Murder in Belleville

water font. The woman’s mouth hung open, her tongue flicking, as if tasting the air as a snake does to find its way. Maybe I should do the same, Aimee thought, and discover who attacked me in the cirque and planted Sylvie’s bomb.

Suddenly the woman’s eyes batted open and she sat bolt upright, her frayed black caftan trailing on the floor. She glared at Aimee, then wagged her finger, a silver bangle outlined against her dark-skinned tattooed wrist.

“Hittistes,” she said, drawing out the first s into a hiss.

“Comment, Madame?” Aimee asked.

The woman muttered to herself. Yves tugged at her sleeve.

“Let’s go,” he said.

As Aimee walked past her, the woman emitted a piercing series of wails, bloodcurdling “you’you’you” ululations. From what she knew, Arab women in anguish or mourning did that.

Aimee knelt down on the cold stone and put her hand on the woman’s knee. Scars lined the woman’s weather-beaten arms.

“Tell me what you mean, please,” she said.

The woman spoke rapid and guttural Arabic. All Aimee caught were the words hittiste and nahgar, which the woman repeated over and over. She covered Aimee’s hand with her tattooed one, beat her heart with the other, then let go.

Outside, past the crowds, she turned to Yves. They stood across from the parked buses in Place Chevalier. Yves leaned his backpack on a stone stanchion, tucking his tape recorder and notebooks inside.

“Got a clue to what the woman meant?” Aimee asked.

“Hittistes are the young, unemployed men hanging out on the streets,” he said. “Holding up the walls in every bidonville as well as in Oran, Constantine, and Algiers.”

Aimee wondered if the hittistes composed the dissident faction who’d joined the church. Like Zdanine.

“And nahgar?

His mouth pursed in thought.

Aimee remembered his slim hips, the way he’d made her feel. Stop it, she told herself, pushing those thoughts from her mind.

“My grasp of Arabic is rudimentary,” Yves said. “But it’s something to do with humiliating people, abusing power.”

Had the Berber woman tried to tell her the hittistes were undermining the immigrants’ cause? “I thought the Algerian government promoted an official Islam compatible with socialist ideals. Or tried to.”

Yves shrugged.

“There’s a lot more going on here than a protest, isn’t there?” she asked.

“In Algeria,” Yves said, “the fundamentalist opponents charge Hamid’s group with running guns-for-drugs operations in Europe. They accuse him of being supported by the most repressive Islamic regimes in the Arab world.”

“But he’s not like that at all,” Aimee said. “The AFL sponsors adult education and food programs.”

Aimee felt in her jacket pocket for cigarettes. None. She paused by Yves at the corner of rue du Liban and found Nicorette gum in her pocket. Yves’s words made some kind of sense, but she wasn’t sure how. She popped a piece in her mouth and chewed furiously.

Yves continued. “Many think the fundamentalists’ broader goal is building umma islamiyya, an Islamic empire, countering the depraved West, which they see as doomed to hell even though they use it for asylum and access to media.”

“Should I take my pick, or do you have a preference for one theory?” she asked, pulling her jacket tighter against the cooling air. He certainly knew his subject, she thought, but he was a top journalist.

“Algeria’s in civil war,” Yves said. He pulled out a small pad and jotted some notes. “A quiet underreported war rarely highlighted on CNN. It’s a fight for power between the hard-line military and the strict Islamic forces to govern the country.”

Aimee nodded. That made sense.

“Les barbes, among others, fuel this war. But les barbes, the religious scholars, and preachers in storefront mosques adopt the white robe, skullcap and beard of the traditional mullah. The difference is in their fanaticism. The West brands it Islamic fundamentalism.”

“Does the Algerian government disavow les barbes?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Of course, they accuse us journalists of oversimplifying political and religious connections. Like the secular structured state pitted against religious opponents.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Yves,” she said. “But hear me out.”

Swift-moving clouds obscured the sun again, throwing them into shadow. Chimneys dotted the rooftops. She had an idea.

“What if Hamid lost internal AFL control?” she said. “Say a rebel fundamentalist faction splinters off for recognition and publicity. But Hamid bows to the faction so the cause isn’t lost—after all, he’s on a hunger strike and has principles—so the fundamentalists get media coverage, and Hamid gets the immigrant deportations halted.” Aimee shook her head, “I don’t think it’s that simple, events stack up wrong.”

“Too simple,” he agreed.

“Could the crisis here mimic what’s happening in Algeria?” she said.

“Nice observation,” Yves said and shrugged. “Or it could all be smoke and mirrors.”

Again smoke and mirrors.

Something ran unspoken between them. His wife must be taking up his time, she figured. She had the terrible feeling things with Yves led to a brick wall. A dead end. She wished she didn’t want so much for him to come and spend the night again.

Act smart. Much better to cut her losses and walk away. Don’t wait for him to say he’s returned to his wife.

She turned and said, “Yves, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you playing hard to get, Aimee?” he said, grinning. “That will get you everywhere.” He pulled her close. She wished he hadn’t done that.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, struggling for words to express her feelings. Why couldn’t she say it? He kept rubbing her neck and being no help. Whatsoever.

A taxi screeched in front of them. Several correspondents and photographers yelled at Yves to hurry and get in if he wanted a ride to the airport. He kissed her hard.

Then he was gone.

He’d popped in and out of her life again. And she’d let him.

She went to the nearest cafe, set her bag down, and ordered a glass of vin rouge. Maybe it would help drown her indecision.

“Mademoiselle Leduc?” a voice with a light accent asked from behind her.

She turned to face Kaseem Nwar, smiling beside her at the counter. Several men and women stood there, and for a moment she couldn’t place where she’d met him. Then she remembered. He was more handsome than she recalled, in a long wool coat over a djellaba. As if it had been designed for him. The way he dressed revealed a pride in his heritage. She liked that.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he said, his smile turning sheepish. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Mais bien sur, we met at Philippe de Froissart’s,” she said, saddened by the memory of her conversation with Philippe.

“You looked upset,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “Anais was ill, things were difficult.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Philippe and Anais have been my good friends since the Sorbonne.”

Aimee made space for Kaseem at the bar, taking a sip of wine.

“Wine?”