The Mosque of Notre Dame

by Elena Chudinova

  “Let’s talk, then. What about, Father?” Her calmness was unbearable. It would be easier for him if she wept. Lord, send her tears as a gift, poor creature!

  “About Russia. If I understood well, Sophia, you don’t intend to return to your homeland?”

  “Perhaps for half a year, I still don’t know. But I don’t intend to live in Russia or in Greece. First of all, because I no longer need a home. Even one the size of the Earth.”

  “Is that the only reason you don’t want to live in Greece?”

  “Should there be another reason?”

  “You understand very well what I’m saying. Your husband condemned his compatriots.”

  “He condemned a lot of people. What should I do, then, move to Mars? They say there’s no air there.”

  “He condemned his compatriots more than others,” Father Demetrios spoke with strange pauses, as if there were not enough air here , in this spot filled with cypresses and wind that brought a faint scent of sea salt. “Even I can’t stay here anymore.”

  “Why is that? Isn’t Greece ‘the only country in this senseless world that is saving itself,’ Father?” The young woman softened her intonation. She wasn’t intending to be spiteful.

  “I’m not renouncing my words,” said Father Demetrios. “Greece will save itself, but it will not save anyone else. Russia will save others, but only if it manages to save itself.

  “About 15 years ago, I traveled through Russia with a large delegation of Orthodox churches. You probably don’t know about it, Sophia, but there were powerful unifying processes still in effect then. Not everything turned out as we wanted, but a lot did. This strengthened the Orthodox world. There were a lot of things I didn’t like about Russia at that time. For an enormous country, the position of the clergy was too elevated. An unnatural loftiness placed it above the people. Enclosed residences, automobiles, dozens of administrators and secretaries on the Internet, on the telephone, who filtered access to the bishop by mere mortals...

  “The archbishop served in church on a feast day, saw crowds of believers, including young people, women with children in their arms, visited classrooms full of students, visited churches being rebuilt from ruins. He saw the freshly printed church books and read theological magazines. And he started to believe that he was a bishop in an Orthodox country. The most dangerous of illusions! My child, I saw the statistics then. Horrendous! There are more people who call themselves Orthodox than believe in God.

  “My daughter, they have reduced Orthodoxy to a national color! To colored eggs and feast-day cakes! The percentage of people who fast is practically the same as it was during the time of Communism—when believers were persecuted.

  “The priests complained about the problem of drop-ins. Those were people who considered themselves believers, but really were not. Drop-ins considered it normal to baptize their child, but not spend a thought on his religious education. They married in church and then divorced. They went to church once or twice per year.

  “Many believers told me then that the most recent Passion Week had overlapped with the senseless Communist holidays. And what happened? All the TV channels were showing entertainment programs, clowns. Where was at least the shadow of respect for Orthodox sorrow? Would this have been possible here among us in Greece? And those awful New Year’s holidays in the middle of the Nativity fast! Let’s leave the debate about the calendar aside. My point is this—the Christian state must adapt itself to the church calendar, not the other way around! Russia must understand that, unlike Greece, its Orthodox members are a minority in its society. Just because there are so many churches, an illusion is created of an Orthodox majority.”

  “But why are your thoughts now in Russia, Father?” Sophia told herself that this long, excited tirade was proof that her father-in-law was still alive, not only on the outside. The death of his beloved son could have sucked all the life from his soul, leaving only a body to move toward the grave for as many years as he had left. It was good that this had not happened.

  “Because my thoughts are leading me there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tears have washed my eyes, my daughter, but I can’t tolerate the behavior of my compatriots. I have understood many things, I have paid too high a price, while they, they remain the same as before. It is better that I leave Greece so as not to tempt the Lord by the wrath of weak heart. I have another pasture for missionary work. I have found a place where I am needed. Let the church princes float on the clouds of illusion, God will judge them, but among the sparse masses of the middle clergy, there is room. I will take monastic vows in Russia and Demetrios Sevazmios and his guilt will disappear forever.”

  “When are you leaving, Father?”

  “Next week. I will leave all financial and real estate affairs to my brothers. I think there will be a use for my money there. The family will also see to it that you receive your share. According to Leonid’s will, they will divide your part into various accounts so you can withdraw money under various circumstances. Don’t worry; our family is virtuous with respect to finances. I know you need this money and I think I know how you will use it. I don’t judge you, Sophia; I have no right to judge anyone—not only as a Christian, but as a man who has made many mistakes.

  “There is just one thing I want you to know. Thanks to Sevazmios money, your capabilities have increased tenfold. May the Lord help you to increase your responsibilities tenfold as well. I know you’re not religious, even though we never discussed it. You only respected the rules in order not to insult your husband and his family. I believe this was an huge burden on your unruly soul. I believe you will now throw away all restraint and cast off even the empty shell of church culture. Don’t make a face, my child, a realistic view of things is part of the Greek national character. I would be surprised if I were to learn that you entered a church of your own volition in the next decade. But with my vision stripped of illusions, I see that you will come to God, Sophia. Not soon, but you will. Forgive me for everything. Know that I am praying for you.”

  “Father... Only now did I realize why my husband was so special. It’s true that heredity is an important factor. Forgive me for the grandchildren who don’t exist, most of all for that.”

  Paris—May 2048

  “Really, how did he come by something that had belonged to Father Demetrios?” Sophia thought again as she descended into the auto mechanic’s shop. The underground workshop was incomplete, like the supermarket building above it, but no work was being done today because it was Friday. There were bags of cement, coils of cables, the bare cement of the walls, and the phantasmagoric outlines of a building. In old movies such places served as some kind of urban sublimation of the silent forest. It was there that freaks, gangsters, extraterrestrials, or monsters usually attacked heroes. How many years had passed since she had seen an ordinary movie?

  “And so. This isn’t such a bad place, is it, Sophie? Lots of exits, easy to set up security on the access routes.”

  Sophia nodded. The narrow windows below the ceiling, already covered with a thick layer of construction dust, did not give too much light, but when the young man pushed away a piece of cardboard covering the unfinished entrance for automobiles, the outlines of this unusual place became clear. The workmen had left a folding chair, an old painted stacking stool, and several empty crates labeled “Moroccan oranges.”

  Footsteps rang out. A tall man dressed in work overalls descended into the passage. However, one could imagine he was a workman only if one didn’t see his face. His high forehead, the circles of tiredness under his eyes, and his pale face indicated a man who was not a physical laborer. His military posture and the elegance of his movements were surprising.

  “I almost got lost but I heard you cleaning the passage,” he said by way of a greeting.

  “Please don’t be angry, but I can’t imagine why it was necessary for you to come here,” Sophia said with a frown. “I’m sorry the whole thing came up.” />
  “I won’t get in your way; I’ll sit a little and listen. I’m not sure why myself, but you have to admit, Sophia, that you’re not the only one with an intuition.”

  Sophia lifted her hand and made a sign to all to be quiet. It was obvious that she liked even less the sound of new footsteps.

  The man who soon appeared was obviously an Arab–tall, plump in the manner of middle-aged Arabs who were not athletic, with wavy chestnut hair and full, sensuous lips. He wore a light-colored summer suit, ostentatiously decorated with a pile of heavy gold: a signet ring, cuff buttons, tie pin, all of them studded with rubies.

  “Are you convinced that I didn’t bring a tail?” He sat across from Sophia on a dusty crate with the nonchalance of a man who has a lot of clothes which are taken care of by others. “Good evening, Madame Sevazmios.”

  “I’m not sure the evening can be good for both of us at the same time.” Sophia smiled bitterly. “Let’s get right down to the matter for which you disturbed me.”

  “It’s a disputable issue who first disturbed whom,” he said, turning his head carefully. “Yesterday my home was searched, not to mention broken into illegally.”

  “Really? I believe that you, like any decent, law-abiding citizen, attempted to detain the offender and that you advised the authorities?”

  “Has my conversation with Sophia Sevazmios already been recorded by a photographer?”

  “No, nothing is being recorded or photographed. Or perhaps it is being recorded and written. Why would you take my word for it?”

  “In any case, it is no longer important. You were interested in the contents of my computer because I am the director of the Paris Laboratory for Atomic Research.” Ahmad ibn Salih smiled ambiguously.

  “Atomic waste doesn’t interest me,” she said, tensely watching the Arab. Her eyes were feeling out his face like the hands of a blind person. “That’s the headache of somebody in Moscow. Or Tokyo. Or maybe Tel Aviv.”

  “Sophie, no one is accusing you of a sudden curiosity in atomic research,” said the handsome, twenty-four year-old Larochejaquelein, one of the seven representatives of the underground. “The idea was mine and I admit it was a failure.”

  “It was a failure not only because I have insured myself against such curiosity,” added Ahmad ibn Salih, “but also because one could say that you shot the moon. There is nothing on my computer. Nor is there anything in the laboratory. In fact, there is no laboratory. It’s an empty field. Like the optical illusions of the Dutch school, the ones they placed on the table to look like three-dimensional objects.”

  “In Russia, they call them Potemkin villages,” observed Sophia, keeping her eyes on Ahmad. Unlike the men of the Underground, who were too surprised by the information provided to notice, she hadn’t missed that a Muslim was talking about the Dutch school. The times when the Wahhabis were tearing up paintings and breaking musical instruments had passed. Some Muslim, Europeanized intellectuals even allowed themselves to have a piano in the house and “incorporeal paintings.” But to hear an Arab talk about the Dutch school of painting was odd.

  “That’s too good to be true,” said Larochejaquelein sharply.

  “Well, then you can believe it because it’s not good at all,” said Ahmad ibn Said coldly. “On the contrary, it’s even very bad.”

  “Please explain.”

  “With pleasure.” Ahmad ibn Salih paused as if he wanted their focused attention. “However, I must begin at the beginning. It is well known that even before the EuroIslamic bloc achieved its borders of today, atomic research was being done in the Muslim world. The most serious was, and remains, the atomic base in Pakistan. It should be kept in mind that none of the Pakistani experts of that time were trained in their own country.”

  Of course not. We trained them. They couldn’t have done it; they lived the entire twentieth century as oil leeches. They produced nothing and they discovered nothing, thought Sophia.

  “When the non-Islamic countries brought down the ‘green curtain,’ ” continued Ahmad ibn Salih, “the situation with atomic weapons ceased to be transparent. The kafir states knew that the network of scientific research institutions was functioning. However, it is obvious that there have been no atomic weapons, in fact, for a long time. Even mechanical devices cease to function without qualified support, let alone... Especially if we take into account the historic agreement in Kyoto.”

  Larochejaquelein nodded. The Kyoto Agreement of 2029, signed by Russia, Japan, China, Australia and very reluctantly, the USA, listed in detail the technologies in the field of science that must not be exported to the countries of Euroislam and the old Muslim countries. It was only thanks to that agreement that they managed to keep Eurabia at the technical level of 2010.

  “I’m sorry, but what’s very bad about that? Or why is it bad for us?” asked Larochejaquelein.

  “A little patience. As I have already said, the atomic school of Pakistan remains the most competent. Until recently, there was hope that all additional works were not in vain. But now that hope has finally vanished. Pakistan has failed for the second time to make a bomb.”

  “So what?”

  “Like metastasis, the ghazwa will not stop of its own accord.” Ahmad ibn Salih’s brown eyes became somehow ash-like, like the earth after a fire. “In order to continue it, they were waiting for a bomb. But if there is no real bomb, and there will be no real bomb, that means—”

  “A dirty bomb! Lord!” Larochejaquelein struck himself on the forehead. “Don’t tell me they’re going to make a dirty bomb.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will someone be so kind as to explain to an old woman who doesn’t know about such things what a dirty bomb is and how it got dirty?” Something made Sophia smile. She was no longer piercing the Arab with her eyes.

  “It’s actually not a bomb, Sophie,” said the man in work overalls quietly. Something in his voice provoked a grimace of revulsion from the strange Arab. “It’s simply residue, a product of atomic dissolution. You don’t need missiles or missile launchers. A container can be carried and planted by any saboteur. The question is purely logistical, assuming he wants to commit suicide.”

  “And there are as many saboteurs and kamikazes as you want. They are a cheap commodity,” continued the scientist, managing to regain self-control. “For Islam, there is nothing cheaper than human life.”

  “You’re not Russian...” Sophia’s eyes again met with those of Ahmad ibn Salih but she was now looking at him completely differently. “You’re not Russian, although you have lived in Russia. Why are you surprised? You’re not the only one that knows the secrets of others. Moreover, it takes my experience to see that the corners of your mouth almost moved when I mentioned Potemkin villages. For Europeans that expression would be completely meaningless.”

  “Sophie, it can’t be!” Now it was Larochejaquelein who was drinking in the man with his eyes. “His face—”

  “Yes, his face.” Sophia smiled. “When I was young, plastic surgeons left scars behind the ears. Today, a year later one can’t tell that a scalpel was used. Absolutely harmless magic that doesn’t take that long. The shape of the lips, of course, adjustments in the slant of the eyes, a bit of nose work. But why you have unmasked yourself, Monsieur Resident, atomic science does not explain, at least not to me.”

  “So it has come to this.” The man whom it was no longer possible to call Ahmad ibn Salih smiled at Sophia without hostility. “The destruction of such a great diversion justifies my unmasking, and unmasking is an inevitability.

  “It’s a form of redemption, with interest. One hundred and forty commandos, recruited among the Russian Muslims, are drawing near the waters of Moscow, St. Petersburg, Samara, Yekaterinburg, Tsaritsin, and Vladivostok with their radioactive infection. Some of them would have been caught in any case, but the results would have been spectacular. But all of them will be arrested before the appointed hour. The tragedy will be prevented. The response will also be multifold.

/>   “But I am handling those problems, more or less, by myself,” continued Slobodan. “I am here before you for other reasons. Events are unfolding, it should be noted, with lightning speed. Two days ago, I did not know about this new branch of jihad.

  “They know that states with atomic power are not suicidal enough to use these weapons first. In such a war, there is no winner. But nothing will stop them, even if they have to turn the whole planet into a desert inhabited not only by two-humped camels but also two-headed ones, with small oases of clean territory inhabited by their princes, the direct descendants of the Prophet. That’s why they will initiate activity now on all fronts. Their plan is to make simultaneous use of the dirty bomb and intimidation. And that is something that will directly concern all of you.”

  “What is their goal?” Larochejaquelein’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

  “The complete destruction of the ghettos, beginning with Paris.”

  A heavy silence fell. The words were too simple; they did not manage to fully convey their horrible meaning.

  Slobodan finally continued, “They will throw all the city dirt, the so-called volunteer deputies of the religious guard, into the five Paris ghettos. They will pass through the streets like a tide, without hurrying, easily converting anyone that trembles, and the last people who remain free.”

  It suddenly became much colder in the basement. Sophia’s shoulders trembled. For an instant, her wondrous youth disappeared and blood could not warm her sufficiently. Larochejaquelein was very pale.

  “I believe that it’s no secret to anyone here that Euroislam owns TV,” continued Slobodan. “But it is broadcasting from behind the curtain. They got that idea from the time of the Cold War with the Soviet Union. Then it was the signals from the West revealing all the things the Communists tried to hide from the Soviet people.

  “But now, commercials are being broadcast from here in Islamic-occupied Europe that are following the propaganda strategy of the Third Reich. They advertise the joy of newly converted Muslims. Beautiful girls whisper how much they like to wear the chador. In the free world, there are people who enjoy laughing at these stupidities by satellite. Young people, especially, think it’s hilarious. But soon the TV audience will stop laughing.”