The Snow Kimono (33 page)

And Ahmed?

Ahmed, her brother-in-law, her sister Haifa’s husband, whom she depended on.

He’s well. Busy.

Busy, he said.

Afterwards, when he heard her leave, he slipped out, followed her down the dim-lit
street.

Mathilde!

Tilde turned back, anxious, not knowing who it was.

It’s me. Auguste.

He caught up with her. She was not unfriendly. Her fine-featured hijabed face handsome.

Auguste. What are you doing here?

I wanted to talk to you. About Madeleine.

She looked away.

Is she all right? he asked.

I don’t know, Auguste. None of us knows. Since the baby was born, she has not been
herself. She won’t tell us why. I told her I was going to talk to you. But she begged
me not to. I forbid you to tell him, Mathilde. It’s got nothing to do with him. It’s
me. Just me.

That’s why we come here. We take turns. To look after her. To make sure she gets
some sleep, to see the baby’s fed, settled, that he’s all right.

She comes to school. The nurse is there. She teaches. But then, sometimes I’ll find
her in her empty classroom. She tells me then. She says she can’t go home. She’s
afraid. I ask her why. And she says that that’s where the fear is waiting for her.

What fear?

The fear that she is lost. The fear she can’t find herself. At night, she goes looking.
But she’s no longer there.

Chapter 35

HE had not meant it to happen. Of course he’d had open briefs before. Infiltrate
a cell. Do what you needed to do. For him it had been a commonplace. He had slept
with targets before.

He was good at this. Better than good. He had that special intuition, that unique
insight. Into the vulnerable. A woman with children. A woman with nowhere to live—now.
A woman without money. Talk to the person next to her. Let someone else do the work
for you. Let the subject
hear
of your kindness. Your generosity. The purity of your
heart. Stay back. Volunteer.
Ask
for help, don’t offer. Not yet. Something trivial.
The envelopes you can’t find. Directions to somewhere. If you wait, I’ll take you.
Talk to her then. While you search. While you walk. Not about politics, ideology.
About school, her ailing parents, the death of a brother, the difficulty of finding
a doctor—all the intimate things. Things you will be able to use. Discreetly. Take
your time. Go slowly. Tick off the list—one, two, three.

Haifa was none of these. Her family was well educated. She had a sister, Mathilde;
a husband, Ahmed, who was ‘away’. And Jovert knew what that meant. Where that meant.
He had a photograph of him—just in case. She didn’t have children. She didn’t need
money. She had a place to live. He’d already been there. Been inside. Picked up her
things. Her jewellery. Her earrings. Put them back again. She was strong. Independent.
Intelligent. She’d studied jurisprudence in Marseille. By the time he’d made contact,
he had followed her, watched her in the street. Observed her routine. Had seen her
organising groups. Women, men. Seen how articulate she was, organised, revered. Loved.

Vulnerable.

Still, it would not be easy. She would be a challenge. Haifa was not your usual mark.
He would have to clear the way. Be patient. Careful.

His recollection, sitting in the library, was more vivid now than ever before. The
sun more intense. The shadows sharper on the crevassed white walls. The cut blue
sky more vivid, more angular. He
felt
the cicadas’ serrated whirrings on his skin.

He was walking up the chipped stone stairs. Thinking of something else, someone else.
Madeleine. Something was wrong. Something had changed. She had begun to push him
away.

Then, suddenly, the air erupted around him. Some blinding
thing, a woman, emerged
from the wall in front of him, her dress so white, so dazzling in the blazing light
that it was like a disturbance in the air itself. She was already past him, a barely
apprehended incandescent shape. But her after-image lingered. A dark-skinned crescent
floating against her white dress. She was gone before he could look back. To the
empty street. The air beginning to reassemble. Then he was knocking on the same blue
door in front of him.

A young woman opened it. Alminah, the youngest recruit, prettier than her photograph.

My name is Philippe Valedire, he says. Yves sent me. He looks at the piece of paper
in his hand: Is Haifa here?

No, she isn’t. You’ve just missed her. She’s gone to meet her husband. We weren’t
expecting you until tomorrow.

His look of surprise.

Please, won’t you come in?

The door quickly closed.

I’m sorry, she says. You can never be too careful. My name is Alminah.

She shakes his hand. The grip is firm. Haifa has trained her well.

Haifa’s just left. Brightness, warmth, admiration, in her voice. Just a minute ago.
Yves’s not here. I’m afraid it’s just me.

I’m sorry, Almira.

Alminah.

Alminah. I will come back. I didn’t mean to take you by surprise.

No, it’s all right. Don’t worry. We know who you are.

Here it comes: Would you like a coffee? He smiles at her.

Would you like a coffee? Yves will be here any minute.

It had been easy. Talking to her, Alminah. The coffee cup’s length of conversation
just enough.

He apologises again. Asks after Yves. How is he? His brother? No, no, we met in Paris.
We were students together. Oh, and did they get the paper? The Roneo machine? Is
it still working? Ah, yes, there it is. A half-turn of the drum. Lift the flap. Run
one expert finger along its printing edge. Still dry. The coffee’s good. We had to
fix it, you know. It was leaking. But these old machines—unstoppable! Yes, Yves told
us. Yves, who is late. A glance at his watch. Who’s been delayed. Permanently. Yves
is never coming back.

Oh, is that the time? I’m sorry, Alminah. I’ve got to go. I’ll come back. No, no,
it’s no problem. No problem at all. At least we’ve met. One last quick sip. Thank
you for the coffee, Alminah. You’ve been most helpful.

You’re welcome.

Could you tell Haifa I was here? That I’ll come back tomorrow. When I’m expected.

A small, shared laugh.

It’s fine…Philippe. Don’t worry. I’m pleased to have met you.

Tell her I’m looking forward to working with her.

I will.

Thank you, Alminah. Till tomorrow.

Steps one and two
and
three.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It was always like this. He had once enjoyed the intricate preparation. The deft
manoeuvrings. Now he found it slow. If only Alminah knew—trustworthy, dedicated,
hard-working Alminah—just how many of her there were.

How focused had been his pursuit of her. Haifa. Yet how carelessly he had set the
trap. Stood back.

Only to ensnare himself.

My name is Philippe Valedire. Yves sent me. Is Haifa here?

They found they liked each other. Philippe Valedire and Haifa.

How long have you known Yves?

Oh, a long time. We were students together. Years ago. My father knew his father.

Yves was so helpful. He did so much for us. Do you know where he is now?

Philippe was not Yves. Yves was always joking. He was loud. But a gifted propagandist.
If not always reliable. He’d sometimes disappear for weeks. This Philippe was quieter.
More thoughtful. Committed. Fantastically tall. He
knew
Algeria. Its people. Us.

She liked his unruly hair, which he constantly brushed back. His round glasses. They
made him look like a professor. Which he could have been. And yet he could fix her
car. He
knew how to build an irrigation ditch. Repair shelled walls. He read. One,
two, three.

He found himself thinking about her. At night, the lamp lit, the windows blacked
out. A book in his lap. The thump of artillery shells not too far distant. And in
the next quadrant. Not his. No need to worry. About her eyes, how luminous they were.
Her mouth, her skin, so different from the French. From Madeleine. Although he no
longer knew.

And he had seen the subtle signs—the changing colours that she wore. The blue against
her skin. And then, from time to time, she wore that dress.

He thought of her lean body, when the wind blew, or she reached out to pay. For a
piece of fruit, a loaf of bread. Fresh coffee beans. His body ached. Bodies. It happened
to both of him.

He began thinking less of Algiers. Of the loss that inhabited him there. And more
of coming home. Here. To Ighouna, this nothing nowhere village. And to Sétif. Where
Haifa was. Although they still were just colleagues.

Then the news had come. The news he would remember. That small something he had forgotten
to do. He walked up the stone chipped steps again. He no longer needed to knock.
He had a key. For when he worked back late.

They were all there when he walked in. Except Haifa. All looking up at him.

Ahmed is dead. And Mathilde, Haifa’s sister, Alminah said. They were killed in a
bomb blast in Algiers last night. With three of Mathilde’s students.

Ahmed Soukhane, Haifa’s husband. Mathilde, Haifa’s sister…Madeleine’s friend. Whom
she was watching.

She’s at her parents’.

Had they just not told him?

Later that evening, at the outpost: Ahmed Soukhane was finally neutralised last night.
Some collateral damage, but all in all, a good result. Thank you, Jovert, for your
good work.

That was the truth. Now. And the truth could not be undone. There
was
no going back.

Memory is a savage editor. It cuts time’s throat. It concertinas life’s slow unfolding
into time-less event, sifting the significant from the insignificant in a heartless,
hurried way. It unlinks the chain. But how did you know what counted unless you let
time pass?

Haifa returned a month later. Not in mourning. She refused to be bowed. But the wound
was there. Just like his own.

Now he sat looking across the library table into that moment when Haifa knocked on
his door. A month, or two, later. Sent down at night from the checkpoint to see him,
even though it was late. The sentry call. The long minutes waiting.