VII
The Hôtel de Boufa is not one of the large international hotels recommended in the State Department advisory. It is well kept and clean, but it has only six guest rooms which share three baths, and its clientele is almost entirely Algerian. Moreover, the Boufa is located on a narrow street in the old city where few foreigners ever venture. Women going to and from the nearby market carrying straw shopping bags, men stopping and visiting with one another, children racing about and playing tag, dogs and cats and cars all share the cobblestones and the state of general bedlam.
People stepped aside as Louis’s battered taxi bounced and rattled up the hill, the driver peering up at house numbers whenever he could find them. The cab jolted to a sudden stop and the driver jumped out. “Monsieur,” he said with an exaggerated flourish and opened the rear door for his passenger. Louis leaned forward and looked about. He did not recognize the street or the hotel. The building looked unfamiliar. Beside the open door, however, hung a small sign with faded Arabic characters on gray metal, and below that, in small letters, simply “boufa.”
The lobby was dark and cool. The walls were painted maroon. The blue and white tile floor was cracked and had several tiles missing. Louis wondered whether the small reception desk might not have been on the other side of the room when he had stayed there before. He put down his bag and stepped into the narrow courtyard. It was draped in flowering vines, and sunlight filtered in here and there and made bright spots on the floor and wall. Unseen birds sang unfamiliar songs, and the scent of cooking hung in the air. “Cumin,” said Louis.
“You want?” said a voice behind him. Louis turned to see a tall young man with curly black hair and a ferocious mustache standing in the doorway. “You want, mister?” he repeated.
“I made a reservation,” said Louis, speaking English. “I called a few days ago.” He repeated himself in French.
The man returned to the desk and ran his finger down the page in a large battered ledger. “Monsieur Morgon,” said the man. “Yes. Room six. You asked for room six. You have been here before?”
“I have. It was many years ago. I stayed in room six then too. Tell me. I wonder. Is Monsieur Nhouri—he was the proprietor then—is he … still around?”
“Monsieur Nhouri?” said the young man. His face darkened. He reverted to English. “Why do you ask?”
“When I stayed here before—the last time it was for three months—he was very kind to me. I would like to see him again. If …” Louis could not bring himself to finish the sentence.
“Yes, of course,” said the young man. “He is still the proprietor. Shall I tell him you are here?”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“At the café then?”
“You know it?”
“I will put my things in my room and go over and see him.”
“Does he know you have come?’
“No,” said Louis.
“But your reservation? He pays close attention to the reservations,” said the young man.
“I will put my things away and go right over,” said Louis.
Louis went up the stairs to room six. He opened the wooden shutters onto the courtyard. Light and sound and memories flooded in on him so suddenly and so intensely that he had to step back and sit down on the edge of the bed. He looked out into the tangle of vines and flowers for a while, then stood and went to the sink. He splashed cool water on his face and went downstairs.
After a brief confusion, Louis found the café. It was to the left of the hotel and not to the right, as he had remembered. As he threaded his way between the pedestrians and the parked cars, two young men in a doorway across the street stopped their conversation and watched him pass. Louis stepped aside for a small old woman. Her dark eyes studied him unashamedly. A small boy darted between the two of them. The old entryway to the café was blocked by an étagère piled high with plants. A pair of gray cats slept in the shade underneath. Flies buzzed about the plants, and a few butterflies drifted from blossom to blossom.
He entered the café through a side door on the narrow alley. The door was so low that even someone of Louis’s modest stature had to bow his head to enter. This involuntary nod served as a greeting to the other patrons, some of whom inclined their heads slightly in return and then went back to their newspapers or conversations.
Louis looked around the room. There were about eight men seated at several of the small tables. The television above the bar was showing a soccer match, but the sound was turned off. An electric fan on the corner of the bar swung slowly back and forth, seeming to move the noise from the street as much as it moved the air. The sound of cars and voices rose and fell with the motion of the fan. Aside from the elaborate mosaic tile on the floor and the dense pyramid of plants in the front door blocking the sun and the heat, the only other decoration was an old calendar on the wall with a faded picture of a minaret in silhouette against an orange sky.
Samad had stood up with the help of a cane when Louis had entered, but Louis did not recognize him immediately. He was smaller than Louis remembered. After a moment’s hesitation, Samad walked toward Louis. His once thick, black hair was white and thin, and his dark eyes seemed to have retreated further into his head. He smiled at Louis and said, “But I know you. Louis Coburn. Louis Coburn, if I am not mistaken.”
“Yes,” said Louis. “Samad al Nhouri. I know you too, and I am glad to see you.” The two men embraced and kissed on both cheeks. Then, without further greeting or preliminary discussion, and without hesitation either, Louis said, “I told you a lie many years ago. Or rather, two lies. I told you I was not with the United States government, when I was. And I gave you a false name. My name is not Louis Coburn. It is Louis Morgon. I beg your pardon for that. I hope you can forgive me.”
“I knew both these things,” said Samad, and he smiled proudly. “Of course I did not know your real name—is Morgon your real name?—but when I saw Louis Morgon on the ledger, I hoped it might be you. I do not think Louis is such a common name in America. You were my first American guest, you know. And, believe it or not, you are now, after all these years, my second.”
“I left the CIA soon after I was here …”
“It does not matter,” said Samad with a wave. “It was too long ago to matter.” He linked his arm through Louis’s and took him back to his table.
“And I left the United States soon after that.”
Samad waved his hand again as though the facts of Louis’s history were but a few persistent gnats. “We were young and foolish. I had lies too. Now we know better. We have a saying here: there are no lies where there is no truth. I am glad to see you, Louis,” said Samad. “And that is the truth.” He took Louis’s hand in his. The two held each other’s hands like young lovers.
The two men drank cardamom tea and talked about their lives. Louis told Samad how he had lived in France for the last many years. He explained how his career had collapsed and how, in despair, he had left his wife and his children. Now he had reconciled with his children and, to some extent, with Sarah, his former wife. He knew he could not heal the terrible hurt he had inflicted on them earlier, but, fortunately for him, they all three had forgiving and generous spirits.
His daughter, Jennifer, had been married briefly and had already divorced. She had gone back to school and become a nurse. She had worked at Arlington Hospital in Virginia for a while and had then founded, and now ran, a community clinic for the indigent, the Arlington Nursing Clinic. She had raised money, gotten hospitals to sponsor the effort, and persuaded doctors and nurses to volunteer their time and energy. “She is a forceful and resolute young woman. I am very proud of her.” Louis took a photo from his wallet.
“She is a beautiful young woman,” said Samad.
“Michael, my son,” said Louis, “and Rosita, his wife.” He passed another photo across the table. “Michael is an artist, an illustrator. He does drawings for scientific journals mostly, and for textbooks. They a
re of animals, plants, insects, even microscopic things. He draws very meticulously and quite beautifully, I think. He uses India ink and watercolor and has an exquisite sense of color. I would like him to exhibit these drawings, but he doesn’t yet see their artistic worth.”
Samad had six children, all born after Louis had left Algiers. “My wife, Jasmine, whom you met, died giving birth to the last, Melina, who herself died two weeks later. That is already many years ago. You met my son, Moamar, at the desk.” Louis must have looked surprised. “Forgive him,” said Samad. “He is very protective of me. He is the youngest. My eldest son lives in Paris, where he is a doctor. I do not hear from him very often. The other three are here in Algiers.
“My life has been more or less as it was when you were last here. My hotel, my travel books. My children give me travel books on my birthday. Every year. I will show you my library. It has become quite extensive since you were here. I have quite a few books on travel in the United States. You will have to tell me which are the good ones. I went to Egypt fifteen years ago, but otherwise my travel has been entirely in my head.
“The trip to Egypt convinced me that I was ill suited for the rigors of travel. The unfamiliarity of a strange place bothered me, even when it was a beautiful unfamiliarity. I felt uprooted. I could not sleep in unfamiliar beds in unfamiliar rooms. The noise was wrong. The night air was wrong. It was too wet, or too cool, or it did not smell of the right spices.
“I decided that my destiny is not to travel but to encourage the travel of others, to read of their travel, to hear stories of their travel, which I still do enthusiastically and with great relish. I will insist that you tell me about where you live in France and what life there is like. I want to know about the food, and the houses, and the countryside, and the people. I will live it all with you and through you and, who knows, maybe help you to savor its delights all over again as though you were arriving for the first time.”
“I look forward to it,” said Louis. “I have come to love the place. In fact, for me, every time I arrive is a little bit like the first time. One of the things I like best about traveling is coming home.”
“Have you written about France?” said Samad. “I enjoy nothing more than falling asleep in my own bed with a good travel book open on my chest. Instead of traveling, I welcome those who travel. That has been my calling.”
When Louis and Samad rose from the café table, the sun had moved to another part of the sky. “Moamar is an excellent cook,” said Samad, “although I warn you: he favors the fiery recipes. It will not be fancy, but he and I would both be honored if you would join us for supper.”
Moamar soaked sardines in vinegar and pepper then breaded them and grilled them on a charcoal fire. He slid four sardines onto each plate along with curried rice and peas and cold roasted peppers and tomatoes tossed in olive oil. The sun had set and the heat of the day had lifted. The sardines shimmered in the dim light. The three men sat at a small wooden table in the hotel courtyard and ate.
When they had finished, Louis said, “I have come back to Algiers in search of a man. I do not quite know what to say about this man. In fact, I know very little about him. In France his name is Pierre Lefort, but here he calls himself Abu Khalil. I believe he is Algerian but with a French mother.
“The most interesting thing I know to say about him is that he robbed my house a while ago. He was caught and served several months in prison. I thought at first that it was just an innocent robbery, by which I mean I thought it was only a robbery and nothing more. But it was a strange robbery. He did not take much, and he allowed himself to be caught too easily. I believe now that the robbery was meant to hide a larger crime. I think it was meant to serve as the prelude and setup to my own murder.”
Moamar and Samad stared at Louis in astonishment. Not quite knowing what to say, Moamar rose from the table. “I will make coffee,” he said. He carried the dishes away and rattled them about in the sink. Samad looked at his friend of many years ago, trying to understand how such bizarre speculations could possibly be true. Or was Louis simply mad?
Moamar returned with a carafe of Turkish coffee. Louis took a sip from the tiny white cup Moamar set in front of him. Then Louis told the entire story from the beginning. He told them about his early relationship with Hugh Bowes and how Hugh had become the American secretary of state. They had both heard of him, of course. He told them about the dead African on his doorstep, who turned out not to be an African at all. And he told them about the plot that he believed had been set in motion with the robbery. “It is not a travel story like you are used to,” he said to Samad. “I apologize for that.”
Samad smiled. “Travel or not,” he said, “it is an amazing story.”
“The great Satan is devouring its own,” said Moamar, scowling into the cup he cradled in his hands.
“It is an amazing story,” said Samad again. “I hope, my friend, you will excuse some scepticism on our part. It is hard to comprehend what you have told us. At the same time, the picture you paint is, unfortunately, not entirely unbelievable. In this part of the world, such behavior on the part of high American officials is not seen as out of character. You were once a part of that, so you know this to be true, better than Moamar or I do. And as the United States has become more unknowing and callous in its view of the rest of the world, as its official policies seem more and more based on a peculiar combination of ignorance and power, these policies have come to seem more and more misguided and desperate.
“Let us assume,” Samad continued, “that it is as you have speculated. Then we have to believe that this Abu Khalil is not eager to be found by you. Which means, quite frankly, that you will not find him. He can go places you could never go; his mother will certainly not give him up to the man he was hired to rob and—who knows?—eventually murder. Why would she do that? She would not.”
Louis thought for a moment before responding. “It strikes me,” he said, “that he might be willing to meet with me if he can be made to understand that his life is in danger along with mine. First, he is in grave danger from the Americans. Once their objectives have been accomplished, those who hired him are not going to want to leave him behind as a witness. And he is in danger from his Arab friends who would be very unhappy to learn that Abu Khalil is an American agent.”
Samad and Moamar sat silently and considered what Louis had said. “But how,” said Samad finally, “do you find him to explain all this to him?”
“I do not need to find him,” said Louis. “I only need to find his mother.”
Camille Lefort lived alone in a modest white villa of recent construction on a bluff overlooking the city. From her terrace she had a marvelous view down to the busy harbor and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. Each morning, after returning from the market and putting away her purchases, she settled down there, under date palms and fig trees, to read her beloved French novels. She was cooled by sea breezes and lulled into vague reveries by the cry of circling gulls or the hoot of ships and other dim noises from the harbor below.
Camille looked up over her book when Louis pulled the thin chain that rang the bell hanging by her gate. She stood up, laid her book aside, and walked to the gate. Madame Lefort was a tall woman with a fair complexion and straight brown hair, which she wore pulled back behind her head. She had soft blue eyes and thin, straight lips. She raised her hand to shield her eyes as she stepped into the sunlight. “Yes?” she said. “What may I do for you, monsieur?”
“Madame,” said Louis. He was wearing a straw hat against the sun. He lifted it with one hand and bowed slightly. It was as if this gesture were a signal, for Camille Lefort opened the gate and motioned for Louis to enter, which he did. Louis closed the gate carefully behind himself and stooped down to pet the black-and-white cat looking up at him.
Camille Lefort led the way to where she had been sitting and motioned in the direction of another chair that was folded and leaning against a low stone wall. Louis picked up the chair and unfold
ed it, and a pair of lizards scampered into a crack in the wall. Louis placed the chair on the stone walk facing her own.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?” Camille said again.
“I have come,” said Louis, “because I have urgent business with your son, Abu Khalil.”
“Pierre?” she said. “Oh dear. What has he done now? Are you from the police?”
“No, madame, I am not from the police. I am the man whose house he broke into in France. This robbery, as I am sure you know, landed him in jail in France.” She began to rise from her chair. “Madame, please, I assure you, I mean him no harm. In fact, I have some information which I am certain will be of great interest and value to him. It could well concern his safety.”
“I am sorry, monsieur,” she said, standing now beside her chair, “but I do not know where he is. I am not in touch with him, and I am afraid I cannot help you.” She motioned toward the gate.
“I understand, madame,” said Louis, ignoring her gesture and remaining seated. “That is a shame. As a result of something he left behind in my house, he needs to know that his life is in jeopardy. Not from me. Not at all. But from the people who hired him.
“Yes, madame, I believe he was hired and handsomely paid to commit an inept robbery and then to spend time in jail. He may not have told you all the facts of the case. Like any son, he does not want you to worry needlessly.
“I cannot help but notice however, madame, that your villa is new. It is a handsome house of respectable size and with splendid views. It is the kind of house that does not come cheaply, I am quite sure of that. And it is the kind of house every son would gladly provide for his mother, if only he could.”
L'Assassin Page 7
