Abduction (38 page)

The young salesman smiled at him. He was sipping his tea as he listened to the radio.

“What would you like, brother? Some cigarettes? Algerian or foreign ones?”

Aziz stared at the accomplice in disbelief. The man displayed a nonchalance incompatible with the role he was supposed to fill. His telephone was still on.

“Hello,” he said, forcing himself to return the man's smile – and feeling his face wrinkling with the effort. “Erm… I'm the mayor's brother.”

“Ooh, aren't you a lucky man! And I'm the president's son!”

The salesman guffawed – even though, with a wary sidelong glance, he had taken in the woman's ravaged features.

“Anyway, the president's waiting for me because we're going out clubbing tonight. So, brother, do you want cigarettes from here or from abroad?”

“Give me the address.”

His voice had gone husky. He held out the telephone, still on, in front of him. The salesman studied him with burgeoning irritation.

“I didn't get you, brother.”

“Give me the address, by the face of God. Nobody has followed us.”

“What address?”

“I was told to ask you for the address.”

“The address?”

“Yes, the address. You're meant to give me the address.”

The smile had disappeared, hardening into a grimace.

“Hey, mate, you haven't been smoking something a bit stronger than a cigarette, have you?”

Then, more aggressively: “Are you going to buy some cigarettes off me or not? If not, just let me get on with earning my children's keep. As for the addresses, look in the directory. Gonna buy something then? Hey, are you listening to me?”

The worried seller had a surreptitious look under the counter, probably searching for something to defend himself with, just in case. Aziz tried one last beseeching look before turning away.

The seller watched them walk off, the man with his mobile stuck to his ear and the sickly-looking woman following stiffly on his heels. He suddenly felt sorry for this creature. If he didn't beat her, the weirdly behaved husband must, at the very least, give her a hard time. OK, so that was his right, but he shouldn't overdo it!

“Honestly, Algeria's in a bad way. I tell you, mother: Algeria's in a bad way.”

T
he laughter coming from the phone sounded like a whinny. They were standing in the middle of the vast esplanade bordered by the Sanctuary of the Martyrs and the shopping centre.

The father said, “It's a joke, is it? The classified ads, the bookshop, the tobacconist – all a big joke? Just to stamp us down a bit further? And so you can laugh your guts out more than ever?”

“I wanted to take off those American films… You know, the ones where the hero gets sent all over the place by a guy who doesn't want the cops to find him… ha, ha, ha… I'd have given anything to see the bookseller's and the tobacconist's faces… The uncle's nephew and the mayor's brother! Oh dear, that's so funny!”

His spluttering laughter continued to fill the small loudspeaker. Meriem nodded, as if she'd guessed it from the start but had refused to listen to the warnings from her brain.

“Why? Aren't you doing us enough harm already?”

“This devil knows his craft: even the greatest pain can be significantly increased if you scoff at it too.”

This was Meriem answering Aziz, her voice monotonous, expressionless, almost sterile; then, speaking directly into the mobile: “I think that's what happened to you. When you told your family's story, not only did no one take pity on you, but they made a clown of you, they ridiculed your misfortune. Am I right?”

The laughter abruptly cracked – as if the stranger had been caught off guard by this calm ‘diagnosis'.

“You've got some gumption, little lady, and some guts too,” he eventually mocked, imitating the woman's tone of voice, “especially after what happened to your mother and your stepfather this morning. Aziz, you're lucky to have such a smart wife. The slut would've been better off keeping quiet, though. I don't like people spoiling my good mood. For that, we'll get straight down to the serious business.”

Aziz hung his head. Meriem's eyes remained vacant, lending her features a new, almost mineral aspect.

“Go straight home. Don't leave your flat whatever you do and get ready for the big day. This must all end today. And that, I promise you, is not a joke.”

A seagull landed close to the couple, hoping against all logic to be given some leftover food. Maybe it had mistaken the telephone held out between the two human beings for a sandwich?

“Come on,” said Meriem, “our daughter's waiting for us.”

The woman looked as if she was in shock and, at the same time, seemed to be greeting events with total indifference. Aziz almost yelped:
I'm frightened, Meriem!
He put his phone away and followed her.

Here and there, people were walking across the vast concrete area, some of them hurrying, others strolling, each of them caught up in the small world of his two or three joys, his worries and, perhaps, his tragedies. He didn't envy any of these passers-by, not even the luckiest amongst them. He just wanted to be like the greedy seagull, entirely devoted to its own hunger, a blessed creature devoid of love and of the despair that always ensues.

I gave her the phone. The text message was from Lounes:

She read it and sniffed angrily before kissing the screen with a ludicrous show of tenderness that I nevertheless immediately deciphered: she had just chosen between her mother and her daughter.

“Hurry up,” was all she said, her voice hoarse, “our girl is hurt. She's lived too little for me to wrap her up in a shroud.”

She turned her head away and perhaps afraid of breaking down, didn't address another word to me until we reached our flat. When we walked in, the telephone had been ringing for several seconds.

“Hello?”

“What's the idea, Aziz, not answering my calls?”

Lounes didn't hide his displeasure.

“You ran off and left me with the old lady, even though I'm snowed under with work. Luckily, I managed to get her looked after pretty fast! She's lucky in her misfortune because the boss has a good reputation. He didn't seem very optimistic, though. The injuries are fairly strange, he said, for a road accident and he'd like a bit more information about the circumstances of the crash. The secretary wants some other healthcare papers. Hello? You've got nothing to say? What's wrong with you? I can understand you at a pinch, but your wife? That injured woman's her mother, for God's sake!”

“I'll explain…”

“You'll explain what? That looking after her mother in casualty is such a pain for your wife… Hey, let me talk to your wife!”

I held the receiver out to Meriem who shook her head.

“She's… she's on the toilet…”

“That's the only excuse she can come up with to wriggle out of this. It's… it's a scandal… There you go, you disgust me!”

He hung up. Then almost immediately – just as I expected – he rang back, less angry and more worried this time.

“You're really weird, Aziz. You don't come to work anymore, your wife and you seemed in a daze this morning, you drop her comatose mother, your mother-in-law, without warning like a dirty sock. It's not like you to behave this way. Something's the matter. I'm your friend, you can tell me.”

Before my exhausted mind could think up a plausible response, the vet went back on the attack, a little embarrassed about going out on a limb like this, but unable to stave off his curiosity.

“I only know one thing that can distress a couple, or rather parents, like this: their kids… Sorry for poking my nose into your family affairs. Is your daughter in trouble? School? No, you wouldn't make such a fuss about that, especially not you anyway… Is… Is she ill? Shehera's a teenager… maybe she's…? She's run away? A crush that's got out of hand? Hello? Can you hear me?”

I bent double, winded as if someone had thumped me flush in the chest. This clever snoop would end up finding out the truth if I let him talk! Meriem gesticulated wildly at me to get off the line. I stammered, “Sorry, Lounes, I'm expecting an urgent phone call on the landline. I'll… I'll explain later…” before putting down the receiver on its base like someone getting rid of a dangerous object.

Meriem went into the bathroom. A little later she came back out after a refreshing shower, her hair done and a hint of make-up under her eyes. She carefully selected a sober, dark dress from the wardrobe in the bedroom and slipped it on, all without saying a word. She added the finishing touch with her raincoat and had a last look round the kitchen before coming back to sit down on the couch with the attitude of someone preparing for a long journey. Except that there was no suitcase at her feet.

“What did you take from the kitchen, Meriem?”

Only a twitch of the chin betrayed how tense she was.

“We're going to meet the devil, Aziz. The devil in person. He laughs and does evil. We can't afford for our brains to be foggy when we confront him. He might want to kill us. And if I have to die, I want to die clean.”

“What did you take from the kitchen, Meriem?”

She held up the long knife she had hidden in the inside pocket of her raincoat.

“Wash your face, Aziz. You've got to have a clear mind too. And get yourself some kind of weapon.”

I did as she said: soap, razor, comb. When I sat down next to her, she asked to see my weapon.

“Do you recognise it?”

“Mathieu's old pistol. Is it loaded?”

“Yes, several bullets. But I don't know if it works. No one's used it in a long time.”

She checked a tearless sob.

“Poor Mathieu. I loved him, then I hated him. Now it's too late – he died like a dog. Forgive or be forgiven – there's no more you can do when it's too late. At least he loved my mother. As for the rest…”

In an almost inaudible whisper, she said, “My mother…” before sinking into a silence that I didn't dare interrupt.

She roused herself with a moan of pain. And at that moment she performed the most surprising gesture of the whole day: she caught hold of my hand and plunged it between her thighs until it touched flesh, then knelt down, opened my flies and took my penis in her mouth before standing up again.

She wiped her lips. The whole thing had only lasted for about ten seconds. I watched her in amazement. Her features were harsh, her voice strangled – in utter contrast to that violent burst of intimacy.

“I have no idea what is going to happen to us in a little while, Aziz. If the worst were to happen, that is the final worldly proof that we were husband and wife and that we had a child. If there are any witnesses in this room, then they will bear witness for us.”

“What witnesses?” I almost objected to the woman I loved more than anything on earth. She evaded my gaze. On each cheek, a red stain like a drop of blood stood out against the white of her skin. Meriem straightened her dress and her raincoat. I wanted to stand up too and take her in my arms, whether there were any ‘witnesses' or not. I felt like weeping. She pushed me away with a brusque hand movement and set about flicking imaginary specks of dust off her raincoat.

I did my flies up and we waited together, husband and wife, mother and father, for the demon to call.

His voice was almost shy, the demon's, even though he was striving to hide his emotion behind fake cheer.

“Well, not a minute too soon!”

My heart was beating so hard that I had the same trouble breathing as if I'd run as far as my legs could carry me.

“Where do we have to meet you? With our daughter, of course.”

“Now, little lady, and with your daughter, most certainly.”

The tone of their exchange, normal and very polite, made me even more frightened. Could she be as scared as I was, with this taste of poison in my mouth?

“Well, let's go then,” she replied without the slightest emotion. She made one furtive movement (as if her interlocutor could see her) towards her raincoat pocket to check that the knife was well hidden. I did likewise, with the peculiar sensation that my wife was better armed with her kitchen knife than I with my army pistol.

“Go out of your flat. Walk down to the bus stop directly opposite your block.”

Before stepping over the threshold, I clasped my wife in my arms. I smiled inwardly, but my face muscles refused to obey me. I caressed Meriem's cheeks, incapable of finding any other way of expressing the flood of love coursing through me.

“Wait,” she said when we reached the top of the stairs. She rushed into the flat and came back out less than a minute later carrying a plastic bag.

“It's to give Shehera some first aid,” she whispered, showing me the medical kit we used to treat the bumps and scratches of everyday life. “We could do with a surgeon instead,” I thought without daring to say it out loud.

We waited at the bus stop for about ten minutes. The driver, roughly on time for once, waved to us to get in. When we declined, he shouted that it was worth him putting himself out for people who lazed about rather than working.

I saw Meriem's eyes become blurred when a beaming neighbour drew up beside us in his car.

“I bet your old banger's finally given up the ghost. I'm going into the centre of Algiers. I can drop you off, if that's any help.”

I turned down our helpful neighbour's offer, explaining that we were waiting for a friend. As soon as he had driven off, I turned to Meriem. The tear she had been holding back for some time was running down her nose. I let her deal with her tear; I had enough trouble stopping myself crying out for help as ‘everyday' life carried on around us.