The German Mujahid

MALRICH’S DIARY, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1996

First thing this morning, I had a visit from Madame Karsmirsky, Wenda Karsmirsky — Ophélie’s mother. In another life she was a white Russian, in this one she’s a die-hard French bigot who’s completely forgotten her roots. I’d had no idea, but the way she leans on the doorbell is enough to wake the dead — a brutal, non-stop, angry ringing — only cops ring doorbells like that. One minute I was sleeping and next I was standing in front of the door wondering who I was. The panicked reflex of a sleeper. As I opened the door I still had my eyes closed. “Young man,” her harsh voice spat in my face, “the least you could do is look at me when I’m talking to you.” That was Madame Karsminsky for you. The Diva, Rachel used to call her. “Bonjour, madame,” I said, rubbing my eyes. She shrugged and marched past me trailing a sickly cloud of perfume. I’m not sure what happened, but I ended up in the living room staring at the ceiling while she nosed about upstairs. I listened as she whirled around like a tornado, high heels clattering. Then she came downstairs and stood in front of me and started yelling: “My God, this place is a pigsty!” She gave me the morning to tidy the place up, pack my stuff and move out. From what she didn’t say, I worked out that Ophélie had decided to stay in Canada permanently and had asked her mother to sell the house and send her the money. “I’ve got power of attorney,” she told me, taking a piece of paper out of her bag and waving it triumphantly under my nose. I had to believe her. I said, “Is it okay if I take Rachel’s books?” She gave me a look of withering contempt. “Much good they’ll do you!” I went into the garage, filled a cardboard box, heaved it onto my shoulder and headed for the door. “Who’s going to tidy up this mess?” she yelled after me “It looks tidy to me.” I said, and I left. She ran after me and said, “You can take Ophélie’s car if you want.” “I don’t know how to drive,” I said. “And anyway, I haven’t got a licence.” It was only the third time I’d seen her; the first was at the party Rachel threw when he got his French citizenship, the second was the day he married Ophélie, today was the end of the story in which we had played minor but important roles, she the overbearing mother-in-law, me the little brother who’d gone off the rails.

She called me back again, rummaging through her handbag. “I forgot,” she said, “I don’t suppose it’s important, but Ophélie sent you a letter. I haven’t read it — you can see for yourself, the envelope’s still sealed.” I said, “Thank you, madame,” and I left.

I headed back to the estate. With a big box on my back and a face like death warmed over, I looked like a burglar heading home after a hard night’s work. If the cops had stopped me, I’d have been screwed, I’d have had a hard time explaining my obsession with books about exterminating the Jews. But the cops round here know me; I thought, to cheer myself up, we’d just shoot the shit for ten minutes and I’d be off.

Standing at the entrance to the estate, looking up at the tower blocks rising into the sky, I felt dizzy, I felt sick. My life as a recluse was over. I was like a convict finally released just as he realises he doesn’t want to get out because he knows that on the outside, with his friends and family, he’ll be a true outsider. I was terrified, I knew nothing would be like the way it was before, not me, not the estate. I knew I’d have to find somewhere else to live, I’d be a real exile, with no past, no future.

Books are heavy and, I tell you, walking up ten flights of stairs takes it out of you. The lift packed up so long ago people forget it’s even there. On the estate, we live like mountaineers, we climb up and toss a rope down to help the old folk stuck on the ledges. By the time I got to the tenth floor, I was practically crawling. I rang the doorbell, polite as I could. Aunt Sakina said, “Sit down, I’ll get you some coffee.” I set down the box and collapsed into a chair. Uncle Ali was sitting in his favourite chair, staring out the window, he was off in his head somewhere. It was nice, I realised, to come home, to be with your family, to see them getting on with life as though nothing had happened.

I opened Ophélie’s letter. There was a piece of card and. . ten $100 bills. In God We Trust was printed on each one. I read the letter as I drank my coffee. I’d forgotten what it tasted like. Ophélie wrote:

Dear Malrich,

I hope you and your family are well. I’ve decided to stay here in Canada and I’ve asked maman to put the house up for sale. Thanks for looking after it for me all this time. I hope you weren’t too bored living there, and that you weren’t too scared sleeping there at night. And I hope you remembered to water the plants! I’m sending you $1,000 for your trouble. By my reckoning, you should get 5,162 francs for them at a bureau de change. If they offer you less, take it to a bank, their rates are usually better. You’ll need some form of ID, so don’t forget to bring your identity card. If you want anything from the house, the TV or Rachel’s clothes, feel free, I’ve told maman to let you take whatever you want.

I send you my love. Be good. Find a nice girlfriend and be happy.

Ophélie

P.S.: I’d rather you heard this from me: I’ve met someone else, we’re getting married.

I thought about Rachel: Poor bastard, must be turning in his grave.