The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 9} THE HOUSE OF THE CONVERTS

Through the window of the automobile, one could see the Cluny subway station.

“This used to be the Museum of the Middle Ages,” said Annette, barely audibly. “My grandmother took me there when I was very little, about four years old. There was a needlepoint there called The Lady and the Unicorn. I still remember it today. Later I think they burned it… You know what, we’re going to tell my household that you are my cousin from the ghetto and that your name is Nicole. I’ve always liked that name. If I had… Oh well, it’s not important.”

“My name is Jeanne.” How difficult it was to speak with someone when you couldn’t see her eyes. And how stuffy it was in the tent-dress. She’d had the opportunity to wear one before, but somehow, as soon as you take it off, you forget what a nasty experience it was. “I don’t think it’s necessary to use another name. We’re not in the ghetto.”

“And where do you live?” There was mistrust in the woman’s voice.

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders. “Nowhere,” she said, again forgetting that no one could see her.

“That’s impossible!”

“Oh, it’s quite possible. I haven’t lived anywhere for four years. There are quite a few good people who will let you spend the night, or with whom you can leave your things.”

Annette didn’t answer. Her reaction to Jeanne’s words could not be seen through the fabric of the chador.

The car passed through the gate of a fenced garden that surrounded a two-story house under a high, black roof. Many such houses were built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Jeanne reluctantly observed that she had slept through the blooming of the flowers on the chestnut trees—which now glowed like pink candles. It seemed that only yesterday the chestnuts were not yet in bloom.

“Go in, daughter,” Annette left the car in front of the door, like someone used to servants.

No one had called Jeanne “daughter” in a long time, especially not so sincerely.

They entered a very strange house. Jeanne had had the opportunity to see darkened windows many times from the outside, but never from the inside. Before the Muslims came to Paris, high windows like these in their stone frames began from the floor and cheerfully filled the room with the sun’s rays. What a view they opened to the small garden with all the candles of the chestnuts!

But inside, the stone ornaments around the windows had vanished long ago in some expensive renovation. It looked to Jeanne as if she had entered a basement. She was accustomed to living in rooms that were actually underground—but to deliberately shield oneself from the light! Even in the ghetto, glass sparkled cheerfully in the little windows. Housewives easily separated themselves from the view of others with curtains.

If the room resembled a basement, it was an opulent basement. Even the hallway had carpets, drapery, and an enormous number of Turkish designs rendered in metal. The stairs leading up were carved to match the doors and interior arches.

An old woman opened the door for them and immediately slid somewhere behind the velvet drapery.

“Madame Aset with a guest. Oh, what joy!” The old woman was fat, and her overtly sweet voice clashed with the lines of her face—the sharp, black brows, the threatening eyes like plums, the hooked nose and dark spots above her thin lips. She was, of course, not French. That would have been obvious even if she had spoken French and not the disgusting lingua franca.

“Bring the bags from the back seat,” said her mistress, pulling Jeanne into the room. “Yes, Zuraida, this girl is the daughter of my cousin Bertha who lives, hmm, you know…”

“I hope Madame did not go to such a place!” The servant clapped her hands.

“Of course not,” the woman who introduced herself as Annette replied irritably, her voice as tense as a taut wire. “The girl was brought by a relative who has documents to move throughout Paris. But what are you waiting for, Zuraida? Hurry up!”

The old woman cast a sharp look at Jeanne. What could she see except how tall she was? But no doubt she would find a moment to peek.

When they passed into a high, large room that apparently signaled the beginning of the women’s half of the house, Annette (or Aset) casually removed her chador and threw it on the carpet. Before Jeanne could follow her example, the tinkling of small bells could be heard and a girl about fifteen ran out from the interior.

“Mama, Mama, the girl has exactly the same kind of clothes that I asked you to buy for me!” she exclaimed, throwing herself at Annette. “You see, it’s a modern color. You see?”

“It’s not exactly the same kind—this rag is yours.” Jeanne slid out of the chador.

“This is my daughter Iman,” said Annette calmly. “Iman, our guest is called Jeanne. Take her to your room and have fun, and I will ask them to bring you something to eat.”

Iman barely nodded, completely confused. Without a word, she headed for one of two rooms connected by an arch.

The silence lasted for a while. Jeanne sat in a leather armchair. She had the strange feeling that she had the right to enter the house, that she had the right to know the truth about its inhabitants.

Iman did not sit, she merely graciously leaned one knee on the same kind of leather armchair. She looked at Jeanne with eyes wide open.

Jeanne stared back at her.

Unlike Jeanne, Iman was ideally built, although it would not have hurt her to lose about ten pounds. Squeezed into black pants, her buttocks looked inflated and her naked stomach was chubby. She wore something in pink silk that looked more like an extended bra than a short top. She had bracelets with bells on the wrists and hair clasps and ornamental pins in her hair lifted at the nape. Although she was a year or two younger than Jeanne, Iman was the same height, and would probably overtake her. The rooms resembled their mistress. At the head of the bed covered with a cherry-colored bedspread there was a pink satin pillow, useless by its construction, but highly decorative with ribbons and flounces.

There were pearls of all colors in translucent boxes in such quantities that it looked like pearl barley in the kitchen of some sorceress in a fairy tale. There were muslin and silk, mosaics and children’s toys. The room only lacked for dolls, but of course there couldn’t be any of those. Instead, there were a lot of sweets that, strictly speaking, didn’t belong in a bedroom. Jeanne’s parents had chided her for such things. Here, it seemed to be expected that at any moment one could reach for Turkish delight, halvah, candy, peanuts, pistachios, cookies, or fruit.

“What can I show you? asked Iman lavishly, stretching gracefully like a cat. “Do you want to see my jewelry?”

“Sure, let’s see it,” smiled Jeanne.

Iman immediately pulled up an enormous box, sat on the floor next to Jeanne and began to play with a key. How strange she looked to Jeanne! Blue eyes, like Gaël Moussoltin, a round chin like Madeleine Méchin. But so strange! Her movements were lazy. There was so much boredom in every gesture, in her voice.

“Father gave me these bracelets for my thirteenth birthday.” Iman had already raised the lid of her box, removed her trinkets with the bells and put on her wrist something very heavy with small, symmetrical etching. “I have two, see? Father ordered the pair in the eighth district along with some other things because in that boutique they take orders two months in advance. But I don’t want to wear both. Mama and I bought this pearl; it’s just from the Lafayette Gallery, but I like it so much! But the bracelets are something unique. I think I’ll put both of them on after all! Look, aren’t they wonderful!”

“Do you use them to build up your muscles? I thought weights were banned for you people?”

Jeanne again thought of Gaël. Unlike Madeleine and herself, Gaël Moussoltin was in love, and knew how to be beautiful.

“Gaël is a real parisienne,” Mademoiselle Teillé had sighed, patiently listening to her discourse on how “only one saucy detail is permitted in an outfit, either a décolletage with a long skirt, or a mini-skirt with a blouse buttoned to the throat. Or we call it something quite different, don’t we?” That diamonds “don’t come to life” in gold and that, in general, “gold is worse than silver.”

The Moussoltins didn’t have a lot of gold or diamonds left. But what an effect her solitary sapphire made—with its little gold prongs that could not even be seen from ten steps away, so that it looked as if the stone had merely paused on her finger to rest and would escape when it wanted to. From close up, the stone was like an eye with golden eyelashes looking at you.

“What are weights?” Iman frowned.

“They’re these heavy things you lift so your arms get strong,” sighed Jeanne.

“That’s a sport. Sports are haraam. ”

“That’s what I meant. Your bracelets are a substitute for sports.”

“You don’t like them?” Iman was surprised.

“I think they’re hideous.”

Iman closed her box, insulted. An unpleasant silence ensued.

“You want some candy?” Iman extended a shiny box to Jeanne.

“Thank you. I don’t like candy.”

“What kind of sweets do you like?” said Iman with a little bit more self-confidence, playing the role of the gracious hostess.

“I don’t know… I like caramels with Calvados.”

“Calvados,” said Iman, “That’s a place near La Manche. Do they make a candy?”

“Calvados is a brandy made of apples that used to be made there.”

“Brandy?” Iman looked up as if she had pricked herself with a needle. “You’ve tried brandy? Really? And they didn’t whip you?”

“In order to whip me, someone would have to catch me.” Jeanne was already slightly bored with this visit.

“Listen,” Iman rolled her eyes significantly. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I can see you’re from the ghetto. But surely you’re not a kafir ; you must be a convert? Is that right?”

“What do you think? Of course I’m not a kafir. It’s you who are a Saracen.”

Aset at that time was moving around in the kitchen without noticing the disapproving glances of the cook. She was lifting the lids of the pots and pans, peering into ovens and grills, trying to guess which of the dishes prepared for lunch might please the girl who had unexpectedly crossed their threshold.

She was aware that she had been exaggerating a little—Jeanne didn’t need shelter. One could tell from looking at her that she had somewhere to go in this enormous city, even without Annette. It was she who needed the girl—to spend at least a few hours in her home. She wanted to offer her something to eat and give her a present of some kind. It seemed foolish, but to Aset it seemed that if Jeanne ate at least a spoonful of what she offered her, it would salve her conscience a little, and help her banish the unbearable feeling of being lost.

This unbearable feeling had not left Aset since the moment she became so afraid of her poor friend Zeynab. She had always thought of Zeynab as an ambitious fool. But these were new times, and it was not Islam that invented the necessity of a woman supporting her husband by befriending the wives of his business partners. It had always been like that, those were the rules of the game. Her life included pleasant responsibilities such as running the house and educating the children—and unpleasant ones, such as socializing with a fool like Zeynab. But why had everything suddenly become so strange, why had she begun to feel a sense of horror, like a child, when the pile without a mouth next to her began to scream among shreds of glass and the shouting that came from the street? Didn’t it seem as if that were not Zeynab in her chador, but some kind of ghost—something unclean hidden beneath the fabric more horrible than the living dead?

She had felt slightly better only since this girl, Jeanne, appeared, and she wanted her to stay as long as possible.

“And who are the Saracens?” Iman couldn’t be accused of being incurious.

“The followers of Mohammed. That’s what you were called back in the times when Charles Martel completely destroyed you.”

“Charles Martel was a bandit, he was the worst of the kafirs!” Iman’s nostrils flared with anger and suddenly she looked like Gaël Moussoltin, Madeleine Méchin and Geneviève Bussy all at the same time. “He’s burning in hell! He was a filthy criminal!”

“He was your ancestor,” said Jeanne.

“That’s not important! It’s not important who one is by birth. What is important is that one confesses the true faith!”

“Then why do you all lick the heels of Arabs?”

“They’re the descendants of the Prophets,” explained Iman, starting to get a little confused at the contradiction. “That is, some of the Arabs.”

“Fine,” sighed Jeanne. “And you and I are the descendants of those who defeated those descendants of the Prophet. But your ancestors would have taken a vow of holy celibacy if they had known they would have a descendant like you.”

“The truth is more important!”

“Of course. But how would you know the truth? You’re not a girl—you’re a doll that walks. They decorate you, they feed you, they pet you. They’ve poured a few short ideas into your head and told you not to move your arms. Now you obey your parents. Later they’ll choose a husband for you. You’ll have to accept what is offered. Then you’ll obey your husband and bear his children. You’ll get old and die without leaving the house. And then there will be nothing left for you anymore.”

“That’s what you think!” Iman was turning red and pale with anger.

“Not at all!” Jeanne smiled. “Here’s what I think: I think you have an immortal soul. Your soul was made for Heaven. But it’s in danger now of going to hell because it is the soul of a traitoress, the soul of a servant of Christ’s persecutors. The idea of your soul disappearing into nothingness after you’re dead—that’s what you think.”

“What nonsense! Of course I don’t believe that.”

“You’re a Muslim?”

“Yes, I’m a Muslim!”

“Well, that’s what you should think. And nothing else.”

“You kafirs don’t know anything!” protested Iman. “If I pray five times, if I go on pilgrimage, if…”

“Can you stop counting on your fingers?”

“…I will go to Heaven,” concluded Iman triumphantly.

“You’re a girl. Heaven is for men, according to Islam. A Muslim woman has no soul, like a dog, or a fish in your aquarium.”

“That’s not true! Imam Chapelier says—”

“Your imam Chapelier is making a fool out of you. He knows that the Qu’ran and the religious authorities don’t teach that women have souls.”

“How dare you talk that way about imam Chapelier!”

From a distant room the crying of a child could be heard.

“That’s Aziza, my sister,” explained Iman, sighing. “She’s almost two.”

Jeanne suddenly realized there was something strange in this house. Apparently, Iman had only one sister, and her father had only one wife. They didn’t need all those servants for three women. The luxurious, empty rooms seemed to say that they should be full of many women giving orders and women serving, who constantly vied among each other for male attention and for authority over other women. But the golden skeleton looked empty.

“You converts sold your souls to please the Arabs. But they will always look down on you.”

“And you kafirs, they say, have truly disgusting habits,” continued Iman. “Tell me, is it true that you make no distinction between clean and unclean hands?”

“When they are dirty, we do.”

“You mean, you eat and clean yourself with the same hand?” Iman was horrified.

The glasses with warm chocolate and cookies rattled on the serving tray in the hands of Aset, who had been standing a long time at the door, listening.

I must have gone mad! How could I have brought this strange, dangerous child home to my Iman? This girl is twisting and confusing her. It’s just what I didn’t want—for Iman to go through what I did growing up. Snooty looks from grand’mère, who never left the house after we converted, and called us “fools.” Yes, Iman believes in Allah, the way she believes in Little Red Riding Hood! But she’s a practical, intelligent girl. When she grows up, she’ll understand there’s no Allah, but she’ll respect what’s expected of her. If you want to play the game, you follow the rules. The most important thing is the family, and the spiritual peace of Iman and Aziza.

The parents of this Jeanne were obviously eccentrics who would sacrifice the future of their own child for their idea of “the historical and religious values of the nation.” When was the last time a Frenchman took religion seriously? This poor child has bought into the myth of Christ. She’s no more normal than an Arab, in the opposite direction.

I better just interrupt them right now. This conversation is completely unnecessary, and Zuraida is eavesdropping. Change the subject, feed the children. And then the girl will go away, that’s best… But it will be sad. Why do I think the house will be dead without her, like in a body without a soul?

“That’s silly,” Jeanne said. “Our hands are like our thoughts. We’re always touching what’s dirty and what’s clean. Only an idiot can consider himself sterile in this sinful world just because he cleans himself with his left hand and eats with his right. If you touch dirt, you wash your hands. If you think something dirty, you wash your soul. Everything else is nonsense.”

“Why are you always against everything?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t grow up in a glass garden. Why not ask why your servant, the old one, isn’t French?”

“Zuraida? Of course she’s not French. Maman says they don’t like it if everyone in the house is French…”

“You girls must be hungry!” said Aset, coming in with the tray.

“It’s hard to get hungry here! The rooms are like warehouses,” answered Jeanne, grinning her broadest grin.

These converts were not to blame because they’re just weak. At least some of the food in this house is normal. Hot chocolate with milk, not bad at all.

Apparently Jeanne was hungry after all. But her hand stopped at a sound: The crying of the child had long since mingled with a monotonous song in lingua franca:

“That’s Zuraida putting the baby to sleep,” said Aset quickly, blushing. “Please have some hot chocolate, Jeanne… What’s the matter?”

“Thank you very much, I’m quite full.” Jeanne suddenly stood up from the soft armchair. Her head spun slightly. How could she have spent so much time in these stuffy rooms without windows—that smelled of overly sweet candy and incense? She couldn’t breathe!

“I’m sorry, I just realized, I have to go.”

“Wait, daughter, where will you go at this time of day?… Did something offend you?”

“No, not at all!” Jeanne decisively moved toward the door. Aset headed after her.

Iman called after her, “You forgot to put on the chador!”

Aset took Jeanne aside: “Jeanne, you mustn’t walk around the city without a chador! That’s dangerous, very dangerous, you have to understand that!”

“I’ll survive somehow.”

“All right. I’ll drive you. Wait.” Aset put her hand on Jeanne’s shoulder and added with quiet intensity, “In God’s name, don’t go like that into the street!”

“Which god? Allah?” Jeanne said, and ducked out the door.

It turned out that the weather had changed—you couldn’t see anything through the darkened windows. The sky was covered with heavy autumn clouds. The first drops had already fallen on the path between the chestnuts when Jeanne dashed toward the gate.

“Jeanne! Jeanne! If you need anything, come here, do you hear me?”

Aset, who felt suddenly felt weak, had to grab the doorjamb for support. During the thirty-two years of her life, she had never felt such complete, absolute despair. The girl would not come back; she would never come back. The rain was now pouring. Good. When it rained, people looked at each other less.

Jeanne’s hair and jeans were instantly wet, but the fabric of her light jacket resisted several minutes before letting the water through.

No, one shouldn’t forgive traitors, not even if they have beautiful and good hands and warmly call you “daughter.” Even if they understand that they are traitors. And traitors should also not be forgiven, even if they have Madeleine’s eyes and Gael’s chin, and not one iota of awareness that they are traitors.

Jeanne ran through the rain to Lucile, to a tiny chamber that was not as stuffy as the entire house she had just left. To a shelter she received from one of her own, safe people.

Above Paris, on every side, the shrill call of the muezzin to prayer could be heard.