Ahmed has been waiting his turn at Sam’s for twenty minutes. Flicking through a copy of Auto hebdo, he strives to follow the conversation between the barber and Albert, an old Egyptian Jew swamped by an enormous yet immaculate cream suit, who has spent the last thirty years trotting out the same story. As a tailor in Zamalek—a Cairo neighborhood favored by expats and the old post-Ottoman bourgeoisie, who longed for a return to the days of King Farouk—he had succeeded, by adapting his style, in establishing a clientele made up predominantly of officials from Nasser’s government, making elegant clothing to measure that at the same time strictly adhered to the revolutionary code. He turned a blind eye to late payments from his frequently cash-strapped customers, relying instead on Western diplomats to keep the shop afloat. In return for his unreserved discretion—letting anything slip would have constituted a major faux pas in the tailor’s eyes—Albert had hoped he would be rewarded with some kind of immunity should the going get tough. Alas! This was 1967, and the going was not so much tough as nonnegotiable. The only special treatment he received at the outbreak of the Six Day War was a warning that came through a few hours before the imminent expulsion of all “Jewish foreigners.” Now that second word was superfluous, since virtually every Jew in Egypt had European nationality, many of them British or French, dating back to the period of Ottoman rule where non-Muslim minorities were “protected” by Christian powers—France, England, or Russia (fortunately for Albert, the Russians only protected members of the Orthodox faith). So the Jewish tailor had half a day to put his affairs in order before leaving the only country he had ever lived in, never to return. He wasn’t rich—he had served the rich. The meager savings he had scraped together was just enough to allow him to open a small workshop on rue Riquet. He’d barely opened his doors when the prêt-à-porter boom hit him like a truck.
“You know, Sam, the Six Day War . . . I survived it, at the end of the day, and I had no hand in it. I was neither Egyptian nor Israeli. I was French. Never before had I considered myself French, but . . . ah, maalesh, when I look at what happened later, I tell myself that I did well to leave that region of madmen. No, my real Six Day War, the one that really laid me out, was against that prêt-à-porter muck. That, old friend, was worse than any tank, any bombardment . . . The worst of all! An unstoppable machine. Imagine a machine taking over your job! Imagine, Sam, ya sahabi! Some laser-beam contraption to cut your customers’ hair. Same style for men and women. What would you do if those started springing up all over the place? A kiosk down at the supermarket, between the photo booth and the photocopier, with a range of styles to suit any hairdo: you just choose which one, then scissors, clippers . . . everything done automatically! You just plunk yourself down, even choose what music to listen to: a bit of Dalida, some Maurice El Medioni, Enrico Macias, Lili Boniche, the works . . . What would you do if things came to that?”
“I couldn’t give a damn anymore, Albert, ya khouya! I’ll be retiring in a year’s time . . . And Sholem, my son, has been in Brooklyn for a good while now, at Toledano’s yeshiva, you know, our rabbi’s cousin, the one who’s just been declared rebbe by his followers. My Sholem is going to be a rabbi, not a barber. And quite frankly, what more can I ask of God, eh?”
“My goodness, yes . . . Well, as for me, my Six Day War, my anti-prêt-à-porter campaign, brought me to my knees, and I’ve finally decided to call it a day. La belle France is generous, you know . . .”
“And so is the Unified Jewish Social Fund. Us hard-working folk picking up the tab for your indolence. But that’s okay, because you come here and repay my donations in part. That’ll be seven fifty.”
Sam whips off all the paraphernalia with a sharp movement and Albert gets to his feet. They settle up and the barber stands on the doorstep to shake the hand of his elegant client.
“Shabbat shalom!”
“Ah yes, that’s right, it is the sabbath today, I almost forgot. Good job you reminded me.”
“Don’t pretend that’s not why you came here. As if I’m not going to find you down at the synagogue later, sucking up to the rabbi and the faithful Jews who are bailing you out, you unbelieving rogue. Typical Egyptian Jews! Us Moroccan Jews are savages in your eyes, but you all, you’re just a bunch of sly old dogs! Go on, off you go, my brother. See you tonight. Enough harping on—now it’s my boy Ahmed’s turn; come on and get your haircut by your old papa Sam.”
The tone is ever-so-slightly false. When the old barber closes the door behind Albert, Ahmed gets up in meditative mode. The name of a book he’s seen kicking about Dr. Germain’s comes back to him suddenly: L’Imposture perverse. The perverse deception. The perverse Sam. Sam laying into Laura, or rather watching while some other sick bastard does. The scene comes to Ahmed easily. An empty space—a warehouse, perhaps—the knifeman at work with his back turned, and Laura gagged. Her legs apart but bound together. Eyes wide open. Horror. Not the sort of lightweight nastiness you get in Japanese bondage mangas. No—we’re talking the depths of human depravity. Dante, Pasolini. Sam standing to one side. His face contorted in a state of arousal that is at once extreme and contained. And then the knifeman starts to turn around. Ahmed blinks rapidly to shake off the vision. Not the time or place to come face-to-face with the murderer. He’s seen him from behind, knows that he recognizes him, but he can’t put a name to those broad, sloping shoulders. Will he have the courage to confront him when the moment comes? So close. He’s brought around by a short burst of unidentifiable rap pouring out of a Mercedes coupe with Hauts-de-Seine plates and tinted windows, something about speaking with a Glock in your mouth.
A Glock, a shooter. That’s what he needs. How can he get his hands on one? He can deal with that later. For now, let’s look happy! Play the idiot, the same old oddball. Ahmed has known Sam since he was a child. His mother used to bring him here to get his haircut every other month because it was just next door and because Sam was Moroccan. She’d speak to him in Arabic, which calmed her down. The youngster didn’t understand a word. Ahmed realizes that this was the only place where his mother spoke her native language. With him it was French from day one. What could they have talked about, the Jewish barber and the young, estranged, ex-Maoist daughter of a religious leader? Not the faintest idea . . . He also remembers Sholem, Sam’s son. They’d barely ever spoken despite being in the same class at primary school. Bizarrely enough Sholem was really tight with Haqiqi at the time. Funny to think now that one of them was a Salafist and the other had left for Brooklyn, the mecca for ultra-Orthodox Jews. Despite being removed from the world for so long, it was impossible for anyone who grew up in this neighborhood not to have heard of Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who preached the coming of the Messiah over there on the other side of the Atlantic. Sholem got set up there through the local Hasidic rabbi’s cousin. Ahmed can’t think why, but the Brooklyn connection is arousing his curiosity. A lot. But how can he mention it to Rachel without letting on that he knows about the pork joint? How? He’s going to have to find something on Sam that brings everything together. He’s not normally very talkative, but he decides to make an effort to keep the conversation going in the hope of gleaning some information, a clue, a confirmation. Not so much he blows his cover. Just enough to keep it flowing if necessary.
Which it is not. Sam is on the attack immediately.
“So, my boy, it’s been a long time. How is everything? Still not back at work?”
“All good, same old. The doc said it wouldn’t do any harm to start working a bit again. So I’m probably going to help out Monsieur Paul in the shop.”
“Is that right, you’re going to help Paul. Dear old Paul . . . Well, that’s great, my boy. Mabrouk!”
Sam falls silent. He sprays Ahmed’s hair. Snip, snip, snip with his long, sharp scissors. The young man tries to imagine the crime being done with scissors, but they wouldn’t have worked—too fine. They’d be perfect for gouging out eyes, for a different type of murder. Sam catches a vague glimmer in Ahmed’s eyes. He tenses up a little. Careful! Don’t give yourself away! Ahmed switches to standby mode.
“And your ma?”
“My mother? Still in the hospital. They’ve said it’s not going to get any better.”
“Ever see her?”
“Err, not for a while . . .”
Ahmed’s turn to pause. His Go-playing instincts come to the fore, alerting him to the danger of a Meursault-style attack. Camus’s outsider was sentenced to death for not crying at his mother’s burial. Sam doesn’t know it, but Latifa’s son is covered on that front. The last time he saw her, four years ago, she tried to strangle him. It took two nurses to pull her off him. Dr. Germain advised him to stop going after that. “It’s too damaging for you, and there’s nothing you can do for her. Latifa is out of reach at the moment. In her eyes, you are nothing but an afterglow, a reminder of her misfortune. It’s no great surprise she wants to obliterate you.” The incident was recorded in a hospital report, but it’s better to let Sam think what he wants. The young man says nothing, lets the old barber fill the silence.
“You know, Ahmed, I can talk to you like a father; I’ve known you since you were a kid. Nothing can replace a mother. Even if it’s hard sometimes, you’ve still got to keep in touch. God orders us to obey our mother above all else. Okay, fine if you can’t for the moment . . . But one day you will go back, won’t you?”
“And that girl, the one who got killed, she was your neighbor, wasn’t she?”
Now we’re talking.
“Yes. She lived in the apartment upstairs.”
“Didn’t you tell me about her once?”
“Me?”
Ahmed doesn’t remember. He’d never spoken to Sam about anything other than the length of his hair and, every now and then, his mother. He’s beginning to figure out the barber’s tactics.
“Yes, you. Oh, with that medication of yours, perhaps you struggle to remember everything, but me, I don’t forget a thing . . . Just upstairs, eh? Horrible business. Who could have wanted to kill her? It’s unbelievable, no?”
“Err . . .”
Ahmed can feel the barber’s interrogating eyes on the back of his head. He’s beginning to find the situation singularly unpleasant. But his unease is working in his favor—it’ll make Sam think he has him at his mercy.
“Did you see the police? Did they talk to you?”
“Yeah, they asked me some questions.”
Sam’s laugh is like a creaking door.
“And you’re not a suspect?”
“No! Why? You think that . . .”
Ahmed is feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He can feel beads of sweat forming at his armpits and on the nape of his neck. The old man tightens his grip, ruthless, lowering his voice.
“You didn’t screw up, did you? You’re still taking your medication? No confusion, no memory blanks?”
The attack is full-frontal. Ahmed is sweating freely now.
“Yes, I’m taking my pills. And . . . I think I remember everything. The thing is I’m always reading. When I’m not, I’m drinking tea, coffee, maybe eating something, or going for a jog along the canal.”
Sam nonchalantly mops the perspiration from his customer’s neck before reaching for the clippers.
“A bit of booze every now and then—I see you coming back with your shopping from the Franprix. Got to be careful mixing things, you know . . . Anyway, this girl, I don’t know if there was something going on beneath the surface. Maybe she got caught up in some weird business. She was an air hostess, wasn’t she? Did she use that to get involved in a bit of trafficking? You never know . . . You don’t get yourself killed for nothing, do you? Or maybe she led some guy on who ended up flipping out? You quite fancied her, didn’t you?”
Ahmed gulps. He’s never felt so bad in all his life. This twisted old barber turning him over, razor in hand, coolly pushing him to take responsibility for an abominable murder.
“Oh, me, women . . .”
Sam sharpens the razor and goes for his sideburns.
“Yeah, women. Everyone likes women, my boy! Me, I obey the commandments, but all the same, I can’t keep myself from looking. God gives me the strength to resist them. And then as you get older, you settle down. But that one, she was beautiful . . . Did she like men? You see all sorts nowadays . . .”
“Laura liked orchids. That’s all I really know about her. She loved orchids. I think I liked her a lot because of that. Because women, to be honest, with my meds . . . I haven’t really been able to think about any of that.”
Ahmed’s voice catches. He decides to leave. He’s got what he needs, and he wants Sam to read his panic as a confession of sorts. He looks at himself in the mirror. Pulls himself together a bit.
“Great, that’s fine, I reckon. Good job, thank you.”
“But wait, I haven’t done the back of your neck with the razor!”
Ahmed’s voice is still faltering, just the right amount to let the barber think he’s snared his prey. He gets up without giving him time to react.
“No, honestly, it’s fine as it is . . . Great, bye—I’ll swing by when it’s grown back . . .”
“Farewell, my boy. And don’t forget, if anything’s wrong you come see me. If you get the feeling you’ve screwed up . . . Your old papa Sam is here for you. I know a lot of people. People who might be able to help you. Even police officers . . . Go on, salaama ya walid . . . Barak allahu fik.”
Flustered and soaked in sweat, Ahmed pays, leaving Sam to wonder if he might just have said three words too many, and takes off without waiting for his change. He needs movement to get back to normal. He makes for parc de la Villette with its Rastas, its joggers, and its public pay phones.