Khalil Page 3

  A few minutes later, a second explosion could be heard, but it wasn’t possible to know where it had come from. Standing lookout at the café window, I turned my head and peered at the TV screen. Nothing abnormal was spoiling the exhilaration inside the Stade de France. The match continued amid a festive atmosphere, and thunderous cries rang out every time Les Bleus mounted a counterattack that threatened their opponent’s goal.

  Suddenly, sirens started wailing everywhere, an apocalyptic chorus filling the air in the Parisian suburb of Saint-Denis.

  In the bistro, nobody noticed. People kept following the match and clinking glasses, their cries as harrowing as the sirens that were resetting the tempo of the night. I felt disconcerted. I didn’t understand. By that time, the two suicide bombers were supposed to have detonated their explosive belts, but there were no signs of panic in any of the stadium’s rows upon rows of seats. I expected to see two geysers of flame pulverize spectators in clusters, dozens of them, and cause a stampede to the exit gates, but I saw nothing of the sort. The TV cameras calmly swept the playing field, zooming in on a tackle, coming back to a dribble, lingering over a fallen player, and the crowd continued to shout itself hoarse, the fans’ ardor continued to grow.

  * * *

  —

  I had no way of contacting Driss to find out what was going on. With one eye on the television, I watched the stadium. The match went on until the referee blew the final whistle. Then the fans began crowding onto the field. Something had happened. The songs gave way to an agonized silence. The stupefaction on painted faces clashed brutally with the clamor that had been shaking the galleries just a few moments previously. I saw frightened children, stunned girls, dismayed men. In the bistro, the customers began to look at one another strangely. I heard two men speaking about terrorist attacks.

  I hurried to the station.

  3

  The RER trains were crammed to bursting. Most of the passengers came from the Stade de France, their faces ruined by terror, their eyes desperate. Strangely enough, they weren’t speaking; they seemed to have but one desire, namely to get back home as soon as possible. Somewhere in the throng, a child was crying. Many of the people around me were captivated by their iPhones. I looked over a shoulder and saw scenes of panic on a little screen. A news channel was broadcasting video of a terrorist attack in Paris. The scenes were unsteady and blurred. It was hard to tell what was going on—the kid with the smartphone was using earbuds. A young girl standing beside me, feverishly sending texts, looked so pale she seemed about to faint.

  At one end of the car, a flurry began, followed by pushing and shoving and an altercation. I was afraid someone would pull the emergency handle, the RER train would come to a sudden stop, and everyone would evacuate the cars. The exegete’s stormy voice thundered in my head: “What did the Lord do when an army of elephants was preparing to destroy Mecca? He sent the Ababil birds against them, and they pelted the elephants with small stones, the pebbles of hell, and reduced their ranks to polluted carrion. Today, the elephant army is those self-proclaimed superpowers that dare to attack Islam, and that we, by the will of God, are going to crush. For today we are the Ababil birds. We fly higher than their drones, we strike farther than their rockets, we keep closer watch than their satellites…” A thousand repetitions of the Takbir resounded inside my head. It was as though a volcano were erupting in me. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket, thought about Driss, about my twin sister and my mother, recited the Shahada to myself, and pressed the button connected to my bomb belt…

  Nothing. It took me several seconds to realize that the charge strapped to my waist wasn’t responding. I pressed the button again. And then a third time. I was still intact. The people in the train car had calmed down a little. The commotion had been caused by a pickpocket. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he protested. “It’s not my fault if we’re packed in here like sardines.” I kept pressing the button, but I was starting to get dizzy, and my calves were cramping. A foul secretion filled my mouth. I had no control over anything anymore; no matter how hard I mashed that button down, my bomb belt remained mute.

  I came back to myself on a platform, in the midst of a frantic scrum that was propelling me toward other corridors. I couldn’t seem to find the exit. Every time I got off a train, I wound up on another one. I was completely lost. I don’t know how I eventually made my way to the street. The fresh air brought me back down to earth and chilled the sweat on my body, but I couldn’t say whether it was fear or cold that made me shiver from head to foot.

  The people around me dispersed quickly. All that could be heard were the whooping sirens, which never stopped calling to one another in the night.

  * * *

  —

  With my head in my hands, I tried to put my thoughts into some order. I was sitting on a bench, but I didn’t know how long I’d been there.

  “Sir, you can’t stay here,” a police officer said to me. “Please go home.”

  “What’s going on?” a young woman asked as she got off her bicycle. “Why all the ambulances? I almost got run over by a police van.”

  “Please don’t linger outside. Go home,” the cop insisted.

  “There were some terrorist attacks near the place de la République,” a passerby said in a quivering voice.

  I got up and left the square.

  But where was I going? I didn’t know where I was or what to do.

  I should be dead right now, I repeated to myself.

  I decided to call Ali and have him come and pick me up. I found a phone booth, but I didn’t have a centime on me. “My mother must be worried to death about me with all these attacks,” I said to a woman who was walking past. “I’ve got to call and reassure her, but I don’t have any change.”

  The woman immediately opened her purse and handed me some. “Call her right away. I’m worried too, my daughters aren’t home yet. My God! I hope they’re all right.” I waited until the lady went away, and then I dialed Ali’s number. He took an eternity to answer.

  “Ali, there’s a problem.”

  “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

  But that was surely Ali’s voice.

  When I called again, I got voicemail.

  I went back to the square to do some thinking. My mind was upside down. I started walking again, instinctively keeping my thumb on the button hidden inside my coat pocket. A column of police vans, escorted by cars with revolving roof lights, surged up out of a tunnel and sped down a wide street, probably a bypass or a beltway access road. Some brasseries were open, but there weren’t any more crowds in the sidewalk cafés. I passed the square I’d been in not long before and realized I was going in circles. At the end of the avenue, I came upon the same compound of buildings I’d recently left. On the pediment of the largest stood the words Palais des Congrès. An illuminated panel presented a map of Paris. I tried to pinpoint my location but just got more confused.

  I went back to the phone booth.

  Ali didn’t answer.

  “Bastard, bastard, bastard…”

  I dialed Rayan’s number. He was another childhood friend.

  “You have to come and pick me up,” I told him.

  “Sorry, I’m not in Brussels anymore.”

  “I need you, Rayan.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m not in Brussels.”

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Call a taxi. I’m in Cambrai now.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In France. You know very well, if I was anywhere in the vicinity, I’d be in front of your door already. But as things stand, it’s not possible. Is it serious, your situation?”

  “I’m in Paris.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then he said, “What are you doing in Paris? The TV says there’ve been massacres in several different pa
rts of the city.”

  “It’s total chaos. I don’t know where to go. I don’t have a cent on me, and I’m in the street.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, I’m lost. You have to come and get me.”

  “There aren’t any trains you could take?”

  “I’m flat broke, I tell you. Are you coming to pick me up or what?”

  The sound of Rayan’s coughing came through the line. “Where are you exactly?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “How do you want me to come get you if you don’t know where you are? Paris isn’t some little village with two narrow streets and a mini square. At least give me a landmark.”

  “I told you before, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know the place.”

  “All you have to do is communicate the name of the nearest street.”

  “There’s a subway station, and right outside the exit, a big compound. The Palais des Congrès. Also a big hotel with a sign placed high up, you can’t miss it. It’s called the Hyatt Regency. The subway station is Porte Maillot.”

  “Not so fast, I’m writing this all down. I’ll search online and call you back.”

  “No, no, no, don’t hang up! I’m calling from a booth and I don’t have any more coins.”

  “We’ll meet in front of the hotel.”

  “How long before you get here?”

  “However long it takes. I’m not next door, Khalil.”

  “Everybody’s on edge here. I don’t want any problems with the hotel cops.”

  “Go to a safe place not too far away. I’ll call you as soon as I’m in the vicinity.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “How am I supposed to reach you when I get there?”

  “There’s a square on the big avenue…no, not the square. You’ll find me in front of the bus shelter just across the street from the Hyatt Regency. I’ll signal you when I recognize your car. Switch on your ceiling light when you pull up in front of the hotel.”

  “And why not the stereo too, full blast, while we’re at it?” he grumbled. “Shoot, why did you go to Paris? To do what?”

  “Visit my aunt. I—”

  He’d hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Around three in the morning, Rayan found me, refrigerated under the bus shelter. He was wearing a suit and tie—he’d probably been celebrating something or other in Cambrai. He let me get in beside him, checked his GPS, drove around the Palais des Congrès, and went down a ramp to a tunnel.

  “I almost gave up waiting for you.”

  “The beltway’s a parking lot. How long have you been in Paris?”

  “I got here this afternoon. I was going to stay with my aunt and look for a job. My father kicked me out of the house. I thought I’d take refuge with my aunt, but she’s moved, and all I had was her old address.”

  Rayan and I had grown up together. He knew all the sordid details of my family problems and was perfectly aware that there was no love lost between my father and me.

  “You really picked a good day, babe.”

  “I couldn’t possibly have guessed…”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, terrorist attacks.”

  “I’m talking about your situation. How is it you don’t have any money?”

  “A pickpocket in the subway took my wallet. My money and my papers were inside.”

  “Man, everything sure came down on you all at once. If you’re stopped at a checkpoint, how are you going to explain your missing documents?”

  “Did they check your papers?”

  “No, but the city’s under tight surveillance.”

  * * *

  —

  We’d been rolling along for about two hours when Rayan abruptly exited the expressway.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have some things to pick up in Cambrai.”

  “Pick them up tomorrow. I want to go straight back to Belgium.”

  “Calm down, Khalil. All roads lead to Brussels.”

  “I’m going to Mons.”

  “That’s on our way. Cambrai, Valenciennes, and then you’re in Mons.”

  The sky was clearing. Apart from a few delivery trucks, there was little traffic. From time to time, a car passed us in the opposite direction, and then the fog devoured the landscape again. Rayan was driving along calmly. He suspected nothing. I think he’d swallowed without difficulty the version of the facts I’d given him.

  He dropped me off on the outskirts of Mons.

  I wasn’t eager for him to know where I was going or whom I’d be staying with.

  * * *

  —

  My elder sister Yezza’s breakfast was nearly over when I knocked on her door. She opened it and without saying a word to me returned to the kitchen to finish her meal. She was used to seeing me turn up at her place without warning, especially when I needed money, or when things degenerated in our parents’ home. She’d admit me silently, sullenly, and then act as though I weren’t there. Yezza hated receiving visitors.

  While she cleared the table, her eyes vague, I realized that I was ravenously hungry. I fried up the last three eggs remaining in the fridge.

  “Where have you come from?” she asked, irritated by my voraciousness.

  “A friend’s place. I came for his wedding, not far from here.”

  “And they didn’t feed you anything?”

  “There were too many guests.”

  My sister dried her hands on a dish towel. Our interview was over. She changed clothes, put on her face veil, and prepared to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got some work to do at the shop.”

  “This is Saturday.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t ever take a day off?”

  “I’ll take a day off when I can get some peace. A person’s not even safe from intrusions in her own home. Some bad surprise always has to come along and wreck the mood.”

  The bad surprise was me.

  “Are you thinking about staying in Mons for a long time?”

  “Not really.”

  “There’s an extra set of keys in the chest of drawers at the end of the hallway. Top right. Leave them in the mailbox when you go.”

  “All right.”

  She sniffed loudly and went out, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  —

  My sister was recovering from a major nervous collapse. Although outward appearances may have given the impression that she was over her episode, its consequences were simmering underneath. At forty years of age, unmarried, and no doubt a virgin, she was losing all hope of finding happiness in this life. In earlier days, my family would travel to Morocco for the sole purpose of finding her a husband. But in our community, only men have the right to choose and to require. Generally, a girl who lives in Belgium or in some other land of plenty doesn’t refuse her hand to anyone, especially if there’s a prospect of reuniting families. However, in a little village in the Moroccan hinterlands, a girl who’s fat and not very pretty, with a lazy eye that drifts off without warning, hasn’t got many chances of being wed one day. My sister failed to meet the selection criteria. Even our cousins, starving in their fields and reeking of manure, wanted nothing to do with her. I’m sure that was the reason why something eventually short-circuited in her brain. My mother was convinced that someone had put a hex on her daughter. She took Yezza, twenty-seven at the time, out into the desert somewhere around Figuig to consult a famous Muslim holy man. I don’t know what putrid elixir the charlatan administered to my sister, but a few days after her return to Nador, Yezza began to have nightmares. She’d wake up screaming and writhing on the floor with her eyes rolled back in her head. T
he imam of the douar, summoned to the rescue, declared that my sister was possessed by the devil. He subjected her to appalling exorcism sessions that only aggravated her case. I was ten years old back then. What I saw in the course of those sessions traumatized me for a long time. My father had to cut our holiday short and rush us back to Brussels, where my sister was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Her doctor diagnosed a hysterical neurosis caused by violent emotional distress. He prescribed shock treatment. Yezza resumed a normal life—or almost normal, because there were times when she sank into deep melancholy. She started working again, first at a dry cleaner’s, and later for a Moroccan tailor. Then, when Zahra—my twin sister, seventeen years younger than Yezza—got married, Yezza had a relapse. In the Riffian tradition, it’s the older sisters who leave their father’s home first. Yezza took this new blow of fate very hard. She had to be put in an institution. After weeks of intensive therapy followed by rigorous psychological care, she returned to the family home as a perfect stranger.

  Constantly on edge, inclined to take the smallest pleasantry as a frontal assault, and unable to get along with anyone, she began to nurture grievances against members of her family and decided to settle in Mons as a way of burning all her bridges.

  * * *

  —

  After she left for work, I abruptly fell asleep on the sofa.

  A ringing telephone woke me up. The sound came from Yezza’s bedroom.

  Outside, the daylight was fading fast. All of a sudden, it hit me that I was alive. This realization had a strange effect on me.

  I noticed that I still had the bomb belt around my waist. Like a second skin. I’d completely forgotten it. I turned on the light in the bathroom, got undressed, spread the deadly device out on the floor to see why the explosives hadn’t responded to my innumerable attempts to set them off, and discovered right away that the wire leading from the detonation button wasn’t connected properly. The bomb maker had limited himself to wrapping the wire around a stick of TATP, triacetone triperoxide. I looked a little more and found a tiny cell phone hidden behind the firing mechanism. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Why the hell was that phone in my belt, and why—unlike the detonation button—was it connected directly to the charge? That wasn’t the plan, as far as I knew. Activating the detonator was up to me, to me alone. So what was that thing doing there? Had someone wanted to blow me up by remote control?