The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

at her clothes, said, “Very chic. Is that the latest Paris fashion?”

    “The Saint-Denis suburb is very North African. Faridah told me to dress like this to fit the role of a friend her father would want her to have. The idea is to reassure her father that Faridah hasn’t gone to the dark side, that she hasn’t rejected her Muslim roots.”

     Steve nodded and said, “You better give me directions to St. Denis.”

     Kella navigated and continued talking about her friend. She was conscious that she was trying to justify to herself the wisdom of her idea.

     It sounded better yesterday, she thought.

     “Faridah’s father is very strict, very fundamental. Now, he suspects that she is not being chaste. She does have a French boyfriend, and her father is assuming the worst. He is talking about moving the family back to Algeria.”

     “So what do you hope to accomplish? Make a moderate of the father?”

     A bit annoyed at Steve’s negative tone, she said, “I’m just trying to help her, show her father that she has decent, well, non-threatening, friends, like me. Faridah said that her father often beats her mother, on the smallest pretext. He probably hits Faridah also, although she didn’t say so.”

     “You think that going to their apartment is a good idea? If I understood you last night, you aren’t Muslim, well not any more, right?”

     Kella took out a scarf from her shoulder bag and refolded it before putting it back inside.

     “That’s why I told Faridah to convince her parents to come and have coffee in a public place.”

     As planned, Steve and Kella met Faridah at the exit of the St. Denis Metro. Kella made the introductions while Faridah appraised Kella’s outfit.

     “Perfect, except you do need to cover your head.”

     Kella put on her scarf.

     “What if I came with you?” Steve asked. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

     As Kella seemed about to agree, Faridah spoke up turning toward Steve.

     “Absolutely not. Unless your name is Ahmed and you are a Muslim. I’m not even sure if bringing Kella is a good idea. Bringing an American male? That’ll burn my father’s short fuse in an instant. And, by the way, we’re going to my apartment rather than to a café as you suggested. I talked to my mother about your idea and she said that my father wouldn’t do it. So this way is simpler. It’s also the only way.”

     Kella turned to Steve.

     “Why don’t you go to the Basilica and I’ll meet you there in, say, an hour?” Pointing, she said, “There’s a sign for the Basilica, it’s about five minutes from here.”

     Kella and Faridah walked from the Metro, past the Hotel de Ville, toward a row of drab buildings much like those put up in Eastern Europe’s socialist heavens after World War II. A car full of young men passed. Faridah looked down instinctively and Kella followed suit. They walked quickly to an intersection and crossed catty-corner to a faceless apartment building. Faridah held the front door open.

    “Le Grand Palais,” she said sarcastically. “The security buzzer and combination pad have not worked for as long as I can remember,” she added.

     Inside, the small lobby’s walls and mailboxes were nicked. A graffito in Arabic, ISLAM IS THE ANSWER, was spray-painted on the far wall.

     We’re on the third floor,” Faridah said with a slightly encouraging smile.

    She and Kella went through the small hallway, which reeked with a perceptible odor of urine, and started up the stairs. On the way up, a family passed them on its way down, the mother dressed in loose clothing that hid her shape and shooing three handsome children ahead of her. The youngsters looked up at Kella with curiosity.

     Once they reached the third floor Faridah said, “Wait out here a minute, just in case my mother hasn’t mentioned your visit yet.”

     She rolled her eyes and smiled. She walked up to her apartment door taking keys out of her pocket. The hallway’s only light seeped in from a small window at the end of the hall, although Kella noticed a light bulb hanging from a wire over the stairwell. Faridah turned her key in the first door lock, but before she could find the key for the second lock, the door flew open.

     “I was just asking about you!”

    A dark-skinned, full-bearded, bulky man in his early fifties grabbed Faridah’s left wrist and pulled her into the apartment before Faridah had time to say anything. Kella presumed the man to be Hamad, Faridah’s father. The door began to shut, but Kella rushed forward and braced her foot at the bottom of the door to keep it from closing completely. At first, she leaned toward the slight opening and listened. She was prepared to walk in when the angry tone of Hamad’s voice stopped her inside the dark hallway.

     “You are not the daughter I knew when we lived in Algiers. You have become someone else, someone who shows no respect, a girl who is anxious to show her body. You no longer attend the Mosque.”

     Hamad’s voice was rising in tone and in volume. Kella felt that he was on the verge of physical violence. Kella stayed in the hallway, out of sight.

     “Stop” Faridah cried. “You’re hurting me. Please! Let go!”

     Kella could see Hamad standing in front of Faridah in the kitchen. There was a stove on the left, a square table with metal legs and four folding chairs. A woman that Kella assumed was Faridah’s mother sat at the table. She wore a loose gray house dress. Along the wall on the right was a narrow but lengthy shelf on top of which she could see dishes and