Arab Jazz (18 page)

“Okay, so they’re less strong than the shamanic drugs, but they’re still good stuff. You become bigger, you think you’re . . . I don’t know, somebody like Captain America or Harry Potter. So it’s a drug that can be really fun, though it’s important to be in a happy place when you take it.

“To cut a long story short, I went to the rebbe and I told him about my dream. He didn’t say anything right away; he took the drawing and went to pray, read, do his thing. The following day, he takes me to one side at the synagogue just as I’m taking off my tefillin, tells me that he spent the night at his books, and that in the morning he’d found the sign. Imagine that! My dream had been foretold centuries ago by Isaac Luria . . . I don’t know much about Kabbalah, but I do know that Luria was one of the greats. On top of this, he adds that everything that comes of this dream will be blessed as it is desired by the Most High, he who cannot be named. And then I feel this spirit come over me, and I let out a murmur, like this . . .” He bring his lips to Susan’s ear, his voice little more than a caress. “‘Godzwill’. The rabbi looks at me, weeping, and repeats it in his funny accent: ‘Godzwill . . . Godzwill . . . It’s so beautiful, my son, so beautiful. You tell me what you need. We’ll take care of everything . . . Really, so beautiful.’”

Susan murmurs it too, in a daze.

“Godzwill, Godzwill . . . It is beautiful . . . But what is it?”

“Oh, a magical substance, that’s all. Just something that’ll give infinite joy to our fellow humans. The rebbe is remarkable—he managed to get me this job in the lab. It was in a terrible state, but it works well enough for my needs. In the afternoon, when the school is open, I do all my prep. Then in the evening, I do a few trial runs, and sleep in the morning. And here we go—three days ago I managed to stabilize the molecule and find the formula to mass-produce it.”

Like an illusionist he makes two gorgeous, sky-blue pills appear in his hand. Susan looks at them in astonishment.

“Have you tried it?”

“Sure! It beats anything I’ve taken before. Better than MDMA, better than coke, even better than ganja! When you’re on it you understand the meaning of the words ‘God created man in His image’—you become like Him. You glide over the ground, creating new worlds each second. You become ultra-lucid, ultra-conscious, and ultra-wasted all at the same time. Let’s try one right now, if you like?”

Susan grabs the pill out of Dov’s palm, holds it between her thumb and index finger, brings it up to inspect it, closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and swallows it. He follows suit. Then the two of them sit side by side on the white, ceramic-tiled bench in the Chaim Potok High School chemistry lab. A pretend Jew and a Hasidic ex-con, with their eyes closed, waiting in the mild evening air to become gods on Earth.

20

Down at reception, Jean picks up the keys to an unmarked vehicle parked outside the Bunker. He starts it gently and follows the same route as Rachel the night before. After the bridge on rue Ordener, he slows down, closely surveying the area around the telephone booth. There’s a space in a loading bay just in front. He parks, lights a cigarette, and clears his head. He lets the place wash over him. His eyes wander, stopping at a book case. There, lined up, as if on parade, are the crappy paperbacks he used to jerk off to in secret back in Saint-Pol-de-Léon.
Son Altesse Sérénissime
, his favorite, because underneath it all it was fascist, racist, misogynistic trash. Everything that was forbidden for him. It was the really hackneyed fantasies—like when the Air Africa stewardess sucks off Prince Malko Linge on an airplane—that gave him the biggest boner. And they were amazing for staying hard for ages, since every two pages there was another sex scene or, even better, some torture. Yup, the torture scenes . . . They were the most exciting. Like with the cat.

• ALMOST KILLING AN ANIMAL
  
• A LIVING BEING
  
• GETTING OFF ON ITS SUFFERING
  

The shop. Looks like a second-hand shop. Various old books and curios in the window. Enough light from inside to see it’s a real mishmash. A huge, oddly familiar shadow comes to the entrance, then pulls back into the cavern, followed thirty seconds later by a second, normal-sized guy, who scrutinizes Jean for a second before disappearing too. Bit tricky to go in asking questions like “Did you see a murderer making a telephone call on June 18 at 9:30 p.m.?” His watch says 10:45 a.m. Too late. If he wants to get to Rachel without the flashing lights he needs to take off now.

At Le Gastelier, which looks out over the Montmartre funicular and Sacré-Coeur, he orders a pain au chocolat and a double espresso.
Le Parisien
and
Libération
are right there, but he doesn’t want to get bogged down with the din of the world. He can’t wait for that wonderful first bite. The pains au chocolat here are light and flaky, not at all stodgy. Their quality comes from their substance and texture as much as from their taste. Every time he comes here it astonishes him that such a place can survive, wedged between a Häagen-Dazs ice cream parlor and a supposedly authentic old-style
bistro
. What was it Debord said? “The true is a moment of the false . . .” Indeed.

Rachel arrives at the same time as his order. She lets the waiter serve her colleague, asks for the same, and then sits down. Not the customary kiss on the cheek, just a silent smile that lights up the world.

“I saw Mercator—he managed to give me the creeps! He’s got this way of speaking about evil, like something out of Dante’s
Inferno
 . . . No, hold on—let’s begin with life, not death. Last night, I decided to move out. The twelfth is a horror show: far-right white boys and Arabs on Prozac. I want to be in a neighborhood that’s alive. The eighteenth, the tenth . . . somewhere like that. Or the north of the ninth? Somewhere with some bars or clubs. People, humans, you know.”

Rachel listens, still smiling.

“About time! I was really beginning to wonder why you were refusing to leave that dingy tower block on that dreadful road. As soon as this case is over I’ll help you find the perfect place. The tenth would suit you, in the Tamil neighborhood, that bit between La Chapelle and Gare de l’Est. I’m sure you’d like it there. And I’ll take you for a
masala dosa
—they’re delicious! Before you tell me about Mercator, I’ve got something to tell you too. One thing in particular that troubled me this morning.”

“Troubled you? You seem so happy! Like you’ve won the lottery, or you’ve met the man of your dreams. Reminds me of that Canadian song when the dude asks in his Québecois accent: ‘Do you take water in your whiskey?’ and she answers: ‘No, I take it neeeeeeeeeeat . . .’”

“Hey, anyone ever told you that you’re a complete ass?”

“Err, yes . . . You, mainly. Okay, sorry . . . I feel like talking crap this morning, just to get it off my chest . . .”

“What makes it even trickier is that stupid remark of yours is not that wide of the mark . . . Listen, I’m going to tell you something that I shouldn’t. So keep it to yourself and no lame comments. It’s just I need to talk to somebody about it, and since it’s linked to the inquiry, that can only be you.”

“Okay Cross my heart, et cetera et cetera.”

“This morning, just before leaving, I got a call from Taroudant.”

“And that’s what’s been troubling you? If I’m seeing this right, Taroudant calls you at 10:00 a.m. and you’re . . . you’re overjoyed! You do realize that you’re in the process of being chatted up by a half-wit Arab who’s a suspect in a murder investigation that you are carrying out with yours truly?”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“That doesn’t seem to be the case. The girl, Laura, had her vagina slashed by a knife with a blade that was—what?—three, six inches long . . . He, he had keys to her place, he has no alibi . . . He is still in the picture. I’m still wondering why we haven’t brought him in!”

“Because we both know that it wasn’t him! Here’s why: he doesn’t have the build or the profile. And we’re not going to waste any time going down a dead end. We don’t have twenty-four hours of custody time to play with.”

“I can just imagine what we’re going to say to Mercator. ‘It can’t be him, Lieutenant Kupferstein has got a crush on him . . . Trust us, Commissaire, sir . . .’”

“Enough! You didn’t let me finish. What are you, jealous? He called me to say he’s going back to his psychoanalysis and that he’s going to work at the bookshop with Monsieur Paul.”

She stares at Jean, her eyes at once firm and imploring.

“I’m talking to you as my partner and as my friend. I’m not keeping anything from you because this is not just about my private life, it’s about a criminal investigation, and I’m well aware of that. Yes, his call moved me. Especially when he admitted that the main reason for calling me was to hear the sound of my voice. It unsettled me, and that’s why I need you. Ahmed . . . Ahmed has made a very profound impression on me. I could even feel myself wavering over at his place yesterday. In the evening, before going to sleep, I thought about him, I saw his face, and then this morning he calls me . . . So if we want a word for that, then maybe it’s ‘love’, yes, I’m falling in love. Beginning to, at least. The very, very beginning . . .”

Rachel is emotional, on the verge of tears, but she pulls herself together.

“I’m asking you not to judge me, but to help me keep my judgment. Having these feelings for someone . . . It doesn’t come around every day . . . But there’s no question of it compromising the investigation. So if you sense I’m losing control, tell me. All I’m saying is . . . be fair!”

“Uh, okay. That’s not going to be easy. For starters, I’m jealous, obviously. Even if I know things would never work between us, deep down it does hurt a little. But . . . I adore you, Rachel, I really do, and I’m telling you today that I have no doubt that I always will, so remember that . . . I adore you completely, and I’ll never do anything to hurt you. But you need to know that what you’re asking of me is major, really major. As far as the rest is concerned, I’m with you. Ahmed doesn’t fit the murderer’s profile, not for a second. But I’m still going to check . . . I’ve got this meeting with his doctor. Other than that, watch how you go! Keep your distance big time until the investigation’s over. Imagine what’d happen if this came out . . . Just imagine . . .”

“I’ll be sensible. But I did ask him to call me if he found anything out. And he told me that he’ll do anything to find a good reason to call me or to see me again. I . . . I’ll know how to handle it.”

“Definitely let me know if that happens and we’ll go and see him together.”

“Alright.” She stops herself, looks at Jean, smiles, mouths a “thank you,” gathers her breath and continues, “Let’s move on to the serious stuff. In the night I got a call from Bintou and Aïcha. They asked me if I had Skype, some application for making free calls via the Internet.”

“I know the one.”

“Ah, I hadn’t heard of it. They’re meant to be coming around tonight at about 3:00 a.m. so that we can talk to Rébecca on Skype.”

“Yes! Great news. Where’s Rébecca?”

“I didn’t ask them for the moment. Far away, in any case . . . Straight after I switched on my computer and there was an e-mail from Gomes who’s managed to organize a meeting for me this afternoon with an ex-Witness from Niort.”

“Ahmed, Kevin . . . All these men at your every beck and call . . .”

“Very funny! Your turn—fill me in on Mercator.”

“Hold on. Before Mercator, I’ve got something to show you. You remember 75-Zorro-19?”

“The rap group with Bintou and Aïcha’s brothers, Moktar and Ruben?”

“Precisely. I found a mixtape of theirs from 2000. Have a look.”

The photograph shows the four of them looking into the camera like gangsters in front of the Rotonde de la Villette. They’re all making the same sign: little finger touching the thumb with the three middle fingers splayed apart.

“That symbolizes Allah in Arabic. They’re all doing it, even Ruben. It was a pretty good way of winding people up and it worked with the white kids from the schools in the sixth. They would brave marché Malik on a Saturday to buy the latest tunes from the hot new ‘ghetto’ artists. The dedication is the most interesting thing: ‘To our first fans, our little sisters, our homegirls Rébecca, Aïcha, and Bintou.’”

“You mean Ruben is Rébecca’s big brother?”

“Yup. And you know what—I remember seeing them at a gig.”

“You went to one of their concerts?”

“I went to check them out once. The girls must have been seventeen. They did a dance routine up on stage just before the first song. I didn’t recognize them yesterday because I’d totally forgotten about that concert. Plus their style was completely different. They hid their curves under really baggy tracksuits. But their dancing . . . There was something wild, untamed about it . . . Everything’s coming back to me now. The band started at the community school when four local kids met: two black guys, an Arab, and a Jew. They became pals, learned about life, messed around with music. They ended up at the same secondary school and decided to form a hip-hop band: 75-Zorro-19. Aside from Moktar, who you know already—he was the beatmaker—there’s Mourad, Aïcha’s brother, Alpha, who’s Bintou’s brother, and Ruben . . .”

“Rébecca’s brother.”

“Exactly! When I moved to the neighborhood, they’d just started college. Their tag was on every wall, their lyrics ringing in everyone’s heads. Two years later, after they’d graduated, Moktar had his breakdown and the group didn’t survive after that. This morning I dug around and I found the sleeve to their mixtape, and also one of their rap tunes on my old MP3 player. Have a listen! Ruben is the first to rap.”

Rachel tries not to look too disgusted as she inserts the questionably clean earpbuds. It starts with a stripped-down beatbox, followed by a plucked guitar riff that she could swear had been lifted from Prince, before a Kool Shen-esque vocal kicks in.

The life of a A-rab, the life of a brother,

It’s not worth nothin’ round here,