by Simon Pare
Aziz was overwhelmed with an unbearable sense of jealousy as he watched the scene. He had overheard while the woman was chatting with her neighbour that her husband had been a victim of an accident on a building site. The child was wearing shoes with worn-out soles. Their day was going to be full to the brim with the humiliation that the administrative officials reserve for those with no social influence. Yet Aziz felt his throat desiccate with lust for this banal exchange of tenderness: would he ever be able to place another kiss on his Shehera’s forehead?
The madman had mentioned a considerable loss of blood…
To Meriem he first of all explained that Lounes had promised to meet up with them to put them in touch with someone important at the hospital. Then, as if there were no way of postponing the moment, he allowed her no respite and announced the kidnapper’s latest demand – without mentioning, however, his allusion to their daughter’s critical state.
“He wants to meet us? We’ll see Shehera? When?”
“Any time now. I don’t know anything else.”
“But what are we going to do about my mother?”
Hearing a stifled cry, a middle-aged man sitting next to them turned to look at this haphazardly dressed woman who was watching over another older lady lying unconscious on a stretcher. The visitor was himself accompanying a young man as thin as a rake, whose features were drawn with suffering, and he sighed with a trace of irritation, as if to say: “This country is an unbelievable bloody shambles, so be patient, we’re all in the same leaking boat.” Then, pulling some prayer beads out of his kachabia cloak, he fell into a silent invocation, his free hand patting the boy’s back at regular intervals – his son, by all appearances.
Aziz begged Meriem with a glance to keep her composure.
“If necessary, I’ll ask Lounes to take care of your mother.”
“But she’s not his mother, he won’t know how to look after her,” she protested, wringing her hands.
The vet arrived out of breath. Lounes gave his colleague’s wife a kiss, putting on the appropriate pitying expression. He assured them that his relative had already been promised by the head of the trauma unit that the woman he had officially presented as ‘the mother-in-law of a favourite nephew’ would receive VIP treatment.
“Was it a car accident?”
“Well… yes, sort of,” Aziz retorted, getting in ahead of his wife.
Intrigued, Lounes opened his mouth to ask for more details. Grabbing him by the sleeve of his raincoat, Meriem broke into a stream of excessive and garbled thanks. Lounes, impressed by her grief and the two scratches on her chin, stammered a few words about the compassion of God, who never neglected good people. Then, as if ashamed of having spoken in such conventional terms, he tried to relax the atmosphere.
“The head of the unit will be here in ten minutes or so. He’s got a reputation as an excellent specialist. I’m convinced that everything will go perfectly and your mother will be up and running again in no time… and chasing after this bonobo-lover, who deserves it from time to time, eh Meriem?”
The attempted joke fell flat. Embarrassed by the couple’s gloomy attitude, Lounes tried again, his tone still too cheerful.
“How’s Shehera doing? She’s just turned 14, that’s what you said, isn’t it, Aziz? If she were capable, our little Lucette would probably have sent her a text message to congratulate her Homo sapiens godmother!”
Confronted with the married couple’s helpless looks, the vet ran a hand through his unruly hair, some new wrinkles at variance with his forced joviality.
“Let’s go outside for a smoke, if you don’t mind,” Aziz suggested, leading his friend towards the exit.
“But I don’t smoke!”
“Well, I’ll smoke then.”
Outside, Aziz made some nonsensical comment about the din of the traffic and winter pollution in Algiers, before taking a half-empty packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He smiled miserably.
“I won’t offer you one.”
“This accident’s really got to you, hasn’t it?” Lounes remarked with concern.
“How can you tell?”
“Your fingers are shaking – anyone would swear you’d got Parkinson’s. It’s true that your mother-in-law’s in a bad way. I can understand too that your wife is terrified of this shit hole Mustapha hospital. By the way, I didn’t see your father-in-law. Has he been informed?”
Incapable of improvising a reply, Aziz stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. As if driven by some unconscious inverse imitation, Lounes creased up his own eyes and stared with puzzlement into his friend’s tired and vaguely guilty-looking face. Aziz was tempted to rebel at this: Hey, no point examining me with that concentrated, condescending look you use on your sick animals at the zoo! before biting his lip, aware that that was exactly what he had been since his daughter was kidnapped.
“Don’t tell me…” the vet suddenly whispered, as if struck by the obvious.
Aziz went bright red. The vet interpreted his colleague’s reaction as a sign of assent.
“…That he was driving? Oh, please don’t tell me that on top of that…”
Lounes tapped his forehead.
“…That he died in the accident… Am I right?”
Aziz nodded without thinking, suffocated by how close the lie was to the truth. Lounes let out a curse before reaching for the packet of cigarettes.
“That’s a tough blow for your wife. I really feel for her. Come on, give me a fag, please. Might just as well poison your lungs as pollute your ears with such bad news.”
They smoked in silence. Aziz pretended to be lost in thought so that Lounes would think twice about pursuing his questioning about the circumstances of the ‘accident’.
“Why are you looking at your watch?”
“Erm… what?”
“You’re looking at your watch every minute.”
“I… What are you talking about?”
“Aziz, you’re so on edge, you’d make a blind goldfish nervous!”
“Why ‘blind’?”
“So you’d ask me that question, you venerable fool. By the way, where did the accident happen?”
To gain a bit of time Aziz took a long, deep breath, praying that his lie would appear credible.
“My parents-in-law were driving to our house this morning. He had a heart attack at the wheel. The accident happened on the way into the estate. Some neighbours let us know.”
“What a disaster! Your father-in-law’s at the morgue?”
“I… Yes… Sorry… Phone? Is it mine?”
“Yes, in your pocket, Aziz… There… Don’t you feel well? You’re white as a sheet…”
Aziz made a vague gesture to signal to Lounes that someone was already talking to him over the telephone.
“Hello. Is it you?”
“Are you missing me, my friend?”
Controlling his voice so he didn’t start shaking in front of his colleague, Aziz replied in an overly detached manner: “If you only knew how much…”
There was a snigger at the other end of the line.
“Is there someone with you who knows nothing about our little secret, my friend?”
Every time that ‘my friend’ felt like a sticky lick from a venomous animal’s tongue.
“I’m not your friend. Let’s get down to business, if you don’t mind?”
“In that case, get in your car with your wife. You must be at the hospital, if my deductions are correct. Be at the entrance of the Central Post Office in twenty minutes from now. Exactly twenty minutes. You don’t have a second to lose, lad.”
“Are you joking?”
“Joking am I? Is this enough proof that I’m not joking?”
A scream of pain reached him through the tiny earpiece. His heart flagged, as though it was refusing to carry on beating.
“Recognise the voice? Want more details? So, you pathetic father, you will follow my instructions to the letter. Incidentally, you only have 19 minutes and… 45
seconds, 44 seconds… left. See you right away…. Run, run, if your brat means anything to you!”
“I… I don’t believe this!”
Lounes was startled by Aziz’s distraught face – an automatic smile jarred with his glassy pupils.
“More bad news, Aziz?”
“Lounes… Please don’t ask any questions. Follow me – you’ll find out more later.”
“Why are you running like a madman? What’s going on? Hey, wait for me!”
They burst into the waiting room. A nurse threatened to call a guard if they didn’t stop their racket. As several heads nodded in agreement, she complained that Arabs only ever respected the stick. Aziz whispered something in Meriem’s ear. She put her hand to her mouth as though she were about to scream and her fingers should prevent her from doing so at all costs.
“Neither of us has a choice. Give him your mother’s papers. Quick, quick, quick.”
“I’ve got her identity card… The family record book too? Should I leave him my card?”
“Hurry up. We’ve got quarter of an hour at the most.”
The people in the room watched the man and the woman fidgeting around the stretcher. Curiosity could not mask their disapproval. Even Lounes almost made a rude remark, but Meriem thrust an envelope decisively into his hands.
“I’m handing over my mother to you – please treat her like your own!” she whispered with a sob caught in her throat, “I only have one mother.”
She stroked the inanimate old woman’s cheek before rushing towards the exit. She wavered as she touched the handle of the main entrance.
“Are you out of your minds?” Lounes protested, waving the envelope.
“I’ll explain everything over the phone,” Aziz implored him from the other side of the door. “Don’t let us down – you’re the only one who can help us!”
The stunned vet pulled an angry face as the rushing footsteps died away down the corridor. “I’ve already got a mother… You’re nuts… What terrible manners. I’m working today, I am… Several meetings… A tiger with colic… The Director’s going to be furious…”
Then, turning crimson with the sudden attention focused on him, he lowered his head towards the stretcher, puffing nervously through his teeth: “Oh well, beautiful lady, your own family has abandoned you. I’m not your son and my mother wouldn’t appreciate having you as a rival! So there’s no question of us signing a love contract, but, all right, I’ll see what I can do for you…”
They drove along at full speed, ignoring the red lights. Meriem asked her husband if he’d been able to talk to Shehera. No, he replied.
“So how can you be sure she’s alive?” she fired back as her knee moved as if it had a life of its own.
“I heard her shout ‘Dad’,” he lied.
A spasm ran through Meriem’s chest and she gave up asking for further explanations. Aziz’s phone rang; the name of Lounes the vet appeared on the screen. Aziz didn’t answer, postponing till later the time when he would have to face up to his friend’s questions.
A policeman whistled at them after a dangerous overtaking manoeuvre, but they didn’t stop. The traffic jam they feared had started to form in rue Didouche. As soon as the Central Post Office was in sight, they parked the car quickly on a patch of pavement. A shopkeeper sitting in front of his store warned them: “The police come round here a lot. Trust me, they’ll clamp you!”
Paying him no heed, Aziz and Meriem set off at a run, bumping into pedestrians who showered them with insults. Aziz shouted to Meriem, “We’re five minutes late!” On the square above the underground, they dashed across the sloping street leading to the esplanade in front of the post office, attracting beeping horns and obscenities from drivers. “Go fuck your mother, you whore’s brood, instead of haring around like that!” yelled one taxi driver after almost piling into the vehicle in front of him.
“What time is it, Aziz?”
“We’re over ten minutes late… My God… my God… Protect her!”
“I… I’m going to be sick.”
He gave his wife a tissue. She covered her mouth with it just before another convulsion shook her. Aziz got out his telephone and stared at it, imploring it: “Ring, I beg you, ring, you bastard!” A policeman coming out of the post office glanced suspiciously at the sweating couple and sidled up to them shiftily. Aziz pretended to interpret his mistrust as an offer of assistance.
“Don’t worry – my wife’s pregnant. She hasn’t been feeling very well for the last few days. Thanks for your help.”
The husband’s smile was so false that the policeman shrugged his shoulders before continuing on his way.
Aziz jumped when the ringtone finally sounded. The small device slipped out of his sweaty hands. A plaintive yelp escaped him when he thought that the telephone had broken.
“You’re late, lovebirds!”
Meriem clung tightly to her husband’s shoulder, straining towards the earpiece. She was still clasping the dirty tissue to her mouth.
“No, no, we’ve been waiting for your phone call for several minutes.”
The voice turned menacing.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Pardon me. No need to get angry.”
“Incidentally,” the voice resumed in an ironic tone, “my – how shall I say? –my associate is watching you and he just rang to tell me you were late.”
Aziz had a quick glance all round him. Crowds of people were going in and out of the large neo-Moorish building. The old man with the cigarette staring grim-eyed at him; might he be this accomplice? Or that other, younger but bearded man selling peanuts? Or the woman in a hijab waiting at the pedestrian crossing even though the light had turned green?
“There’s no point trying to recognise him. I’ve hired competent people.”
“What do we have to do now?”
Aziz was having trouble forming his words. His chest was beating so violently that he had the impression it was spilling into his mouth. Paler than ever, Meriem shouted out, so that the kidnapper could hear, “Listen to my prayer, man, that God may show you the path of righteousness and protect you! He will bless you if you take pity on our daughter. Take us in her place.”
“Be quiet!” the father yelped. “Don’t give him any more ideas!”
The man chuckled gleefully at his exasperation.
“It’s not out of the question, this exchange thing. Maybe I’ll agree to it, but there are two or three formalities to see to first. I intend to make sure no one has followed you. Go and see the bookseller…”
“You’re messing us about!”
“Shut up! From the steps of the Central Post Office you’ll see a bookshop on the corner of rue Ben-Mhidi. You’ll tell the bookseller your first name and then thank him on behalf of your uncle. You will buy the El Watan newspaper. From there, still with your wife, you will go to the Sanctuary of the Martyrs. You will wait for my instructions at the base of the three concrete palm fronds. You have half an hour starting now. The traffic jams heading up onto the heights of Algiers are a damn nuisance at this time of day. Get a move on. I hope that you know Algiers and its shortcuts well.”
“But why the newspaper?”
“I’ve published a classified ad in it for you. If you’re smart, you’ll work out what it’s about. It will, let’s say, facilitate our negotiations. You’re both graduates, so I trust in your intelligence. No dillydallying on the way – I’ve a knife waiting to be sharpened. Enjoy the race!”
The bookshop owner soon lost his business smile.
“OK, your name’s Aziz. So what?”
“My uncle sends you his thanks.”
“What uncle?”
“My uncle,” the father replied, “whom you know well.”
“I don’t know your uncle, especially if you won’t tell me what he’s called, mate. All right, you can see that whole queue of people behind you – what do you actually want?”
The bookshop owner threw a hostile look at the wo
man whose hair was glued to her sweat-streaked temples.
“I’d like today’s El Watan.”
“Because you’re scared I’m going to sell you yesterday’s, are you?” the bookseller objected bad-temperedly, pulling a copy out of the revolving stand.
When they were outside again, Aziz heard the shopkeeper remarking to the other customers, “What are things coming to if they let mad people go around in couples!”
The nightmare began all over again: a gallop in the opposite direction back to the car – where a butterfly awaited them on the windscreen – uphill towards Pasteur, boulevard Mohamed V, Télemly, Clos-Salembier… Meriem read the classified ads out loud: job offers, situations wanted, unfinished villas and computer equipment for sale, and so on. His head full of fog, Aziz listened to her run through the marriage proposals from spinsters spelling out that they owned a flat and a car or from men noting a preference for a candidate who had emigrated to Europe. Nothing seemed to bear any resemblance to a message from the lunatic.
“I can’t make head nor tail of this,” she groaned. “How about you?”
He shook his head to signal ‘no’.
“Read some more, please.”
Meriem put a hand between her legs like a little girl trying to stop herself peeing, before resuming the absurd litany.
“…Minibus for rent… Home repairs of electrical appliances… Urgent, flat to rent… The Doha family is looking for their son Nasreddine, who left home on… Young woman, practising Muslim, good-looking, 30, would like… Shell of two-storey house for sale… Hairdressing diploma for rent…”
From time to time, Aziz rubbed his eyes with his arm to wipe away the sweat that was blinding him. His brain was wearing itself out searching for some clue among the mush of information reaching him. Why had the kidnapper referred to an accomplice operating openly? Was that portly bookseller really involved in his daughter’s kidnapping? He seemed too young to have been caught up in Melouza, didn’t really have the look and the arrogance of an Islamist terrorist… What then? Some thug who’d risk the death sentence for kidnapping without taking any precautions of anonymity? But why? For money? And what about this ordeal of decrypting the classifieds, which was turning the search for their daughter into some unbearable parody of a televised treasure hunt?
