Marseille Noir (Akashic Noir)

by Cédric Fabre

  This morning, from the tenth floor of building L-11, I look out on the stretch of villas that cover the hills as I enjoy my coffee. When I was a boy, I used to build cardboard cabins on those hills with my friends, but all that is far away, for today developers have put in private houses and built a wall to separate the new neighborhood from our apartment buildings.

  I’m Sambafoum. Lieutenant Sambafoum. My parents left the Comoros archipelago to live in the Phocaean city. In kindergarten at La Solidarité or in the afterschool program, when we played cops-and-robbers, they always gave me the role of the robber, and even when we switched roles I remained the robber, despite my protests. So when I grew up, I became a cop in the game of life. I became a cop. My father was a construction worker. He died while working on the site of the metro between Sainte-Marguerite and Bougainville. At dawn one February, when far right groups murdered a kid of Comorian origin in cold blood, my mother packed her things in a suitcase. When the far right won the elections in three cities in the south, my mother put on her jacket. When the far right took the fourth city in the south, my mother put on her shoes. And when the far right made it to the second round of the presidential elections one April evening, my mother split, destination: her native archipelago.

  My cell rings. It’s my boss. I pick up.

  “Yes, hello!”

  “Samba, did you read this morning’s paper?”

  “No! What’s up, Chief?”

  “They killed Radhia!” he announces.

  The cup of coffee falls from my hand and splashes on the sidewalk. Radhia! I rush into the living room and turn on the TV. I stand there paralyzed before the images looping on the screen: on an ordinary road, a car is riddled with bullets. On the ground lies a body covered with a white sheet. And a commentary: “The killers were extremely determined and didn’t give their victim a chance. She was at the wheel of this convertible. Twenty-nine holes were found, twenty-nine bullets fired from a submachine gun. It’s the first time a woman has been shot in these killings that continue to cast a shadow over Marseille.”

  With my jaws clenched, I slam my fist into the wall and collapse in tears like a little kid. Out there on the asphalt, under the makeshift sheet, lies Radhia, the love of my childhood and adolescence. My Radhia!

  * * *

  With a pistol pointed at his forehead, his back against the wall, and his eyes bulging, the redhead is stammering: “I swear I don’t know anything! I haven’t seen your Radhia for years.”

  All the customers in the café at the entrance to the Savine projects are holding their breath. Nobody moves. They all know me here and they know that whoever puts in his two cents might make some dentist rich.

  “Listen up. You’re going to tell me, nice and easy, who’s connected to Radhia’s death or I’ll blow your head off.”

  “Okay, okay, put down your piece and I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ve seen her hanging out with a Comorian guy a lot. He had a scar on his cheek and—”

  I push him into the bathroom.

  When I come out, I find the place empty. Everybody split. The redhead staggers out, covered with blood.

  “Sorry for the disturbance,” I say to Jo, the master of the house.

  “Christ, Samba, I’ll have to clean up everything now.”

  “Clean up your customers, that’ll save you from having to mop up every time,” I tell him as I walk out.

  * * *

  He’s there with his nose almost glued to mine. We’re standing in his office at the Évêché. Police headquarters. Right behind the building is Le Panier, where my father, like many Comorians, set down his suitcase when he landed in France before the law allowed him to send for his family and before he went to live in the North End where the high-rises were emerging from the concrete.

  “Unacceptable, Samba. Unacceptable. Terrorizing a whole café. You’re really off your rocker.”

  “I already told you the circumstances, Chief. I explained the whole thing from A to Z.”

  Chief holds his head and screams: “That’s all they’re talking about, Samba: a cop making mincemeat of a guy in some café. You know what? I’m going to tell you something, you asshole—what the hell business is it of yours, huh? When you asked me to give you the investigation into Radhia’s death, I said no. And what do you do? You circumvent the official investigation.”

  “You put clock-watchers on the case, real jerkoffs, and you want me to stand there while Radhia’s murderers are walking around free? You’re screwing this up big time. And I’m being polite, Chief.”

  “Shut up!” Chief holds out his hand and says: “Okay, hand them over. Your badge and your weapon. You’re suspended.”

  I throw them in his face and split. Avenue Robert Schuman. Traffic is heavy. I turn right on boulevard des Dames. At the entrance to the highway, I see a girl crossing the street. She looks like Radhia. No, it’s not her. My Radhia is dead. The last time I saw her she was dancing in low-waisted jeans in the middle of my living room, eating strawberries. She’d come to tell me she was leaving and my tears wouldn’t change anything, as Serge Gainsbourg says so well. She was someone else now. Jesus. When people have changed so completely, is there a warehouse to store what they were, like bags in a checkroom?

  * * *

  Night is falling. I drive to Plan d’Aou. The Plan d’Aou of my childhood no longer exists. New low buildings have replaced the old high-rises and construction is still in progress. I’m going to see Fadhul, one of my father’s brothers. That is, one of his former coworkers he thought of as his brother. I’ve always called him uncle. I ring the doorbell. My uncle’s wife opens the door and gives me a big hug. She invites me to sit on the couch. Her husband comes in.

  “Uncle, I’m looking for a Comorian who has a scar on his left cheek. Does that ring a bell?”

  He thinks for a long time and scratches his chin before he answers: “Yes, of course. I saw him twice. His name is Said Mhiba. He was with Hamda Karibedja, who lives in building A, fourth floor, in the Félix Pyat housing project.”

  I leave Plan d’Aou and head for Félix Pyat, which they call the Bellevue projects. When I find building A, the elevator’s not working. The mailboxes are smashed in and the walls covered with tags. The staircase smells of piss. I walk up to the fourth floor and knock on the door. A boy of around twelve opens it and says “Kwezi” to me, a Comorian word to express respect. I ask to see his father and he tells me to come in. I find a man sitting on the couch listening to the radio. I’m walking over to say hello when he tells me to wait. So I can’t help pricking up my ears and listening to the radio too. It’s RFI, Radio France International:

  “In the Comoros, President Said Mohamed Karim passed away at the age of sixty-two early Friday morning. The President of the Republic died of natural causes, according to a radio announcement by the Grand Mufti of Moroni. A source close to the president told us that the cause of death was a heart attack at three a.m. local time. We’ll soon hear from our correspondent in . . .”

  The man lowers the volume, stands up, and says hello.

  “I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for Said Mhiba and I was told I might find him here,” I say.

  “He’s my cousin, but he left for the Comoros last week.”

  “Do you know how I can reach him?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry . . .”

  “No problem, uncle. Good night.”

  I leave the Félix Pyat projects and this man to his grief. The Comorian president is dead and I don’t give a damn. And God knows how deeply I’m attached to the native archipelago of my parents.

  * * *

  I drive to La Solidarité. A few guys are loitering in front of the concrete bus shelter facing the mall that has only two stores and a pharmacy. I drive around the rotary. To the right, the two phone booths of my childhood have resisted the invasion of cell phones. I park next to the trash cans and go into my building. The elevator is out of order. At the tenth floor a man is smoking a cigarette, sitting
on the steps. He gets up when he sees me.

  “Good evening, dickhead!” he says.

  I don’t say anything. He throws his cigarette on the floor and stamps it out nervously. I keep walking upstairs; he follows me. I open the door and go in. He follows me and closes the door behind him. He walks into the living room, sits down on the couch, and puts his weapon down on the low table. I turn on the halogen lamp, a present from Radhia, and sit facing the man.

  “So, you kidding me or what?” he says.

  “Coffee or orange juice, Chief? That’s all I have.”

  “Nothing.” He holds two photos out to me. A man riddled with bullets in each one. “You recognize them?”

  “Of course, Chief. This one’s a stoolie. That one’s the redhead I pushed around a little in the bar.”

  “One was whacked two hours after the other, today. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’m giving you back your badge and your weapon. Here’s why: the president of the Comoros is dead. As you know, our country has always been involved in destabilizing Africa and particularly the Comoros. Our new government wants to put an end to what’s called Françafrique. So to show we have nothing to do with the death of this president, the prime minister is asking us to investigate, either to confirm the heart attack or find the possible murderers. We need the best person for this mission and that’s you. If you agree, I’ll give you the Radhia case. You’ve got my word.”

  “Chief, for Radhia I’d go all the way to the North Pole. When do I leave?”

  * * *

  The Comoros. Hahaya Airport. On the tarmac, a man is holding up a sign with my name on it. When I introduce myself, he asks me to follow him without saying who he is. We don’t go the same way as the other passengers.

  Now we’re in an air-conditioned room with leather armchairs. The VIP lounge. The man takes my passport, goes out, and comes back. He had it stamped. A smiling girl comes to ask me if I want a glass of fresh orange juice, saying: “Welcome to the Comoros, sir.” I thank her. They bring my suitcase back into the room.

  “Let’s go,” the man says.

  I still don’t know his name. A chauffeured car is waiting for us. We get in the back. I watch the landscape go by in silence. A half hour later we’re in Moroni, the capital. We park in a hotel lot and get out.

  “Lieutenant, leave your suitcase here and we’ll go for lunch.”

  We’re at the Itsandra Beach Hotel’s restaurant, facing the sea. Young people are playing beach volleyball on the sand. We move to a private spot in a corner of the terrace. While waiting for the waitress to take our orders, my host finally opens his mouth and introduces himself: “My name is Bam, Lieutenant Bam.”

  “I suppose that’s a nickname,” I retort.

  “Just the initials of part of my real name, which goes on for miles. My name is Bourhane Ahmed Mohamed Kardjae Mzimba Ntsi.”

  “Right, I get it,” I say, laughing.

  But Bam doesn’t laugh, he stares at me.

  “Lieutenant, I have the feeling you’re not exactly thrilled to see me here in the Comoros!”

  “Listen, you have nothing to do with it, but your country is exasperating. Our president died and we’re quite capable of investigating his death without France’s help. And you have the nerve to tell us that interference—Françafrique—is over with? Who are they kidding? Lieutenant, if . . .”

  He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, as a lovely waitress comes over to take our orders. Bam goes on nonetheless, really furious that France is interfering in the internal affairs of a former colony. I listen to him in silence.

  “Listen, brother,” I finally say, “you may not like France’s foreign policy and I get it. But you and I are in the same boat here. We have to find out if the president was murdered or if he really died of a heart attack. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. I accepted this mission so they would give me another investigation in Marseille. To learn who knocked off the love of my life. Period. So let’s get down to work right away. Now, regarding your criticisms, why don’t you tie them up in a little bundle, take them to the French Embassy, and give them to the ambassador who will forward them on to the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, okay? Bon appétit, brother.”

  Bam opens his eyes wide and smiles. After the meal, he says: “Either we stay here to work, or we go to my office. Which do you want?”

  “Here, no question.”

  He lays a file down on the table. I move my chair over and sit next to him. He explains the situation: “As you know, the president came back from a trip in the morning and seemed in good health. He died around three a.m., from a heart attack, we’ve been told.”

  “I suppose there was no autopsy?”

  “No. He was buried the same day, of course.”

  “And who might want him dead, in your opinion?” I ask.

  “Besides the people of this country, you mean? There’s no shortage of enemies: the country is going through a big crisis. Anjouan, one of the Comoros islands, seceded and considers itself an independent state, although it’s not recognized by the international community. The president sent in the army to bring the island back into the fold, but the separatists beat him badly. The president demoted General Mkouboi, the head of the operation. And of course that made him so mad he resigned. The separatist movement is supported and armed by the far right in France. And now it seems there’s oil off the Comorian coast. The president supposedly gave the drilling market to the Ukrainians, to the dismay of the Russians. Then a colorful character comes on the scene: Colonel Madjomba. He controls the army now. As soon as the president’s death was reported, he fanned his troops out all over the city. He’s a friend of the famous French mercenary Bob Denard.”

  “And who’s taking over during the interim?”

  “According to the constitution, it’s supposed to be the president of the high council of the republic, a certain M’hadjou Ben M’sa. But as he was going home after the president’s funeral, his driver lost control of his car. Died on the spot. So the interim went to Madjid Ben Mawlana, the oldest member of the high council.”

  “And do you know anything about this man?”

  “Well, he lived in Marseille for a long time and had kids there. He was a dishwasher in a restaurant on the Vieux-Port and after twenty-six years he was promoted to fish scaler. Comes back home and goes into politics. When they wanted to give him a ministerial position he refused and asked to be appointed to the high council, just three months ago. To sum up: when the president of the republic dies he’s replaced by the president of the high council of the republic, who has sixty days to organize elections. If he dies too, he’s replaced by the oldest member of that institution who takes his place with the same mission. But I have a feeling he has no intention of giving up power anytime soon.”

  “Well, lieutenant, they’re really at each other’s throats, aren’t they? The problem is, we don’t have much time,” I say.

  “So how do we start?”

  “With coffee. It clears out the cobwebs. I’ll go get it.”

  I walk to the bar. A man is drinking pastis and smoking a Gauloise, as he leans against the counter. I order two coffees. I’m about to go back but I turn around for a moment. Something strikes me about this man. I return to Bam.

  “You see that guy at the bar . . .”

  “The one who’s leaving?”

  “Jesus, quick. We’ve got to follow him.”

  Bam gets up without saying a word, picks up his things, and pays the check fast. We run to the car. We see the man get into a 4x4 parked opposite the Itsandra mosque.

  “Why should we follow him?” Bam asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

  “Because he has a scar on his left cheek.”

  “That’s not a crime here, you know,” he laughs.

  “Very funny. Come on, go!”

  We discreetly follow the man with the scar. He takes a path lined with coconut trees and turns left. And we lose sight of
him. We stop and get out. Suddenly, a car comes up and stops right behind ours. A young man in Bermuda shorts, stripped to the waist, gets out with a gun in his hand. He shoots off a round and we flatten ourselves on the ground.

  “You’re dead, motherfuckers! Mind your own business!”

  I see him taking aim at Bam so I whip out my gun and shoot a bullet into his forehead. Welcome to my mother’s country. In my head I can still hear the young man’s words; there was such a contrast between this tropical landscape and his voice. We had something in common: a Marseille accent. He’s dead, with his Kalashnikov in his hands and white, wet sand on the soles of his sandals. He was one of the young people playing volleyball on the beach; the little prick was watching us. He’s wearing a bag slung across his shoulder. Bam opens it and waves his papers in the air: a French passport. Our young man is from Marseille. As for the man with the scar, he’s still nowhere to be found.

  “Thanks, you saved my life,” says Bam.

  “No thank yous between us, lieutenant.”

  “I know who the man in the 4x4 is.”

  “The guy with the scar?”

  “Yes, yes. He’s a rich local merchant. Come on, we’re leaving for Moroni.”

  * * *

  The sun is a golden ball casting a reddish glow on the horizon. It’s one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen. A few hours ago, I almost died under the bullets of a Kalashnikov, far from the Marseille projects where I live. Bam hands me his phone and I call Chief.

  “What news?” he asks.

  “Everything’s fine, don’t worry, Chief. But I need some info, urgent. Take a look at the records and please find me the file of a certain Swamadou Alhadhur. Born in Marseille. Call me back at this number.”