Murder in Belleville

“You want to use me,” he said. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Make sure you abuse me later.”

“If you’re lucky,” she said, trying not to smile.

“Let me do the talking. Nice touch.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, pushing her feelings aside.

“The glasses,” he said.

She frowned and briefly felt disappointed.

He leaned over and whispered, “The police think you’re Martine’s assistant. Keep it that way for now.”

She followed him, threading past an old woman with ill-fitting dentures who yelled at a reporter waving a microphone. Shouts of “Let the sans-papiers stay!” arose from the swaying crowd contrasting with the CRS riot squad: silent impassive faces behind clear, shatterproof visors, hands clutching billy clubs. Legitimized by the press credentials and with Yves escorting her, Aimee crossed the wooden police barricades.

Once inside the church, Yves motioned for her to wait. He approached a bearded man guarding the confessional. Apprehensive, Aimee crouched by the marble holy water font. What if she couldn’t find Zdanine?

Incense mingled with sweat. Obsidian-faced men in bright pastel polyester shirts sprawled in the wooden pews. The whites of their eyes caught the gleam from dripping wax candles. Murmured conversations echoed off vaulting pillars. A plump, honey-colored woman in a maroon djelfoba wrote on a chalkboard. Teenagers in tracksuits sat before her on the stone floor. She admonished them in Arabic, and several raised their hands.

Aimee felt a tug at her elbow and turned. A longhaired man in a priest’s collar, corduroy pants, and worn loafers smiled at her.

“I’m Abbe Geoffroy,” he said. “My hope is that you report on the plight of these people.” He gestured around the gothic church.

“Bonjour, Abbe Geoffroy,” Aimee said, shaking his hand. “I understand a minister is negotiating, granting permission for these immigrants to stay in France.”

“I hope it’s not too late,” he said. The priest’s brow furrowed and he brushed a stray hair behind his ear. “The ten hunger strikers are in the twentieth day.”

She’d noticed how thin and listless the men were who lay on the pews. She and the priest walked toward high-backed dark wood stalls.

“Pacifists,” he said. “Many are political refugees from Algeria, Mali, and Senegal. To send them back would mean certain execution.”

“That’s what I don’t understand, Abbe,” she said. Ahead of them, the carved altarpiece lay bathed in a mauve glow from the stained-glass windows surrounding the nave. “Seems to me this goes against their philosophy.”

“I offer my prayers hourly for them.”

“Please don’t be offended, but isn’t there something more concrete that can be done?”

“Dissident factions took over,” he shrugged.

“Can you point out Zdanine for me?”

Abbe Geoffrey’s expression grew pained.

“Gone,” he said.

“Can I reach him somehow?”

“I can’t keep track,” the priest said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Aimee wanted to ask more, but Yves beckoned her. She excused herself and joined him.

“They’ve just finished their prayers,” Yves said, handing her a black veil. “Put this hijab over your head. Hamid’s like an imam, and this shows respect.”

She knew about imams, Muslim religious leaders or persons officiating in a mosque. Every bidonville, or shantytown, had one.

“Will this level the playing ground or score points?” she asked draping it over her and raising her eyebrows.

“Forget it,” Yves said. “In Islam, as a woman, you won’t even be allowed a catch-up role. But Hamid’s unique, a man who works to bridge the gap between strict Islamists and the beurs, tiptoeing over the French colonial legacy.”

Again that word beur, Sylvie’s bank password. She wanted to know more, but Yves strode ahead.

Back in a recessed side altar, several robed men sat on prayer carpets. Yves nodded toward Hamid, who wore a skullcap. Fatigue laced Hamid’s deep black eyes. His long black beard, flecked with gray, rose and fell with his labored breath.

“I partake of no food along with my African brethren,” he said before either of them could speak. “I wet my tongue for sustenance. Dead, I will serve no purpose.”

Hamid’s breath, a sharp acid odor, emanated unpleasantly. A characteristic of severe hunger, she knew, which indicated the body’s slip into a negative balance. She shuddered. This came from the body literally consuming itself.

“We appreciate you granting this interview,” Yves said, and sat down.

Aimee did the same, keeping the veil tight as she lowered her head. Hamid didn’t look old, but it was hard to tell.

“Your motto—” Yves began.

“The AFL’s motto,” Hamid interrupted, “remains the same, forged by oppressed people who demand their rights.”

“Can you speak to the situation?” Yves asked. “Comment on the fundamentalist factions rumored to be attempting to gain control of the AFL?”

“At times one must bend like the willow branch to Allah’s will or stand firm like a rod of iron.”

Aimee studied Hamid as he spoke. Whether it was his manner, the brief facial tick scoring his lips, or her sixth sense, she doubted he wanted this infighting or this publicity. Hamid didn’t make a very good liar.

“Does the fact that your followers refer to you as a maghour, an ‘outsider,’ disturb you?” Aimde asked.

“We are all Allah’s children, some his disciples,” Hamid said simply.

“Forgive me,” Aimee said, catching Hamid’s gaze but keeping her head lowered. “How can you assure these sans’papiers that they will stay?”

“We await the minister’s action, secure in our belief.” Hamid’s dark eyes filled with pain, his breathing faltered. “The AFL’s aim remains the same. Mutual cooperation will solve this conflict.”

“Did you know Eugenie Grandet?”

“Forgive me, fatigue claims my efforts,” Hamid said.

Frustrated, she studied him. Hamid’s hollowed cheekbones creased his face. His lids were half closed, and the stark white below his pupils glowed eerily. Aimee watched Hamid’s eyelids flutter. Had he gone into a trance, or was he about to pass out from hunger?

She wanted to know more about his dealings with Eugenie.

“Hamid must reserve his strength for prayer. Please end your audience,” an aide said to them.

“I respect Hamid’s duties, but he agreed to this interview,” Yves said.

“Later. Now he must rest,” the aide shouldered his way toward them.

Reluctantly Yves stood, and Aimee followed suit.

“The Koran teaches the spirit how to live among men,” Hamid said to Yves, his voice fading. “A code of life, harming no brethren. You must tell people this.”

The aide waved Aimee and Yves back toward the vestibule. He stood guard, watching them leave.

“Not even five minutes for an interview,” Yves said, distressed. “He looked ill.”

“He’s weak,” Aimee said, pulling Yves aside. “But he’s covering something up.”

“You mean lying?” Yves said. “Imams have immunity, like priests do. They can be creative with the truth, and followers buy it. Reporters, like me, have problems with that.”

On their way out she saw a Berber woman with hennaed hands and callused bare feet, asleep against the