The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 16} THE LULL

“Little Valerie was right to be angry with us,” said Father Lothaire, walking in his black cassock with Sophia and de Lescure among the young chestnuts that shone with their pink candles. “It took us too long to resolve a dilemma where the answer, to a child’s mind, was obvious. If you can’t defend holy shrines, it’s better to destroy them than leave them to be defiled by others.”

“We’ve been fools, it’s true,” said Sophia with a laugh.

“Well, Sophie, are you in the mood to walk a bit through the Cité with Monsieur de Lescure and me?” asked Father Lothaire. “We’d like to talk to you about something. If you remember, I said from the first I would have some conditions.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The problem is that Notre Dame is too big and too sacred a holy shrine.”

“You’re stating the obvious.” Sophia’s voice became cautious.

“It’s for a reason.”

“Father, I have this stupid sense of foreboding…”

“We have to destroy Notre Dame.”

Everyone had known what he was going to say, but they all fell silent.

Finally, Sophia said, “And now you’re going to say that if Notre Dame is destroyed, you won’t be able to go on living?”

Then she turned her head away.

“Of course I’ll be able to…” began Father Lothaire. “Don’t ascribe such nonsense to me. St. Peter betrayed the Savior three times, he renounced him thrice—and he went on living! Notre Dame is not the Savior. It’s only one of thousands of beautiful expressions of His teaching in our sinful world. Can I compare my burden with the burden of the Apostles?”

“What’s your point then, your reverence?… You don’t want to leave the church, is that it?”

“That’s right.” Father Lothaire hung his head like a stubborn child.

“How pointless! You are contradicting yourself.”

“Yes, Sophie. I understood immediately, before you even described your proposal, that it was worth taking back the cathedral for a single liturgy. But I immediately felt something else. Knowing that the church will blow, I won’t be able to leave it. I simply won’t be able to. My feet won’t obey me. God will grant that I succeed in serving the liturgy. That the people who hear the Mass will leave the Cité through underground corridors. But I will stay and pray. I will pray until the end.”

“You’re a Christian! Suicide is forbidden for you!” retorted Sophia.

“Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps my will is too weak. But I hope the Lord will not consider my remaining to pray in a church about to be destroyed as a suicide. God is merciful toward our weaknesses—perhaps He will not give me the opportunity to leave.

“If I am condemning my soul to hell because of sentimental weakness, it is my error and I will suffer for it. Sophia, there are more beautiful cathedrals than Notre Dame in France. It is massive. It is obsessed with the legacy of the Romanesque, but without the rough simplicity. The cathedral in Reims is even uglier. But it is in these two churches that one feels this nation breathe, this nation that was once the favorite daughter of the Church. Sophia, Notre Dame cannot be abandoned in its time of trouble. If I can’t help the church, then at least I can stay with it to the end.”

“And a soldier does not abandon his officer,” said de Lescure quietly. Sophia understood that he was continuing his dispute with Father Lothaire—de Lescure was determined to stay as well. “The place of the altar server is next to the priest, to the end. The soul of our nation has always been feudal. There are many things I cannot do because I am too old. But this, I can do.”

“It would seem I’m the youngest one here,” said Sophia with a laugh. “Father, I will be responsible for the explosion. So tell me, is it a sin to blow up Notre Dame?”

“It both is, and is not.”

“If it’s not a sin, then there’s no problem. But if it is a sin, it must be a big one, right? Too big a sin to put on the back of a young man like Lévêque who still needs to live. I will plant the explosives. I’ll only take a few assistants with me for the physical part. All the moral responsibility will fall on me.

“By the way, gentlemen, I notice that you’ve resolved the moral questions for yourselves in the best possible way—and that you’re leaving me to fend for myself with your God. How gallant! Father Lothaire, everything you are saying about not leaving the church to die alone is equally valid for me. Perhaps even more valid than for you.”

“Sophia, has anyone ever told you that you are a monster?” Father Lothaire asked.

“Yes, the subject has come up… Father, you know what?” Sophia’s eyes flashed and Father Lothaire was surprised to notice that they looked black. “Won’t you be neglecting your sacred duty if you stay? You should fear God. I see a boy of thirty in front of me.”

“Thirty-three, if you don’t mind.”

“Pffft. I was born before the Internet. In comparison with you, I am as old as Troy! Monsieur de Lescure, are you and I wrong for expecting youth to live?”

The book dealer laughed with a weak, old-man’s laugh. “No, Madame Sevazmios, but my quibble is not related to the trifling number of years Father has lived. It’s that his flock will be left without its shepherd.”

“Thank God, I am not the only priest in France!” Father Lothaire replied.

“My friends, each of us just wants to convince the others.” De Lescure said, smiling a smile that could be called “thin” because of his age.

In fact, thought Sophia, the smile of an old man is thin because his lips have grown thinner. For both of us, the defects of age have transformed into signs of wisdom. But there is insight indeed, hiding behind those blue eyes, under the gray, bushy eyebrows.

“Let’s put the extra cards back in our sleeves,” said de Lescure. “You are a little girl, Sophia. The Internet! I was born when every computer took up a whole room. Let’s allow everyone to do as his conscience dictates. For our Father Lothaire, there is something like a captain’s debt to his ship; for me, an altar server’s debt to an officer-priest. And you, Sophia—please don’t be angry, but since the beginning of this story, you have played the archetypal role of Death. Death cannot live; it wouldn’t be logical.”

Sophie laughed. “The advantage of our many years is that we managed to read all the books we wanted to before they were destroyed… Look, Monsieur Lescure, at how our dear Father Lothaire is conflicted! He grew up when the Muslims usurped the image of death. ‘You love life,’ they said, ‘and we love death.’ That was a lie, too. They don’t love death—they only love the absence of life: Lifelessness, dissolution, rottenness. But I remember the generation of my parents, who used to say, ‘He who loves life, considers death to be another good; while he who doesn’t love life is afraid of death.’ A Christian should not fear death—is that not so, your sad reverence?”

“No, Sophie, he should not.” By his changing expressions and quick-moving eyes, they could see that Father Lothaire was thinking quickly. “All right then. I agree with Monsieur Lescure with respect to you, Sophie. But again I have a condition… or a wish. I remember very well that you are Orthodox, rather than Catholic. But in extremis I can administer Communion to a person in your sad spiritual state. Our churches do not contradict each other with respect to the Real Presence and Apostolic succession. What is your decision?”

“I will receive Communion at that Mass. And I’ll confess my sins beforehand, although my entire confession, as in that novel by your classic writer, can be reduced to three words.”

Quatre-vingt treize by Victor Hugo, thought de Lescure. It’s a profane novel, but the scene is not bad at all. How did it go?

“Let each of you repent aloud for your sins,” said Grand-Francoeur. “Gentlemen, speak.”

The Marquis replied, “I have killed.”

“I have killed,” repeated Hoisnard.

“I have killed,” said Guinoiseau.

“I have killed,” said Brin d’Amour.

“I have killed,” said Chatenay.

“I have killed,” said Imânus.

Grand-Francoeur made the sign of the cross with the crucifix before them and said, “In the name of the Holy Trinity, I absolve you of your your sins. May your souls go in peace.”

“Amen!” replied six voices in unison.

The Marquis stood up. “And now it is time to die,” said he.

“And to kill,” added Imânus.

My memory is rather good, mused de Lescure. But why talk about books at this point? Like some third-generation Roman born in Gaul, I am digging through literary scrolls in a villa with heated mosaic floors where the water pipes are murmuring—as the filthy Franks with their axes are attacking all around me. This is not the first time our world has become barbaric, and it is perhaps not the moment for old poetry. We must carefully follow how the new epoch is coming to life around us.

“You’ve flown away to distant empires, Monsieur de Lescure,” said Father Lothaire, smiling. De Lescure slowly nodded to his companions.

The sniper was in a well-protected position, Eugène-Olivier observed. He was obviously too good not to have thought this through. But there was plenty of time. On the opposite bank of the Seine there was not enough room for a needle to fall between all the blue uniforms. The air rumbled with the sound of heavy equipment. Yet the Muslims seemed in no hurry to attack again.

“We’ve gained time,” said Jeanne. “Listen, have you seen Valerie?”

“No. Did it occur to you that this may be the last time we see Paris by the light of day?”

“If that’s God’s will.”

“That’s not what I mean,” replied Eugène-Olivier impatiently. “Everything is changing. The people are leaving the ghetto, thank God, and the underground can’t survive without the ghetto. Tomorrow morning, if we’re still alive, we’ll be in the catacombs. We may have to live for a month or two without seeing the light of day. Then we’ll move to the Vendée forest, but they’ll start to persecute the peasants there, too. The forest cities are large. They’ve existed since the time of the Whites, who did not entirely dig them out themselves. Nevertheless, it’s just a pause on the road to Euroislam.

“Yes,” Jeanne clenched her small fists, “It’s the Exodus.”

“The what?”

“Oh, how illiterate you are!”

“Wait, that’s from the Bible?”

“Yes. Exodus. In this case, it’s not simply leaving slavery, but our native land.”

“Maybe we’ll come back one day. Riding on tanks.” Eugène-Olivier really wanted to console Jeanne, and apparently he had found the right words. The girl’s face became radiant.

“Russian tanks?” she then asked, with some doubt.

“Sophia Sevazmios is Russian,” Eugène-Olivier reminded her.

“Then I think we’ll get along with them. I don’t like the fact that no one seems to have seen Valerie. I’m going to look for her.”

That was Jeanne. A moment ago she was here, now she was gone. Eugène-Olivier squinted, looking for the shadow of the man hiding up in the gallery—the creep with the hot sniper rifle. If he came out on the roof, they’d have no problem taking him out. He wouldn’t even see us.

Father Lothaire and de Lescure were sitting on a bench in front of the Conciergerie. The old bookseller was praying with an old rosary strung with white porcelain pearls. The priest merely watched the determined Paris sparrows picking at a piece of roll lying in the path.

“I’ve already started worrying: A day has only twenty-four hours,” said de Lescure, kissing the cross and placing the rosary in his pocket. “Do you remember how many faithful came to Confession last night? Nevertheless, everyone managed to confess.”

“Everyone,” Father Lothaire’s gaze did not leave the multicolored path, “except one whom I can hardly help.”

“That’s true, you cannot. Everything is happening too quickly, like an old video recording being played too fast. I understand how difficult it is for you, Lothaire. But perhaps you can tell me what burdens your soul? I cannot forgive your sins, but perhaps your soul will be more at peace.”

“You are a very good man. But on the last day of my life—in any case, I hope it will be the last, because I don’t want to risk committing another unpardonable sin—to transfer my own difficult thoughts onto the back of someone close to me… it seems unkind.”

“Your reverence, look how many absurdities you’ve managed to utter in a single sentence! For years, you have kept in your heart the bitterest secrets of all the faithful in our parish. Why shouldn’t one of us carry a small part of your burden?”

As before, Father Lothaire did not look at de Lescure, but directly in front of him, although the sparrows had left long ago after eating the last crumb. Inseparable from the uniform of his profession, he seemed soldier-like.

It seemed so long ago, thought Eugène-Olivier, when he was entrusted with the visit to Ahmad ibn Salih (actually Knezhevich). He was chosen, not only for his computer knowledge, but for his climbing skills. These old stones could also be climbed. It was better from the east, since the creep was lodged in the gallery.

It was almost like jumping into cold water as a child—except in this case, it was best not to close one’s eyes. Eugène-Olivier drew near, hiding behind the last bush and preparing to jump out into the clear space.

They’ve taken out the trees and statues—the whole east side is a lawn with flowers, as if they had spread one of their stupid rugs in place of the trees. The real masters of Paris, the kings, were not afraid of the people or the narrow streets. Bonaparte was the first to begin clearing large spaces so that no assassin could stalk him. The Muslims continued what he began. They can only copy what someone else has already done.

Leaving history aside, here was a question for the present: whether to remove the running shoes. It would be easier to climb without them. But he couldn’t hang them around his neck; he would have to throw them away. And then walk around barefoot until morning? Never mind, whatever happens, happens. Here we go!

Eugène-Olivier zigzagged, stopped, ran again. Bullets began bouncing off the cobblestones. Thank God they weren’t bursts from a machine gun! After all, policemen didn’t walk around town carrying machine guns! He had to climb to the diagonal arch. Lord, don’t let them guess where I’m heading!

The military forces were getting prepared. Not the police and not the Interior Army, but the real army. An enormous force against a handful of Maquisards, thought Kasim listlessly. The order to attack still hadn’t come.

Excellent, a thick column hid him. And they weren’t looking down, so they couldn’t discern his goal. Eugène-Olivier climbed as if he were strolling across a stone bridge. He had only one wish: to stand on his feet and walk where he could, and for things to go normally. But that was wishful thinking. Climbing up was always much easier than going down. In any case, he wouldn’t have to go down the same way. Oh, how far below the cobblestones looked!

His feet were terribly swollen. Carefully lowering his rifle, Wali Farad stood up to stretch his legs. It was insulting that he had nothing to do right now, and even worse that he had missed the Maquisard when he saw him.

Now they were not climbing, they were waiting for night. But it didn’t matter—they couldn’t know about his special sniper rifle. It would be a lot of fun. His colleagues had laughed at him when he asked his father to give him an SB-04 for his eighteenth birthday. What was a young policeman going to do with an expensive rifle with an infrared sight? He didn’t even have the right to patrol with it. But he kept it in his office. So who had been right? It was coming in very handy now!

Wali Farad’s childishly plump face wore a happy expression. A satisfied smile slid across his lips. He had the beginnings of a moustache that still could not seriously be shaved. He accepted the categorical plans of his father: no work in the ghetto, no work on uncovering Maquisards until he completed the appropriate education. To get the necessary training, he had to spend a year as an ordinary patrolman.

However, Wali Farad’s plans were far greater than fighting the Maquisards in France. He dreamed of fighting in the Dar-al-Harb—the ghazwa had not been stopped forever, had it? Imagine, a bomb! That meant getting the bomb from the infidels and then waging war and waging war…

Ever since he could remember, Wali Farad had longed to fight the infidels. When he was thirteen he formed a small “brigade” with his friends. The boys tested their innovation in the Austerlitz ghetto. They only managed to pull it off five times, but what a good time they had!

It was Wali Falid’s idea: Late at night they would besiege someone’s house and start to grunt in front of the doors and windows. That was normal—weren’t kafirs pigs? Then they would break into the house. They prepared for this in advance—taking into account what was forbidden and what was not. Their satisfaction was their priority; the kafirs had no right to live in this world anyway! They broke all the dishes, tore the linens, abused the women—mostly their peers, since they were a little afraid of the older ones. But ripping a pajama off a girl who was screaming and scratching was a real pleasure. They didn’t have the courage to rape them, so they hid their fear with jokes.

The adult kafirs would catch them by the arms, push them, and threaten them, but there were no open fights. Everyone knew that they weren’t going to kill or rape anyone, but it was nevertheless a great pleasure to run around a kafir house with everyone screaming and running away.

Their game was quickly discovered and their parents interrogated them. Wali Fahid understood that his father had placed great hopes in him and that he feared that the kafirs might kill him.

He took out a chocolate bar he found in his pocket.

Thank you, honorable builders, dear masons, for sparing neither time nor effort to decorate the church with stone ornaments—each one a precious hand- or foothold. It was too horrible to contemplate what would have resulted had you been dyed-in-the-wool Classicists!

Twice, Eugène-Olivier almost took a tumble, but he didn’t have time to become frightened. The first time, he found something to stand on; the second, something to grab onto. It was not for nothing that he had been conquering suburban ruins since childhood.

The palms of his hands were scraped, leaving bloody marks on the stones. It was good that he hadn’t removed his shoes after all—it would be horrible if his feet were now in the same condition as his hands.

There were few people who would have dared climb on the roof of the church today… I’ll brag about it later.

Brisseville put down his binoculars. Even without them, it was obvious that something serious was occurring on the other side of the barricade. They had brought heavy equipment for clearing wrecks: bulldozers, excavators. But that had been expected. A fire truck—smart. Although it was unlikely to help.

“Any minute now,” said an unknown young man who was lying next to Jeanne, watching spellbound as the bulldozers approached the front lines.

“Nice day,” she said with a smile. “But why are we saving our bullets?”

The bulldozer was leaning lightly on the barricade of overturned automobiles. Jeanne could see the face of the black man in the clear cabin. His eyes and face were full of fear. They probably didn’t make bulldozers with bulletproof glass.

The gigantic shovel pushed the overturned Citroën that lay with its wheels in the air.

Jeanne had time to open her mouth halfway, as the car seemed to hop into the air. Then she heard the explosion. And another. The mines went off, one after the other. They had been invisibly set in a line that stretched across the far side of the barricade. Next, the cars’ gas tanks caught fire.

Behind the wall of flame, one could no longer see the damage, but judging from the noise, the grating, the whooping and wild cries—it was wonderful.

Only a few seconds later, the same thing occurred on the other bank of the Seine—except that Jeanne could not hear it as well. And then on the west side, too.

“Great, that was really great!” Jeanne found herself laughing through tears of joy. “Can you believe that they all had orders to attack at the same time?”

“By the way, my name is Arthur,” the young man extended his hand.

“Jeanne.”

“Are there any injured among you?” This time, the black woman Michelle had a light-pink silk dress with a silver, maple-leaf motif. It didn’t really go with the enormous medical bag she was carrying on her shoulder.

“We’re all in one piece for now,” answered Jeanne. “Listen, maybe you could put on some decent clothes. I want to cry when I look at you hobbling around in those heels!”

“But what if I die today for Our Lord Jesus Christ?” Michelle asked brightly.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“On a holiday like that, one should wear one’s nicest clothes.”

“Is that why you were always so beautifully dressed in the ghetto?” asked Jeanne.

“In the ghetto, that holiday can occur any day. All right, I’m going on. May Our Lady keep you close!”

Jeanne could only admit to herself that she was still a long way away from such joy.

“So what if they have a few Stingers—but where did they get the mines? Machine guns, sniper rifles, those can be explained! What else do they have, what and from where?”

The general’s voice over the radio sounded like a bird of prey in a cage.

“I don’t believe the gear is from Russia,” answered Kasim wearily. “And I suggest that now is probably not the right time to initiate a court proceeding, mon générale—but my theory is that somewhere, a depot is much poorer today.”

“The situation of the depots is currently being checked. We have to know what else the kafirs have to welcome us with. What happened with imam Mosvar Ali? He didn’t call back?”

“No, mon générale.”

“Good.” The general calmed down a little. “There will be a lot of commotion, but I have no intention of sacrificing a mountain of soldiers to save him.”

Kasim coughed. The general was not only a Frenchman, but a fourth-generation Parisian from a rich family. He would never have allowed himself this remark if he’d been speaking with an Arab.

“Do we have many casualties?”

“It’s difficult to calculate right now. We certainly have some losses in equipment and men.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“To withdraw to a safe distance. The engineering units are planning how to remove the barricades without losses. It’s dangerous to send in deminers, since they’d have to work under rifle fire. The sooner all the barricades explode, the sooner they’ll all burn to the ground. That will give the Maquisards just a few more hours.”

“We’ll get a few more hours,” said Larochejaquelein to Sophia. “That’s good. In our situation, it’s sufficient… Sophie, I’ve heard a very silly rumor—”

“We’re not going to discuss that, Henri. We have other things to do right now. What kind of regiment have they sent? It’s 50 percent bigger than we calculated. We’re going to take heavy losses in front as soon as the barricades finish burning.”

When the fireworks broke out below, Eugène-Olivier was sitting against a stone lattice, trying to figure out if he had seriously injured his wrist. The first phase had begun and the attack was not far off. He had to hurry. The wound was nothing, his hand was working normally. It was just a little pain.

The stench of burning tires overcame the pleasant scent of the trees and the damp air from the river. In the air, greasy particles of soot hung densely, like incense at the devil’s wedding. They dirtied the pink flowers of the chestnuts and the pink dress of Michelle, who was bending over someone sitting on the cobblestones.

The closer he got to the gallery, the more slowly Eugène-Olivier moved. Now he no longer feared that he would fall; but he was very afraid that he would be noisy. Quietly, more quietly, even more slowly.

Luckily, the policeman was snoozing as he sat on the floor of the gallery. The rifle stood beside him. Eugène-Olivier crawled, trying not to breathe. He bent over. He extended his hand, very carefully grabbing the end of the barrel. Now he needed to pull, to pull straight up, like a cat pulling a fish out of an aquarium. A little bit more and he would be able to grasp it more firmly in his other hand. The rifle was too heavy to pull up with just the ends of his fingers.

“Ah!” he cried silently. A sharp pain in his right wrist did not make him release his booty, but the butt made a noise of betrayal on the stone.

“A-a-ah!” The young policeman, blurry-eyed from sleep, jumped up and pulled on the butt with all his strength. Knowing he couldn’t hold onto the contested weapon, Eugène-Olivier followed it into the gallery—falling directly on top of the policeman.

The rifle fell on the floor, useless to both. The pistol in Eugène-Olivier’s holster was also useless, and the policeman couldn’t reach his own gun. They gripped each other, rolling and choking each other against the stone.

“Kafir, pig, livestock!” hissed the policeman.

Eugène-Olivier fought silently. His knowledge was far more professional and he had no intention of wasting his breath.

The young man was strong, well built, well fed, and at least 20 pounds heavier than Eugène-Olivier. He understood his advantage.

“I’ll choke you, dirty kafir! I won’t waste a cartridge on you. I’ll cut your throat myself! You’ll smile for me from ear to ear!” He was obviously irritated that Eugène-Olivier was not answering.

Slowly, barely perceptibly, Eugène-Olivier began to push his own forehead toward his chest, digging his chin into the vulnerable backs of the hands squeezing at his throat. He pressed down even more—and then suddenly raised his head into the Muslim’s face.

The blow to the chin was not that powerful, but for a moment the body of the policeman was paralyzed with pain, and his muscles relaxed a little. Eugène-Olivier reached down and grabbed the Muslim around the knees. Holding the upper legs together with all his strength, he drove himself to a standing position and pivoted toward the balustrade, swinging the head and shoulders toward the top edge and starting to shove the rest of the body after it…

“NO!” The policeman’s head was already hanging in empty space, and he desperately tried to scramble and pitch his weight back over the balustrade. “My father will boil you alive, he’ll impale you on a stick, you don’t know, you animal, who my father is…”

Eugène-Olivier straightened his own legs with a grunt as he shoved the Muslim’s hips up over the edge with all his strength.

The body slipped away so suddenly that Eugène-Olivier’s momentum slammed him with a jolt against the balustrade.

The policeman’s scream echoed in the emptiness. The body turned during the fall and looked strangely wooden, as if already dead.

Sparks jumped in front of Eugène-Olivier’s eyes and his temples pounded wildly. On the floor was a small, expensive cell phone that imam Mosvar Ali didn’t know about. It was ringing.

The devil take it, let it ring.

But he needed to know whether the people below understood what had just happened here. Maybe they saw. Eugène-Olivier answered the phone after all.

“Hello?”

“Wali Farad? Is everything alright there? Hey, who is this? Is everything all right in the mosque? Call my son! Call my son!”

“He can’t come right now. He’s busy.”

Eugène-Olivier turned off the phone and looked down. Wali Farad was no longer busy. His arms and legs spread, he lay motionless on the cobblestones and looked very small.

Black clouds of smoke were rising into the air from all the bridges now. The peaceful, silver water of the Seine glistened. In the old days, a bell used to hang here. An enormous bell. But even without the bell, it was wonderful to look out on the endless row of roofs. How high you are, Notre Dame. The wind tousled his hair. Here, up above, one could breathe with full lungs.

Eugène-Olivier carefully picked up the rifle. A superb weapon. He finally had time to examine it. The attack on Notre Dame would not begin before twilight. That meant he had to sit here for a few more hours. At twilight he would descend down the same circular staircase he had heard about in his childhood. And then he would open the door of the Portal of Judgment Day for his people. He could, of course, open any of them. But he had already decided to open that one. Because Judgment Day had, in a sense, already begun.