Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

‘If you’re busy, I can come back later,’ she ventured.

Was she playing for time? Hoping to retreat so she might return better prepared?

‘I am not particularly busy. How can I help you, madame?’

She grew more uneasy. What was she afraid of? I knew she had not come for a prescription, but I could not think why she should be so tense.

‘Make no mistake, Monsieur Jonas,’ she said, as though reading my mind, ‘I am in full possession of my faculties. I simply do not know how to begin.’

‘I’m listening . . .’

‘I find your tone rather arrogant. Why do you think I am here?’

‘I’m afraid you will have to tell me.’

‘You haven’t the slightest idea?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She took a deep breath, held it for a several seconds, then, taking her courage in both hands, in a rush of breath – as though afraid I might interrupt her – she said quickly:

‘I’ve come about Émilie.’

It was like watching a balloon suddenly deflate. Her throat tightened, she swallowed hard, but she appeared relieved, as though a great weight had been lifted from her. But the battle was just beginning and she looked as though she had expended her last reserves of energy.

‘My daughter, Émilie.’

‘I know who you mean. But I don’t see the connection.’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, young man. You know exactly what I’m talking about. What is the nature of your relationship with my daughter?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person, madame. I have no relationship with your daughter.’

She twisted the frame of her sunglasses, her eyes watching mine, waiting for some sign of weakness. I did not look away. She no longer scared me. Her suspicions had little effect on me, but they did make me curious. Río Salado was a small village, walls were thin and the best-kept secrets quickly became the source of idle gossip. What were people saying about me?

‘She talks of nothing but you, Monsieur Jonas.’

‘Of our gang . . .’

‘I’m not talking about your gang. I am talking about you and my daughter. I want to know the precise nature of your relationship, and your intentions. I want to know whether you have made plans, whether your intentions are serious . . . I want to know whether anything has happened between you.’

‘Nothing has happened, Madame Cazenave. Émilie is in love with my best friend Fabrice. I would never even think of doing anything that might ruin his happiness.’

‘You are a sensible young man, Monsieur Jonas, as I believe I’ve told you before.’

She clasped her hands over the bridge of her nose, then, after a moment’s thought, raised her head again.

‘I shall get right to the point, Monsieur Jonas . . . You are a Muslim – a good Muslim from what I have heard – and I am a Catholic. A long time ago, in a moment of weakness, we gave in to temptation. May the Lord forgive us. It was a fleeting mistake. But there is one sin that He will never absolve or pardon – incest!’

She shot me a venomous look as she said the word.

‘It is a terrible abomination.’

‘I don’t understand where you’re going with this.’

‘But we’re already there, Monsieur Jonas. You know that to sleep with a mother and her daughter is an offence against God, against the saints, against angels and demons!’

Her face was flushed purple now and the whites of her eyes curdled like milk. Her trembling finger was intended as the sword of justice as she thundered:

‘I forbid you to go near my daughter.’

‘The thought had not even crossed my mind.’

‘I don’t think you understand me, Monsieur Jonas, I don’t care what goes on in that mind of yours. You can think whatever you want. What I want is for you to stay as far away from my daughter as possible, and I want you to swear you will respect my wishes.’

‘Madame . . .’

‘Swear it!’ She screamed as though it were an order.

Madame Cazenave had intended to remain icily calm, to let me know that she was in control of the situation. From the moment she stepped into the shop she had carefully curbed her mounting anger, uttering a word only when she was sure that it would not rebound on her. Now, at the moment she most needed it, she had lost control. She tried to regain her composure but it was too late; tears were welling in her eyes.

She brought her hands up to her temples, focused on a single point, waited until her breathing was under control again, then, her voice almost inaudible, she said:

‘I apologise. I am not in the habit of raising my voice to people. But this whole thing has shocked me deeply. To hell with hypocrisy. I’m completely at a loss. I can’t sleep . . . I hoped to be firm, to be strong, but this concerns my family, my daughter, my faith, my conscience. It’s too much . . . I never imagined such a yawning abyss might open up at my feet. If it were just that, just an abyss, I would throw myself in if it would save my soul. But that would not solve the problem.

‘It must not happen, Monsieur Jonas; nothing good can come of your relationship with my daughter. It cannot happen, it must not happen, I need to be clear about that. I need to go home with a clear conscience. I need to be at peace. Émilie is just a child. She is fickle. She can fall for a boy because of his laugh, do you understand? And I do not want her to fall for you. So I am begging you, for the love of God and His prophets Jesus and Muhammad, promise me you will give her no encouragement. It would be appalling, immoral; it would be horribly obscene.’

She took my hands in hers and squeezed them. This was not the woman I had dreamed of long ago. Terrified at the thought of this abomination, frightened at the idea that she might live in infamy for all eternity, Madame Cazenave had renounced her charms, her spells, her lofty throne; the woman who stood before me was simply a mother. Her eyes sought mine; with a blink, I could have sent her straight to Hell. I felt ashamed to have the power to damn someone I had once loved, someone whose grace and generosity I had thought of as sin.

‘Nothing will happen between me and your daughter, madame.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Swear it.’

‘I swear.’

She slumped on to the counter. A great weight had been lifted from her, yet she seemed crushed, and she took her head in her hands and sobbed.

‘IT’S FOR you.’ Germaine waved the phone at me.

‘Are you angry with me?’ It was Fabrice.

‘No . . .’

‘Has Simon done something to upset you?’

‘No.’

‘Have you and Jean-Christophe fallen out?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then why have you been avoiding us? You’ve been sulking at home for ages. We waited for you all day yesterday. You said you’d come over, and by the time we ate, everything was cold.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Come off it . . . it’s not like there’s an epidemic in the village, and don’t tell me your uncle is sick, because I’ve seen him walking in the orange groves every morning. He’s fit as a fiddle.’

He cleared his throat and his voice was calmer now.

‘I’ve missed you, Jonas. You live down the road from me but it’s like you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘I’ve been sorting out the shop. I have to get the accounts up to date, and there’s an inventory to do.’

‘Do you need a hand?’

‘No . . . it’s fine.’

‘Okay, if everything’s fine, I’ll expect you at my house for dinner tonight.’

I didn’t have time to say no; he had already hung up. By the time he called for me at seven p.m., Simon was in a foul mood.