The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 7} ANNETTE’S AWAKENING

Imam Abdulwahid’s lettuce-colored Saab was slowly moving from the Austerlitz ghetto toward the botanical garden.

Abdullah, the driver, a young man who had converted to Islam, cast a frightened look at his patron, as he called him in his thoughts, who was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. It was obvious that the imam’s mood couldn’t be worse, and it was therefore entirely possible that he would hold the least little thing against him and dock a few euros from his salary.

“Another traffic jam and my blood pressure will jump. Don’t think, Abdullah, that this is the year fourteen hundred and five, when every bare ass could own his own car. In just the past ten years, personal transportation, Allah be praised, has been reduced by a third! But I simply don’t understand why we always have a problem with parking, and why all the roads are still so crowded!

“Statistics are a curious thing, venerable Abdulwahid! On the one hand, it’s true that now only one family in ten has an automobile. But how many new families have established in the last ten years?”

“Don’t get smart. After all, why do your Francophone wives have so few children?” The imam suddenly lost his temper. “You think that no one knows what you’re doing? You take an older, unmarried woman into your house who is your wife’s sister or her friend, supposedly as your second wife. But all she does is help with the housework and the children! You’re bluffing, trying to deceive honest people! None of you adheres to the normal order of things! If it were up to me, I would check if men sleep with all their wives!”

Abdullah did not answer. Despite the imam’s character, he wanted to keep this job. Abdullah made it a point to be especially patient after every visit to the ghetto. He remembered all too well the recent lean years, the abominable cigarettes, his brother’s old clothes, the apartment that consisted of a single room in the attic…

What was saddest of all, they had already begun to convert all the different idiots in the neighborhood, who didn’t even want to do it; some of them said the Shahada in tears, as if there were nothing worse in the world. Others preferred to go to their graves. And yet the religious authorities didn’t think to call him; he actually got tired of waiting. Sometimes it seemed that his whole life would pass behind barbed wire.

On the other hand, there was an important detail: You mustn’t ask to convert by yourself. Then you were considered cheap, very cheap. Finally, Imam Abdulwahid entered his house with the Narrations of the Adherents to the Sunnah under his arm. Abdullah’s mother and brother left the room—silent, defeated, disgusted. But he stayed. He listened, he nodded his head, he concurred, and occasionally he could not contain his happy smile. It ended like a fairy tale: The imam considered his conversion a personal triumph; he made every effort in front of the bureaucrats to show off the promising young man. In the end, he hired him as his personal driver. Not every Turk could win such a position and not even a true Arab would be ashamed of it!

The imam continued his rant. “And actually, those of the true faith with a pedigree are sometimes no better than you. They teach their children to enjoy the inventions of the devil—pianos, and what do you call them, double basses, violins… It’s a good thing there are none of those awful, enormous things with dozens of pipes left in the city, or they would be playing them, too! It would be better if they took care that their children didn’t sleep through the early morning prayer! But no, the salah is something of secondary importance; it’s much better that children learn to bang on the piano! Yes, Abdullah, remind me to send my assistant to burn all those packets of music notes in the house of that kafir woman we took care of today! Otherwise, she’ll hide everything, I know the scum in the ghetto…”

The summer promised to be hot. Even now, the afternoon was quite warm. The imam was tired of the ghetto, tired of climbing stairs in buildings where the elevators had stopped working long ago, of visiting miserable, dusty apartments without air conditioning. If that weren’t the case, perhaps he would not have called the police right away to arrest the elderly music instructor who eked out a living by giving lessons in the Austerlitz ghetto. The woman, whose name was Marguerite—ugh! What a name! Marguerite Teillé?—had attracted attention long ago, but she could have easily lived in her den in peace for another five years.

“But it’s easy to deal with the kafirs, you simply come and arrest them for music!” imam Abdulwahid continued. Sweat ran down his face from under the bright green turban of shiny brocade, despite the car’s air conditioning. “Now look at that. I just knew we would get stuck in a traffic jam, I just knew it!”

In fact, the Saab was still moving steadily in a column of automobiles. But at this speed, one could drive for a whole hour to get to Quatrephage Street. And imam Abdulwahid wanted to arrive at the old Paris mosque as soon as possible. He wanted to go to the sauna, and then to drink hot mint tea in the mosaic room of the mosque. Mint tea and honey cakes! How wonderful they were!

The car was moving more slowly than the pedestrians, and the distance between the Saab and the Citroën next to it was so small that the imam couldn’t have opened his door!

The imam unconsciously envied the plump boy he saw in the rear-view mirror, who was easily weaving between the cars on his shiny Harley Light. How old could he be, if his parents permitted him to drive in the streets and had even bought him such an expensive motorcycle? Judging by his size, he couldn’t be more than twelve! What times we live in!

Soon, the disagreeable boy appeared next to the imam’s door. He stood up in his seat and suddenly used something metallic to scratch the body of the car—right in front of the imam’s nose! The body of a new Saab! Ah, the scoundrel! And he knows you can’t catch him. You can’t even open the door! The faceless juvenile was already hurrying away, but his face had caught the imam’s attention. There was something in the line of the boy’s neck… and in the light-gray eyes that met his through the barrier of bulletproof glass and motorcycle-helmet plastic… It was a girl! A girl in men’s clothing, with her face uncovered! In broad daylight!

The girl had said something, but he couldn’t hear it. Her soft rose mouth had twisted itself into an ugly grimace. But if it wasn’t just a twelve year-old hooligan, but a grown kafir girl who had the courage to move around Paris so inappropriately dressed in broad daylight, then surely scratching his car was not mere mischief. What was it then?…

In the next instant Abdulwahid understood. He understood the motorcycle, which was already moving away between the cars. The Saab moved even closer to the Citroën.

Panicked, the imam now tried to change places with Abdullah. Abdullah wasn’t interested. Revolt ensued in the tight space in the front of the car. The obese Abdulwahid managed to pry one of Abullah’s hands from the wheel, trying at the same time to pull him on top of himself, so he could slide under him and into the driver’s seat. The imam even managed, casting off his turban, to get his head under Abdullah’s hip. The car swerved and hit the lights of the Chevrolet in front. All around, people were honking angrily. The mechanical sounds drowned the unexpectedly shrill cries of the imam.

But in the next moment, everything became very still. Abdullah could not understand right away. Had he suddenly gone deaf?

The imam’s attempt to change places with his driver was not without result. Upon penetrating the roof of the vehicle, the “sticker”—the slang term for a plastic explosive mounted in a magnet—missed Abdulwahid’s honorable head. But before embedding itself into the asphalt, it passed along his spine, through his waist, and exited through his groin. His head, with its cultured, thin mustache and obscene baldness, remained whole, completely intact. It continued opening its mouth for a long time without making a sound, like a fish in water, eyes bulging. It finally shuddered and fell into the lap of Abdullah, who desperately clung to the wheel on the other side of the car.

The white fur seat covers soaked up the blood, but this no longer concerned the imam, who had worried so much about keeping them clean. Nothing about him gave any further signs of life. Except his fingers, which were adorned with rings and kept grasping spasmodically.

Jeanne’s cheeks were burning. It wasn’t that she was ashamed. Everything had worked out perfectly. She was leaving peacefully. The driver was probably still alive, but he was unlikely to remember to use his cell phone. And even if someone in one of the surrounding cars called the police quickly, it was unlikely they would make the connection between the explosion and the motorcycle that had passed a minute earlier. By the time the police made their way through the traffic jam to the Saab and began taking statements, everyone would have forgotten about the motorcycle.

Nevertheless, it was shameful. Maybe she shouldn’t tell anyone. She would just return seven “stickers” instead of eight and say that mice ate the eighth. No, seriously, it was shameful to lie to your own side. She would have to answer for her actions. Oh, how she wished she didn’t have to do that! She would end up sitting at home for two months doing needlepoint.

Turning from Buffon Street toward the Lutetia Arena, Jeanne found herself in open space again and increased her speed. The fresh air cooled her hot cheeks. She would have to go back to the ghetto for the rest of the stickers, even though she didn’t like that ghetto at all.

Lord, how could she have done otherwise? She had run up the stairs to the third floor with a long-prepared candy in her pocket for eleven year-old Marie-Rose. She found the poor girl crying on the threshold of the music teacher’s sealed door, rocking a violin like a sick doll.

Mademoiselle Teillé had not been a professional instructor. In better times, she played only for herself. She began giving private lessons only after she lost her small house when the Wahhabis came to power. But she came to love giving lessons. She taught piano, violin and guitar—explaining with a shy smile that she knew so much “only because I don’t know anything well.”

When she had looked at the hands of seven year-old Jeanne long ago, Mademoiselle Teillé had sighed and agreed to teach the girl, “only so she wouldn’t get an inferiority complex.” Nevertheless, soon it turned out that the little, dimpled hands had a large span. Soon Mademoiselle Teillé worried only about the insufficient diligence of her student.

And now they are driving her to the cemetery, in the back of a corpse truck.

It took her a few minutes to learn from Marie-Rose that this had been ordered by the “usual” imam—the same one who always came, and that he was still in the ghetto, heading for the library.

Mademoiselle had been correcting Marie-Rose’s mistakes, as usual, when the Muslim entered the apartment. Mademoiselle became angry and responded to his customary filth that she would continue teaching children “as long as I live!”

He had responded, in awful French, “Then, you old fool, that won’t be for long!” He snatched the violin from Marie-Rose and flung it on the floor. He slapped the old woman across the face, took out his cell phone, and began dialing numbers.

Mademoiselle only whispered: “Run home, child! I’m sorry I didn’t finish your lesson—but remember, every humiliation has limits when it can no longer be tolerated.”

Everything after that followed its due course. Jeanne had caught up to the monster and stopped him dead in his tracks with a “sticker.”

Well, now she needed to take care of some things. Jeanne braked next to the entrance of a small mechanic’s shop. Two young men from the ghetto, Paul Guermi and Stéphane d’Ourtal, worked there for the Turkish owner.

She saw Guermi under the hood of a model of Citroën that had not been manufactured since the 1990’s. He was about thirty years old with strong glasses that made his eyes appear small, and big sideburns. He was very thin and didn’t look much like a workman; he would not have been one in normal times. Twenty-year-old D’Ourtal, who was still not tired of life, was sanding off the scratches on a Volvo.

Guermi motioned with his hand for her to come in. The Turk, apparently, was not around.

“Can you change the shoes on my horse, guys?”

“Give us a break. We can’t get as many numbers as you need,” sighed Guermi. But Jeanne replied with an impish grin. Guermi knew very well that she would wind up wrapping him around her little finger.

Guermi believed that in those times it was easier for teen agers to handle the conditions of the Muslim occupation than it was for their elders. They were like the children of farmers in pioneer America—accustomed from the cradle to the war cries of Indians. They grew up carrying ammunition for their fathers. They fired their first shots when they had the strength to lift a carbine. For them, killing a man was not the Rubicon. There were no Hamlets in this generation—they made their decisions as they went. Guermi, on the other hand, had been raised by parents born at the end of the 1970’s. The illusion that somewhere there is a thing called safety can make a man loath to take risks—and perhaps not fight until there is no choice.

D’Ourtal was already bringing the Harley into the workshop.

“Can you do it right away, Stéphane?” asked Jeanne caressingly. “I’d like to wait here!”

“The creep would be happy to meet you,” d’Ourtal said with a smile. “But come tomorrow morning. It will be quiet then.”

“Wait. Where’s she going to go on foot?” protested Guermi. “Jeanne, wait a minute so I can look through these rags. I think Fatima recently gave us an old chador to make rags and I still haven’t used it. What about you, Stéphane?”

“Rats! We dirtied it already. It doesn’t smell like a woman anymore,” said d’Ourtal unhappily. “Of course, it’s better than nothing…”

Jeanne waved her hand. “Thanks, but don’t worry. I’ll spend the night somewhere close by and come back early tomorrow.”

“But not before nine,” said Stéphane.

“Okay!” Jeanne said, and ran into the street. She had a place to spend the night in the neighboring district. A woman who cleaned the antique shop and spent her nights in the ghetto let her sleep in the broom closet. Who would look for her there?

It was nevertheless humiliating, thought Jeanne as she ran down the sidewalk. Madeleine Méchin, who was only a year younger, walked calmly through Paris to her heart’s content. She could do that with her size 6 hips! She put on a cap and a jacket, and she was all set! Jeanne could pass for a boy only when she was on a motorcycle and moving fast.

A policeman in a patrol car was coming right at her at a snail’s pace. His partner seemed to be checking house numbers. And perhaps something else. Jeanne did not have time to think. Turning around, she saw an entrance to a public restroom and went in.

Generally speaking, Jeanne was disgusted by public restrooms—with their plastic pitchers instead of toilet paper. Yuck! she thought yet again as she closed the door behind her. But they wouldn’t find her here.

There was only one woman there, who was standing with her back to Jeanne in front of the mirror, fixing her lipstick with a cherry-colored lip pencil.

Jeanne asked herself, What sense does it make to wear lipstick if you’re going to throw a chador over your head?

The pencil trembled in the woman’s hand and her eyes opened wide.

Jeanne froze, more out of surprise than out of fear. She saw her own reflection in the mirror from behind the back of the blonde Muslim woman: She looked pale, wearing a denim shirt and light jacket and jeans. She was hatless, having left her helmet with Stéphane.

She had completely forgotten! How could she have gone into a women’s toilet dressed like a man? No wonder the woman was looking at her as if she were seeing a ghost!

Jeanne hadn’t believed it when people warned her that everyone does something really stupid at some point. And that the only way they got out was by sheer luck. Probably, those who weren’t so lucky weren’t around to tell about it.

The blonde woman and Jeanne looked at each other in the mirror.

If she starts screaming, I’ll kill her, Jeanne decided. I think I can manage.

Footsteps could be heard in the corridor connecting the men’s and women’s restrooms.

“I’m telling you, I don’t like it.” The voice speaking in lingua franca belonged to a Turkish policeman. “Some punk goes into the restroom right in front of our eyes and then there’s no one in the restroom.”

“Ali, you can’t even take a piss without creating a problem,” answered another voice. “Is that why we’re here?”

“Look, there’s not even a window here. If he went into the women’s restroom, is he a hooligan or something worse?”

“So what should we do?”

Now it was Jeanne who froze—from the roots of her hair to her bent knees. She was finished, completely finished. Lord, why hadn’t she at least taken her pistol? But no, she remembered the rules: No carrying a pistol in a sharia zone unless absolutely necessary!

“Let’s wait a little, check the documents of the women, and then we can search the building.”

The mirror showed Jeanne’s face growing paler. The pencil that stopped in mid-air looked like a dummy in a window display was holding it.

“But why are we checking the women?”

“I recently heard that a young man dressed in a chador took part in the murder of the qadi of the 16th district.”

“Children of the devil, as they say! Hey! Is there anybody in there?” echoed a voice.

“Yes, don’t come in here,” answered the woman with surprising calm, looking over at Jeanne. She was also pale. For a few moments they looked at each other. The woman brought a finger to her lips.

The policeman called, “Hurry up! Document check!”

Jeanne shook her head at the woman: Thank you, but it’s pointless.

The woman suddenly began to rummage madly through her shopping bags. She took one, broke the ribbons, separated the tissues and took out something made of pink material.

In the woman’s hands was a new chador that looked as if it had been sewn for Jeanne.

“Faster!” called the cop.

Taking off the tag, the woman held out the clothing to Jeanne.

There was no time to think. Jeanne sank into the pink folds of fabric. When she looked out through the net, the woman was crumpling the packing tissue, which she threw into the toilet. Only then did she put on her own chador.

“Hold this!” the woman whispered, putting one of her pretty bags into one of Jeanne’s hands and grabbing onto the other with all her strength with cold fingers as they emerged from the bathroom.

The plump policeman looked at the woman and the girl, who were carrying bags with obviously expensive things, respectfully.

“Is there anyone left in the restroom?” asked one of them, extending his hand for documents.

“I’m don’t think so. I’m not sure.” Jeanne’s fellow traveler extended a plastic card.

“And for the girl?” The policeman scanned a small rectangle with a pocket scanner.

“You can check your database,” said the woman disdainfully. “The record must show that I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, Imam.”

“That’s not right, esteemed madam. She’ll be getting married soon and she shouldn’t be walking around without documents… You can pass.”

The policemen went past them into the restroom.

Jeanne slowly started breathing again as they slowly walked away down the block. “You saved me,” she finally said as she freed her hand and tried to return the bag to its owner. “I’ll be fine on my own from here.”

“Listen, girl, I see that you are in some sort of trouble. There are more police than usual in the city today, and you don’t have documents, do you? Come with me,” she said, walking toward an expensive-looking car. “You’ll spend a few hours in a safe place.”

“So you’re not a Muslim?” said Jeanne with a smile, forgetting that her smile couldn’t be seen.

“I am.”

Jeanne gave an involuntary start.

“Please,” said the woman.

“Why are you helping me?”

“You’re French.”

“Yes, I am… But aren’t you… formerly French?”

“Perhaps.” The woman seemed to take no offense.

Jeanne could have left long ago but now she was curious—her usual vice, for which she was often castigated. She wanted to see where these supposed collaborators were coming from, since things had already turned out as they had.

“Okay, thanks very much,” said Jeanne, sitting down in the front seat.

With a sigh of relief, the woman immediately started the car. The police, who could reappear from the restrooms at any moment, had frightened her.

A few minutes later, they were already driving by the Jardin du Luxembourg.

“By the way,” said Jeanne, noticing that speaking through a net that went into your mouth was unpleasant, “What’s your name?”

The woman did not respond right away. She appeared to be closely monitoring the traffic. Her hands, which held the driving wheel confidently, were shapely with narrow, fragile, long fingers. The manicure was imperceptible, flesh toned. But there were too many rings, and they were all in heavy gold. The rings did not match those hands. Not at all.

“You can call me Annette,” the woman finally said.