Putting on that vest packed with explosives, I was already dust. That was a strange sensation. I formed one body with the earth, the sky, and the stars that strafed the black night. The sheikh’s words scintillated in my mind and I felt invincible. No, you cannot defeat a man who wants to die. And I wanted to, fervently. Nabil, Blackie, Khalil, Fuad, and Hamid wanted to die too. Living in Sidi Moumen, surrounded by corpses, the groveling, and the lame, the truth was we were almost dead already. So really, what did it matter, a little more or less?

Hamid was still sweating and the Oubaida brothers were worried about him. They must have informed Abu Zoubeir. We left the training room and went to the hammam together. We washed ourselves and shaved our bodies closely, preparing ourselves for death as if for a wedding. We even made a few jokes about Nabil’s backside; he was refusing to let anyone scrub him down. Fuad almost passed out when Emir Zaid brought us the clothes for the last night. The cleanest, whitest linen, which our bodies, purified of any stain, demanded.

On the way back to the garage, Abu Zoubeir took Hamid aside and they had a long conversation. My brother felt better after that. The master went back to his place in the middle of the room and prayed. Then he made a speech: “Remember that tonight, my children, many challenges await you. But you must confront them and understand them. The time for playing is over. The moment of judgment has arrived. So we must use these few remaining hours to ask God for forgiveness. You must recognize that there is almost no time left for you to live. Afterward, you will begin a life of bliss, of infinite paradise. Be optimistic. The Prophet was always optimistic. Pray, ask for God’s help. Go on praying all night. You have vowed to die and you have renewed this oath for the love of God. This does you credit. Everyone hates death, I know; everyone fears it. But remember those verses that say that you would wish for death before meeting it, if you only knew of the reward that awaits you.”

We recited other prayers, and Hamid’s voice rose above the rest. He was swept away by the mystical mood of that extraordinary night, and his fervor bordered on trance. Was it fear, gnawing at his guts? No doubt, because he was sharper than us and he understood that there was no way back. It was too late to abandon ship; he knew too much. And so he’d set off, as we all had, with his hand on the holy Koran. Hamid was no traitor, neither to God nor to Abu Zoubeir, still less to me and the rest of the group. Maybe he was angry with himself for getting me involved in all this. I couldn’t say. In any case, he wasn’t himself anymore. His eyes were different. They no longer looked outward. I changed places with Fuad to be next to him. I wanted to reassure him, but he was elsewhere. The verses followed on from each other. And euphoria sprinkled its golden sand over our intoxicated minds. We thought only of paradise. We were basking in it already. It wouldn’t be as hot and humid there as it was in the garage, because right now we were soaked to the skin. And there wouldn’t be any bad smells either. I hate to say it, but Hamid smelled strongly of sweat. It wasn’t like him; usually he was very clean. With the ritual ablutions we performed several times a day, it was really hard to be dirty. Whatever the truth, we remained side by side for a good part of the night. After dawn prayers, blankets were brought and we collapsed on the mats, exhausted, half dead.

I didn’t dream at all.

16

WE AWOKE AT ten the next day. Abu Zoubeir had dark rings round his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Emir Zaid had shaved off his beard during the night and appeared instantly younger. I hardly recognized him. He looked like a schoolboy handing his satchel to the master. They went off together to the back of the room and conferred in hushed tones for a while. They seemed preoccupied. Nouceir and the Oubaida brothers arrived later, having swapped their white gandouras for modern clothes: striped trousers and blue jackets, which made them look like triplets. They too had shaved and cut their hair. Blackie whistled when he saw them and we all laughed briefly. Nabil and Fuad were on their feet, still drowsy. Hamid seemed calmer than the night before. He tapped me on the shoulder and I was glad we were together again. We all had breakfast in the garage: bread, olive oil, and mint tea, with the right amount of sugar. He didn’t say Yemma’s name but we were both thinking about her. I wasn’t very hungry and only ate out of greed, thinking that this was my last meal. Never had food tasted so good. A few rays of sun filtered through the tiny window over the door. It was going to be a beautiful day. A soothing voice chanted selected verses from the Koran, on cassette. We listened in silence. Every time the Prophet’s name was uttered, murmurs of “Peace and salutations be upon Him” filled the room. In truth, our attention was more focused on our individual itineraries. All six of us would be going to the Genna Inn hotel, but in two groups. Fuad, Nabil, and me first, then Khalil, Blackie, and Hamid. Emir Zaid and his companions were set to leave the city on another mission. We washed and said a communal prayer, led by Abu Zoubeir. We were in a hurry to join the angels who’d be waiting for us once we’d taken the great leap, who’d look after us and lead us to God. Abu Zoubeir reminded us we should never stop saying our prayers, as Satan would attempt to save the godless using every trick in the book. His guile knew no bounds. He’d breathe doubt in our minds, he’d do anything to break our resolve. We were waging war in the name of God. We were His soldiers. The hour of Jihad was upon us. He congratulated us on being chosen by the Lord to carry out His will. He said there was no reason to fear the enemies of Islam, we had our fates and theirs at the end of a string. We need only to pull on it to dispatch them to hell. Allah is great! Allah is great!

We left the garage in small groups to go to the training room. The harsh sunlight blinded us and it took us a while to get used to the tumult of the street with all its colors. A man on a bike, with a little black boy riding sidesaddle on the bar, crashed into Khalil. The boy fell off and blood began streaming from his ear. Khalil did not react, he apologized, though it was the cyclist’s fault. Under normal circumstances, the incident would have degenerated into a brawl, with the whole neighborhood weighing in. Khalil helped the stunned kid get to his feet and handed him back to his father, who immediately went on his way. The dump was crawling with people, as usual. Above the deafening drone of the garbage trucks, Oum Kalthoum’s haunting voice wailing from shop to shop, the everyday arguments, and the dogs barking, you could still hear the Koran, which some lost blind men were reciting to move people to pity. They’d picked the wrong part of town to beg in and were walking in single file, holding on to each other’s djellabas. The leader had a stick, which he was waving wildly in the air because kids were pestering him. I glanced at Hamid, who smiled at me. We’d done the same at their age. But now he shouted to scare off the little rascals. To my surprise, I found myself reciting the sura along with the blind men.

We passed near Omar the coalman’s shop. Blackie stopped for a moment to kiss his father’s head. The old man accepted his apologies and said that he could come back home; his mother was unhappy. “God willing!” he replied, but we knew that God had other plans for us. As for me, I was longing to go and see Yemma, to kiss her hands and feet, with that secret paradise beneath them. I’d have loved to spend a few moments with my father, whom I barely knew. I’d have hugged him, for the first and last time. Said would have bored me to tears, criticizing the Americans’ iniquitous policies and their shameful United Nations veto, and I’d have pretended to understand world affairs. And while I was at it, why not drop in on Douar Scouila? I missed Ghizlane terribly. I’d have liked to take her in my arms and say how sorry I was for abandoning her. Sorry for the mute promises my eyes had made, for the vows my mouth had not spoken, which she’d understood all the same. Sorry for letting her brother get mixed up in this venture, when we could have done without his services. Six martyrs for just one place was too many. One would have been enough. But there had to be explosions in different parts of the hotel and at fifteen-minute intervals, to cause maximum damage. In any case, we’d had no say in the matter. The master’s decisions were final, because he had them from God. I’m sure Ghizlane would have been glad to see me. She’d have prattled away and that would have made me happy. She’d have ridiculed my pretentious outbursts and I’d have kept on asking her forgiveness, on my knees, for everything I hadn’t given her because the good Lord had laid claim to my flesh and blood. I’d have stolen one last kiss and trembled all over again. I’d have told her everything that was making my heart heavy, everything I hadn’t been able to say, since the mutinous words wouldn’t obey me: “I will love you forever, but I’m going, my love, I have no choice. How long must we put up with the humiliation and contempt, living like rats in Sidi Moumen? You see, it’s all decided, I’m going to die. I will take revenge on those people who plundered your childhood and trampled your dreams in the dirt. I will make them pay an eye for an eye for the years of slavery they have made us endure. They will suffer as we have suffered. All those traitors who buried their heads in the sand, I’ll yank them up and slit their throats as if they were sheep. Let their children cry the way we have cried. I am going, my love, but promise me you’ll go on with your embroidery. You have a gift. I am sure that one day it will be recognized and you’ll be able to make a decent living from your art. I know you’re looking after Mi-Lalla, but you need to think of yourself, too. She’s right, make sure you have a trousseau, because one day, a boy will come and ask for your hand. You must be ready. You’ll make a go of it, as ever. Promise me you’ll be happy, because you deserve to be. I don’t want any harm to come to you. Anyway, you must know I’ll always be with you. Even when I’m kissing the houris (now, don’t be jealous!), I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll drink all the elixirs of paradise to your health. And I’ll wait for you, because sooner or later we all die. I’m doing it early, for the cause, but there’s no hurry for you. You can take your time, have children, watch them grow up. You’ll give them the love you never had. I don’t want them to live in Sidi Moumen, because there’s no hope there. Satan’s acolytes have crushed it. If you have a boy, call him Yachine. He’s the best goalkeeper the world’s ever known. That will bring him luck. I will wait for you in paradise, I swear. Then we’ll be able to love each other and kiss, like we did the other night in the darkness, near your house. It felt so good, kissing you.” I stopped my reverie there, as we weren’t far from the training room.