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

Kella gasped at the grisly image that reinforced her painful memory.

     She asked Steve, “What about her body? What is he going to do with Faridah’s body? Steve, I ran away. Instead of helping her, I ran away.”

     Quiet tears ran down her face.

     “I want to get out of here.”

    Steve took her back up to street level and toward the exit. Kella stopped him.

     “Wait. Before leaving, I want a couple of minutes to myself.”

     She glanced around and walked to a side chapel, knelt, and prayed for Faridah. After a few minutes, she stood up. She looked up at a statue of the Virgin Mary in whites and blues with arms out in a welcoming gesture and murmured, “Please care for the soul of my friend who meant no harm.”

     Kella met Steve by the front entrance.

     “You have to tell the police. Let’s go to the local police station,” he said.

     She hesitated a second, wiped her tears, blew her nose and regained her composure.

     “No. I just want to get away from here. I’ll call my father and he’ll make arrangements for me to talk to the police later.”

     Seeing the surprise on Steve’s face, she added, “As the dependent of an American Foreign Service officer with diplomatic status, I’m not supposed to be in touch with the French police without either a consular officer or the regional security officer. My double nationality status makes things more complicated. It’s better if someone from the embassy is with me when I talk to the police.”

     They went out, looking left and right for any signs that Hamad was near. With Kella clutching Steve’s arm tightly, they walked quickly to the parking lot, climbed into the MINI Cooper and left St. Denis behind.

5. Basilique de Saint-Denis

“Steve, I don’t want to go home. Let’s go somewhere else. Or let’s just drive,” Kella said.

     It was evening, but the French capital’s northern latitude provided natural light late in the day. At first they drove in silence. Then little by little, at times sobbing, at times almost incoherent, Kella relived the horrible memory of her friend’s murder. She imitated Hamad’s killing motion with her hand, repeating as he had, “Allahu Akbar.” The retelling was at once traumatic and cathartic for her.

     “Steve,” she said, “you know that I was initially raised Muslim. But I’m confused. The God to whom Hamad sacrificed Faridah is not the same God I thought I knew.”

     The intensity of his glance surprised her as he said, “Radical Islamists pray to a different Allah. I should have gone with you―I should have gone. Your friend might still be alive.”

     Kella shook her head.

     “He stabbed her again and again. There was so much blood. There was a point when Faridah looked for me, I think. She expected me to help her. I tried…”

     She sobbed again.

     Stopping at a light, Steve said, “Killing your daughter in the name of Allah! What kind of religion is that?”

     “I had heard stories, but I didn’t really pay much attention before,” Kella said, shaking her head. “I thought these ‘honor killings,’ as they’re called, only took place in the uncontrolled areas, in the mountains of Afghanistan.”

     They had reached the Place Charles de Gaulle and Steve turned onto the Avenue des Champs Élysées. Taking his cue from the bright lights and lively rhythm of the wide boulevard, he tried to change the mood.

     “Listen, you know that I have to leave for Morocco in a couple days. I’m going to drive you home now. But, before I get on a plane, I’m going to try to help you forget today’s nightmare. I’m going to treat you to the greatest meal you’ve ever had. Tomorrow night, come to my house in Neuilly and I’ll surprise you.”

     Kella forced a smile.

     He continued, “It’s a difficult time. I’m sorry about your friend. This is the kind of thing one never forgets. But I want to put you on a good path before I leave.”

     “I know, and I’m grateful. But I don’t know if…”

     She looked over at him and put her hand on his.

     “I want you to hold me.”

     Steve turned onto a lateral street and stopped. They held each other for a moment.

     “Thanks. That was good. Until you lose someone, it’s impossible to know, to understand, how it feels.”

     “I know that. I know exactly how you feel. And that’s why I’m driving you home right now.”

     Later, they parked in front of her apartment building off the Rue de la Tour.

     “A year ago,” Steve told her, “I took my girlfriend Vera skiing in Canada, in British Colombia’s Purcell Mountains. On the last day, she joined a small ski-mobiling group so I could go heli-skiing for the day.”

     He gestured with his right arm, palm out, and looked in the middle distance.

     “‘Ski on the Untouched Powder of the Backcountry Slopes,’ the ad said. My plan was to propose that evening. An avalanche … I never saw her again. There was an investigation … the guide was inexperienced, according to the report. He should never have taken the group to that area.”

     After a few seconds of silence, he added, “There was someone on the flight the other night who looked like her.”

     “I’m sorry,” Kella said. “What you’re saying, I think, is that grief strikes many people. But they go on, like you. And I will too.”

     Neither said anything for a few minutes.

     “But what can be done about the Hamads of the world? Is your country doing anything? Is France? To stop these barbarian acts?”

     “Good question. People like Hamad don’t feel controlled by the laws of the state.