Murder in Belleville

Sunday Evening

BERNARD SPRAWLED AT HIS desk, opening a new pill bottle, the phone on hold to the interministériel hot line cradled in his neck. That evening heightened media attention had erupted into a free-for-all when film stars, a rock mogul, and a political observer from L’ivenement joined the hunger strikers. Channel France 2 demanded access for news coverage inside the church.

Meanwhile Guittard kept the ministry in limbo, back-pedaling on the arrest and roundup order but still not rescinding the eight-hour deadline.

His other phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Finally he picked it up.

“Directeur Berge, can you speak to speculation as to whether Mustafa Hamid’s AFL links to the fundamentalists in Algiers will influence the power struggle with the Algerian military?” The reporter’s grating voice continued, not waiting for a response. “Being a pacifist, does Hamid eschew the military’s stance in Algiers?”

“Why are you asking me about Algeria?” Bernard asked in surprise. “We’re dealing with sans-papiers, an internal French immigration issue under le code civil. Defining who is a citizen and allowed to stay in France presents no forum for civil unrest in Algeria.”

He slammed the phone down. Who had started that rumor?

Bernard put his head down on his desk. How far could this go? Hamid’s reputation in all communities over the years was stellar. It could be said that he practiced what he preached more than anyone. He thought back to Hamid, remembering his remark about violence. Was Hamid a pawn? Could this affect Algerian politics?

Even if Bernard cared, what could he do about Algeria anymore? Deep inside, Bernard realized he’d given up long ago.

He’d said good-bye from the crowded ship’s deck. He remembered the smoke from the burning medina, the stench from the hanging bodies rotting in the sun on the Esplanade, and the port shaking from the oil-storage-tank explosions. He’d clutched his slain father’s watch and held his mother’s hand as the sun died over the port of Algiers.