by Simon Pare
She studied every line of my face in search of arguments to back up the idiotic phrase I’d just pronounced. She finally shrugged her shoulders.
“Aziz, I don’t need lying to. Especially now.”
I laid one hand on her hair. She pulled her head away, leaving me with my hand hanging there and my useless love.
“I’m not lying to you, Meriem. It’s just what I believe deep down.”
Mathieu, who was bringing us an umpteenth cup of tea, gave me an inquisitorial glance. I sought refuge in the kitchen and my father-in-law soon joined me there. As he put the cups in the sink, he whispered, “How come you’re so sure, Aziz?”
I lost my cool.
“What do you want me to do? Break her heart by telling her I expect him to kill the girl after raping her first? Mind your own business, for God’s sake!”
His eyes, their pupils half-hidden by the grey irises, looked me up and down with hostile disdain.
“But Aziz, this is my business.”
He carried on drying the cup that he had rinsed under the tap, holding my gaze the whole time. I couldn’t think of a riposte.
“Leave that,” I said, grabbing the tea towel, “I’ll wash up the rest.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to do it myself. Look at your hands: you must be allergic to something, you haven’t stopped scratching yourself since early afternoon. Put some ointment on them.”
The Frenchman’s voice contained no trace of irony. I plunged my hands into my pockets because I was indeed scratching them just then.
In the bathroom, I washed my face instead of looking for the ointment because I knew what was causing the terrible rash covering my hands as well as my back and lower thighs.
Fear, pure fear. I thought I could feel countless white worms boring their way between my muscles and my skin. Ever since the informer had agreed to meet me, I’d been thinking of how to go about it. In vain: my brain seemed incapable of deciding to murder someone for real. I realised that I couldn’t count on my brain – not the logical part of my brain anyway – because it kept saying that my attempt would go horribly wrong and that at the end of the day the kidnapper wouldn’t keep his word.
It was already twenty past six. In the kitchen, I looked for the longest knife we owned – the one Meriem had taken to the mosque. I stuck it in the inside pocket of my jacket. Short of breath, I carefully buttoned up the item of clothing, concentrating hard on every movement. Back in the lounge, I picked up my raincoat on the way past and after giving Meriema quick kiss on the head as she sat there curled up on her chair, I walked out without looking round.
The car clock showed that I had only twenty minutes at the most to prepare for the murder. “Help me, Mother, ask your God to give me a hand…” – this preposterous prayer blossomed on my lips. My poor mother, whom I hadn’t seen for over a year and a half at least, and who complained on the phone that I was unfairly keeping her granddaughter from her! Seized by a searing pang of remorse, I swore that if things got back to normal, I would make sure that my mother could see her fill of her granddaughter, even if it meant crossing three-quarters of Algeria to do so.
I had spent a large part of my years at university devouring pile after pile of detective novels. I realised that I was about to act in the crassest possible manner, leaving behind a series of compromising clues, each of them leading to almost certain arrest, the prelude to the death penalty if the victim turned out not to be a mere informer but a fully fledged member of the state security services. On second thoughts I might not be lucky enough, relatively speaking, to attend my own trial: I could end up on the verge of motorway, done in with a couple of bullets in the head after a few good torture sessions.
Despite the chilly dusk, I felt the dampness of sweat on the collar of my shirt. A neighbour greeted me as he walked past. There goes the first witness – one! You little bastard son of Mother Folly and Father Ineptitude, are you really going to sit here and wait while all your neighbours file past? squealed the shrill-voiced tenant who never missed a chance to stick his nose into my incompetence. I decided to go away and only come back at the exact time of our appointment so as to avoid any other unwelcome encounters. I had only walked about a hundred yards when I saw him getting out of his own car. From the tense expression on his face, I guessed that the man had been observing me for some time. Pretending to be overjoyed, I signalled to him to meet me in my car. He seemed to hesitate, then a semblance of a smile broke over his face. He strode vigorously across the space separating us and, after a quick glance round, jumped into the car. He held out a condescending hand to me as if he were the one deigning to invite me into his own vehicle.
“Thank you for coming, Si Abdou.”
My voice had cracked.
“You won’t regret it. I mean…”
The weasel-eyed informer cut me off. “We’ll see about that, but don’t they say that to help one’s neighbour is to reserve one’s place in paradise? Now, tell me about this business of yours and how it might benefit us both.”
I consented with my most gutless smile, feeling how the ridiculousness and the horror of the situation were gradually paralysing me. Only a few inches separated the tip of the knife from my passenger’s heart, but it might as well have been the distance between the two shores of the Mediterranean. As if scalded by the acidic hormones of fear, my brain had refused to take part in planning such an insane crime. I had therefore not ‘thought’ of how events might unfold, in particular to where I would lure the creature presently to my right in order to turn him into a corpse.
“So, shall we talk?” said my passenger with a hint of impatience.
“Actually…”
“Si Aziz, I hope you’re not messing me around?”
His voice had taken on a threatening undertone.
“Erm, Si Abdou, this situation requires trust and confidentiality because the sums at stake are very large… Can… Can I expect both of those from you?”
Stunned by the stupidity of the words that had streamed out of my mouth, I sat there staring into the other man’s eyes, which I saw go wide with astonishment and then almost immediately narrow with anger.
“What do you take me for? A thief? You aren’t showing me enough respect! It was you who came to see me! I… I…”
One trembling hand on the door handle, he made a move to get out. Covering myself in apologies, I reached out to stop him. My hand touched his, lingering there one or two seconds too long. Then I pulled away from him, as if I had just realised the impudence of my familiarity. Still pouring out a stream of apologies, I hoped with all my might that I had managed to conceal the small surge of joy that threatened to become a smile of triumph.
My passenger’s hand was not activating the door-opening mechanism at all.
In fact, the man was just putting on an act of indignation for my benefit. My ever-so-cunning fox had taken the bait, convinced that there was money to be made from some shady administrative dealings…
Abdou magnanimously conceded, “All right, all right, I accept your apologies. But for God’s sake don’t offend me like that again!”
He raised the palm of his hand to his lips to wipe away a strand of saliva.
“Of course we are all trustworthy people here, dear neighbour,” he murmured solemnly with no trace of anger in his voice. “I know quite a few people…”
Lowering his voice: “…Far more than you could imagine… And some of them are very important…”
While his spread fingers mimicked the presence of numerous stars on imaginary epaulettes, he repeated vainly, “Important… Yes, very important…”
With a cigarette in one hand, the informer pushed in the cigarette lighter.
“Let’s get down to business. Show me this wonderful building plot of yours first and we’ll talk about our arrangement afterwards.”
Giving me a faint, knowing wink, he took a long drag on his cigarette. This podgy fifty-year-old man with his receding hairline and teeth that c
ould have done with seeing a dentist suddenly struck me like an ugly, old whore who promised more than she could deliver. I had expected to feel sickened, but I was overcome with pity instead. I bent over the dashboard to hide my strange pain at knowing this individual’s likely fate…
So, little man, you’re hoping to cheat me out of a few dinars, whereas I’m preparing to cheat you out of your life! I have no idea what horrors you’ve been involved in before now, but no one deserves to die by the hand of another man, that I grant you!
…And right then I knew that this grief, this hideous compassion, would in no way prevent me from carrying out my plan to murder him!
“Let’s go, Si Abdou! I’m sorry I expressed any doubts; I am so afraid of greedy people who do not recoil from the dishonour dishonesty brings. But I am convinced that is not the case with you. I often see you on your way to the mosque, and that proves that you fear God and his prophets.”
My voice was so soft that my surprised companion shot me a severe, questioning glance.
I smiled, intoxicated with sadness.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Life’s funny sometimes. But often at the wrong time!”
The passenger studied me uncomfortably before deciding not to let it show. As I manoeuvred the car, I looked over my shoulder to check that no one had seen me take my passenger on board. The surrounding area was deserted. In passing, my eyes spotted the bag I had thrown on the back seat.
“Let’s go.”
We drove towards the airport for a good quarter of an hour. Night had fallen and the clouds intensified the darkness. I now knew where I was heading.
The informer and I had struck up a classic Algerian conversation, carefully avoiding the main subject of our meeting. He asked me about my health and that of my family, then about how many children I had. “One,” I replied.
“Girl or boy?” he continued.
“Girl.”
“Oh, a girl,” he sighed with a slight note of compassion. “But you and your wife are still young.”
I hastened to pose the question the idiot was waiting for.
“How many do you have?”
“Three boys – and God alone is merciful! They have all left home. Both the elder ones are married; the youngest is doing his military service. I didn’t see enough of them! You’d think that time passed only to cause regret…”
The man sighed again. I turned to look at him; he thought I was wondering how old he was.
“In my time people married young and quickly got down to having children. Times were hard, you never knew whether your luck would change or not. I’m a shade over fifty-eight. Maybe God will spare me long enough to see the rottenness around me turn to honey?”
His laughter rang out unpleasantly in the car.
“Top-quality Algerian shit turning to honey; now that would be some miracle! Anyway, that’ll soon be your case, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’ll see for yourself,” I replied, flicking the right indicator on.
We drove along a track before arriving at a vast, abandoned building site scattered with rusting containers and the skeletons of industrial machinery.
“Is this it?” said Abdou, surprised.
We had got out of the car and were looking out over a desolate landscape of structures and heaps of scrap iron that stood out in the headlights.
“Yes, this is it. But not just this. Follow me.”
“But we can’t see a thing!”
“I’ve got everything we need.”
I rummaged around in the glove compartment and pulled out an electric torch. Bending forward, I reached out towards the back seat. My hand hesitated between the hammer and the screwdriver before opting for the former. When I stood up again, I had time to slip the hammer into the inside pocket of my raincoat.
Knife on the left, hammer on the right. I felt my hands becoming moist. In contrast, my mouth was so dry it didn’t seem to belong to me anymore.
“I’ve got the torch, Si Abdou.”
“Why are you shouting? I’m standing next to you.”
I turned off the headlights and got out of the car. While my hand smoothed out any bumps in my raincoat, I pretended to struggle with the torch switch.
“Ah, here it is!”
I pointed the beam of light at the informer’s face. He blinked, but the mask of mistrust contorting his features had not disappeared.
“Is this your wonderful building plot?”
“Yes, but this is only part of it, Si Abdou. I told you it was worth a fortune. Let’s go up there and take a look at the other two plots – both farmed – that are also part of the land.”
The man snorted.
“But this building site belongs to a state-owned company!”
I adopted a light-hearted tone.
“Belonged… belonged, Si Abdou! In actual fact, the land this building site is on belongs to my family. It was nationalised by Boumedienne in the seventies. We pursued the matter through the courts for a long time; my poor father ruined his health doing it. The good news is that the courts have just recognised us as the undisputed owners of this land and some of the plots around it. The state-owned company thought we would win in the end. That’s why they abandoned the building work.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Si Abdou, you know very well that it’s not enough for an Algerian court to find in your favour. Its decision still has to be implemented! I need money, but you know all about how troublesome all the bureaucracy can be – it could drag on for years and years. I need someone to ‘iron out’ some of the problems with the council departments, find a way around the jealous people at the land registry, mollify the jackals at the tax office… you know, that sort of tricky operation. Otherwise I’ll only enjoy the benefits of my property in a decade’s time, maybe even longer…”
The man’s expression was still dubious.
“Si Abdou, this used to be farmland. But some of it is going to be serviced. We’re not far from the airport here. You know what that means: they could build a hotel, a shopping centre or some other thing! I don’t know many people at all in Algiers–but you do. Imagine the price per square foot…”
The word ‘airport’ had an almost immediate effect on the informer.
“If I help you to… to solve your problems with your land, how much of the sales price would I get?”
His voice quavered slightly. I once more turned the torch on my companion. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so scared; distrust, though it had not entirely disappeared, had given way to good old greed.
“Don’t waste any time, do you? Before I answer, I’d rather you got some idea of the size of the plot. At the other end of the building site there’s a two-storey building. Let’s go up to the top and I’ll show you the land we’re owed. Don’t worry, I know the place well.”
That was true; I knew the place because I’d been here once with Meriem! It was in the middle of the terrible nineties. We were supposed to meet some friends at the airport, but their flight from the interior of the country had been cancelled. Pro-FIS staff at the departure airport had walked out on strike, demanding the suspension of the company’s flights during the great Friday prayers. In those times of furious hounding by the Islamists, this incident, though minor, had nevertheless dampened our spirits. On the way home we had been seized by a desire for consolation and revenge. The building site was already abandoned, but it didn’t seem as ghostly as it did now. Most of the machinery had been looted or, if its weight or volume didn’t allow this, meticulously stripped.
It was spring, a beautiful light softened the wounds left by man’s plundering, and small yellow and blue flowers had colonised the space between the wrecks. I presented some to Meriem and she had joked that I was trying to buy her favours. I had whispered while I nibbled her ear that I was passionately interested in this transaction but that I was wondering where we might conclude it without ruining our backs and our bums. With a smile, she pointed
to the small two-storey structure that used to be offices. The building seemed to approve: come in, lovers, so that the three of us may cheer each other up amid all our country’s misery!
A lump of sorrow rose in my throat. To escape the trap of memory, I recalled the kidnapper’s phone call. I asked Abdou to follow me. When I reached the entrance, I almost fell into a pothole. Mockingly, but already in a slightly fawning manner, Abdou caught hold of my arm.
“Si Aziz, this is no time to go breaking a bone, just when you’re about to become rich!”
I muttered gratefully, suddenly panicked by the all-too human touch of his hand on my arm. I felt a vital need to hate this man even more strongly. I went over my reasons in my mind for the umpteenth time since selecting this man: this friendly Abdou had helped to have teenagers imprisoned, he had tortured and raped them, and it was for these crimes that I saw him as the least bad ‘solution’.
There was no front door anymore. In the hallway, I had a momentary scare that the staircase might also have vanished. Apart from some litter and shards of wine and beer bottles, the place was less dirty than I had expected.
“Where are you taking me?” the informer enquired at the top of the first flight of stairs with palpable disquiet.
“To the second floor. We’ll be overlooking the building site and I’ll show you my land. Walk in front of me. I’ll light the way for you.”
“No, I’d rather you led the way.”
His voice had grown suspicious again.
“Worried a rat might jump at your throat?” I sniggered, realising my tactlessness.
“Yes, I’m scared of rats. Aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer his question, which had an aggressive tone to it. We were already on the threshold of the second floor. The man’s breathing was husky, like an asthmatic’s. I hoped he hadn’t noticed that I was trembling and that my teeth were starting to chatter. The witness I permanently lugged around with me squeaked: Are you really going to murder this bloke in less than a minute from now?
I turned to look at Abdou.
“Here we are.”
“Almighty God, how did they do that?”
