Murder in Belleville

INSIDE THE CHURCH BERNARD paused under mullioned windows catching and refracting the green light. The whites of people’s eyes caught the gleam from dripping wax candles. Murmured conversations echoed off vaulting pillars supporting the nave.

Bernard’s credentials were checked at the damp vestibule door by a woman wearing a yellow Mali cloth headress. A thumbed copy of Frantz Fanon’s book, The Wretched of die Earth, was crooked under her arm. Beyond her Bernard saw mattresses lined along the Gothic stone walls.

“Mustafa Hamid represents us,” she said. Her other arm swept over the wooden pews where children played and men lay on mattresses. “We speak as one. As French people, not as beurs,” she said, using the word applied to second-generation North Africans, French born. Beur, the masculine form of butter, was used in verlan, the language developed in the suburban housing projects.

Doomed already, Bernard thought. The ministry had a plane waiting for these immigrants of Algerian and African descent, without papers.

Under the nave the uneven mosaic tiles were covered with muddy footprints. The glass-framed paintings of saints reflected sputtering votive candles and blue gas burners with huge pots simmering on them. The scent of melted wax and the sweat of many bodies hung over the pews.

Appalled, Bernard realized the church had by necessity become a day-care center and campground for the hunger strikers. If the French press described this scene, the whole cause would backfire on these people. Even as a lapsed Catholic, he knew church sanctity struck a chord with Christians—fallen-away Catholics most of all. And the real issue of the hunger strikers would tumble aside.

He felt an insistent tug on his trouser and looked down. A bug-eyed toddler, no taller than his knees and with a runny nose, was pulling himself up. His diaper hung loose, his small chest labored under a skimpy shirt. It was food stained and not warm enough for this dank church, Bernard thought, feeling the chill radiating from the stone. The toddler let go and took a few lurching steps, then crumpled, landing upright with a surprised smile on his face.

“Akim’s first steps, Monsieur,” said a chador-clad woman. At least he thought those words came from behind the black mask. He turned around to see a dark-eyed young woman, with a scarf tied around her face, addressing him.

“I speak for his mother, who may not address you without her husband,” she said bending down and helping Akim.

Akim grinned and pointed at Bernard.

A salvo of Arabic erupted behind the chador. The young woman nodded. “His mother asks, Monsieur, if you could please help her. Akim was born in Paris but not she or his father. They are political refugees from an oppressive regime.”

More torrents poured forth, and the young woman bent forward to listen.

“If they are forced to go back, they face prison and Akim an orphanage. He has”—she stumbled in French—"how do you say it?—un coeur fragil, a weak heart.”

Bernard wished he could back out the way he came in, pretend he never heard this story and find safety behind his Regency office desk overlooking the Elysee Palace. But he couldn’t. He stood rooted to the spot.

Akim crawled over to Bernard’s leg and started the laborious process of standing again.

“Monsieur, Amnesty International isn’t allowed to visit prisons in their country,” she said, looking up, her dark pupils reflecting the flickering votive candlelight. “His mother begs you to help them. Akim is their only child to survive infancy.”

Bernard couldn’t avoid Akim, who clung to his trouser legs. Maybe he could help, he thought, find Akim a decent children’s home with a medical facility. And then he saw the line forming behind the mother, stretching from the nave along the full length of the church.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“They all want to tell you their story,” the young woman said. “Akim’s family is… comment?” she searched for the words. “How do you say, the tip of the iceberg?”

Bernard wanted to tell her it didn’t matter anyway. Everyone had to leave. He wished he were made of the stone that lay below his feet.

“Mademoiselle, I’m representing the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t make the decrees, but I’m here to speak with Mustafa Hamid,” he said, trying to affect a sincere tone. “We have much to discuss.”

He heard little Akim’s whimper as he was shown the way to Hamid. Suddenly Bernard was transported to his own childhood, trudging knee-deep through the charred timbers of the souk, stung by the blowing sand, and smelling seared flesh. His feet so heavy and tired, the waiting boat at the port so far away, the sky stainless steel, and the wind whistling through the barbed wire.

“Bonjour, Directeur Berge,” said Walid, a bearded man, interrupting his thoughts. “Come this way. Mustafa Hamid wishes to present demands to the ministry. Reasonable and just.”

“I’m here to open negotiations,” Bernard said.

“Meet our terms,” he said. “I’m sure time, stress, and police power will be saved.”