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3

When Sémi came and “kidnapped” me last night, I was in the middle of recounting the kidnapping of Albert and the fears of those attempting to get him released.

Had his abduction and his captivity been a salutary shock to our friend? Had they restored his will to live? There was no way of knowing.

“Might it not be more sensible to leave him there a little longer,” Mourad wondered on the phone. “To be honest, as long as he’s not being mistreated, I’m in no hurry to see him released.”

I completely understood his fears. It was something that had occurred to me the moment I first heard that Albert was being held as a hostage. Was it possible that releasing him might mean delivering him to death, just as those who had abducted him had saved him? The irony of the situation was laughable, but for us, the fear was real.

While we talked, a solution began to form in my mind, one I immediately suggested to Mourad.

“If you manage to get him released, whatever you do, don’t take him back home. Take him to your place in the mountains for two or three days. Then send him here to me, in Paris. After that, I’ll deal with things. Do you think he’ll agree?”

“He has to agree! It’s the only rational solution. If he refuses, I’ll kidnap him myself, I’ll tie him up and ship him to you.”

“Okay, I’ll sign for the delivery.”

I seem to remember that our conversation ended in a gale of laughter that was hardly appropriate to the tragic nature of the situation.

If Adam’s notes and Tania’s recollections are to be believed, this is broadly how things eventually played out. But not without a few last-minute hitches.

When he was released by his unfortunate kidnapper, Albert was left on the outskirts of his neighbourhood; Mourad and his wife, who were waiting a few minutes away, picked him up to drive him directly to their house in the village. The survivor seemed calm, as though he had never contemplated suicide, had never been held hostage. He was taciturn, but cheerful.

In the days that followed, Mourad arranged a passport from the Sûreté Générale and a visa from the French consulate, then bought Albert a one-way ticket to Paris.

Even so, there were some worrying moments. The first came on the day after his release, when the former hostage insisted on being taken back to his apartment. His friends feared that he still intended to take his life, but they could hardly say no. Mourad gave him the new keys, since the locks had had to be changed after he forced the door. Tania drove him into the city and suggested that she go upstairs with him; he firmly replied that he wanted to go up alone and she did not insist; the idea of climbing six flights of stairs was not exactly appealing, and besides, she thought, if Albert was intent on taking his own life, they could not stop him indefinitely. So she waited outside the building for three-quarters of an hour, counting the minutes and imagining the worst. But in the end, he reappeared, looking gloomy and carrying a small suitcase.

The other moment of panic occurred on the day the former hostage was due to catch his plane. Adam recounts it in his notebook.

Albert announced that, before going to the airport, he wanted to go and visit his kidnapper to say goodbye. He had promised the man, and there was no question of him reneging on his promise. Unable to dissuade him, Mourad and Tania decided to go with him.

The mechanic’s house was at the far end of a cul-de-sac; the only access was via a dirt road that the previous night’s rain had turned into a quagmire. The walls were the colour of concrete, as though no one had ever considered painting them. The little yard was piled with old tires.

“The man and his wife were waiting for us. They are decent people whose whole lives revolve around the garage. And, of course, around their only son, whose face is everywhere, in framed photographs, and in the missing-person posters they had printed when there was still hope. Their living room is like a shrine to the memory of the child they lost.

“Tania and I offered our condolences. Their response was polite, dignified, as befits people in mourning. Then the father, his lips quivering, whispered: ‘None of this is your fault!’ And, when Albert stepped forward … You should have seen it! The man took one arm, his wife the other, and the two of them hugged him. ‘You take care of yourself!’ ‘Promise us you won’t do anything foolish.’ ‘Life is precious.’ They started to sob. Albert burst into tears. So did Tania and I.

“When we got up to go, they started again. ‘Come back and see us soon’ and ‘Take care of yourself.’ Albert promised that he would; he swore. He was more upset than anyone—he was still crying as I drove him to the airport.”

“But he did catch the plane?”

“Yes, he caught the plane, thank God. Tania and I have been waiting here at the airport for the flight to take off. Then we phoned you. It lands in Paris at about half past three.”

“Perfect. I’ll have a quick lunch and then go and meet him.”

On the Levantine end of the line, I remember hearing a long sigh.

“We’re pretty relieved to be palming him off on you. Good luck.”

Remembering Mourad’s words, his voice, his laugh, his determination to save Albert, the extent of our complicity, I cannot help but think that, at this very moment, he is lying in a coffin waiting to be put in the ground. Writing down our conversation suddenly seems to me like a homage to the friend I lost.

Would this discreet homage, made in the privacy of these pages, assuage my guilt or, on the contrary, exacerbate it to the point where I might reconsider my decision about his funeral?

No, I feel no desire to go to it. If there is to be a posthumous reconciliation between the two of us, it will not take place in public, with a microphone in front of me, but in quiet contemplation, amid the whispering of souls.