12

I had to admit, my belief in a loving and merciful God had taken a few beatings. Not that I had been in any church or mosque lately. No, definitely not. I was in the uncommon position of being both baptized and circumcised, tugged between Jesus and Mohamed. During my parents’ divorce, my faith had become a strategic game piece. They battled over it the same way they fought over who would keep the apartment on the Rue Victor Hugo in Lyon. I attended Mass on occasion to please my mom. Although she wasn’t a Jesus freak, she did go to church every Sunday. I couldn’t help but notice that her animosity toward my father wasn’t exactly Christian. She did everything she could to ruin my dad’s life. He, meanwhile, prayed to Allah more than once a day, but he still drank, ate pork, and got laid outside the marital bedroom. I listened to their respective sermons with feigned interest, and I would sometimes remind each of them that they didn’t exactly practice what they preached. They would invariably respond by saying there was the text, and then there was the spirit of the text. Understanding that was part of growing up they said. Oh, I did understand.

I solved the problem by concluding that what the related books taught was the ideal to which we should aspire, but if we fell short, it was no big deal. For years, my mother thought I was Catholic, and my father hoped I was Muslim, when, really, I was just an opportunistic believer. If religion served my purposes, I was game. In the end, my modest and multifaceted faith disintegrated at the same time my life was destroyed. It made no sense to be scared of a hypothetical hell in the afterlife. I was already there.

Tonight, though, I was a believer. Not a believer in the Trinity or Allah, but a believer in the divine hand that was trying its mightiest to take everything I loved away from me—my wife, my kid, my job, and now Drissa. I cursed God and his vile plans. I spit Him out with vengeance. Now I would handle things myself. And there would be blood!

I rushed from the hospital to Laïco Hotel. A crowd of businessmen, diplomatic envoys, and wealthy tourists filled the lobby, where French still held its ground over English. I didn’t care for the place. It was artificial, like a window display. The marble walls were engraved with ethnic motifs, and the furniture vaguely referenced African art, but the décor as a whole didn’t fool anyone. We were in an international temple—a soulless place committed to pleasing outsiders. Everything was arranged so that you’d forget Bamako and its poverty-stricken people of varying colors, the stench of sewers, and the incessant clamor. I could have just as easily been in the lobby of a luxury hotel in Geneva or New York. I was reminded of past trips with my son to Disneyland Paris, which I hated just as much. And while I gave in to making the kid happy, I had that same feeling of being taken for a ride.

After entering through the glass doors and being subjected to security, I bolted toward the reception desk and targeted a suit-and-tie receptionist who appeared to be busy behind his marble counter.

“Mrs. Farah Tebessi,” I ordered.

The guy pursed his lips as his fingers fluttered over the keyboard of his computer.

“Yes, she is, in fact, a guest of ours. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Tell her I wish to speak with her.”

“What name should I give?” he asked, his eyebrow arched.

“Souleymane Camara.”

He punched in the number on his landline, which I tried in vain to see over the counter. He waited a couple of seconds, then spoke into the receiver. “Good evening, Mrs. Tebessi. Mr. Camara is at the reception desk and would like to speak with you.”

He listened to her response, then hung up.

“Mrs. Tebessi does not wish to speak with you. It’s late. She asks that you come back tomorrow.”

No point insisting. I shrugged and gave the receptionist a strained smile. I turned and walked away, and when I was positive he was no longer paying any attention, I made a beeline for the elevators. I chose a button at random and got out on the thirteenth floor—which seemed like a good omen. I headed toward a service phone and picked up the receiver.

“This is room service. I have an order for a Mrs.…” I waited a couple of seconds, as if I were consulting something. “Tebessi, Farah Tebessi, but I don’t have the room number.”

I heard the guy grumbling on the other end of the line.

“Room 1024.”

I hung up.

I took the service stairs and got out on the tenth floor. Walking down the huge hallway with a plush pink carpet and burgundy wallpaper, I felt like I was in a giant gastrointestinal tract. I stopped in front of Room 1024, unable to think straight, and knocked. I waited several seconds. The door opened a crack. And there was Farah Tebessi in only—from what I could see—a white robe. She had clearly just gotten out of the shower and wasn’t wearing any makeup. She glared at me through the dark and twisted tendrils of her wet hair.

“What are you doing here? I told the receptionist I didn’t want to see you!”

I butted the door open with my shoulder. Her eyes wide, she stepped back.

“You’re insane. I’m calling the police!”

I slapped her with the back of my hand, and she went flying to the other side of the room. She landed flat on her back with her robe open, exposing herself to my enraged eyes. I looked away. She moaned as she got back on her feet, her lip busted open. Then the expression on her face changed from shock to defiance. She planted herself in front of me.

“Congratulations! You’re fearless against a defenseless woman.”

I smacked her again, and she hit carpet. She tried feverishly to refasten her robe around her lower half as I straddled her and seized the collar. I drew her toward me and brought her face within inches of mine.

“As you can see, I am not happy.”

She smiled. This time, it was her nose that was bleeding, and her robe was completely undone. My eyes lost their way for a second—a fraction of a second—and she smiled again, triumphantly. I made a fist and grunted. She closed her eyes and let herself drift backward. Because I was hesitating, she let out a gruff and scornful little laugh.

“Hit me or fuck me. Make up your mind!”

She knew I was hard. Defeated, I let go of her and grunted like a muzzled mastiff.