Two Testaments (22 page)

“He’s a responsible lad. Quiet and smart. He has nowhere else to go. He’s afraid, and for fear, he will do whatever we ask. Don’t worry,” Moustafa assured him.

“Good luck to you then,” Rémi concluded. “I hope you won’t have any trouble at the port.”

“Pray for us,” David said. “We’ll let you know how it turns out. If it’s successful, you may have a lot of work ahead of you, Rémi.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit. Keeps my mind off other things.”

The three men carried the trunk from the house to Marcus Cirou’s waiting car. Rémi stood motionless as he watched the car drive off, letting the dust blow into his eyes and settle on his clothes. He was not leaving yet, but time was running out. Soon it would be his turn. He brushed the sand from his eyes and whispered, “
Bon voyage
.”

It was the way they had spent every evening for the past two and a half weeks, and tonight the added advantage was that it eased the tension as they waited. With two hours before them, Moustafa and David took out the holy books and read. Because the Koran was approximately the same length as the New Testament, they had decided to read each through once, then compare their findings.

Tonight David questioned Moustafa. “So Islam includes some of the prophets of the Bible yet maintains that Mohammed is the greatest. And wherever the Koran contradicts the other inspired books—that is, the Pentateuch, the Psalms, and the Gospels—the Koran supersedes them all.”

“Yes, this is what we believe.”

“But what I don’t see in the Koran is the provision for sin. What has Allah done for his people? How do you communicate with him? In Christianity, there is the sacrifice of the Christ—God who dies for mankind and resurrects Himself to conquer death.”

“Islam is total submission to the will of Allah. The prayers five times a day show one’s devotion.”

“But where is the guarantee of eternal life?”

“The only guarantee is through jihad. Soldiers who die in a holy war are assured of their entrance into heaven.”

“But, Moustafa,” David argued, “can you accept a religion of laws and recitations? Where is the meaning?”

“There are many who find great meaning in the tenets of Islam. I, as you, have questions. I am still searching. You agree there is one true God,
non
?”

“Yes, I agree.”

“But you see, for the Muslim, the Christians’ belief in a trinity is polytheistic. Christians worship three gods.”

“But that is not how they see it. They say He is one God with three distinct aspects.”

Moustafa shrugged. “My mind is not on it tonight. We should get the boy ready.”

“You are angry?”

“Not angry. Just restless to know how it will all turn out.” He grimaced, then said sarcastically, “
Inshallah
.”

Moustafa placed the books on either side of him. “Which holy book is right? These two books are like Algeria. The Arabs hold the Koran, the pied-noirs the Bible. There are two cultures and two religions and two languages, eternally separating us. Who dares to step over the line?”

He picked up the Koran and held it out to David. “Algeria’s end was inevitable. You cannot reconcile two cultures if one people feels repressed. The Europeans have been wrong. And I, my family, we too have been wrong. We chose the wrong side.”

David looked at Moustafa’s face in the shadows, obscured. He could have been anyone. “You believed in
Algérie française
. You fought for that.”

“We were wrong. And now we have nowhere to go. No hope for the future.”

“You’re thinking of Anne-Marie?”

Moustafa gave David a hopeless smile. “When am I not? When we were young, we did not see the invisible line that separated us. Then we grew up and acknowledged it. At least I did. She didn’t need to fear it, for I was just a childhood friend. And then we had these months together … to awake a forbidden love. And now she waits and worries.

“If only she had no hope, then she would forget me and build her life again. Why am I such a coward as to give her hope when the whole world separates us?” He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope. “But I can’t help it. I have to let her know I love her, no matter what. I’m going to put it in the trunk.”

“You’re right to send her a letter. I tell you, Moustafa, I’m no expert on faith, but there is something about this God of the Bible. He seems to have a penchant for love stories. For the most impossible ones.” He winked at his friend. “No more worries tonight.”

When the men lifted the trunk from the backseat of the old Renault, Hussein felt butterflies dancing in his stomach. Fear and excitement mixed together, kneading themselves into a tight ball. Above all, he had to remain calm. He reminded himself that he didn’t have to fear suffocation. The air holes were large and sufficient.

Already that afternoon he had sat in the trunk, with the top closed, for more than an hour. Then, at Moustafa’s bidding, he had slipped the small key into the inward lock and freed himself. The top opened without difficulty.

But now, as they carried him, stopping and starting, bumping a railing, setting the trunk down only to pick it up again a moment later, Hussein felt queasy. Eyes were staring, he was sure, burning their questions through the little barred holes where, despite himself, he pressed his nose against them and stared back.

The crowds had grown since his last visit to the port nearly two months ago. People occupied every open space, making transporting a trunk a challenge. With a thud, the men set it down in the midst of the bedlam. A small girl came and sat on it, and her long, thin legs obscured the barred hole. Hussein shrank back, placing a thin blanket over the hole and holding it in place with his feet. He breathed deeply.

Why had they set him down in the middle of the crowd? Surely a guard would come and order the trunk removed, or worse, opened. In his lap, Hussein clutched his small oblong sports bag. Every grenade, each gun, and the explosives had been wrapped with minute attention within his underwear and shirts. Two small bombs were tucked in the pocket of a pair of pants.

David had insisted on going through his little bag of possessions. To empty his mini arsenal and conceal it in the apartment while David searched the bag, and then to rewrap each article, well, it had not been easy. He smiled to himself, pleased; he had done it. And now, if he could only sit still for another hour or two, then he could release himself from the prison. The prison that was bringing him to liberty. A twisted liberty.

Up went the trunk again, and this time David’s voice came through the bars in a whisper. “Now’s the time, my boy.”

Hussein closed his eyes tightly, as if in not seeing, he would not be seen. He counted the seconds, listened to Moustafa talking in hushed tones and David saying gruffly, “Go on. Hurry!”

Then the trunk came to rest once more, and David was bending down beside it. “You’re on the ferry. All went smoothly. I can’t tell you exactly when to come out, but wait until at least an hour after the ferry pulls out of port. You’ll hear the announcement. You’re near the toilets on the upper deck. Hide in there if need be. Remember, call the orphanage from Marseille. Take the taxi. And don’t forget the trunk.… God be with you, Hussein.”

Then he was alone. Waiting. His palms were sweaty and every muscle stiff. He rested his head on his bent knees, breathing deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. Telling himself that the wet tears that seeped into his pants were nothing more than a simple reaction to adventure.

Somehow, in the heavy, closed atmosphere of the trunk, Hussein had fallen asleep. When he awoke with a start, he momentarily forgot where he was. Immediately his claustrophobic quarters reminded him, and he panicked. How long had he slept? Was it light outside? He listened but could hear only the low rumble of the ship’s engine.

He winced with pain as he tried to straighten one arm that had fallen asleep and was now numb. Eventually he succeeded in removing the small key from his shirt pocket. Waiting again until the tingling sensation left his hand, he turned the key in the lock.

He pulled back the latch and slowly pushed up the lid. He breathed in a mixture of sea air and gas. He strained to hear voices. Nothing.

He lifted the lid higher, until he could stand hunched over. Quickly he stepped out of the trunk, ignoring the stiffness in his joints. He almost stepped on a child’s arm and realized that most people were sleeping outside, strewn across the boards of the boat like victims from a natural disaster.

He reached back into the trunk, retrieved his sports bag, and closed the top. His first thought was to find the toilets that David had said were nearby. That done, he observed some people, looking like shadows, huddled together by the railings. Many slept with their heads resting in others’ laps or on suitcases.

The night air was cold, and Hussein quickly took the blanket from the trunk, secured the lock on the outside latch, and slid down beside it. He wrapped the blanket around him, covering his face. For some reason, the scene of this mass of pied-noirs made him want to cry. He swallowed, trying to force the lump out of his throat.

Freedom, a strange, knotty freedom, lay before him. He could not stop thinking about his mother. For days he had refused to let himself dwell on their last encounter, but now, with no recourse, it was safe to think of her.

“Good-bye,” he had whispered, petrified that he might tell her too much, yet desperate to see her one last time. “Pray for me, Mother. Pray that Allah’s will be done.”

He was small, and this endless black sky so big. But the task that lay before him seemed bigger than the universe itself. It was a task for Ali, and Ali had assured him that Allah would be there to guide. When the first wrinkles of light rose in gentle rays along the sea on the horizon, Hussein knelt and bowed his head.

“There is no God but Allah,” he whispered, reciting the Shahadah, “and Mohammed is his prophet.”

As the ferry docked in Marseille, the pied-noirs stood, confused, waiting to debark. They looked like a huge flock of sheep, Hussein mused. Sheep without a shepherd. Sheep who would perish in the arid Sahara if left alone. Would they fare better in France?

The wait seemed interminable. When at last the people were freed onto the docks, they wandered aimlessly, a lost, vacant expression in their eyes. Only a few were greeted by waiting friends and family at the port.

Hussein took it in as a spectator, telling himself that he was not lost. He had a job and a place to go. The thought brought a feeling of relief, if he did not think about what he had come to do. He clutched the sports bag closer to his chest.

A taxi. That was the first order of business. He squeezed through the jam of pied-noirs, pitying their predicament. He could not laugh like Ali. He had seen the blood that soaked the sidewalks in every quartier of Algiers. It was human suffering on a large scale, and Mother said that Allah wept over all human suffering. He had to be weeping now.

With his bag tucked under his arm, Hussein left the dock. Hundreds of nameless pied-noirs stood resignedly in lines behind signs marked Taxi. He cursed. Never mind the taxi; he could reach the train station by foot. The map David had given him showed the station only twelve blocks away. It would do him good to walk, to break away from the suffocating masses, to use his muscles after the confinement of the trunk. The trunk!

Hussein considered it only for a moment. What did he care about an old trunk? He would be quite happy if he never saw his wooden prison again.