Lord, how could she have done otherwise? She had run up the stairs to the third floor with a long-prepared candy in her pocket for eleven year-old Marie-Rose. She found the poor girl crying on the threshold of the music teacher’s sealed door, rocking a violin like a sick doll.
Mademoiselle Teillé had not been a professional instructor. In better times, she played only for herself. She began giving private lessons only after she lost her small house when the Wahhabis came to power. But she came to love giving lessons. She taught piano, violin and guitar—explaining with a shy smile that she knew so much “only because I don’t know anything well.”
When she had looked at the hands of seven year-old Jeanne long ago, Mademoiselle Teillé had sighed and agreed to teach the girl, “only so she wouldn’t get an inferiority complex.” Nevertheless, soon it turned out that the little, dimpled hands had a large span. Soon Mademoiselle Teillé worried only about the insufficient diligence of her student.
And now they are driving her to the cemetery, in the back of a corpse truck.
It took her a few minutes to learn from Marie-Rose that this had been ordered by the “usual” imam —the same one who always came, and that he was still in the ghetto, heading for the library.
Mademoiselle had been correcting Marie-Rose’s mistakes, as usual, when the Muslim entered the apartment. Mademoiselle became angry and responded to his customary filth that she would continue teaching children “as long as I live!”
He had responded, in awful French, “Then, you old fool, that won’t be for long!” He snatched the violin from Marie-Rose and flung it on the floor. He slapped the old woman across the face, took out his cell phone, and began dialing numbers.
Mademoiselle only whispered: “Run home, child! I’m sorry I didn’t finish your lesson—but remember, every humiliation has limits when it can no longer be tolerated.”
Everything after that followed its due course. Jeanne had caught up to the monster and stopped him dead in his tracks with a “sticker.”
Well, now she needed to take care of some things. Jeanne braked next to the entrance of a small mechanic’s shop. Two young men from the ghetto, Paul Guermi and Stéphane d’Ourtal, worked there for the Turkish owner.
She saw Guermi under the hood of a model of Citroën that had not been manufactured since the 1990’s. He was about thirty years old with strong glasses that made his eyes appear small, and big sideburns. He was very thin and didn’t look much like a workman; he would not have been one in normal times. Twenty-year-old D’Ourtal, who was still not tired of life, was sanding off the scratches on a Volvo.
Guermi motioned with his hand for her to come in. The Turk, apparently, was not around.
“Can you change the shoes on my horse, guys?”
“Give us a break. We can’t get as many numbers as you need,” sighed Guermi. But Jeanne replied with an impish grin. Guermi knew very well that she would wind up wrapping him around her little finger.
Guermi believed that in those times it was easier for teen agers to handle the conditions of the Muslim occupation than it was for their elders. They were like the children of farmers in pioneer America—accustomed from the cradle to the war cries of Indians. They grew up carrying ammunition for their fathers. They fired their first shots when they had the strength to lift a carbine. For them, killing a man was not the Rubicon. There were no Hamlets in this generation—they made their decisions as they went. Guermi, on the other hand, had been raised by parents born at the end of the 1970’s. The illusion that somewhere there is a thing called safety can make a man loath to take risks—and perhaps not fight until there is no choice.
D’Ourtal was already bringing the Harley into the workshop.
“Can you do it right away, Stéphane?” asked Jeanne caressingly. “I’d like to wait here!”
“The creep would be happy to meet you,” d’Ourtal said with a smile. “But come tomorrow morning. It will be quiet then.”
“Wait. Where’s she going to go on foot?” protested Guermi. “Jeanne, wait a minute so I can look through these rags. I think Fatima recently gave us an old chador to make rags and I still haven’t used it. What about you, Stéphane?”
“Rats! We dirtied it already. It doesn’t smell like a woman anymore,” said d’Ourtal unhappily. “Of course, it’s better than nothing...”
Jeanne waved her hand. “Thanks, but don’t worry. I’ll spend the night somewhere close by and come back early tomorrow.”
“But not before nine,” said Stéphane.
“Okay!” Jeanne said, and ran into the street. She had a place to spend the night in the neighboring district. A woman who cleaned the antique shop and spent her nights in the ghetto let her sleep in the broom closet. Who would look for her there?
It was nevertheless humiliating, thought Jeanne as she ran down the sidewalk. Madeleine Méchin, who was only a year younger, walked calmly through Paris to her heart’s content. She could do that with her size 6 hips! She put on a cap and a jacket, and she was all set! Jeanne could pass for a boy only when she was on a motorcycle and moving fast.
A policeman in a patrol car was coming right at her at a snail’s pace. His partner seemed to be checking house numbers. And perhaps something else. Jeanne did not have time to think. Turning around, she saw an entrance to a public restroom and went in.
Generally speaking, Jeanne was disgusted by public restrooms—with their plastic pitchers instead of toilet paper. Yuck! she thought yet again as she closed the door behind her. But they wouldn’t find her here.
There was only one woman there, who was standing with her back to Jeanne in front of the mirror, fixing her lipstick with a cherry-colored lip pencil.
Jeanne asked herself, What sense does it make to wear lipstick if you’re going to throw a chador over your head?
The pencil trembled in the woman’s hand and her eyes opened wide.
Jeanne froze, more out of surprise than out of fear. She saw her own reflection in the mirror from behind the back of the blonde Muslim woman: She looked pale, wearing a denim shirt and light jacket and jeans. She was hatless, having left her helmet with Stéphane.
She had completely forgotten! How could she have gone into a women’s toilet dressed like a man? No wonder the woman was looking at her as if she were seeing a ghost!
Jeanne hadn’t believed it when people warned her that everyone does something really stupid at some point. And that the only way they got out was by sheer luck. Probably, those who weren’t so lucky weren’t around to tell about it.
The blonde woman and Jeanne looked at each other in the mirror.
If she starts screaming, I’ll kill her, Jeanne decided. I think I can manage.
Footsteps could be heard in the corridor connecting the men’s and women’s restrooms.
“I’m telling you, I don’t like it.” The voice speaking in lingua franca belonged to a Turkish policeman. “Some punk goes into the restroom right in front of our eyes and then there’s no one in the restroom.”
“Ali, you can’t even take a piss without creating a problem,” answered another voice. “Is that why we’re here?”
“Look, there’s not even a window here. If he went into the women’s restroom, is he a hooligan or something worse?”
“So what should we do?”
Now it was Jeanne who froze—from the roots of her hair to her bent knees. She was finished, completely finished. Lord, why hadn’t she at least taken her pistol? But no, she remembered the rules: No carrying a pistol in a sharia zone unless absolutely necessary!
“Let’s wait a little, check the documents of the women, and then we can search the building.”
The mirror showed Jeanne’s face growing paler. The pencil that stopped in mid-air looked like a dummy in a window display was holding it.
“But why are we checking the women?”
“I recently heard that a young man dressed in a chador took part in the murder of the qadi of the 16th district.”
“
Children of the devil, as they say! Hey! Is there anybody in there?” echoed a voice.
“Yes, don’t come in here,” answered the woman with surprising calm, looking over at Jeanne. She was also pale. For a few moments they looked at each other. The woman brought a finger to her lips.
The policeman called, “Hurry up! Document check!”
Jeanne shook her head at the woman: Thank you, but it’s pointless.
The woman suddenly began to rummage madly through her shopping bags. She took one, broke the ribbons, separated the tissues and took out something made of pink material.
In the woman’s hands was a new chador that looked as if it had been sewn for Jeanne.
“Faster!” called the cop.
Taking off the tag, the woman held out the clothing to Jeanne.
There was no time to think. Jeanne sank into the pink folds of fabric. When she looked out through the net, the woman was crumpling the packing tissue, which she threw into the toilet. Only then did she put on her own chador.
“Hold this!” the woman whispered, putting one of her pretty bags into one of Jeanne’s hands and grabbing onto the other with all her strength with cold fingers as they emerged from the bathroom.
The plump policeman looked at the woman and the girl, who were carrying bags with obviously expensive things, respectfully.
“Is there anyone left in the restroom?” asked one of them, extending his hand for documents.
“I’m don’t think so. I’m not sure.” Jeanne’s fellow traveler extended a plastic card.
“And for the girl?” The policeman scanned a small rectangle with a pocket scanner.
“You can check your database,” said the woman disdainfully. “The record must show that I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, Imam.”
“That’s not right, esteemed madam. She’ll be getting married soon and she shouldn’t be walking around without documents... You can pass.”
The policemen went past them into the restroom.
Jeanne slowly started breathing again as they slowly walked away down the block. “You saved me,” she finally said as she freed her hand and tried to return the bag to its owner. “I’ll be fine on my own from here.”
“Listen, girl, I see that you are in some sort of trouble. There are more police than usual in the city today, and you don’t have documents, do you? Come with me,” she said, walking toward an expensive-looking car. “You’ll spend a few hours in a safe place.”
“So you’re not a Muslim?” said Jeanne with a smile, forgetting that her smile couldn’t be seen.
“I am.”
Jeanne gave an involuntary start.
“Please,” said the woman.
“Why are you helping me?”
“You’re French.”
“Yes, I am... But aren’t you... formerly French?”
“Perhaps.” The woman seemed to take no offense.
Jeanne could have left long ago but now she was curious—her usual vice, for which she was often castigated. She wanted to see where these supposed collaborators were coming from, since things had already turned out as they had.
“Okay, thanks very much,” said Jeanne, sitting down in the front seat.
With a sigh of relief, the woman immediately started the car. The police, who could reappear from the restrooms at any moment, had frightened her.
A few minutes later, they were already driving by the Jardin du Luxembourg.
“By the way,” said Jeanne, noticing that speaking through a net that went into your mouth was unpleasant, “What’s your name?”
The woman did not respond right away. She appeared to be closely monitoring the traffic. Her hands, which held the driving wheel confidently, were shapely with narrow, fragile, long fingers. The manicure was imperceptible, flesh toned. But there were too many rings, and they were all in heavy gold. The rings did not match those hands. Not at all.
“You can call me Annette,” the woman finally said.
CHAPTER 8
The road through the darkness
“Father Lothaire, may I walk with you for a while?”
The priest, who had come out by himself, looked at Eugène-Olivier without recognizing him. Or perhaps he did recognize him after all? He nodded his head absentmindedly, without his usual good-natured smile.
“I really don’t like sharing such an unpleasant walk with anyone,” the priest finally said. “Tonight I will not sleep in my shelter, but in the subway.”
The young man knew that it was not good to spend the night in the same place over an extended period.
“What station are you going to?”
“Place de Clichy.”
“Doesn’t it seem to you, Father, that you won’t get to sleep until tomorrow? Because it will take you until dawn to get to Clichy.”
“It would on foot.” As the priest now looked carefully at Eugène-Olivier, and a smile finally appeared on his lips. Eugène-Olivier would never have admitted to himself how long he had waited for that restrained, good-natured smile. “I’m going to use transportation.”
“Transportation in an abandoned metro? A carriage with six white horses? Or by dragon?”
“How romantic you atheists are!” mused Father Lothaire. “You’ll see. You know what, young Lévêque. Keep me company, but only if you can sleep there as well. Then I don’t have to look for anyone else. Because I will need a bit of help.”
“At your service.”
When they had passed a part of the street, they descended into the Bastille station, mixing with the colorful crowd of workmen. It was dominated by blacks, who disliked work and preferred to live on social assistance, and Turkish workers, the most industrious inhabitants of the sharia zone.
Half of the Paris subway, known in the best of times for its discomfort and its tangled routes, was out of service, and the rest was very dirty. You wouldn’t be checked for documents, but you had to keep a hand on your wallet. The poor, who milled around, selling cheap wares or looking for hand-outs in the passageways and below the rusty advertising boards, were transformed into pickpockets in the blink of an eye. Dirty children begged for alms that no one gave, and then moved through the crowd searching for a victim. Cutting off a passing woman’s handbag was a trifle for them.
Official signs were posted to show which branches were in service. In some places, the empty tunnels were not even fenced off. Why would they be? Wealthy Parisians did not take the subway. Surface transportation with conductors was more dignified.
Making his way with Father Lothaire past the displays of smuggled merchandise arranged on the floor for sale, Eugène-Olivier was constantly afraid that people in the crowd would understand that they were looking at a priest. It was an irrational fear. In his overalls, they were as likely to know he was a priest as they were to think he was the Imam of Paris.
Having passed through two passages, they left the crowd and turned into the black sleeve of an empty tunnel.
“Do you think, your reverence, that it’s prudent to wander around in abandoned tunnels?” Darkness soon replaced the dim light, and the sudden silence became deafening. “You probably don’t even have a pistol.”
“And what would I do with a pistol?”
“Ah, yes, you’re forbidden to kill! But they say that criminals, thieves, drug dealers, and who-knows-who-else hide here.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“To tell the truth, I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Drug dealers, thieves, pimps, and murderers live peacefully above, in the sharia zone. The percentage of those who are pursued by the police is so small that criminals have little need to visit unpleasant places like this. The police catch exactly as many criminals as they need to organize public punishments and cut off the hands of some thieves. The rest are simply kept in check. That seems to be satisfactory for everyone.”
Father Lothaire took something out of the pocket of his overalls. There was a click and then a light appeared in front of them. “Every
megalopolis, even the worst, has to survive and maintain a complex balance. When the balance is disturbed, it results in a deadly hurricane.”
The ground under their feet was damp, and it was necessary to climb onto platforms.
“I also wanted to ask you, reverend father, why the Muslims claim that they communicate directly with God, and this makes them better than Christians. Given, of course, that all this is nonsense.”
“Excellent, Eugène-Olivier. For you, a materialist, everything that the Muslims believe is nonsense. But if you have already begun to comprehend that you need to understand the nature of the conflict between them and those who believe differently, that means you are growing. The man who barricades himself behind the walls of his opinions limits the freedom of his own thought. Even if you remain a materialist,” Father Lothaire added, smiling slightly, “you will have an advantage over them if you see them with the eyes of a Christian.”
“There is no reason to praise me for a question. Sophia Sevazmios told me to ask you. What is it all about?”
“It’s a game with an open deck of cards where the ace is pulled out of one’s sleeve. ‘Direct conversation with Allah, unlike the Christians.’ So many people were caught up by that phrase at the end of the last century!
“Every Christian can address God directly; moreover, he must do so. It is called prayer. God listens to these prayers. Perhaps the Muslims mean a dialogue? Man addresses God and receives a response. But let’s think logically now: Is every man capable of absorbing wisdom from a Being who is incomprehensible to our weak reason? He might very well go mad. It’s not that God doesn’t want to respond to us ordinary mortals. It’s that we don’t readily understand the Truth.
“There are mortals who receive a sort of training. They lead a daily battle against their sinful nature. They are oriented toward achieving the Truth with all their thoughts, all their motives. We call them saints. Thus, saints sometimes get a response. They have clear visions; they have intuitions that let them grasp things that we can’t.
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