Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us Read online

  But Fernand does not know any of this yet: he learns it in her car a few days later, when she takes him to the hospital in Lagny for his lung X-ray (he pretended not to know where to go and asked for her help, innocently, this evening, since she is from around here …). She has no memories of her native country, Hélène explains while driving her car, and only knows what her parents have told her about it. Her father lives there now, a very unfortunate affair: he only meant to go for a brief stay, but the Polish People’s Republic never allowed him to get a return ticket. His letters exude all of his bitterness. Fernand does not hide the fact that he votes with and for his own, the workers. And while he may not have read Marx like the Party leaders, each and every page of Capital and the thousands of notes at the bottom of each, he has no doubt that it will necessarily happen, one day, the sooner the better: do away with all of that, fat cats, landowners, milords, money-men, scoundrels—those that own the means of production, as those leaders like to say. She laughs: why not? Communism would be nice, sure, provided that it’s actually implemented, equality for all, the real thing, without bigwigs or bureaucrats, without propaganda or political commissars. But that doesn’t really exist anywhere, not even in the USSR, she points out. Fernand won’t attempt to deny it: and besides, how could he? His every answer takes the form of a slightly foolish smile. It’s right here, we’re almost there, she says, pointing to the hospital. She parks and Fernand, at the window, tells her he’ll be quick, promise, you can wait for me at the café over there. He takes a bill out of his jacket pocket so she can pay for a beverage, but she refuses, it’s useless to insist.

  A tough one, this Hélène, thinks Fernand while climbing the steps. A hell of a woman.

  One of the two names “given” by Fernand is currently asleep. His bedroom door opens, handguns and automatics at the ready, hands up! Flashlights are pointed at his face. Someone hits the light switch. Fabien gets up, dazed, but he understands full well what is happening. Iveton wishes you a good evening, an officer adds, as if it were not already all too clear. The room is turned upside down and electric wires are found in a cardboard box, under a pair of pants. Fabien takes a punch to the solar plexus. Doubled over, trying to catch his breath, he takes another and falls to the ground. Is that what you make your bombs with? Go to hell, he answers, before a boot hits his ribs.

  Hachelaf’s wife has also been arrested. They are both taken to the police station, where they act as if they have never met: no, his face doesn’t ring a bell, never seen it, sorry. Fabien is undressed: a stick beats the soles of his feet, electrodes are placed on his testicles, while he keeps promising them hell and the devil, imperialist bastards. He is then coated in a strange liquid he is unable to name, ointment, the cops say, guffawing. Man’s capacity to laugh is what distinguishes him from other creatures, Rabelais wrote. It’s not a pretty sight. They spread it on his “parts,” but it hurts just as much in inverted commas: an acidic sensation, burning, gnawing, devouring, he howls. Just talk and the pain will stop. No, he doesn’t know where the laboratory is, no more than he knows who makes the bombs. Fabien bites the inside of his cheeks and not a word comes out of his mouth.

  Night passes over his slashed body.

  Fernand wakes up. Or rather, they wake him. Aching all over, struggling to walk straight. He rubs his nose—a lingering feeling that he is full of water. The press is here, waiting for you, get dressed. The Director of National Security is up, too, and in his suit, while the police chief, a certain Parrat, tries to match him. A dozen journalists and photographers are ranged opposite. Fernand is in cuffs, his hands in front of him. A frenzy of flashes, blinding white spurts. He squints, hair disheveled and greasy, eyes lowered. He is told that his name is on every front page in the Algerian press. No doubt, his deed done, he would have placed the deadly device in some car, tramway, or shop, where women, children, and innocents would once more have been horribly mutilated, asserts La Dépêche quotidienne … Questions gush out, gobs of spit for public opinion, an animal to the slaughterhouse. He answers as he can, without getting into details, trying not to say more than is necessary. His voice quavers, wrecked by hunger and yesterday’s torments. No, his cell has nothing to do with the attacks on the Milk Bar and La Cafétéria; no, he is not a murderer but a political activist. His actions were only directed at the factory, at a plant, that’s all, not one person was going to perish in the explosion, he had made sure of it personally, checking with the comrades. Everything was planned so as to avoid bloodshed; yes, he is a communist. He answers all the questions, crossing and uncrossing his hands, ill at ease. They inform him that another bomb, on which was written the name “Jacqueline” (his had “Betty,” a friend of Taleb’s—but the journalists know that, too), was found in a CRS van at dawn, in the center of town: what has he to say about that? I wasn’t aware, I don’t know anything about that bomb. So, he thinks, Jacqueline found a way to get rid of it. It never exploded: technical failure.

  Djilali is bent over his typewriter. He rubs his eyes. His right eyelid twitches nervously. Jacqueline massages his nape with one hand while looking over his shoulder at the pamphlet he is writing: the FLN claims responsibility, without hesitation, for the action conducted by Comrade Fernand Iveton. He is as courageous a patriot as any. The Algeria of tomorrow is his country, one where colonialism will be nothing but a bad memory, a baleful event in the history of the exploitation of man by man. One where Arabs will no longer be made to grovel before others. A sovereign State, independent from France. Jacqueline asks if he plans to send it to the Front for approval—yes, of course, it’s a little sensitive at the moment, best to be on the safe side.

  Fabien is lying face up, his arms stretched to either side, his lower lip pissing blood. Unable to hold out, he surrendered two names.

  Fernand was tortured all day: he gave up three. Of what stuff are heroes made? he asks himself, tied to the bench, head hanging backwards. With what skin, what frame, bones, tendons, nerves, tissues … with what flesh, with what soul are they put together? Forgive me, comrades … His shoulders are not broad enough to take on the mantle of the prefect of Eure-et-Loir, Jean Moulin, alias Max, who croaked, his head a mass of bruises, on a train to Berlin. He does not have the guts to call on History with a capital H. Forgive me, comrades, I hope at least that you hid well, I held out as long as I could …

  Today, thirty or so rebels were killed by gunfire or bombs in the backcountry.

  But still no war, no, not that. Power minds its language—its fatigues tailored from satin, its butchery smothered by propriety.

  Fernand drinks a little but still gets nothing to eat.

  He sleeps.

  He is transferred, the next day, to another city. Tortured afresh. This time, an electrified basin of water is placed below him while he is tied to a folding ladder: water is poured into his mouth, if he moves his butt dips in. They want him to give them the bomb-maker’s address, that of Abderrahman Taleb, a chemistry student who joined the guerrillas last year. Fernand endures for more than two hours before screaming at them to stop, he will talk, he knows the place, I’ll take you there, okay. He is handcuffed and taken aboard a military vehicle. After about forty minutes, sat in the middle of one of three Jeeps, his finger points to a farm. Fernand has never been here before, he knows absolutely nothing about this place, except that it looks like a farm and corroborates the information he gave while being beaten (“the workshop is in a farm outside Algiers”); he is only trying to put a stop to the torture without yielding information necessary to the network’s survival. The building’s white plaster cuts through the surrounding green. Twenty or so soldiers move, MAT 49 and Thompson M1A1 in hand, toward the front door—they separate into three squads as they inch closer. Meanwhile, Fernand stands a few steps away from the Jeep, with two guards at his side. Their eyes are fastened on the impending assault. A soldier knocks on the door, waits, no answer, he gestures with his hand before moving aside. Three soldiers come from behind him and break the d
oor down. The two guards squint so as not to miss anything. Fernand steals a peek behind him: trees and, farther, a little ravine, it seems from here. Would he have time to reach it? The soldiers enter the farm.

  Fernand starts running; he has covered about six meters when the guards spin round and open fire. He hears a series of reports, two, three, and yet to his great surprise he is not falling: he is unhurt and still running! Shouts behind him. The ground drops abruptly. The incline is sudden, but he neither hurtles nor slips: he jumps. Feels his ankle sprain on landing, stumbles, straightens back up. Around him are large rocks, shrubs, rushes and bushes and, a few meters beyond, a watercourse. No time to run or swim, he thinks, he’ll get picked off from up there. He rolls under a small bush, a kind of broom, damn, his arms are protruding, he tries to curl upon himself as much as possible, draw in his limbs, but his injuries stop him folding up as tight as he would wish. Soldiers hurtle down the slope, yelling, weapons rattling, leather boots crunching on dry grass. Fernand can’t see anything. Some voices grow distant, others seem, or so he fears, to close in. Think he had time to cross the river? For fuck’s sake guys I told you to watch him, you really are a bunch of morons, goddamn morons, go get the searchlight, Daniel!

  Does fear mark time with its own cadence? Fernand has the impression that he’s been under the broom bush for hours. Cramps and tingling in his thighs. No, he is not delirious, night is indeed falling. A soldier talks about bringing a dog. Fernand has trouble hearing now; they are farther away. The ravine is suddenly raked by a great abrasive light. Fuck, he’s right there, guys, right there! Fernand can’t understand it, he never moved an inch. We want him alive, don’t shoot! The boots get closer, hands grab him and pull him up. One of them slaps Fernand. Your handcuffs, fuckhead, you had your arms out, we saw your handcuffs in the searchlight. Smartass. Take him to Algiers.

  Fernand protects himself as best he can; they are hitting him on the head and stomach with a sort of wooden handle. You’ve had your fun haven’t you, Iveton, there was nothing in that farm, just a poor peasant family. Are you going to play your little games much longer? We’re in no hurry, we’re patient and we’ve got the keys to your handcuffs, you’re going to lick our boots for as long as we want, you got that right. He is thrown in his cell with an empty stomach, feet and hands bound.

  Djilali has received an answer from the Front leaders: they do not wish to publicly claim responsibility for Fernand’s failed attack. Jacqueline, sitting on the sofa armrest, can’t understand the Front’s reaction. The police suspect the communists, so they’ll start by arresting PCA and CDL militants willy-nilly; it suits the Front, I guess, blurs the tracks and diverts attention, Djilali says. Did Yacef write the answer? No, I don’t think so …

  Fernand sits on a stool, arms tied together, blood dripping from his nose. A military officer—another or the same, who cares—revolves around him while going through the day’s papers. Just the two of them in this room. Did you see, how funny, they almost all misspell your name. Yveton with a Y. Fernand does not find anything particularly “funny” about these mistakes, but is careful not to let on. The soldier surveys the headlines and occasionally reads, loudly, the few lines which interest him most. Here, listen to this, the French population in Algeria now knows who the monsters are and where they lurk. They’re talking about you, about communists, not very nice, is it … Let’s see, Paris-Presse, you know it? I can say I’ve never read it, communist assassin, ha-ha, your parents will be proud of you, Iveton (he chuckles again at his own joke). Looks like your little friends are a bit jumpy, aren’t they, the Party isn’t scrambling to praise your actions. Then again, if I was them I wouldn’t either, you couldn’t even get the bomb to go off, talk about a good man … He keeps on circling, soliloquizing, a fish in a square tank, clearly relishing the situation. On his stool, Fernand does not move. A drop of blood has just fallen on the ground, right between his naked feet. Le Figaro doesn’t seem to like you much. Then again, you’re quite the handsome fellow in this picture, here, how d’you like yourself? He shows him the photo, yeah, that little mustache suited you, proof that proles can take good care of themselves, whatever people say. Fernand has stopped listening. He just wishes he would stop going round and round in that maddening way. Answer me when I speak to you. Fernand says nothing. The soldier rolls two or three newspapers in his hand and, without warning, smacks him in the face with them.

  Hélène makes a point of not saying goodbye on leaving the office. No need to see me out, she insisted, I know the way. She exits the police headquarters, discovers it’s eight p.m., and walks to the taxi stand a little farther off. A Muslim driver invites her into his cab. Rue des Coquelicots, please. That’s a pretty name, ma’am, poppies, coquelicots. Oh, but perhaps you’re not feeling your best, are you, ma’am? I wouldn’t wish to seem unbecoming (Hélène notices the word and, without knowing why, finds it almost comical), ma’am, or nosy, God help me, , but I know people better than anyone, I do, and you surely know why? I drive them about all day long. I know what everyone is made of, oh yes, yes, ma’am, don’t smile, I can see you in the rearview mirror, well, actually, yes, do smile, makes me happy, my name’s Farouk, as I was saying: I know all humanity and nothing escapes me, that’s what comes from driving a taxi, and I can see at once that you’ve got a great sadness about you, but you’re proud, that’s obvious too, with or without the mirror. So why don’t you explain why to Farouk, who’s not nosy, or maybe just a little … Hélène laughs. Prayer beads hang from his mirror. You win, you’re good, she concedes. I’ve just come from the police station, and I’ve got quite a few worries, in fact. My husband was arrested, I don’t know if you’ve followed the news recently, his name is Fernand Iveton, he … No! No! Farouk lets go the wheel for a few seconds and jiggles his hands. But of course I know Iveton, ma’am! Everyone knows Iveton in our country, , this is incredible! Madame Iveton in person, in my taxi, no one will believe Farouk! , he bursts out laughing, rue des Coquelicots, is that right? Hélène tells him about the hours she had to spend at the station, and specifies that she was not mistreated, that no one touched her. She has no news of her husband, the police refused to give her any and she has no way of getting in touch with him. No doubt he’s been beaten, yes, it’s certain even, and the very idea is unbearable, she confesses, but she knows he’ll be released: he didn’t kill or even injure anyone, the bomb failed to explode. Any lawyer could get him out of there. Hélène says goodbye to Farouk, who refuses to take her money, a refusal which has nothing to do with politeness but much more with a command: we do not charge the wives of those who fight for the people, , take care of yourself ma’am, yes, good night to you too.

  The moon yawns, its white breath a veil to the darkness. A star-formed meshwork—thousands of little keys opening the night.

  Today, seventy-three rebels were killed.

  A waitress places two menus on the table. Hélène is wearing a light gray dress with a white collar; Fernand, for his part, has taken this opportunity to bring out the only tie in his possession. He had hesitated a little before inviting her to dinner: too soon, perhaps? She had taken the time to go to the hospital with him, so thanking her was the least he could do. Worst comes to worst, he might invoke the famed “Algerian hospitality”—doing so with false naivety, acutely conscious of transforming a bold move into a touching, awkward act—in order to justify such an imprudent, if not impolite, meal. Yet here she is now, in front of him, noticeably more at ease than he is. He could touch her if he reached out, but this very idea is, already, sacrilegious. And is he even thinking of touching her? Bodies are seldom thought of when this thing is born in the belly’s depths. This unnamed thing no word can approximate or identify, this thing (the most appropriate term, in the end, for those first times out of time). A vague, crazy thing of vapors, fumaroles, ether, routing every attempt at rationality. A thing we know to be soaked in illusions, fineries, gildings and sands of an instant, but which we fasten onto and give it everything headlo
ng, that thing, yes. Fernand looks at her as others might contemplate a statue or a painting: he lacks the linguistic precision to formalize his thoughts, but he looks at the contours and shadows of her skin, the reflections, the more or less visible pores, the hands (it all seems to concentrate on this point—those hands, that gift or slap, that one might hold or that pull away: the hands of a woman loved, or desired, bear the same heartrending charge, the same sacred fever, as the mouth which one day, without warning, will draw near or withhold itself forever), that foreign smile and those eyes that a bad poet would promptly compare to the sea without fearing to offend her (Hélène is not for commonplaces, nor for doggerel).

  He doesn’t know much about her, but what he knows is ample enough.

  No need to ballast a beating heart.

  She has a passion for dance, she tells him. She got that from her father, who used to play the violin at village fetes in France (but maybe she told him that already? She apologizes; he relishes it). She even entered competitions, winning a few of them. Waltz, mostly. But, she specifies, Fernand should not think of her father as an arty sage, head in the clouds. No, the man was first and foremost a farm worker. With the hands to prove it, too, unafraid to show their strength at the slightest slip up. She more than once paid the price, from those hands or a black leather belt, when as a child she was not “strict enough” with the farm animals. Fernand listens closely, careful not to interrupt. Hélène dreamed of being an independent and self-reliant woman. But society makes sure a woman doesn’t dream of more than her body allows—the community keeps an eye on her belly, her flesh and her future. She had to marry young, at sixteen, leave the family home and turn her back, if only for a time, on this generous but violent father. Fernand asks if she is still angry with him: she simply shakes her head, and apologizes for opening up so indelicately. I don’t know what came over me, I’m not used to, well, I, I know you’re only here for a short time, I expect that’s why. I’m sorry, Fernand, I’ve only talked about myself, you must be thinking that … I won’t say anything from now on, I’ll just listen to you. I already know my life, I’d rather hear about yours. She smiles. This rice is terribly good, don’t you think? Most certainly. Or a little too salty, perhaps?