ABOUT A WEEK LATER, when Sese passed through the door into the courtyard after taking a walk, he was set upon by the children, who were more excited than usual. They all started talking at once.
“Calm down!” Sese said. He’d heard the word police in the hubbub. “What’s happened? Mounia, you tell me.”
The eldest began to explain: “Some police officers came and took Monsieur Derwich away.”
“There were lots of them, in uniform and not,” Tawfik said.
“They had so many guns,” Bilal added.
“They knocked on the door,” Mounia went on. “When Monsieur Derwich opened it and when he saw them, he started crying and held out his hands.”
“Like this!” Bilal put his wrists forward and twisted up his face, feigning tears.
“They put handcuffs on him and took him away. That was all,” Mounia finished.
“Do any of you know why he was arrested?”
There was another babble of voices.
“I see,” said Sese.
“Where did they take him?” asked little Ihssan.
Sese took out his phone at once and tapped in a number.
“Hello. I’d like to speak to the inspector.” He said this standing up straight, a charismatic look on his face, feigning a Parisian accent. “Yep, make it snappy.”
He glanced at the children to see if his air of importance was working. Indeed it was: they were all gazing at him admiringly, smiles of delight on their faces.
“Yes, Mokhtar. I wanted to talk to you about my neighbor, Monsieur Slimane Derwich. He’s an OK guy, you know. I mean, he isn’t exactly friendly, but—oh, really? All right.”
Sese hung up, looking flummoxed. Mme Bouzid had just come out. She asked, “Did you hear about Derwich?”
“Yes, I’m looking into it. See you later.”
And off he went.
Twenty minutes later he was on Rue Goulmima. He passed the arcades, crossed the street, entered the building, and knocked on the third-floor door. When Dramé opened it, his smile at seeing Sese turned into a grimace of pain. He held his wounded stomach with one hand.
“When did you get out of the hospital?”
“This morning. When I called you, I’d just been discharged. How are you, Sese? How are things back home?”
“Don’t start with that. Everyone’s fine, my uncles, my aunts, Lalah Saïda . . .”
Dramé began to laugh but stopped at once. His wound wouldn’t allow it.
“You should sit down.”
Dramé sat on one of the mattresses. Three other guys were already there. Each one shook Sese’s hand.
“I’m the one who should be asking how you’re doing.”
“It was real close! See?”
He lifted his T-shirt, revealing a large square dressing.
“Half an inch the other way, and he would have finished me off with that knife of his, I’m telling you, man. God is great. No more swindling for me, Sese. Wallah! I’m gonna wait for a commodities market to open up here in Casa and become a trader. It’s better; it’s more honest. I’m only alive because the blade slipped as it cut through one of my dreads. That was what saved me—look.” He showed one of his dreadlocks with a big notch in it. “That cut there is a sign, man. It’s like God was personally warning me.”
“Yeah, I was just talking with Inspector Daoudi on the phone. They’ve arrested a suspect, and it’s my neighbor. I can’t believe it.”
“The men that tried to kill me, especially the one who stuck the knife in—I’d recognize him anywhere, even in a hundred years. They were holding me down, but for a second I got a good look at him.”
“That’s why I wanted to take you along. I don’t get it. He’s a bookish type, that guy. Though it’s also true he’s been acting weird the last few days. We’ve barely seen him, and when he walks by, it’s like he was hugging the wall.”
“I’ll come with you. I want to see the face of the people that killed Abdoulaye’s friend. He’d just come to see me; it was pure chance that he was even here, you know.”
“I’ll go find us a cab. You shouldn’t be walking in your condition.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
At the police station Inspector Daoudi had them brought in almost at once.
“How are you, inspector?” said Sese, shaking hands across the desk.
Dramé did the same.
“How’s the wound?” asked Daoudi.
“It’s all right; I’m on the mend. They took good care of me at the hospital. But it was close.”
“I know, my friend. That’s why I’ve been doing all I can to track down the culprits. We’ve got one of them; the others are still at large. But we’re not through questioning your neighbor. It’s true that it’s been a tough case; we’ve had to do a lot of cross-checking and detailed work. But so it goes! God is great.”
Daoudi was telling the truth about the inquiry. Derwich’s arrest, though, had been disconcertingly easy. It had only needed a few days, during which they gathered all the witness statements, and the job was done. Because everyone had seen him—Derwich—running, distraught, blood on his hands. The alleyways hadn’t been as deserted as he thought; the openings in the walls seemed blind, but they weren’t. The shadows he’d passed had turned out to be witnesses. Almost a dozen of them had lined up in front of a small peephole to identify the suspect. In addition, aside from the traces of blood on his hands, Slimane Derwich showed the same signs of distress as on the night of the attack. He was unable to say anything about his accomplices, except that the ringleader had been wearing an Olympique de Marseille soccer shirt and a small Gucci cap, with a small bag of the same brand slung across his shoulder—this he swore on his own mother’s head. Slimane also remembered that there had been something boyish about him, to the point that Slimane had thought he was harmless.
“You can go check if he’s your man,” Daoudi said to Dramé, “but it’s not worth the effort. All the IDs are positive.”
The inspector got up.
“I can’t say any more—it’s an ongoing investigation, I’m sure you understand. Ask Detective Choukri at the desk to take you down for the identification. Take care.”
Sese was on his feet but lingered behind.
“What about Ichrak—do you have any news?”
“It’s complicated, that case. We’re still looking. But soon, inshallah,” said the inspector with a sigh.
He shook Sese’s hand one more time.
Sese was feeling low. He’d messed around the whole day, spent the evening with Cameroonians and Gabonese discussing the relative merits of the Congolese singer Fally Ipupa and the Cameroonian soccer player Samuel Eto’o when it came to fashion and cars. Yet his heart hadn’t been in it. He came back home, went into his room, and turned on his computer, but without expecting much. Sure enough, on the screen there was nothing but a string of faces of anonymous women who seemed to have come directly from the beauty parlor. Every one of them announced that she was sensitive, loved the arts and walks in the country, wanted to travel and discover new places.
Sese was beginning to feel truly bored when he heard a call tone with an almost aquatic resonance. He clicked on Accept. The face that appeared on full screen was a familiar one. He turned up the sound and moved his microphone closer to his mouth. He then donned his famous commercial smile—the saintliest guy imaginable—because the lady in question had favored him two or three times with a transfer of a hundred euros. The last one had been several weeks ago. He hadn’t heard from her again and thought that she’d dumped him already, like the others, since each time she’d made a big fuss before sending the money.
“How are you?” Sese began. The woman went by the evocative screen name of Sweet Solange. She gave him a long stare. It was no doubt caused by the length of the fiber-optic cable between Morocco and Europe, but Sese was thinking rather that there are some neurons that take more time than others to deliver information to the cortex. He couldn’t make out her expression—there was a blueish reflection on her glasses that hid her eyes and prevented a rapid assessment.
“How are you, darling?” he repeated. “Thank you for the Western Union; it was so nice of you.”
“That was a while ago! I haven’t heard a word since then.”
“I had my informatics courses. And I got some bad news from Kinshasa. You remember I told you about my aunt who brought me up? Well, she’s had a relapse. I didn’t want to bother you with it, so I hesitated to call. I need to find three hundred dollars as soon as possible. The doctors are talking about dialysis. I can’t just sit here doing nothing, and I’m so far away from her . . .”
Sese didn’t dwell on the unexpected turn the illness had taken. He changed the subject adroitly and looked for a smile to appear on his interlocutor’s face. He confided in her concerning his daily struggles as a migrant trapped in Morocco, hoping for the chance to cross the Strait of Gibraltar. Without overdoing it, he spoke of endless lines waiting in the sun for a little food from the Moroccan government. Not pointing any fingers, he told her about having to keep a low profile every day for fear of the constant police checks. But he wasn’t complaining, because it would be valuable training for when he’d finally be in France. The truth was that what he most hated, what really brought him down, was the difficulty in his present situation of finding time when the two of them could be alone together, because he was squatting in a two-hundred-square-foot cellar with twelve other African companions, and everyone knows how hard it is to get a good internet connection underground. Especially because they were using the neighbors’ Wi-Fi, and those people were constantly downloading stuff. It was a source of great pain to him not to be able to spend more time with the woman he was already deeply in love with. He finally returned to the matter of his family back home and the dialysis treatments, each of which cost more than ten times the monthly salary of a Congolese civil servant. Since his aunt was widowed, it was down to him, whom she regarded as her only son, to come to her aid. Sese began to see not a smile but something much better: a look of sympathy. In other words, the hope of being able to make ends meet till the end of the month.
“Koffi, my sweet?”
That was the name Sese was using. It had a more African ring than Sese Seko, which sounded like it could be Japanese or something. You had to avoid Asian-sounding names; everyone knew that. Asia was not where European women went shopping for sex and love.
“Yes, my little chick?”
Sese had also been thinking about how they adored being called animal names. He was right: the smile of compassion turned into a timid yet flirtatious pout.
“Can I ask you for something, Koffi?”
“Of course!” he murmured, adding a word or two about the “special” affection he felt for her.
“Will you show me your thing?”
“My thing? What do you mean?”
“You know, your thing. What do they call it in that country of yours? Your whatsit.”
“Listen, Solange, it’s tricky; I don’t know if I—”
“You’re Koffi the Great Ngando, aren’t you? So show me it, that crocodile of yours.”
“My little kitten—”
“Do you want your money or not?”
“Yes, but this is an Islamic country. There are some things I can’t do.”
“You’re Muslim?”
“No, not at all, but I stand with them.”
“I want proof that you love me. Go on, baby; show me, just a bit. I’ve never seen a black one.”
“Come off it, Solange! It’s me, your Koffi!”
“Will you show me or not?”
“Just a second. There’s someone at the door; it’s the neighbor that has the Wi-Fi. I’ll call you back in a minute!”
Sese turned off the camera, pulled off his headset, and rose to his feet. Damn! He was mad at himself for letting things get out of hand. At the beginning of his career as a brouteur, he’d never have stumbled like that. He was unshakable back then. But Solange was right: How could he prove his love if not by presenting, like a certificate, a convincing erection?
“Can you believe her!” Sese swore to himself. “What about my decency? Asking for something like that at a time when all I needed was a little material help, and I wasn’t ready yet to leap into virtual sex. What’s the big hurry? Can’t we talk first? Have a conversation? What’s three hundred dollars to her? They’re all the same, those women!” he concluded, trying to console himself. He went outside to get some fresh air on his doorstep. Let the moon and stars at least be witnesses to his misfortune.
At some point, he raised his head to the heavens and the Eagle of Kawele.1
“Mo Prezo, na baye. Nakomi lokola mwan’ etsike, Vié. Ichrak, kaka, Vié na ngai! Mo Prezo, I’ve had enough! I’m like an orphan, Great Man! There was only Ichrak! Plus, the women are starting to regard me as an adversary. Am I supposed to just pack up shop? And then what? Try to cross to Gibraltar, head for Madrid . . . What does Madrid have that this place doesn’t? Papers? I feel comfortable here. You chose this country as your final resting place. I think I’m going to do the same. I’ll go to Rabat, to the Christian cemetery, throw myself on your grave, and maybe ask for an audience with Mama Bobi Ladawa, your widow, and if she agrees to see me, we’ll be able to speak about you for a while. This woman wants to hurt me financially because I’m standing up to her. In your case, when someone stood up to you, if they did it bravely, you’d give them an official post or simply hand over the government. Yet despite your legendary magnanimity, some of them refused. Ingrates. Me, I’m only objecting to the impossible, and all of a sudden I’m looked down on. What kind of democracy is that, eh? You can’t even call it a ‘process.’ Also, when it comes to solidarity with the Arab world, it was you who taught me everything. Did you not say, on October 4, 1973, at the UN General Assembly: ‘Between a friend and a brother, the choice is clear: I choose the brother’? And you broke off diplomatic relations with Israel because they’d gone too far in annexing Egyptian territory. Many African countries followed suit. And me, what am I doing today? Should I not follow you? When I’m your pur petit—your true little brother? You see how they are, Great Man. Like the international community. You want to remain true to yourself? All of a sudden, they become pitiless, cut off your money, freeze your assets, stir up a revolt against you in the North or in the East. If you’re an Arab? They fabricate a false spring like the ones with the jihadists, who start by killing Muslims, with a total lack of bismillah—mercy. They’re diabolical.”
It wasn’t late, but the courtyard had emptied of the children, who brought life to it from morning to evening whenever they weren’t at school. Such moments reminded Sese of just how isolated he was in this foreign country. Ichrak was gone, and a part of his new life had departed with her. At her side, a disaster like the one he’d just had would never have happened. Everything was so much easier when she was around. At the least feeling of stress, her laughter rising in the air, like the singing of angels, made you forget even the existence of death. And things didn’t always go smoothly in their line of work. For instance, there were certain menacing remarks that “clients” had made. There were dissatisfied customers who perhaps lived in this country, maybe even in Casablanca itself. It had happened that Sese followed through on his threat to reveal everything to family and friends, when he’d been able to track them down online. The world was small, and their prey had seen Ichrak’s face as well as her cleavage. Sese only hoped that one of them had not met his friend on that tragic night. He’d begun to realize that certain things needed to be thought through before they were put into action, even if, in his mind, his blackmailing activities were purely a matter of payback for online perverts.
The day of Ichrak’s death, Sese had gone to see her very early in the morning, and he’d come upon the crowd gathered around her body. She’d called him late the previous evening, distraught: her mother was in a bad way; she needed money. Sese had promised to give her some the next morning. He was expecting a transfer; he would swing by and pick her up in Derb Taliane so they could go together as soon as the Western Union office opened. She must have gone out in the middle of the night to the pharmacist she knew in hopes of getting the medication on credit, and in that way she had met her fate.
As for the police, Daoudi didn’t seem to have any leads yet regarding who might have done it. No suspect had emerged. At this point, anyone could have killed her. It was true that Ichrak’s unruly character got under many people’s skin, but from there to murdering her . . . Strangely, the inspector didn’t seem to be putting much effort into the case. He gave nothing but vague answers to Sese’s questions. Too vague, to Sese’s mind, given that like everyone else, he’d known the victim well. As he thought about this lack of interest, the young Congolese began to ask himself how well Ichrak and Daoudi had actually known one another. He only knew one thing about their relationship: “He’s a swine; he’s worse than a dog!” That was how Ichrak had spoken of the inspector. She hated him, and her contempt for him was even stronger than her hatred. He had arrested her one evening, and something must have happened in the cell where she’d briefly been held. You don’t call a cop a swine just because he arrests you. There was definitely some secret between them. Daoudi was unscrupulous, true, but was he actually capable of eliminating a girl like Ichrak? To keep her from talking? About what? Out of pride? Maybe. Mokhtar wasn’t beyond getting rid of someone for some major business dealing, but a woman like Ichrak could only have been murdered for reasons of passion, as claimed by certain lawyers who know nothing about love. In Sese’s view, Daoudi didn’t match the profile of a crazed lover.
From opposite, a voice diverted his thoughts. He heard a particularly high-pitched volley of words issuing from the impressive throat of Lalah Saïda. The door opened, and the cause of this outburst—Ihssan, as it turned out—trotted calmly across to Sese and stopped in front of him.
“Where’s my present?”
“I haven’t forgotten you, sweetie; it’s just that I was late getting home.”
Sese reached into his pocket and produced a candy. “Here, honey, enjoy it.”
“Thank you.”
Ihssan held the gift in both hands, not unwrapping it at once. She stared at it and turned it slowly in her fingers. Then she looked up and asked, “Are you sad because your friend has gone?”
“Yes, Ihssan. But that’s life; I have to manage. Eat your candy; don’t worry about me.”
“Ihssan, come back here!”
Mme Saïda had just appeared. She was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, hair disheveled.
“Ihssan, stop bothering Sese. Come and eat your supper! You should come too, Sese. How are you, actually?”
“I already ate, Lalah Saïda.”
“All alone in your corner like the last few days? It’s as if you’ve not eaten at all. You’ll end up losing weight if you’re not careful. Come eat with us.”
“Thank you, big sister, but I’m fine.”
“I’ll have Mounia bring you something over, in case you get hungry later on. You never know. And you—come here, Ihssan. Run away again instead of sitting down to eat and you’ll see what I’ll do to you.”
The little girl ran back. Not because she was frightened by the threat but to let her mother hold on to her illusions about the extent of her natural authority.
Exposed to the gusts of Chergui whipping at his face, Sese had had enough of contemplating the stars. He went back inside. He hadn’t left the mosquitoes of Kinshasa to their fate just to be landed with this sort of nighttime nuisance. Sitting in front of his computer, he thought about his future. Since the death of his friend, he really had thought of himself as an orphan. Continuing on northward and trying to settle yet again did not appeal to him in the least. Here there was the Bouzid family, his friends, his familiar places, the country that was developing at high speed. For some time, he’d been thinking of going to see Zahira and introducing himself. As an African he was embarrassed not to have done so sooner, not to have offered his support in her grief. In any case, he ought to go to her. He had no choice—he was the only one, aside from Ichrak, who was familiar with all the symptoms of her illness and also one of the few who knew about her medication and where it could be obtained.
His conversation with Sweet Solange had made him think too. Before he met Ichrak, an idea had been hounding him. He’d driven it away, but it kept coming back. At that time, feeling a little desperate, he’d thought that if he asked one of his lady friends to come to Morocco, for a vacation for instance, he could easily have convinced her to marry him at city hall. That way, if he played his cards right, he could get himself a Schengen visa and rejoin her later, calmly, following legal procedures. Since he’d never found the time to learn to swim, in order to avoid the challenge of the sea, he’d found this a pragmatic, compromise solution. Solange had always played him hard, but—Sese sensed it—she couldn’t live without him, and she’d do anything to ensure his company. With her there could be possibilities. Since then Sese had changed, and as he thought back, he got goose bumps. From now on, there was no longer any question of straying into marriage or of preparing himself mentally for administrative coitus. He planned to set in motion the necessary procedures and quite simply legalize his situation. It was at this point in his thoughts that a call signal trilled, and Sweet Solange’s name flashed up on the screen as if Sese’s cogitations had summoned up a trial. He slipped on his headset, adopted a relaxed pose, assumed a half-smile, broadened it into a grin, and clicked on the icon bearing the almost psychoanalytic word accept. Solange’s spectacles appeared at once, along with a sound as if she were bursting out of a bubble.
“My little kitten!” he said, in his best butter-wouldn’t-melt voice.
1. Author’s Note: One of the names by which Mobutu was known, along with Great Leopard, Papa Marshal, and the Guide. On a personal note, my first three children, born in Zaire, uttered the name of Mobutu before they knew how to say “papa” or “mama.” For one of them it was “Tututu,” for the other two, “Papa Bo.” (Just before the daily news, Mobutu would appear before a crowd and ask us, “Papa bo? Mama bo? Ekolo bo? Mokonzi bo? How many fathers? How many mothers? How many nations? How many leaders?” The people would respond to each question: “Moko! One!” “Thank you!” he would then say.)