Murder in Belleville

Monday Early Morning

BERNARD PAUSED AT THE massive doors of Notre-Damede la Croix. Charcoal stubble shadowed his chin, he’d worn the same suit for two days.

This time his entry to the church had been barred. Cameras whirred and flashed, reporters stuck microphones in his face, and news cameras captured the event. Captured every tic and twitch in his face. Uniformed CRS flanked the steps in formation behind him. For once the April sun glared mercilessly, illuminating the square, the protesters, the police, and the reporters. The protesters loudly chanted, “Don’t break up families—let them stay!” to drown out the reporters.

Guittard had ordered Bernard to empty the church, put the sans’papiers en route to the airport, and escort the rest to the Vincennes detention center if they resisted.

Bernard couldn’t really hold Hamid; the man had papers, and so far he’d broken no law. Bernard didn’t want any of them bound for prison; they’d become martyrs for the cause and defeat the purpose. Of course Guittard didn’t agree.

In the hubbub and turmoil surrounding him Bernard felt curiously detached, as if he hovered cloudlike above, watching the scene unfold.

The bull horn was thrust into his hand. Nedelec, poised and immaculate in a Burberry raincoat, nodded at him. Bernard stared, immobile. He was aware of Nedelec’s thin moustache, and the set jaw of the CRS captain.

Bernard opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Nedelec elbowed him discreetly.

“Monsieur Mustafa Hamid,” Bernard began, his mouth dry and his voice a whisper. “Monsieur Hamid, the authorities have reexamined all the immigration cases.” Bernard cleared his throat, spoke louder. “So far they’ve determined permission to stay will be granted to thirty or forty percent of the sans’papiers due to extenuating circumstances. Specifically those married to French citizens or who have children born in France before 1993.”

No response.

“I’m very sorry to inform you that under orders from the minister of the interior and in compliance with the laws of France, I must ask you to evacuate the premises.”

A heavy silence broken only by the sound of a flag with HUMAN RIGHTS NOT WRONGS crudely written on it, flapping in the wind.

Moments later Bernard cringed as a police ax came down on the church door, splinters flying. The chanting protesters roared. And then the square erupted.

The CRS, attacked by the mob, rushed headlong, billy clubs raised, into the church. Peaceful sans’papiers screamed, thinking they were being attacked and prepared to defend themselves. Bernard was flattened against the church wall between a cameraman and his videocam.

“Look what you’ve done!” the cameraman yelled at him, referring to his smashed equipment.

But the feed was live, and the accusation against Bernard was broadcast across France into millions of homes.

The women and children were handcuffed together and escorted out. As they filed past him, he saw little Akim asleep in his mother’s arms. Though her chador-hidden face revealed nothing, the hiss of angry words issuing from her veil needed no translation.

If he wasn’t hated before, he certainly was now.