrong about this?”
Overwhelmed, I held out my empty palms in a sign of ignorance. I looked down to avoid her gaze. I shut the door behind me like a robber while my mother-in-law carried on reciting the prayer against the whispering devil that concludes the Koran: “…Against the mischief of the stealthily withdrawing whisperer, who whispers in man’s breast against djinn and men.”
At the local grocer’s shop, Mathieu selected, almost at random, some fruit and vegetables, bread, coffee and a kilo of frozen meat. Each time the old man asked for an item in Arabic, the shopkeeper answered him brazenly in French. “It’s really working, eh, your genuine Aurès peasant’s hat?” I whispered maliciously, picking up a packet of rice. At the till, Mathieu held out two thousand-dinar notes, but I brushed his money aside.
“Let’s go to your car,” he said, basket in hand, as I made for the block of flats.
“OK,” I mumbled, “but make it quick.”
We jumped into the car. He pushed aside the bag that I had forgotten to put back in the boot and then put the basket between his feet. Running his tongue over his lips, he stared anxiously at me, then his eyes left mine and roamed aimlessly for a few seconds.
“Well?”
“The man on the telephone…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think he’s a terrorist, an Islamist from the GIA or some other group. His language, the jokes he cracks… It’s true that he spoke like an Islamist at first, lots of Allahs and Sidna Mohammads all over the place. But then he changed register. He sounded like he was making fun of himself and of religion, as if he were taunting us with the idea that maybe he wasn’t the crazy terrorist we thought he was. I might be wrong though…”
