“I’m very happy for you. And we’ll be able to see you a little more often.”
She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me after her. “Come on, I want you to meet somebody,” she said excitedly.
She led me to a travel agency about a hundred meters from the post office. A young woman was doing some filing, cinched into a tight-fitting tailored suit that immediately made me uncomfortable.
The two girls embraced, too enthusiastically for my taste. I stood back so I wouldn’t have to shake a stranger’s hand.
“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop and say hello,” my sister declared.
“That was nice of you.”
“You got my text?”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll come?”
“I have to ask my boss first. It’s been months since I took a day off.”
“I’d really like it if you’d join the party. We need as many girls as we can get.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“All right, we’ll talk about it tonight at Nawal’s…Do you know my brother?”
The girl stared at me for a moment and then shook her head shyly.
“This is Khalil. He’s going to be his own boss soon. He’s a peerless woodworker.”
The girl, embarrassed, turned away slightly.
“Well, I have to run. And you have a stack of folders to file…Okay, see you tonight, Leila.”
“For sure, Zahra. There’s something I need to get back from Nawal.”
We went out onto the street. My sister was as red as a peony.
“Did you notice her eyes?” she asked, her voice tense with emotion. “Perfectly green. Like the glass marbles we used to play with, you and me, when we were kids. And so transparent you could read her thoughts.”
I wasn’t following her.
She stopped me at the end of the street, panting a little. “Isn’t she pretty?”
“She’s pretty.”
“She’s an amazing girl, serious and all. People speak only well of her. Her father’s an accountant, and her mother’s a teacher. She has two brothers at the university. A respectable family.”
“What’s the point of all this praise, Zahra?”
She took hold of my wrists and squeezed. “The second I saw her, I thought of you. I conducted a little investigation, and I’m convinced that Leila’s made for you. Just imagine, your children could have light eyes.”
“What?”
“It’s time for you to start a family, Khalil.”
“Sorry, I’m already taken.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re back with that lunatic Mansurah.”
“No, not that lunatic.”
“So do I know her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What does she have that Leila hasn’t got?”
“The full-face veil.”
Zahra was disappointed. Her enthusiasm vanished abruptly, replaced by frustrated perplexity.
“Niqab proves nothing, Khalil. I know girls who wear the full veil day and night, but it doesn’t stop them from getting into some suspicious-looking cars.”
“Mine’s not like that.”
“You have to introduce me.”
“As soon as things fall into place.”
She looked around, embarrassed, and then she said, “Listen, I’m not trying to force your hand. Marriage is serious business. Don’t make any decisions you’re liable to regret. If I were in your place, I’d think twice. Leila’s a fabulous girl, educated and devout. Don’t judge her from the way she dresses. Her boss requires it. I can assure you, she’s a good girl. We talk together at the mosque every Friday…Say, suppose we go to a café and continue this conversation in peace?”
“You should avoid cafés. A girl sitting at a table in the midst of strangers, that’s very much frowned upon. The café’s a place reserved exclusively to men.”
“Then let’s go home.”
“You know very well that’s not possible, Zahra.”
“Our father needs us. The MRI detected an adenoma on his prostate. The urologist wants to perform a biopsy to determine the nature of the tumor.”
“It’s God’s will.”
“Sure, right, but I’m talking about you. God doesn’t forbid you to reconcile with your parent. Just the opposite: Islam preaches forgiveness. Filial piety is as sacred as piety itself. Besides, what’s your complaint against our father? He pulled your ears every now and then? I don’t see the reasons for so much resentment. After all, he’s your father.”
“First off, he’d have to stop being a drunken pig.”
“A pig?” she cried indignantly. “Is that how you talk about your father, Khalil? A pig?” Her eyes filled with tears. “You don’t have the right. And I forbid you, you hear me? Ask any imam you want how God likes it when a son calls his father a pig. The Quran is categorical about that sort of thing. We don’t even have the right to contradict our parents, much less to disparage them. As for detesting them, that crosses the line into sacrilege.”
Her cheeks were twitching with anger as she went on: “If you care for me, Khalil, if you want to see me again, go home and apologize to your father. I want you to kiss his head, I want you to get on your knees in front of him and beg his pardon, even if you think you’ve done nothing wrong. Otherwise, don’t even try to call me on the phone.”
And with that, she left me standing there on the sidewalk and hurried to get on the bus that had just stopped nearby.
I was far from suspecting that I’d never hear her voice again.
* * *
—
That same evening—or rather, late that night—the telephone in Hédi’s room rang.
My housemate came into my room and turned on the light. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ve got orders to drive you to Ghent.”
“Now?” I groaned, barely conscious and unhappy at being disturbed at such an hour. I was convinced this must be yet another instance of Ramdan’s excessive zeal.
“Right away. Take your things with you, including your ID papers and your passport.”
* * *
—
When we entered Ghent, a car was waiting for us. We followed it to a small brick house overlooking a vegetable garden. The car that was leading us slowed down in front of an iron gate. The driver flicked on his turn signal and then continued on his way, as in Zeebrugge. This time, we were greeted in the entrance hall by our emir, Lyès, in person. He was alone. He asked Hédi to make us some coffee in the kitchen and showed me into what looked like a sparsely furnished storage room. There was a bed, a low table, a shabby armoire in one corner, and a threadbare rug on the floor.
“I suppose these are my new quarters,” I said, disappointed.
“Only for tonight,” the emir reassured me. “Tomorrow you’ll have better lodgings.”
“So why didn’t we wait until tomorrow?”
“Khalil, my brother, when are you going to learn not to ask too many questions? Your new hideaway won’t be ready until tomorrow. Do you want to know why I’ve dragged you out of bed so late?”
“No.”
“I’m going to tell you why all the same. Because the Council made its decision, less than two hours ago. You’ve been chosen for the operation. The sheikh wanted to congratulate you in person and asked to meet you here. Unfortunately, he just called me to offer his apologies. He can’t make it—an emergency requires his presence elsewhere…Do you want to know why Ghent?”
“No.”
“Again, I’m going to tell you: to get you out of Brussels in order to safeguard our plans as much as possible. From this moment on, you’ll break off all contact with the outside world. Give me your phone.”
I did as I was told.
He gave me another. “There are o
nly two numbers on that one, mine and Hédi’s. He’ll be at your service until your departure. You’re not to call me directly. If you need me, you go through Hédi. He’ll relay your message. And you mustn’t answer the phone unless your screen displays my code name: Lisboa. If you don’t see Lisboa, you don’t pick up. Except if it’s Hédi, of course. To summarize: you make no calls except to Hédi, and you answer no calls except from him or me. Don’t try to get in touch with your family or anyone else. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
“We’re the only two who know your number—”
“Lyès, come on, I get it, I’m not a child. So when do I leave?”
“I don’t know. But it won’t be long.”
“What’s my destination?”
“Morocco, naturally.”
“And Bruno?”
“Zakaria’s on his way here. Should be arriving shortly.”
Hédi brought us coffee. Lyès thanked him and then told him to return to Brussels at once.
“Stay tuned,” he ordered him.
After the Tunisian left, Lyès asked me to give him my passport, checked its expiration date, and glanced at the few stamps decorating the interior pages. He frowned.
“Is there a problem?”
“Not necessarily. The last time you traveled to the old country was more than three years ago. What will you say if the border police ask you why you’re returning after such a long time?”
“Why would they ask me that?”
He shot me a stern look.
“Excuse me, it just slipped out,” I apologized. “I’ll say that I’ve heard about a beautiful cousin and I’m going to see for myself if she’s the one for me.”
“She’s got a name, this cousin?”
I thought for a bit. “Milouda.”
“Does she really exist?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she’s gotten married in the meantime.”
“She’s only fifteen.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Nador.”
“And what have you come to do in Marrakesh?”
I couldn’t improvise an answer.
“You see? It’s the little details that can screw up the most carefully thought-out plans. You may be asked any sort of question at the Marrakesh airport. They’ve got some real snakes down there. They stay a few steps ahead of the devil. If you want to slip through their nets, you have to keep calm and have an answer for everything. In Zakaria’s case, the problem doesn’t come up. His brother-in-law runs a hardware factory in Souihla, a little west of Marrakesh. As for you, you’re visiting your cousin by marriage, who lives in Gueliz. His first and last names, his relationship to you, his address, and his photograph are all in that envelope on your pillow there.”
A car stopped outside. Lyès took a look out the window.
“It’s Zakaria.”
“He could have come here with me. Cars that stop in the same place at impossible hours attract neighbors’ attention.”
“Zakaria wasn’t in Brussels.”
Lyès went to open the door.
Bruno gave him a hearty embrace in the entrance while greeting me with nothing more than a barely perceptible nod.
“We drove here at breakneck speed,” he said.
“You’re right on time. Send the driver away.”
Bruno opened the door, waved off his driver, who had remained in the car, and then closed the door again.
“Well?” he asked excitedly. “I hope you haven’t made me cross the country to give me bad news.”
“You’re on.”
Bruno flung his arms around the emir’s neck. “Alhamdulillah. I never stopped praying the whole trip.” He turned to me. “Khalil’s in on it?”
Bruno didn’t seem delighted to be leaving with me.
Lyès tapped him on the shoulder. “Khalil is a reliable partner. There were six volunteer candidates, each of them as determined as all the others. The Council chose you two because your profiles are the most appropriate.”
I didn’t much appreciate Bruno under normal circumstances, but on that evening, I loathed him.
Lyès gathered us around the low table to explain what the Council expected of us. He spread out a map of Marrakesh with two places circled in red pencil. “Here are the targets,” he said. “The Majorelle Garden and Jemaa el-Fnaa. Once you’re on the ground, it will be up to you to choose between them. All resources necessary to carry out the operation will be made available to you. We know the authorities keep the garden under close surveillance, but it’s set to be the site of a big party on March twenty-third. Beautiful people will be there by the dozen, many Europeans, the Marrakesh upper crust, and the local authorities. You’ll have to see how things are. Security around the garden will naturally be beefed up; if that looks like a problem, then you’ll fall back on Jemaa el-Fnaa. The same date, March twenty-third, but in the evening, when the square’s at its most crowded. The Council has appointed you, Zakaria, commander of the group. You’ll leave in two days and finalize your attack plans. On the logistics side, everything’s ready. Operational preparations will be your sole concern. A handpicked team is waiting for you on-site. As for you, Khalil, you’ll fly to Marrakesh three days before the operation.”
“Why can’t I leave with Bruno?”
Lyès slowly nodded his head, exasperated and amused at the same time.
“Excuse me,” I said to him.
“I know, it just slipped out.”
Bruno scratched the back of his head and said, “I’d gladly opt for Jemaa el-Fnaa. It’s easier to get to. Besides, there’s always an enormous number of tourists there from every part of the world—”
“You’ll pick your target once you’re on-site,” Lyès interrupted him. “Personally, I’d prefer to blow up the garden. That would cause a much greater media reaction. The sheikh agrees with me. But it’s been decided that you should have some flexibility, because we insist that this operation should be one hundred percent successful. Some sources, credible sources, report that Imam Sadek is dead, that he’s been murdered. Whether it’s the garden or Jemaa, Morocco must serve as an example to all the Muslim countries inclined to spare the West the consequences of having our brothers’ blood on its hands.”
We spent a good part of the night putting the finishing touches on our plans for traveling to Marrakesh, as well as for where to stay and how to move about there. Throughout, we prayed that God would assist us in our choices and our decisions.
At four o’clock in the morning, a car came for Lyès and Bruno.
I remained alone in the cold room, trying to sleep. In vain.
* * *
—
At noon, Hédi found me in bed. He asked me to take a shower and accompany him. Then he took me to a magnificent little apartment in the historic city center, on the second floor of a building overlooking the quay known as the Graslei. We had a large television mounted on the wall, a well-stocked fridge, and a fully equipped kitchen. My room was very impressive, with silk curtains on the windows, a bed worthy of a potentate, and a carpet that matched the blue of the ceiling.
“It’s like being in a five-star hotel,” I cried, delighted to discover a bit of comfort after weeks on the run and innumerable restless nights.
“And yet it’s nothing compared to what’s waiting for us up above,” Hédi felt compelled to remind me.
“Lyès says you’re at my service.”
“You rub your magic lamp, and I appear before you to carry out your wishes.”
“All my wishes?”
“Without exception.”
“I feel like going to a peaceful beach.”
“Now?”
“Right away.”
Hédi spread his arms obsequiously. “So be it, Your Highness.”
&
nbsp; In less than an hour, we were in Blankenberge, treating ourselves to grilled fish at the Titanic, a seafront restaurant. Since the main beach had been stormed by families in their Sunday best, I asked Hédi to find one that was less crowded.
We arrived at a minuscule deserted bay wedged between two masses of rock.
“Would you mind leaving me here alone?” I asked Hédi.
“Not in the least. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
“I’d rather you leave.”
“Do I bother you that much?”
“I need to commune with the sea.”
“You’re not thinking about diving in, are you? You’re sure to catch a raging cold, which could compromise our plans.”
“Please go away. Come back for me in an hour or so.”
Hédi was embarrassed. “Lyès ordered me not to let you out of my sight.”
“I’m not going to vanish. Just one little hour. I need to be alone, face-to-face with the sea.”
Hédi hesitated a long time before taking out his cell phone, no doubt to inform the emir of my whim and to get his authorization.
“That’s really not worth the trouble.”
In the end, he acquiesced, got back in his car, and drove off.
* * *
—
I took off my shoes and socks, rolled my pants up over my calves, and walked on the wet sand, which crunched under my weight. The sea was stormy. Waves pummeled the rocks, spurting through the fissures in furious geysers. It was awe-inspiring. In that crashing hysteria, there was a kind of jubilation; it reminded me of my fits of anger, the few occasions when I’d succeeded in throwing a fiercely hated adversary to the ground.
I sat on a dune, pulling my jacket tight around me, like a chilled monk. I took deep breaths and offered my face to the wind. The seagulls’ cries punctuated my contemplation. A sensation of primitive happiness filled me with extraordinary satisfaction.
The last time I’d bathed in the sea had been three years earlier. It was at Saïdia, a beach in the extreme northeastern corner of Morocco. A thin thread of a river separated us from the Algerian beaches. One of my father’s friends had loaned us his beach hut. Every morning, I’d meet up with my holiday friends and we’d swim out as far as we could. The lifeguards would whistle to us to return, but we’d keep on swimming until we were exhausted, then we’d turn over on our backs, our mouths like wineskins filled to bursting, and spout seawater into the air like whales. Only when we were half-numb with hypothermia would we emerge from the waves and lie on the hot sand until late in the afternoon.
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