The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 1} ZEYNAB’S LAST SHOPPING TRIP

Eugène-Olivier walked down the Champs-Élysées as fast as his uncomfortable clothing would allow. He certainly was not running—someone running would only draw attention. But his pace was faster than if he had been running. Besides, few runners could run for six hours without a break. Eighteen-year-old Eugène-Olivier could walk all around Paris this way without stopping. It seemed that he had just passed through the Jardin du Luxembourg when already, the Bridge of Invalids was also behind him and the Champs-Élysées sparkled right and left—from lights in store window displays and through the draped windows of private residences. There were not many residences in the Champs-Élysées; there were many more stores like the one he was now approaching.

Zeynab set out from her house on foot. She had never heard the word “Impressionism” in her life. Thus the play of gold and blue light that bathed Paris that sunny afternoon in early spring could hardly have inspired her imagination. It was pleasant, but not nearly so pleasant as the fact that her husband did not limit her shopping expenditures. And today there was going to be a fashion show in the women’s department of the big department store on the Champs-Élysées.

It was not quite right, of course, for her to go to the store alone, but even the Religious Guard closed its eyes to the fact that this rule was regularly violated in the richest neighborhoods and in the poorest. With the poor, all the men in the family had to work while the women rushed around from store to store looking for a cheaper piece of mutton.

In the rich neighborhoods, if you couldn’t disregard the rules others were obliged to follow, what would be the pleasure in being a man of influence? Even the Religious Guard understood these fine points. Only ordinary people were not exempt from following the rules.

Of course, it was always best to be prudent. For example, Zeynab went shopping alone—but Qadi Malik would later pick her up from the store, so in a sense she was simply going to meet her husband.

Zeynab had only crossed from the Quai d’Orsay over the Emirates Bridge and onto the Champs-Élysées, when she stopped.

Translucent rainbows flashed on the window displays, drawing attention to three-piece suits of soft black wool, light-colored suits of silky linen for seaside vacations, snowy white silk poplin and thin linens, colorful polo shirts, cashmere overcoats, Moroccan leather shoes next to curved ivory shoehorns, tie clips and pins, hand sewn neckties, heavy bracelets of Swiss wristwatches, rings and gloves, engraved and gem-encrusted canes—simply everything a man could wish for.

The ladies’ department, understandably, was invisible from the street, its treasures hidden behind reflective glass, hidden like Ali Baba’s cave. Zeynab did not hurry in to see them as usual; she was enjoying the fine weather. When she was finished, she would have to call Malik on his cell phone. And with him she would observe the glory of the spring day from behind the closed windows of the Mercedes. The windows of the Mercedes were tinted, of course; you could stare as much as you liked and no one would look back.

What a beautiful day! Not even the poor, whining incessantly over their begging bowls, managed to annoy her, nor did the piercing whistles and loud screams of children playing. Soft pies shone white in the hands of street vendors and passed in the blink of an eye into the hands of buyers. Loose couscous sparkled as it leapt from the boiler into small paper bags. Flies greedily circled above the baklava and Turkish delight, as customers in street cafes alternately sipped steaming black brew and ice water. How beautiful the Champs-Élysées was in spring!

For some reason, everyone seemed to be hurrying toward the Arc de Triomphe. How interesting, what could be going on there?

Eugène-Olivier stopped so suddenly in front of the neon sign of the department store that he almost knocked over a pudgy woman. This was bad, very bad—he hadn’t calculated the time properly. Whoever arrived too early could also arrive too late. Sevazmios always appeared everywhere on time, to the minute.

For as long as Eugène-Olivier could remember, the square around the Arc de Triomphe had been a pedestrian zone for public celebrations. But now they had begun to build something. A dozen metal containers similar to those used for garbage had been placed around the Arc at equal distances. The container on the right was filled with stones, and to the left of the container there was a small truck with a trailer.

A car moved slowly across the pedestrian square, a green police car with a trailer for the transportation of prisoners. Eugène-Olivier became cautious—but then checked himself and relaxed. The invisible statistician who lived inside him reminded him that he should not concern himself today with anything out of the ordinary. No matter what happened, he should only think about his orders. He wasn’t even curious; he was just pretending to pass the time.

Eugène-Olivier turned his attention to the barred back door of the car that was moving through the crowd at a snail’s pace. Behind the door there was a man. The green pick-up slowed down. Why had they brought this poor wretch here? There was no prison or courthouse.

Only now did he notice the fresh posters glued to the walls of the Arc and the round pillars. O, how he hated to read their worm-like letters! But he didn’t have to, because an Arab sitting on a bench had just unrolled a poster and prepared to read it out loud to the crowd of gathered children and women. Maybe I should pretend I can’t read, either, thought Eugène-Olivier, pushing his way through the crowd.

“He undermined the obligations he undertook upon accepting work,” read the grinning Arab.

“What exactly does that mean, Mr. Hussein?” asked a tall woman in a blue chador.

“The giaour promised, Aunt Mariam, that all the grapes grown on his land would be delivered to the fruit drying plant,” explained the Arab patronizingly. “And he also gave false information. He blamed spillage and frost when, in fact, he was hiding grapes. And you can imagine what he was doing with them.”

“Don’t tell me was making wine? Oh, the beast!” The woman clapped her hands.

“Dog!”

“Infidel dog!”

“We’ll show him wine! Dog!” shouted the children.

The police brought the prisoner out of the car. He turned out to be an older man, but still feisty, full of strength—judging by his walk and his still-fresh, tanned face. He was thin and wiry, with iron muscles that rippled under his flannel shirt. His baggy denim overalls were so faded that they looked almost white, and his gray cap was so burnt by the sun that it was difficult to discern the advertisement of some sports competition banned long ago. He was a farmer, it was obvious at first glance, even if one did not know that he was a winemaker. But where were they taking him? To some stupid concrete pillar right under the Arc that hadn’t been there for long.

“Kiamran, hey, Kiamran, it’s about to start!” A young man in a colorful shirt, obviously drugged, went up to the metal container and began to take several stones the size of apples in his hands. Maybe he thought they really were apples. His eyes were completely white.

Holding the stones with his left hand to his chest, he continued to take more with his right. He bent over awkwardly and a stone fell on his foot. Instead of screaming in pain, he stopped and smiled to himself, as if he had heard a joke.

“Leave them, you have enough already!” the woman in the blue chador told the young man. She raised the folds of her chador like an apron and began to gather stones in it.

Behind her two other youths were already hurrying to fill their pockets; a younger, chubby one who held his cigarette in his teeth to free his hands, and a very little girl whose face was uncovered.

Was it possible that they were all drugged?

Eugène-Olivier had considered himself a soldier since the age of eleven and strictly speaking, that is what he was. For that very reason he wasn’t afraid to honestly admit what another person might have tried to describe less specifically: he was afraid.

The answer was like a ball that refused to go into the basket. It was so obvious, so simple, that he saw it but didn’t want to understand it. Calm down, weakling. You have to get a grip on yourself…

Zeynab hesitated. She wanted to take some stones, too—she could wipe her hands later with the wet, scented napkin she always carried with her—but what would happen to her manicure? She hated to ruin it; she had put on this nice polish only yesterday! Really, they could offer people of position the opportunity to buy something more practical. Or at the very least wrap the stones in clean plastic wrap. Her husband was right; they whined for social assistance and complained there were no jobs, but when they needed to make a little effort to earn some money, all they could think about was entertainment.

But the poor woman (who really had no business being in that fancy neighborhood in the first place) had armed herself so well with stones that Zeynab couldn’t resist. Oh, so what if the manicure was ruined? She could touch it up in the ladies’ room of the department store, and the manicurist would come again tomorrow anyway.

The policemen were already taking out special handcuffs to rivet the old man to the post. Eugène-Olivier understood everything now, of course, before he forced himself to go back to listening in on the crowd. Completely calm (he had already seen quite a bit in his eighteen years), he was standing thirty feet from the condemned man when something extraordinary happened.

Freeing his hand from behind his back, the farmer suddenly raised his chin and seemed to nod his head with dignity, bringing his cuffed hand to his forehead, which he touched lightly with his fingers before gently bringing his hand down to his stomach, and from there to his left shoulder and then to his right.

The old man crossed himself!

It was like a signal. The policemen barely managed to rivet the farmer to the post before fleeing.

“Bismilla-ah!”

Several stones missed, and then one hit the farmer in the face and started a trail of blood. It was impossible to make anything out after that. People were shouting, whistling, laughing, as the stones flew and fell like hail on the asphalt.

“Inshall-a-ah!”

“Death to the kafir!”

“Death to the dog!”

“Death to the winemaker!”

“Subhanalla-a-ah!”

Eugène-Olivier suddenly noticed a little boy in a fluffy little white outfit, not older than three, with light chestnut curls, who moved confidently on chubby legs—in his hands was a stone.

“And what are you saving your hands for?” A young man in a black shirt, apparently less drunk than the others, approached Eugène-Olivier. Probably one of the volunteers of the religious guard. He needed to get away.

The revelry of the crowd did not last longer than fifteen minutes, and died out quickly. The bloodied body hung helplessly on its chains, the stones knee-deep. He had probably died before the stones stopped flying.

Zeynab wiped her hands with a jasmine-scented towelette. She had broken a nail after all, but the manicurist would be able to glue on a piece of plastic that would be invisible under the polish.

Eugène-Olivier slipped silently out of the crowd. Another image of their lives, just another among dozens like it. Another death, just one of thousands of deaths. What was so unusual about that?

As long as the vineyards of France were alive, there would be winemakers, and there would be a black market. And they couldn’t cut them down because they loved raisins; it seemed they couldn’t make any dish that didn’t contain them. And as long as there was a black market, they would hunt down wine sellers and winemakers, and publicly torture them to death, according to the sharia. Nevertheless, there was something that fascinated him, something very important. Wasn’t that the magnificent sign of the Cross, the wide swing, the five fingers transformed into the symbol of the five wounds of Christ? Were there still believers? But twenty years had passed since the last Mass was celebrated!

Eugène-Olivier did not believe in God for family reasons. The Lévêque family, which had occupied a house in peaceful Versailles for a good ten generations, was once a part of the ruling class.

“We are, of course, plutocrats,” Grandfather Patrice used to say. He had a sharp tongue.

“Other authorities in the Republic do not exist. But your golden calf, in any case, is an aristocrat. The Liberals have demonstrated their cleverness with triple security and electronics, like the CIA—and for what? So that an auditorium of one hundred teens jumping to the sound of rap can’t be infiltrated by the one-hundred-and-first, who isn’t on the list? Let them go ahead and laugh. The purpose of the market is matrimonial. We won’t mix our blood with new money, even if they have more of it than we do.

“What are their millions to our thousands? If one of our own stumbles, thousands of hands will reach out to help him. If the same thing happens to one of theirs, hundreds of feet will go out to bury him deeper. Vespasian was a fool—money does have a smell, after all. Some of it even stinks. Money with a decent smell grows slowly. There are really only two things that can lend dignity to money. The first is time. Money, like good wine, needs to age properly. The second is tradition. Without our own tradition behind us, we are no one.”

The Lévêque family had its own tradition. Some of the women became nuns, but not too many. Men went into the priesthood very rarely—there were too many workers’ and farmers’ genes in them. Nevertheless, from generation to generation, the head of the family, wearing an alb over his three-piece suit, served at festal masses at Notre Dame. The Lévêques were the hereditary altar servers of Notre Dame. This privilege did not come cheaply. They always made contributions for restorations, for benevolent purposes, for the priests’ vestments. This was also a tradition.

Great-great-grandfather Antoine Philippe was the altar server during the time of the Second Vatican Council. Many old acquaintances joined the movement led by Monsignor Marcel Lefebvre in the 1970s. People of traditional orientation, even those who were not especially devout, could not accept the “democratization” of the Mass, the expulsion of the Latin language, the dismantling of the ancient altars.

A schism ensued, and many people left the Church. But not the Lévêque family, although the new form of the Mass, called the Novus Ordo, hurt them more than others. The reason the Lévêque family stayed in the embrace of the Catholic Church was simple. It was called Notre Dame. They could not reject the holy shrine any more than one could abandon any old friend in need. So Antoine Philippe suffered together with the Church. He endured the 15-minute-long Mass, the priest who stood facing the people (instead of the Lord), and the placement of the Sacred Gifts in the hands of the faithful.

“We can flee from the Modernists,” Antoine Philippe used to say, “but the Church cannot.”

It so happened that Patrice was the last altar server of Notre Dame. Grandfather was more than fifty years old when the Wahhabis broke into the church and began to destroy the statues and crosses in it. The priest serving that day quickly removed the nylon gown representing the chasuble he wore over his alb, which was actually a white collar attached to a red cloth with white sleeves at the sides. (The color was red because it was the day of commemoration of a martyr.) The priest had no desire to become a martyr himself. He hastily divested in the sacristy, removed the white collar from his blue shirt, and made his way to the exit. No one tried to stop him. All attention was focused on Patrice Lévêque, who stood in front of them with the most comical of weapons in his hands—the hook he normally used to adjust the high drapes.

He hit two or three Wahhabis on the head, and pushed a few more aside with jabs of the hook. The battle didn’t last more than a few minutes. Grandfather fell, his throat slit from ear to ear, bloodying the pedestal of the Holy Virgin—the one where it is said she was offering the Christ Child a stone lily. (Now that all statues have been destroyed, we cannot know whether the Christ Child was truly stretching his little hands toward the flower of France, or if this detail was added later to make the story more interesting.)

Eugène-Olivier’s childhood was dominated by this scene: the altar server who dies waging a senseless battle for Notre Dame, and the priest who flees, removing his white collar with trembling fingers and later tossing his dangerous plastic garment underfoot—together with his vows.

Eugène-Olivier couldn’t explain why he felt no sadness at his grandfather’s death, and that all his thoughts about God were accompanied by the angry recollection of the traitorous priest. No, God did not exist. Only demons and punishment for such demons existed. His hand unconsciously felt for the secret pocket sewn into his stupid clothes. That was the only thing he believed in.

Pleasantly excited, Zeynab finally entered the shade of the large department store, like a huge aquarium filled with soothing semi-darkness. Of course, the room lit by hundreds of lights only looked dim to someone just entering it from a street bathed in strong sunlight.

“Madame is here to see the fashion show?” asked a store clerk wearing a mauve chador (the official color of the store) pleasantly. “It’s only just begun; there are still plenty of comfortable seats in the showroom.”

Zeynab gladly passed through the open glass doors into a small room where about forty women were sitting around the stage. And there was Aset, with an empty chair right next to her.

“Have you already bought the entire collection or did you leave half of it for me?” whispered Zeynab to her friend as she sat down.

“How did you know it was me?” Aset smiled through the crocheted netting covering her face. The question was rhetorical; the young woman knew no one else in the room could have the same gold-knitted clothing. Silk taffeta imported from China was hard to come by, even in Paris.

A hostess spoke into the microphone, explaining the advantages of the First Rose model. A girl ran out onto the podium wearing ankle-length black pants with gold trim and a matching micro-blouse that left her stomach bare. A casual vest of dark red crêpe de Chine accented her movements. Her lips were smeared in dark red, carefully framed with pencil. In her black hair was a red rose of crêpe de Chine whose petals mingled with her thick curls.

“Oh, how divine!” sighed Aset with resignation. “But only for a real brunette!”

Well, of course, if blonde Aset wore something like that, her husband would run away. He would say talak to her! But Zeynab simply must buy it; such a beautiful garment would make Qadi Malik happy. No matter that she was a little on the plump side; the model wasn’t exactly skinny, either. Zeynab would buy it and then boast in front of Aset.

She glanced at her friend patronizingly, as she did rather often. After all, Aset was only a first-generation true believer from a family of wealthy French industrialists who had managed to convert before the others. They had been friends since childhood and Zeynab, of course, knew about all the skeletons in her friend’s closet. The old, evil woman who had died only five years ago stubbornly called the little girl Annette, even in front of her school friends! Aset would sometimes try to draw her friends’ attention away with her toys, and sometimes she would yell at her grandmother, artfully avoiding her blows. It was quite funny. But in any case, Aset was not even the equal of a Turkish woman; she simply lacked what true Arab families usually have. Something was missing in people who changed their religion, and something would always be missing. They talked convincingly, but when the time came to take a stone and throw it at a giaour, they immediately began shying away and making excuses.

Eugène-Olivier, moving his lips out of habit, repeated all the instructions he had received from Sevazmios. Usually, he repeated everything word-for-word once an hour, but this time he did so once every half an hour. Not because he was afraid that he would forget something; it was simply pleasant through repetition to recollect her voice, intonation, eyes, the movements of her hand holding a cigarette. It was not often that one got one’s orders directly from Sevazmios. What he was feeling could have been described as infatuation, but it wasn’t really that. It was a special feeling of adoration unlike anything else, adoration that one can only experience during youth when the soul is still growing and absorbing ideals, disregarding age and sex. It is bodiless and savage, more like death than life.

The gleaming purple Mercedes slowly came to a stop in front of the department store. The qadi was sitting at the wheel. It was well known that he liked to drive new cars. But he did have a driver who could have been on the job today. Had that been the case, Eugène-Olivier would have been forced to return empty-handed. A driver (who always doubled as a bodyguard) could have spent his down-time nibbling on sunflower seeds, but he could also have decided to inspect the car one more time. An unexploded device is an awkward thing; it has fingerprints and many other things on it. One could say it is simply papered with business cards. Moreover, the next attempt would have been at least twice as difficult. But today, the qadi was alone.

He pulled his corpulent body out of the car with difficulty. Eugène-Olivier’s vision suddenly became focused. As if he were less than an arm’s length away, he saw the round face tanned on the beach (back from Nice a week ago), the trimmed beard, the tinted eyeglasses with thin gold frames, the thirty-two unnaturally shiny porcelain implants in his calculated smile of satisfaction.

Qadi Malik was smiling. Not even an hour had passed since he had said talak to an attractive girl whom he had married three hours earlier through the imam. The girl (what was her name?) truly deserved the praise she received from his friends at the club. A lusty, red-haired girl with blue eyes and a pug nose, rounded and elastic—the body of poor Zeynab didn’t bear comparison. It may be that Zeynab wasn’t much fatter, but it wasn’t just a question of being fat. Her thighs and buttocks were like gelatin, and they trembled under his hand like jellyfish. And were about as attractive. But this girl… ah.

So he didn’t mind taking the time now to fetch his wife from the store. Zeynab must also get what she had coming to her. No rags could possibly make her attractive again in her husband’s eyes, but rags themselves make women happy. Let her be happy. A sensible man values peace in the home, and dedicates attention to each of his wives.

Eugène-Olivier forced himself to interrupt this endlessly long moment. In actuality, he had been observing Qadi Malik for no more than a few seconds. Enough, it was time! Five, four, three, two, one, go!

Qadi Malik frowned as he shut the car door. Right in front of him, some girl—young, judging from her abrupt walk and her thinness that not even her clothing could hide—apparently mesmerized by the window display, dropped her bag of groceries. White onions began to bounce on the pavement. Fool! What was she doing here anyway, with such cheap food? She was wasting time looking at the display window of a store where she would never be able to buy anything in her life, while her family at home was waiting for lunch!

A few onions rolled right under the wheels of the car. The woman bent to retrieve them. That’s right, go ahead and pick them up! Another man would have intentionally stepped on it, but Qadi Malik only pushed away a tomato he found in his path with his foot.

Several young men stopped to laugh. The woman swiftly gathered her groceries and put them back in her bag.

The tinted doors of the store had already begun to open, but Qadi Malik suddenly stopped and angrily slapped himself on the forehead. He had forgotten his cell phone! He wouldn’t have gone back for it, but he was expecting a call from Copenhagen. Every second could cost him dearly—the market wouldn’t wait.

The same clumsy young woman jumped away from the car in fear. Apparently, the phone was already ringing. Qadi Malik hastily took it out, put it to his ear, and got back in the car. Of course, he needn’t have. He could have let the phone wait and gone into the store. Or he could have simply retrieved his phone and then talked as he walked. By choosing either of these things, the eminent qadi of District 16 of the city of Paris could have prolonged his life by as much as half an hour. But he preferred to sit back down in the comfortable leather seat and shut the door.

Eugène-Olivier pressed the remote-control button.

The caller from Copenhagen could not understand why his client responded to his very important news by simply hanging up. He tried to call back, but Qadi Malik did not answer.

Zeynab and Aset stood next to the lingerie counter. The sales clerk was packing the exquisite pink teddy Aset had chosen into a mauve bag. Zeynab would have preferred a juicier tone, like raspberry. But she was sorely disappointed. In her size (50), they only had white and blue! What could possibly be worse, for a pale brunette! It was an insult, pure and simple. They had said they could order it. Of course they could order it, but she wanted it today! She was tempted to pinch the poor sales clerk until she hurt her, and Aset, too—who was nonchalantly writing out a check with a diamond-encrusted pen.

“Shall we have a coffee, my dear?” asked Aset, replacing the gold pen cap. “I just can’t resist their baklava.”

“But of course.” Zeynab hid her annoyance and decided she would have a glass of pomegranate juice.

She was not sure if her best friend had mentioned the baklava casually, or if she were alluding to the fact that not every woman had to watch what she ate for fear of gaining weight. It was true that the baklava here was superb; maybe she would allow herself just a small piece after all.

The two friends were already walking toward a corner with comfortable mahogany chairs when the glass wall behind the counter shattered into thousands of brilliant pieces. An entire sky of sunlight burst into the aquarium-like dimness of the store. The blue sky outside started filling with billows of smoke. Shoppers on the store’s second floor looked down to see throngs of people running and screaming below.

But all the screaming was soon drowned out by the siren. It wailed above the crowd like a mortally wounded leviathan. Eugène-Olivier got up from the asphalt, where he had been crouching. As could be expected, the fact that someone had dived to the sidewalk a split second before the explosion had gone unnoticed.

The ambulance parted the throng of people. It wasn’t clear where they were heading—some were running away from the scene of the explosion, while others approached out of curiosity. The result was chaos.

One of the youngest store employees, not a sales clerk but a cleaning woman, carefully made her way through the glass and hurried out to look, still wearing her rubber gloves, not in the least concerned that her face was uncovered. Who would punish her now?

“What is it, Shabina?” shouted a woman with a manager’s card, staying at the counter with its samples of silk drapery.

“An explosion!” the girl called back.

The mellifluous voice of the girl clashed with the bass of the siren and carried well on the upper floor. “They’ve blown up a car, a purple Mercedes, right in the parking lot! A fancy SUV; I saw it parking! They’re not even trying to pull out the driver; the car is burning like a torch. There’s a man behind the wheel. He’s all in flames. The firemen are not even trying to put him out! The ambulance is here, too, but the doctor just waved his hand and went to help the wounded; he didn’t even approach the Mercedes. They blew it up right in our parking lot!”

Zeynab turned to stone. A purple Mercedes SUV in the store parking lot! Ten minutes ago, as she and Aset entered the lingerie department, Qadi Malik had called on the phone to tell her he was on his way.

Zeynab was certain that she had become a widow. But it was not because of the car—there were other such vehicles! No, the horrible conviction came from another source, a savage sense that she had been humiliated. It was as if she had been robbed, tricked, deceived by someone looking her straight in the eyes, by invisible enemies who were now laughing and pointing a finger at her. The First Rose dress had been bought in vain, the raspberry teddy had been ordered in vain, the bottle of Opium perfume was packed in vain, and different colors of hair gel, the plush shoes and pearl clutch. All her purchases had been in vain, and there would be no others. Her brother-in-law’s wife, the evil Emina (a plain Turkish woman who had always been jealous of Zeynab,) would take care that the widow respected the customs. All the customs.

Standing next to Zeynab, Aset did not know how to stop herself from trembling. She suddenly remembered her Grandma Madeleine, who refused to leave the house for the last ten years of her life—just so she would not have to put on a chador.

“You are shapeless, utterly shapeless! You are not women, you are uglier than frogs,” she would say, shaking her stubborn head. “Since your mouth is already covered by fabric, then at least keep it shut! Do not be a shapeless, mouthless pile of screeching cloth!”

Zeynab was wailing spasmodically next to Aset—who was suddenly overcome with unexpected disgust. She found no strength to help her friend. Soon the wailing stopped. Zeynab slumped and fell.

No one, of course, even attempted to put out the red flames licking up through the metal shell of the vehicle. When it finished burning, the crime inspectors would come. The loiterers standing next to Eugène-Olivier were arguing about the best and worst features of the model of SUV burning before them. Eugène-Olivier dropped the remote control into his deepest pocket and moved back several steps. He turned around and began walking. Slowly, even more slowly!

Planting a magnetized device under the raised floor of an SUV was less than half the work. Much more difficult than organizing an explosion was walking away slowly, instead of rushing to escape. Eugène-Olivier, who imagined for his own reasons that Sevazmios was watching him, forced himself to occasionally stop or slow down, imitating someone whose curiosity was occasionally overcoming his fear. The stupid clothing would protect him; the only important thing had been to choose it correctly.

“ATTENTION! ATTENTION! REMAIN IN YOUR PLACES! SEAL OFF THE STREET AT THE INTERSECTIONS!”

Wasn’t technology wonderful? A policeman’s voice suddenly came through on the loudspeaker normally reserved for the call of the muezzin. Earlier, they wouldn’t have thought of using it. Now they would place a vehicle in the middle of the street to block it off, and then they would start checking everyone, without exception.

Luckily, the intersection was near.

Eugène-Olivier bolted toward it as one hustles toward an elevator whose doors have begun to close.

He was running now, moving in such a way that the wind flapped his uncomfortable clothing around, billowing the sleeves like sails, lifting the hem he was holding; he didn’t care about authenticity any more. A young black man, obviously one of the volunteer deputies of the religious guard, tried to trip him with his foot—since his hands were busy with the pie he had just bought, and he had no intention of putting down the pie for the sake of catching some criminal. But he had to say goodbye to his pie stuffed with mutton and red peppers anyway when Eugène-Olivier kicked him in the knee as he ran. The kicked youth fell, and the pie began to roll around on the pavement. The crowd did nothing, simply milling around on the sidewalk, because they feared the fugitive might have a pistol. Eugène-Olivier didn’t. The police did. A few shots rang out above the wailing of the sirens.

Shelter was not far away, about ten minutes. It was a very special place, used only in exceptional cases. Actually, he doubted there could be anywhere to hide near the Champs-Élysées. But the address he had learned only this morning was carved in his memory as if he had always lived there. Here it was, a two-story building from the nineteenth century.

Vaulting up the marble steps of the main entrance, Eugène-Olivier hurried toward the side door. An old electric buzzer that must have been a hundred years old rang shrilly. The intercom came on.

“Hello?”

A stupid word, even the Arabs could pronounce it correctly. And the voice was young, female.

“Artos.” He didn’t even try to guess who had come up with the secret code. Someone, somewhere still liked Greek words.

“Inos,” she replied, and the door cracked open. The figure of a shortish girl appeared out of the semi-darkness on a dim, narrow, steep little staircase.

She motioned him into the shadows, murmuring, “Faster, faster!” The girl opened the door wider, and with an impatient gesture caught him by the arm and pulled him in.

The door bolt fell back in place.

“Follow me.” The girl did not continue up the stairs, but stepped around them into a small, glass-enclosed veranda that led to an inner courtyard. Usually such verandas are used for flowerpots. But here, there was a pile of newspapers and an almost-full case of Perrier.

“Wow, your heart is really pounding,” said the girl, using her foot to push open the unlocked door while she grabbed a bottle from the case. “Take those rags off. You want some water?”

“No,” answered Eugène-Olivier in an unexpectedly hoarse voice. He followed the girl. The courtyard, which had once been enclosed only by hedges, was now hidden from the world in accordance with Muslim custom by a solid concrete wall. Conveniently, as it turned out.

Here were several trees once sculpted to make the shape of a pyramid, but now uneven, a lawn, and a garage door on the wall leading to the street. Eugène-Olivier looked around the drab place with curiosity before he took a closer look at the girl.

She was about sixteen years old with chestnut brown hair, slightly wavy, inexpertly trimmed with scissors. The haircut looked like that of a medieval boy page. Her clothing was also boyish—worn-out jeans and a blue-and-white checked shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow and an unbuttoned collar. But her figure was not at all boyish, although not fully mature. She looked plumper than she really was.

“Relax,” said the girl, opening the bottle and taking a sip of water. “This is the safest place in all of Paris. You can start stripping.”

“The safest place,” snapped Eugène-Olivier, nevertheless removing his chador. “Even if all your documents are in order, where are you going to hide a stranger when they start combing the neighborhood? They could be here in fifteen minutes.”

“In fifteen minutes we won’t be here,” she said with a smile. Her mouth was small and soft pink, and even after she stopped smiling, the smile remained in the corners of her lips. Eugène-Olivier’s heart really was beating more strongly. He was still enjoying her simplicity and naturalness in grabbing his arm with her small, firm hand to pull him through the door to the staircase—a young man she didn’t even know. It was like something her grandmother might have done in her youth, and so different from her peers today. They might have done the same thing just to prove to themselves that they were not poor Muslim girls. But violating the haraam they were under constant pressure. They reluctantly thought about how it all might end, and their moves were unnatural and affected. But she acted indifferent to danger.

Not suspecting the storm she had awoken, the girl stood before him, sipping her water, which sparkled with tiny bubbles. With her head tossed back and her shirt unbuttoned at the collar, her raised hand stretched the worn fabric in such a way as to leave no doubt—there was no trace of a brassiere underneath.

Eugène-Olivier had traveled several times to regions where Muslims still permitted women in the streets with the upper part of their face uncovered. He would remember the eyes of these Muslim women forever—with their eyelashes lengthened with mascara or simply glued on, edged with pencil, with metallic shadow on their eyelids, or eyeshadow that glittered, or eyeshadow that changed color. You could argue with those eyes the women looked less decent than if they had been completely nude. Whereas this girl with her bare neck and arms, with small breasts swelling against a shirt that had become too tight for them shone from within with chastity.

She took another sip. Eugène-Olivier would really have liked to have had some water from her bottle, but not because of thirst. She noticed his intense gaze.

“Hey, what’s the matter, are my ears green?” The empty bottle went into the wooden trash receptacle standing on the asphalt. “Let’s go!”

The girl approached the garage. Behind the open door there was an old Citroën that didn’t take up a lot of room. She began to move a toolbox standing beside the wall.

Eugène-Olivier also started pushing the box. It was so heavy, you would have thought the tools in it were made of lead.

“I’m Eugène-Olivier,” he said, continuing to push.

“I’m Jeanne.”

Eugène-Olivier had never met a girl named Jeanne before in his life. His father once told him that by the end of the twentieth century, this name, once so popular, had almost disappeared. City dwellers had begun to consider it too peasant-like and vulgar. Then people in the villages tried to show the city dwellers that they, too, were sophisticated and could name their daughters Renée and Leonie.

“It was already clear then that France would fare badly without girls named Jeanne,” his father had told him. “If we had had a daughter, that’s what we would have named her. But unfortunately, you don’t have a sister.”

“What a rare name you have,” said Eugène-Olivier.

They looked at each other and smiled, their heads almost touching over the rough boards. The box suddenly moved, as if it were on rails—which in fact, it was.

There was a trap door underneath, revealing stairs that led down. They looked nothing like the ordinary wooden stairs in Paris houses. Made of lightweight metal, they had a certain elegance.

At the bottom of the steps was a metal cubicle lit by the glare of a fluorescent lamp. Two panels on one wall parted like the doors of an elevator. Beyond them a small passage appeared, and another sliding door, leading to a long, winding corridor.

The corridor was not dank like a sewer depot or a rat-infested subway tunnel, or even like the passageway of a crypt from ancient times (there were a lot of those under Paris). The floor had tiles the color of sour cherries, without a single scratch or nick. The flat walls might have been smooth concrete, but were painted a glossy gray. A row of dimly glowing bulbs on the ceiling lighted the way down the corridor.

“You’ve never been in a place like this?” There was a hint of boastfulness in Jeanne’s voice—as if to suggest that although she didn’t personally build these corridors, she had ruled them for at least two or three generations. “Luxurious, isn’t it?”

“Almost too luxurious.” Eugène-Olivier could not hide his enthusiasm. “What is this place?”

“It’s a bomb shelter. It’s very old, almost a hundred years.”

“From World War II? The time of Hitler?” Eugène-Olivier was pleased to display a little knowledge of history once again.

“Oh, no, about ten years later.”

“What kind of bombs were they hiding from?” Apparently he should not have rushed to demonstrate his knowledge of history.

“There were no bombs.” Jeanne was walking in front, and her walk seemed to be that of a girl younger than herself. “They were simply very afraid of nuclear war. So just in case, they dug a lot of places like this one. They’ve come in very handy for us. This one had entrances in several different locations and it could hold about a dozen families from the neighborhood.”

The corridor was interrupted by yet another metal door. It was oval and also discreetly attractive. In front of the door there was a stool, on which was a white plastic bowl filled with water.

“What’s the water for?”

“Maybe it’s used to breed fish?” She was obviously kidding. “All right, let’s join the others. There’s no point in staying here by ourselves.”

Eugène-Olivier wouldn’t have minded if they stayed by themselves, but there was work to be done.

The doors were sound-proof. As soon as they opened, one could hear voices.

In the enormous room, people filled two rows of tables with benches. Some were reading books. Others talked in small groups, speaking in low voices. There was a tall, old man with gray hair tied back in a ponytail like a lord from the eighteenth century. He welcomed them with a nod. The crowd was mostly old, but to Eugène-Olivier’s surprise, there were also children among them, even babies less than a year old. The children seemed unusually well behaved—very different from the Muslim children in the streets. A little boy of about three sat on the floor with great dignity, playing with a simple toy that looked like a turquoise necklace, with beads of varying size.

The women’s clothing was an obvious rejection of Muslim dress—they did not even wear turtlenecks. Older women wore blouses with collars; the young women had denim jackets and men’s T-shirts.

On the other side of the room there was another door, quite small, which now opened. A man entered. When he saw him, Eugène-Olivier concluded that all this must be a part of a dream, along with Jeanne and the strange, elegant underground of the war that never was.

The man who entered was a priest—but not the sort of priest Eugène-Olivier had seen in photographs of the last days of Notre Dame Cathedral. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a time machine from centuries ago.

His bell-bottomed black cassock was closed by a row of cloth-covered buttons that started at his neck and went down to the floor. There were thirty-three of those buttons, but Eugène-Olivier would not find that out—or why—until much later. The tall, light-haired priest was young, although his stiff expression made him seem much older. The room fell silent as he entered.

“Today there will be no Mass,” he said in a melodious, husky voice. “Our wine provider has fallen into the hands of the Muslims. May the Lord grant repose to his soul.”