He grew light-headed. Fear and hunger gripped his stomach like a fist — he had not eaten anything all morning. He retreated under the shade of a big oak tree and placed his hand on its trunk to steady himself. He took several deep breaths, inwardly repeating the mantra he had held on to for the past few days: Everything will be all right. He turned to watch the street once again. Time passed. Then a white van with no discernible logo pulled into an empty space on the right corner. The driver sat still, and no one came out of the vehicle. With each passing minute, Youssef became more convinced that it was the police. He was jubilant. This is it, he told himself. With the police here, everything would be all right. Farid Benaboud would be safe.
Just then a young man in a black suit walked up the street on the left, heading for the entrance of the Grand Hotel. Something about the way he carried himself seemed familiar. Youssef stepped out from under the tree to get a better look, his eyes straining against the white sunlight. As if realizing that he was being watched, the man in the black suit glanced back. It was Amin. Youssef’s hand covered his mouth, muffling a gasp that would attract attention. Amin had been persuaded to carry out Hatim’s plans, too. He was the second assassin.
There was a moment of silence and stillness, when even the wind seemed too afraid to blow through the trees. Youssef felt a bead of sweat travel down his spine, until it lodged itself in a hollow between his skin and the inside of his waistband. He felt it dissolve against the fabric, just as new beads were forming on his forehead, under his armpits, on the back of his neck, and between his toes. He was assaulted by these sensations and upset with his body for registering them at such a moment. He needed to think, but he could not focus under the glare of the sun and in the oppressive heat.
Instinct made him cross the street and run inside. He did not know what he wanted to do, but he knew he could not let Benaboud die, any more than he could let Amin kill. Coming in from the sun, he was momentarily blinded. He stood in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He took in the cool, air-conditioned air. He tried to find his bearings. The reception desk was on the right, the cashier was on the left, and there, past the lobby, was the café, Chez Momo. He walked through the lobby in quick steps, afraid one of his former co-workers might recognize him in spite of the jellaba and the veil.
The café smelled of steamed milk and cigarettes and cut flowers. At a table by the window, a handful of socialites smoked and spoke in loud voices. A couple whispered in a corner. Under the gilt-framed mirror, three men in casual clothes sipped coffee. A woman sat by herself, reading the newspaper. And at a table at the other end of the café, almost hidden from sight by a potted plant, sat Farid Benaboud. He was talking animatedly with an older man, a bald fellow who sat back in his chair, his legs spread far apart.
Scouring the café, Youssef saw no sign of Amin. Where had he gone?
A waiter brought an ice cream sundae for Benaboud and an espresso for his companion. Benaboud’s friend reached for the cup and knocked it over, the black liquid spilling on the table. Gasping audibly, he blotted the coffee with his napkin and steadied the cup. Benaboud offered his napkin, but his friend waved his hand and got up to go to the bathroom. Now alone, Benaboud slid his spoon into his ice cream, scooping out the cherry on top. This little man, who had spoken so forcefully and seriously about the country and its problems, seemed childlike now, completely lost in the simple pleasure of a goblet full of ice cream.
The door to the bathroom swung open again, and out came Amin. Without looking around him, he walked over to Benaboud’s table.
“Amin,” Youssef called.
At the sound of his name, Amin turned, but he did not show any sign of surprise at seeing a tall figure in a white jellaba and veil. It was as though this interruption was part of a script. He took two more steps and pulled out a knife.
“Wait!” Youssef yelled.
All the café’s patrons turned to look at Youssef. Amin stuck the knife in Benaboud’s neck, the sound of it so soft that no one heard it. Then the dark jet of gushing blood caught the attention of the woman reading the newspaper, and she screamed and pointed. Everyone turned to look. In the middle of the confusion, one of the three men at the table nearby pulled out a gun and shot Amin. Screams of terror erupted as blood and bits of brain spattered on the walls. People stampeded out of the café.
For a moment, Youssef remained in his spot, paralyzed by the horror. Then he ran out of the café, too, through the lobby, and out the double glass doors. Just as he appeared outside on the steps of the hotel, an officer tackled him and pushed him roughly against the wall. “Wait,” Youssef cried out. “You don’t understand.”
YOUSSEF SAT ON THE CURB for what seemed like days but what he would later learn was just two hours. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and beside him on the ground were the jellaba and the veil. An officer stood across from him, watching him. Youssef felt as though he were dreaming, as though he were still lying on his bed in the little house in Hay An Najat and he would wake at any moment. Yet there was no relief from the nightmare. “You have the wrong man,” he said for the hundredth time. “This is a big mistake.”
“No mistake,” the officer said.
“I had nothing to do with it.”
The officer chuckled. “You people always say that.”
“I came here to stop them from killing Benaboud,” Youssef said. His throat was parched and he felt his blood thumping in his ears.
“You can tell this to the Commissaire, although I wouldn’t advise it.” The officer laughed, as if the thought of Youssef’s convincing the police chief of his innocence was somehow irrepressibly funny. Now the officer stretched his hands above his head and cracked his knuckles. He had the look of a man satisfied with a good day’s work.
Another officer came by. “We’re getting close,” he told his colleague. “We can take him in as soon as the Commissaire gives the OK.”
It occurred suddenly to Youssef that his innocence was irrelevant. It served no purpose in the overall plot and, what was worse, it complicated matters for the police. This realization hit him with the full force of revelation. He could see clearly now that he had been a small actor in a big production directed by the state.
What terrified him was that he had not even been aware that he had played a role in the assassination of Farid Benaboud. Naively, he had believed he was acting like a concerned human being, maybe even a hero: he had tried to stop a murder. But now he had discovered that the part that had been reserved for him by the state was that of the failed terrorist, the one who gets caught, the one who makes the police look good because his arrest proves that the state tried to protect the inconvenient journalist.
Amin had received a simple role, a role that required no lines. He had killed Benaboud, out of anger, despair, resentment, a broken heart, a belief that his life was not worth living, or for another reason altogether. He was dead now, having traded his life for whatever the Party had promised him. It was Maati who had received the best part. He had fooled everyone. Youssef had considered Maati to be a simple man, someone who was not fit to be a confidant to his secrets, when in fact he had been trusted with far heavier secrets, and he had delivered them to the police. Appearances are deceiving, Youssef’s mother always said.
The Commissaire finally arrived on the scene and was immediately surrounded by aides who briefed him on the investigation. He listened, nodding a few times, and then his eyes came to rest upon Youssef. “This is him?” he asked.