Ahmed decided against rolling a joint. He stashed the weed that Al gave him in the breast pocket of a clean pajama top. Even if he is wary of his paranoia, he can’t resist the urge to get his brain whirring and make some sense of his encounter with Moktar. He’s not really one for conspiracies or for coincidences. It’s been four years since Moktar last said a word to him. When they cross in the street they avoid each other: no words, but no aggression either. They had been at Maison Blanche at the same time, though not for the same reasons. They weren’t friends. One of their arguments would have boiled over if a nurse hadn’t interrupted. From then on they made a tacit agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Ahmed had become friends with the nurse, Rita, a big red-headed lady. Another redhead! During one of their conversations she had spilled the beans about Moktar’s diagnosis: degenerative paranoid psychosis. Completely incurable. Inevitably his illness had embedded itself into the spirit of the times. It was at Maison Blanche that he began to talk about God. The time spent in the bled had sown the seed. A vision of the crime starts to form in Ahmed’s mind. Very vague; imprecise. He has to see the killer’s face again. For that he must sleep. But what about that joint? It was too early. Not inside the apartment. For a second he feels tempted to call up Rachel: “Hi, it’s Ahmed. I was just thinking . . . I’ve got some good shit from Thailand—how about we carry on that chat about Ellroy?” A short laugh. He takes in a deep breath of love and fresh air, then thinks back to Moktar. The psychotic Salafist has got to be part of the picture, but he’s not the killer. He can feel it, somewhere in the corner of his mind. “Halouf-eating bastard.” It’s bonkers—why are they so hung up on all that? The pure, the impure . . . He’d never really understood it. Got to be said that Latifa was totally relaxed toward all that. She let him eat and drink anything in the house. He’d never asked his few girlfriends about when their periods were due . . . Come to think of it, he really liked the taste of blood. “The taste of blood?” He repeats the words to himself, his inner voice strangely reminiscent of Dr. Germain’s. Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding—now I’ve got a shrink in my head! The thought irritates Ahmed a bit, before he realizes that he’s a bit hungry. He decides to make a special offering to Moktar by tucking into some ham tortellini. Saucepan, water, heat. Quickly resists the sudden urge to plunge his head into the boiling water. Barilla tortellini—eleven minutes. Splash of olive oil, salt, pepper. No parmesan. As he sits down, he spots Mohamed’s letter. He puts it to one side for later. For once he eats slowly, managing not to burn his tongue.
Slouched on the futon, back against an Ikea Gosa Gott pillow—twenty-five inches by twenty-five—Ahmed is straining his ears. He often does this: to forget, to escape his head. He picks up on the muffled noises from all around the poorly soundproofed building. Most of the time, like tonight, it’s the television. He can’t bear it when the news is on: violence piercing him through the walls, even if he can’t decipher the words. The rhythm, the frequency, the tone . . . All of it is aggressive, deceitful. Ads are too shouty. No, what he likes is the anesthetizing effect of the dubbed French versions of American series. He could never bear a television in his own place, but the dull sound of the programs through the cheap concrete . . . It’s like popping a Valium. Which is lucky, as he’s been off that for a while now; insomnia and alcohol have to be better than an addiction to prescription drugs. He also rejoices in silence when his neighbor puts TF1 or M6 on the TV. As he listens he feels the stress easing gently. Fffffoooooooo, vvvooooshhhh, bzzzzzzzzzisssssh, ooooohhhhhhhh. Eyes shut. No need to go anywhere. Just stay put. Then he opens them and stares at the crack in the white ceiling. Opens his eyes wide. Stays still. Five more minutes.
Up he gets, slowly, slowly. He goes back to the table and drinks the untouched glass of water. Taking hold of the letter, he sits down on the orange folding chair, grabs a sharp knife, and opens the envelope. It starts with the only Arabic words he’s able to read: Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim, “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.” The rest is mainly in French:
Dear cousin,
Alhamdulillah, my year at university is over and I am on vacation. So I am writing you this little note to let you know that I am coming to spend the summer with you in Paris. I hope you do not mind? Soon, then, we will have the joy of seeing each other again. I’ll leave it there, dear cousin, but not before taking the opportunity to thank you as ever for welcoming me like a brother.
May God bless you. See you soon, inshallah . . .
Mohamed.
Deep in thought, Ahmed puts the letter down. Mohamed is coming back. Strangely he’s excited about seeing him, even if sharing living space with anyone for four months fills him with dread. And even if there was a bit too much of all the bismillah, alhamdulillah, inshallah, and may God bless you nonsense in the letter. Especially after the thing with Moktar this evening. Some John Lydon lyrics pop into his head. “Religion”: one of the songs he knows by heart. The first verse cuts right to the chase: God and lies; stained-glass windows and hypocrites. Still sitting down, Ahmed hums the bass line. Toodoodoodoo doodoo, toodoodoodoo doodoo, then that guitar riff that never lets up. Tananana nananana tananana nananana, tananana nananana tananana nananana. It’s in his head now, just like it was when he was fifteen and discovered PiL through this little tune, not long after he’d first heard “Sympathy for the Devil.” After that, he feels stable, immune from Moktar’s bullshit. Now he’s on his feet, singing at the top of his voice, body and voice disjointed.
Ahhh! Nothing like a bit of blasphemy. Blasphemy and dancing. Ahmed feels lighter immediately. Strange how Islam has been such a burden on him despite the fact his mother never taught him about it nor imposed it on him in any way. Not that she’d have been able to anyway . . .
He stretches out on his bed and calmly, unhurriedly reflects on what he’s got: Moktar, his “halouf” insult, and the pork joint. No, no, no! Not a coincidence. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift off. The strange expression worn this morning by Sam, the Jewish barber, becomes superimposed onto the face of the black Salafist. He unpicks the scene with Moktar in slow motion. He walks past him, turns back, notices he’s gone. Moktar should have gotten as far as the fruit and veg shop, just after the barber’s. So he could have entered either no. 15 or Sam’s. He’s a local guy—nothing to say he doesn’t have friends or family living at no. 15. But no. A shiver runs down his spine—the paranoiac Soninké went to Sam’s. And it doesn’t seem likely that it was for a haircut . . . What could this mean? Even though he can’t figure out their motives, Ahmed does know what’s going to happen: they’ll wait for their chance to pin the blame on him by saying something to the police. Maybe not directly, but in passing—perhaps via Fernanda, or by sending an anonymous letter. He’s got to find a way to get ahead of them. Anticipation and reaction. He’s got to find something—a lead, anything—before he sees Rachel and Jean again. The fact he’s good at playing the fool will work to his advantage. The most important thing is they don’t realize he’s awoken from his slumber! Ahmed the space cadet has got to stay in character: Monsieur Paul, Franprix, the baker’s. And tomorrow at around 10:00 a.m., when he gets back from the shrink, he’ll go for a haircut at Sam’s. Been two months anyway—well overdue. Time to take off the thinking cap. Time to sleep. To sleep and dream.
11:00 p.m.