The Attack

by Yasmina Khadra

  He requests that I wait in the sanctuary, goes behind the minbar, lifts a curtain leading to a concealed inner room, and disappears. The few men who were reading with their backs to the wall consider me with curiosity. They didn’t hear my name, but they noticed how the pious young man’s attitude changed abruptly, and they saw him hurry off to alert his master. A large bearded fellow decisively lays his Qur’an aside and stares at me so imperturbably, he makes me uncomfortable.

  I think I see part of the curtain being lifted and held aside, but no one appears from behind the minbar. Five minutes later, the imam’s young assistant returns, his feelings visibly hurt. “I’m extremely sorry,” he says. “The imam is not in. He must have gone out without my noticing.”

  He realizes that the other believers are watching us and gives them a black look that compels them to avert their eyes.

  “Will he be back for the prayer?”

  “Of course,” he replies. Then, quickly recovering, he adds, “I don’t know where he’s gone. It may be that he won’t return for several hours.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll just wait for him here.”

  The pious young man casts an uneasy glance in the direction of the minbar, swallows hard, and says, “There’s no guarantee he’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’m willing to wait.”

  Overmatched, he shrugs, lifting his arms, and withdraws.

  I sit down cross-legged at the foot of a column, pick up a book of hadiths, lay it in my lap, and open it at random. The imam’s young assistant reappears, pretends to engage an old man in conversation, and then paces around the great prayer hall like a beast in a cage. Eventually, he steps out into the street.

  One hour passes, and then a second. Around noon, three young men appear out of nowhere, come up to me, and perform the customary unctuous courtesies. Then they inform me that my presence in the mosque can serve no purpose and request that I leave the premises.

  “I want to see the imam.”

  “The imam is unwell. He fell sick this morning. He won’t be back for several days.”

  “I’m Dr. Amin Jaafari. . . .”

  “That’s fine,” says the smallest of the three, interrupting me. He’s a young fellow around thirty years old, with prominent cheekbones and a long scar across his forehead. “Now go back home.”

  “Not before I talk to the imam.”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as he’s feeling better.”

  “You know where to reach me?”

  “Everyone in Bethlehem knows that.”

  They guide me politely but firmly to the exit, wait for me to put on my shoes, and escort me in silence to the corner of the street.

  * * *

  Two of the three men who saw me out of the mosque continue to follow me—ostentatiously—while I walk toward the center of town. They want me to know they have their eye on me and it’s in my best interest to keep on walking.

  It’s market day. The square is packed with people. I walk into a dark café, order black coffee, no sugar, take a seat by a small window smudged with fingerprints and bug shit, and watch the teeming souk. The café is furnished with rudimentary tables and creaking chairs; a group of old men sit about under the lifeless eye of the server, who’s wedged in behind his counter. At the table next to mine, a neat-looking gentleman in his fifties draws on his narghile. Farther on, some youngsters are playing a noisy game of dominoes. I hunker down in there until the prayer hour. When I hear the muezzin’s call, I decide to go back to the Grand Mosque, hoping to catch the imam in the middle of the service.

  As I enter the part of town where the mosque is, I’m intercepted by the two men who followed me this morning. They’re not happy to see me, and they won’t let me get anywhere near the sacred precincts. “What you’re doing is not good, Doctor,” the taller of the two says.

  I go back to Leila’s and wait for the next prayer.

  Once again, I’m stopped before I reach the mosque. This time, there’s a third man with my guardian angels, who are distinctly irritated by my obstinacy. The new fellow is well dressed, small but sturdy-looking, with a thin mustache and a large silver-plated ring on his finger. He asks me to follow him into a blind alley, and there, protected from inquiring eyes, he asks me what I think I’m trying to do.

  “I’m asking to speak with the imam.”

  “On what subject?”

  “You know very well why I’m here.”

  “Perhaps I do, but you don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

  The threat is clear; his eyes try to gouge mine. “For the love of heaven, Doctor,” he says, his nerves fraying. “Do what you were told to do: Go back home.”

  He leaves me standing there and goes away, closely followed by his companions. I return to Yasser’s house and wait for the Maghreb prayer, resolved to drive the imam into a corner this time. While I’m waiting, Kim calls me up. I reassure her and promise to call her back before evening.

  The sun disappears on tiptoe behind the horizon. The street noise dies down. A little breeze rushes into the patio, which has baked all afternoon in the sun. Yasser comes home a few minutes before the prayer. He’s annoyed to find me in his house but relieved to learn that I’m not staying the night.

  At the call of the muezzin, I leave the house and direct my steps toward the mosque for the third time. The temple guards are not waiting for me in their den; they pounce on me about a block away from Yasser’s house. There are five of them. Two stand lookout at the end of the alleyway while the other three shove me into a carriage entrance.

  “You shouldn’t play with fire, Doctor,” says one of them, a tall, strapping young man, as he pins me against a wall.

  I struggle to get out of his grip; his Herculean muscles do not yield. In the gathering darkness, his eyes throw off terrifying sparks.

  “This number of yours isn’t impressing anyone, Doctor,” he says.

  “My wife met the imam, Sheikh Marwan, in the Grand Mosque. That’s the reason why I want an audience with him.”

  “You’ve been told a pack of lies. You’re not wanted here.”

  “In what way am I bothering you?”

  My question amuses and annoys him at the same time. He leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “You’re about to bring down a shitstorm on the whole fucking town.”

  “Watch your language,” the small one says, the one with the prominent cheekbones and the scar on his forehead who spoke to me earlier at the mosque. “We’re not in a pigsty.”

  The lout swallows his zeal and steps back. Upbraided and put in his place, he stands off to one side and has no more to say.

  The small man addresses me in a conciliatory tone: “Dr. Amin Jaafari, I’m certain you don’t realize how much difficulty your presence in Bethlehem is causing. People here have become far too touchy. They choose to remain on guard so they won’t have to respond to provocations. The Israelis are looking for any excuse to break up our communities and force us into ghettos. We know this, and we’re trying not to commit the error they’re anticipating so eagerly. And you are playing right into their hands.”

  He looks me straight in the eye and says, “We have nothing to do with your wife.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Dr. Jaafari. Try to understand my position.”

  “My wife met Sheikh Marwan here in Bethlehem.”

  “Yes, that is indeed what people say, but it’s not true. Sheikh Marwan hasn’t visited us here for ages. Rumors of his presence are spread to defend him from ambushes. Every time he wants to make an appearance somewhere, the word goes out that he’s in Haifa, Bethlehem, Jenin, Gaza, Nuseirat, Ramallah, everywhere at the same time, in order to cover his tracks and protect his movements. The Israeli security services are hot on his heels. They’ve deployed a whole contingent of informers who’ll sound the alarm as soon as he shows his face outdoors. Two years ago, he miraculously escaped when a radio-guided missile was fired at him from a helic
opter. Our cause has lost many prominent figures that way. Remember how the Israelis targeted Sheikh Yassin, in the fullness of his age and confined to a wheelchair. We have to watch over the few leaders we have left, Dr. Jaafari. And your behavior is no help to us.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and goes on: “Your wife is a martyr. We will be eternally grateful to her. But that fact does not authorize you to disparage her sacrifice or to put anyone else in danger. We respect your grief; respect our struggle.”

  “I want to know—”

  “It’s still too soon, Dr. Jaafari,” he says in a peremptory tone, cutting me off. “I beg you, go back to Tel Aviv.”

  He gives his men a sign to leave us.

  Once we’re alone, he and I, he takes me by the neck with both hands, stands on tiptoe, kisses me voraciously on the forehead, and goes away without looking back.

  11.

  * * *

  When the doorbell sounds, Kim rushes to the door and opens it immediately, without asking who’s there. “God in heaven!” she cries. “Where have you been?”

  She makes sure I’m steady on my feet, checks my face and my clothes for signs of violence, and shows me the backs of her hands. “Bravo!” she says. “Thanks to you, I’ve gone back to biting my nails.”

  “I couldn’t find a regular taxi in Bethlehem, and the Israelis are manning their checkpoints, so no illegal driver would offer me a ride, either.”

  “You could’ve called me. I would’ve gone to get you.”

  “You wouldn’t have been able to find the way. Bethlehem’s a big jumble of a town. There’s a maze of streets and alleys. And a sort of curfew goes into force after dark. I didn’t know where I could tell you to meet me.”

  “Well,” she says, moving aside to let me pass, “at least you’re in one piece.”

  We walk out onto the loggia, where she’s put a table. As she begins to set it, she explains, “I bought some groceries while you were gone. Have you had dinner? I hope not, because I’m cooking up a little feast.”

  “I’m dying of hunger.”

  “Good news,” she says.

  “I perspired a lot today.”

  “I figured you might. The bathroom’s ready for you.”

  I go to my room and get my toilet kit.

  I stand under a scalding hot shower for about twenty minutes, with my hands against the wall, my back rounded, and my chin on my chest. The water streaming over my body soothes me. I feel my muscles relax, and my breathing calms down. Kim comes and hands me a bathrobe around the side of the shower curtain. Her exaggerated modesty makes me smile. I dry myself with an enormous towel, vigorously rubbing arms and legs, put on the robe—it’s Benjamin’s, too big for me—and join Kim on the loggia.

  I’ve hardly sat down on a chair when someone rings the doorbell. Kim and I look at each other quizzically. “Are you expecting visitors?” I ask.

  “Not that I know of,” she says, getting up to open the door.

  A big fellow wearing a yarmulke and an undershirt practically pushes Kim out of his way. He takes a quick look over her head, spots me, and says, “I’m your neighbor in apartment thirty-eight. I saw your light and thought I’d come tell Benjamin hello.”

  “Benjamin’s not here,” Kim says, irritated by the intruder’s nonchalance. “I’m his sister, Dr. Kim Yehuda.”

  “His sister? I’ve never seen you.”

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  He nods and turns his gaze back to me. “Well,” he says, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

  “No problem.”

  He brings a finger to his forehead in a vague salute and withdraws. Before closing the door, Kim steps outside to watch him leave.

  As she comes back to the table, she grumbles, “What nerve!”

  We start eating. The insect noises of the night intensify on all sides. An enormous moth whirls madly around the light shining on the courtyard behind the apartment. In the sky, where so many love songs used to float in days of old, a crescent moon noses into a cloud. There’s a low wall surrounding the back of the building, and beyond it we can see the lights of Jerusalem, with its minarets and its church towers now cleft asunder by that sacrilegious, wretched, ugly rampart, that emblem of human infirmity, of man’s hopeless nastiness. And yet, despite the disfiguring insult of the Wall and the discord it embodies, Jerusalem remains proud and unbowed. It stands there still, nestled between the clement plain and the harsh Judean Desert, drawing the strength it needs for its survival from spiritual sources untapped by either the kings of yesteryear or the charlatans of today. Although cruelly outraged by injustice and suffering, the city continues to keep the faith—this evening, more than ever. It seems to be rapt in prayer amid its candles, as though it has regained all the force of its prophecies now that its people are preparing for sleep. Hopefully, it enters silence like a peaceful harbor. A breeze laden with incense and fragrance stirs the leaves in the garden. If only you listen closely, you can detect the pulse of the gods; if only you reach out your hand, you can gather in their mercy; if only you pay attention, you can be one with them.

  I loved Jerusalem when I was a boy. Standing in front of the Wailing Wall, I felt the same thrill as I did before the Dome of the Rock, and I couldn’t remain unmoved by the serenity emanating from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I moved from one part of the city to another as though turning from an Ashkenazi fable to a Bedouin tale, with equal delight, and I didn’t need to be a conscientious objector to distrust policies requiring armed struggle and sermons based on hatred. Gazing upon Jerusalem’s sacred structures was enough to persuade me to oppose everything that might injure their enduring grandeur. And still today, beneath its surface holiness, the city is like an odalisque longing for her lover, ready to burst into sensuous joy. It frowns unhappily upon the uproar of its citizens, hoping against hope that enlightenment may come and deliver their minds from their dark torment. By turns Olympus and ghetto, muse and concubine, temple and arena, Jerusalem suffers from an inability to inspire poems without enflaming passions. It’s crumbling, heavyhearted, breaking up like its prayers amid the blasphemy of guns. . . .

  “So how was it?” Kim asks, interrupting my reverie.

  “What?”

  “Your day.”

  I wipe my mouth on a napkin. “They didn’t expect me to show up there,” I say. “Now that they’ve got me on their hands, they don’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t say,” she replies. Then, after a pause: “And what’s your plan, exactly?”

  “I don’t have one. Since I don’t know where to start, I’m just diving right in.”

  She pours me some sparkling water. Her hand is not calm.

  “You think they’re going to let you do whatever you want?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “In that case, what do you propose to accomplish?”

  “It’s up to them to tell me that, Kim. I’m not a cop or an investigative journalist. I’m angry, and my anger would eat me alive if I didn’t take some action. Frankly, I don’t know exactly what I want. I’m obeying something that’s inside me, guiding me wherever it chooses. I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t care. But I can assure you that I already feel better now that I’ve stirred up the anthill a little. You should have seen their faces when they realized I was taking it to them. . . . Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really, Amin. Nothing good can come from this behavior of yours. In my opinion, you’re looking for the wrong kind of guy. You need a shrink, not a sheikh. Those people don’t have to account to you for anything.”

  “They killed my wife.”

  “Sihem killed herself,” Kim says softly, as though she’s afraid to wake up my demons. “She knew what she was doing; she’d chosen her destiny. It’s not the same thing.”

  Kim’s words exasperate me.

  She takes my hand. “If you don’t know what you want, why insist on going in blind? That must be the wrong move. Let�
�s say these folks consent to a meeting with you; what then? What do you expect to get out of them? They’ll tell you your wife died for the Great Cause and invite you to do the same. These are people who have renounced this world, Amin. Remember what Navid told you about them. They’re martyrs in waiting, hot to get the green light so they can go up in smoke. I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake. Let’s go back home to Tel Aviv and let the police do their job.”

  I draw my hand back from under hers.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening to me, Kim. I’m perfectly clearheaded, but I’ve got this incredible need to go my own way. I feel that I can’t mourn for my wife until I look into the eyes of the son of a bitch who stole her mind. It’s not a question of what I’m going to say to him or throw at him. That doesn’t matter. I just want to see what he looks like. I want to understand what he’s got that I don’t. . . . It’s hard to explain, Kim. So many ideas are buzzing around in my brain. Sometimes, I’m so filled with regret, I could die. Sometimes, Sihem seems like the worst slut in the world. I have to know which of us sinned against the other.”

  “And you think these people are going to give you the answer?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”

  My shout reverberates in the silence like a detonation. Kim sits paralyzed in her chair, holding a dishcloth against her mouth, her eyes wide.

  I raise my hands to my shoulders to regain my self-control. “I apologize, Kim. Obviously, this is all too much for me. But you have to let me do what I want to do. If something happens to me, well, maybe that’s just what I’m looking for.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second, Kim. More often than not, I feel ashamed for behaving this way, but I refuse to calm down. And the more anyone tries to reason with me, the less I feel like pulling myself together. Do you understand?”

  Kim puts her dishcloth down without answering me. Her lips quiver for a long minute before they can catch up with their words. She takes a deep breath, turns her sorrowful eyes on me, and says, “I knew someone a long time ago. He was an ordinary boy, except that I was struck by him from the first time I saw him. He was loving and kind. I don’t know how he did it, but before our romance was very old, he’d managed to become the center of my universe. Every time he smiled at me, it was like a bolt from the blue, and if he was angry at me, the whole world went dark. I loved him impossibly. Sometimes, at the height of my happiness, I would ask myself the terrible question, What if he leaves me? And all at once, I could see my soul separating from my body. Without him, I knew, it would be all over for me. And then one evening, without warning, he threw his things into a suitcase and walked out of my life. For years, I felt like empty skin after a molt—transparent and dangling in midair. Then, after a few more years passed, I realized I was still there, my soul and body were still together, and all at once, I recovered my spirits. . . .”