Paul did not respond to any of these racist remarks. He had decided to remain oblivious to anything that did not directly concern their investigations. All he wanted was results. Nothing else mattered. Meanwhile, he was slowly progressing on other fronts. He had brought in two officers from the SARIJ, named Naubrel and Matkowska, so that they could follow up the lead about pressure tanks. The two lieutenants had already visited three hospitals, with negative results. They had now extended their inquiries to the contractors who work in the depths of Paris, under pressure so as to prevent the water table from leaking into their sites. Every evening, the workers used a decompression chamber. Darkness, underground… the lead sounded good to Paul. He was expecting a report later on that day.
He had also asked a young recruit in the Brigade Criminelle to collect other guidebooks and archaeological catalogues dealing with Turkey. The officer had made his first delivery the previous evening to Paul's apartment on Rue du Chemin Vert, in the eleventh arrondissement. A stack that he had not had time to go through yet but that would soon be accompanying him in his insomnia.
On the second day, they entered the true Turkish area. This neighborhood was bordered to the south by Boulevards Bonne-Nouvelle and Saint-Denis, to the west by Rue du Faubourg-Poissonière and, to the east by Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin. To the north, the intersection of Rue La Fayette and Boulevard Magenta capped the district. Its spinal cord ran along Boulevard de Strasbourg, which went up toward the;are de l'Est. Its nerves spread out to each side: Rue des Petites-Ecuries, Rue du Chateau d'Eau… Its heartbeat in the depths of Strasbourg Saint-Denis metro station, irrigating this fragment of the East.
From an architectural point of view, the neighborhood was unexceptionaclass="underline" some of its old gray buildings had been renovated, but many more were decrepit, as though they had lived a thousand lives. They all had the same layout: the ground and first floors were occupied by businesses; the second and third by sweatshops; then the upper stories below the roof contained living accommodations-overcrowded apartments cut into two, or three, or four, covering the surface like little paper squares.
In the streets, there was an atmosphere of impermanence, of passing through. Several of the businesses seemed devoted to movement, to the nomadic life, a precarious existence, always on the lookout. There were kiosks selling sandwiches that you could snack on while walking down the street; there were travel agents, to prepare departures and arrivals; there were currency exchangers, to give out euros; there were photocopy stores to duplicate identity papers… not to mention the numerous real estate agents and signs marked FOR SALE…
In all of these details, Paul read the power of a permanent exodus, a human flood from a distant source, pouring endlessly and messily along the streets. But this quarter also had another purpose: the making of clothes. The Turks did not control this trade, which was run by the Jewish community of Sentier, but since the great migrations of the 1950s they had established themselves as a vital link in the chain. They supplied the wholesalers, thanks to their hundreds of workshops and home workers. Thousands of hands working millions of hours that could almost compete with the Chinese. In any case, the Turks had the benefit of seniority and a slightly more legal social standing.
The two policemen had plunged into these crowded, agitated, earsplitting streets. Among the deliverymen, the open trucks, the bags and trolleys, the clothes passed from hand to hand. The Cipher acted as a guide once more. He knew their names, their owners and their specialties. He spoke of the Turks who had been his informers, the messengers he had had in his grip for various reasons, the restaurant owners who owed him favors. The list seemed endless. At the beginning, Paul had tried to take notes, but he had soon given up. He let himself be carried onward by Schiffer's explanations while observing the agitation all around them, picking up its cries, blaring horns, smell of pollution-everything that made the quarter what it was.
Finally, at noon on Tuesday, they crossed the final frontier and reached the hub. The compact block known as Little Turkey, covering Rue des Petites-Ecuries, the courtyard and passageway of the same name, Rue d'Enghien, Rue de l'Echiquier and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Only a few acres, but here all the buildings were inhabited by Turks from the basement to the attic.
This time, Schiffer deciphered the scene for him, providing the access codes to this unique village. He revealed the purpose behind each doorway, each building, each window. This yard led to a goods depot that was in fact a mosque; that unfurnished room at the far end of a patio was the headquarters of an extreme left-wing group… Schiffer lit all the lanterns for Paul, clearing up mysteries that had been baffling him for weeks-such as why there were always two fair-haired men dressed in black in the Cour des Petites-Ecuries.
"They're Lazes," the Cipher explained. "From the Black Sea, in northeastern Turkey. They're fighters, warriors. Mustafa Kemel himself employed them as bodyguards. Their legend goes back a long way. In Greek mythology, they were the guardians of the Golden Fleece in Colchis."
Or the shadowy bar on Rue des Petites-Ecuries, which contained a photo of a large man with a mustache.
"It's the headquarters of the Kurds. And the picture's of Apo, or 'uncle' Abdullah Ocalan, the head of the PKK (Partiya Karkeran Kurdistan), or Kurdistan Workers' Party who's now in prison."
The Cipher then entered into a grandiose speech that was almost a national anthem.
"The greatest nation without a state. Twenty-five million of them in all, twelve million in Turkey. Like the Turks, they're Muslims. Like the Turks, they wear mustaches. Like the Turks, they work in sweatshops. The only problem is that they're not Turks, and nothing and nobody will ever make them change."
Schiffer then introduced him to the Alevis, who met on Rue d'Enghien.
"They're called 'redheads.' They're Shiite Muslims who practice a secret rite. And they're hard nuts, take my word for it… rebels, often leftists. And also an extremely close community based on initiation and friendship. They choose an 'oath brother' or 'initiate companion' and advance together toward God. They're a real force of resistance against traditional Islam."
When Schiffer spoke like that, he seemed to have a hidden respect for these peoples he at the same time constantly derided. In reality, he had a love-hate relationship with the Turkish world. Paul even remembered a rumor according to which Schiffer had almost married a woman from Anatolia. What had happened? How had the story ended? It was generally when he was beginning to imagine a superb romance between Schiffer and the East that his partner came out with some terrible racist outburst.
The two men were now sitting in their unmarked car, an ancient Golf that police headquarters had agreed to lend Paul at the outset of his inquiries. They were parked at the corner of Rue des Petites-Ecuries and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, just in front of the Château d'Eau bar.
Night was falling and mingling with the rain to melt the scene into colorless, muddy sludge. Paul looked at his watch. It was 8:30.
"What the hell are we doing here, Schiffer? We should have gone for Marius today and-"
"Patience. The concert's about to start."
"What concert?"
Schiffer was fidgeting on his seat, flattening down the creases in his Barbour.
"I've already told you-Marius has a concert hall on Boulevard de Strasbourg. It's an old porn cinema. There's a show on this evening. Ills bodyguards will be taking care of the door." He winked. "It's an ideal time to pay him a call." He pointed at the street in front of them. "Start up and turn down Rue du Château d'Eau."