Boualem Sansal - The German Mujahid

“That’s bullshit — we’re not Kapos !” Raymou yelled.

“Really? A while back we were all on their side and we didn’t even know, remember?”

I didn’t have to say any more, they remembered, they’d been up to their balls in it.

“So, what? You’re suggesting we all top ourselves like Rachel?” Raymou asked.

“No, we’re not going to die, we’re going to live, we’re going to fight.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, we’ll have to see. . ”

“Fuck’s sake, all this bullshit and now he says he doesn’t know!”

“Why don’t we set up an anti-Islamic league?” suggested Bidochon.

“Islamic or Islamist?” asked Raymou.

“Who cares? It’s the same difference.”

“Bullshit, it’s not the same at all, my parents are Muslims, Islam is the greatest religion in the world!” shouted Momo.

“My mother does the Salat , and she wouldn’t hurt a fly,” added Idir-Quoi.

“It’s Muslims that end up becoming Islamists, though, isn’t it?” said Manchot.

“No, there’s Christians too, like Raymou,” said Idir-Quoi.

“Okay, Momo, look it up in the dictionary, tell us the difference.”

“There’s no difference if you ask me,” said Bidochon.

“Just look it up, Momo. . under I, no that’s J. . it’s comes before that. . Idir-Quoi, you look it up.”

Idir-Quoi might have trouble saying words, but when they’re on a page he’s a genius. It took him two minutes to find the definition but it took him ten minutes to read it out, so I’ll skip the stammering.

“ Islamic: of, or relating to, Islam , and Islamist means. . um. . I can’t find it. It’s not in here, it doesn’t exist. . what the fuck?”

“That’s an old dictionary, they didn’t have Islamists back then.”

“No, it was published in 1990, we had jihadists back then.”

“Yeah but dictionaries are serious, they don’t just put every single word in there.”

“Okay, let’s say anti-Islamist.”

“And what exactly is it supposed to do, this league of yours?”

“Take down the Islamists.”

“How?”

“We’ll run them off the estate!”

“How?”

“. . ”

An hour later we still hadn’t got anywhere. The conversation went off in all directions, but every time we hit a brick wall. We knew what the problem was, we just didn’t have the solution. Stopping Islamism is like trying to catch the wind, you need a bit more than a sieve or a bunch of muppets like us. It wasn’t enough to know. It wasn’t enough to understand. It wasn’t enough to want it. What we didn’t have the Islamists had in spades: determination. We’re like the concentration camp prisoners, caught up in the Machine, paralysed by fear, fascinated by evil, clinging to the secret hope that passivity will save us.

I didn’t tell them about papa, about his past. They’re my friends, I didn’t want them spooked, didn’t want them running out on me. And besides, they are what they are, they’re harmless enough but they get wound up easily. They might start thinking their fathers were hiding some terrible secret in their past. I didn’t want Togo suddenly remembering his great-grandfather was a cannibal and that the only way they cured his father was by feeding him raw steak from the day he was born — it would kill him. My father never told me anything , Rachel said. It’s true, fathers never have anything to say.

Momo, who’s always been too curious for his own good, gave me this weird look. “Your father was German, wasn’t he. . was he a Nazi?” I said, “Don’t be so fucking stupid, he emigrated to Algeria, he was fighting with the maquis for your country’s independence. . and he died a martyr.”

It was midnight by the time they left. I could tell just by looking at them that this whole conversation had scared them, they didn’t say anything, they were shuffling along, not looking at each other. They pulled their jackets tight around them and disappeared into the freezing shadows. I felt sorry for them, they looked like prisoners dragged back to camp after a botched escape attempt. Tonight, they would come to know the nightmare that has haunted me since Rachel’s death. In a couple of months I’ve aged a hundred years. I wouldn’t wish on them what the camp prisoners had to live through every moment of their short, endless lives. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone except the imam from Block 17 and his emir.

First thing this morning, I had a visit from Madame Karsmirsky, Wenda Karsmirsky — Ophélie’s mother. In another life she was a white Russian, in this one she’s a die-hard French bigot who’s completely forgotten her roots. I’d had no idea, but the way she leans on the doorbell is enough to wake the dead — a brutal, non-stop, angry ringing — only cops ring doorbells like that. One minute I was sleeping and next I was standing in front of the door wondering who I was. The panicked reflex of a sleeper. As I opened the door I still had my eyes closed. “Young man,” her harsh voice spat in my face, “the least you could do is look at me when I’m talking to you.” That was Madame Karsminsky for you. The Diva, Rachel used to call her. “ Bonjour, madame ,” I said, rubbing my eyes. She shrugged and marched past me trailing a sickly cloud of perfume. I’m not sure what happened, but I ended up in the living room staring at the ceiling while she nosed about upstairs. I listened as she whirled around like a tornado, high heels clattering. Then she came downstairs and stood in front of me and started yelling: “My God, this place is a pigsty!” She gave me the morning to tidy the place up, pack my stuff and move out. From what she didn’t say, I worked out that Ophélie had decided to stay in Canada permanently and had asked her mother to sell the house and send her the money. “I’ve got power of attorney,” she told me, taking a piece of paper out of her bag and waving it triumphantly under my nose. I had to believe her. I said, “Is it okay if I take Rachel’s books?” She gave me a look of withering contempt. “Much good they’ll do you!” I went into the garage, filled a cardboard box, heaved it onto my shoulder and headed for the door. “Who’s going to tidy up this mess?” she yelled after me “It looks tidy to me.” I said, and I left. She ran after me and said, “You can take Ophélie’s car if you want.” “I don’t know how to drive,” I said. “And anyway, I haven’t got a licence.” It was only the third time I’d seen her; the first was at the party Rachel threw when he got his French citizenship, the second was the day he married Ophélie, today was the end of the story in which we had played minor but important roles, she the overbearing mother-in-law, me the little brother who’d gone off the rails.

She called me back again, rummaging through her handbag. “I forgot,” she said, “I don’t suppose it’s important, but Ophélie sent you a letter. I haven’t read it — you can see for yourself, the envelope’s still sealed.” I said, “Thank you, madame,” and I left.

I headed back to the estate. With a big box on my back and a face like death warmed over, I looked like a burglar heading home after a hard night’s work. If the cops had stopped me, I’d have been screwed, I’d have had a hard time explaining my obsession with books about exterminating the Jews. But the cops round here know me; I thought, to cheer myself up, we’d just shoot the shit for ten minutes and I’d be off.

Standing at the entrance to the estate, looking up at the tower blocks rising into the sky, I felt dizzy, I felt sick. My life as a recluse was over. I was like a convict finally released just as he realises he doesn’t want to get out because he knows that on the outside, with his friends and family, he’ll be a true outsider. I was terrified, I knew nothing would be like the way it was before, not me, not the estate. I knew I’d have to find somewhere else to live, I’d be a real exile, with no past, no future.