Paris had become a war zone. Almost all its inhabitants had fled, leaving only a few behind to witness the state it was now in. When ultra-violent organized groups began claiming not just streets or neighborhoods but the city itself, few remained.
In five months, what had once been the City of Light, a pinnacle of Western culture where the greatest names in cinema, music, and painting had passed through, had become nothing more than a cemetery, a place of desolation, and a den of bandits.
Amin had witnessed this dramatic fall in real time.
On that gloomy afternoon, he wandered the wide, dirty streets of the former capital, returning home empty-handed. Like all men, he had to search for food. There was nothing left to eat; even rats had become rare. After the pets and the pigeons, they had been their last prey. Their meat was as bad as the smell when cooking, but no one complained about having it on their plate.
Splash!
"Hey! Warn before throwing something out the window!"
"Go fuck yourself! Walk in the middle of the road like everyone else!"
This everyday scene partly explained the deplorable state of the street. What was done commonly at a building level was done throughout the city. People threw their trash everywhere without caring about the consequences. If there were still rats, they would be delighted.
The few thousand stubborn residents left in Paris, now nicknamed Paris the Putrid, waded through trash and excrement. That was enough to make all of Paris reek. Mosquitoes had invaded the city during the summer, and an epidemic had broken out. According to rumors, many had died from it.
The Council they had formed to govern the city, meeting almost daily at the old Notre-Dame Cathedral, converted into a mosque, had taken measures but struggled to enforce them. People did as they pleased. Some even dared to accuse the Council of being responsible for their misfortune!
To make matters worse, the unity that had prevailed among them at the beginning had shattered. Factions had formed based on country of origin rather than their pre-blackout neighborhood. Thus, Tunisians lived with Tunisians, Algerians with Algerians, and so on. More than a rivalry, a hatred had formed, fragmenting the ummah they had struggled so hard to establish in Paris.
This greatly troubled the young man, who couldn't understand the reason for this division. In his view, there was no reason to separate now. On the contrary, they had to stay united to face the army on the other side of the Seine, notably in Nanterre. Although they seemed to have given up the idea of retaking Paris, he feared it was just a ruse to lower their guard and stab them in the back.
Amin saw in the middle of an intersection a group of men beating a lone man, probably to steal the little he had. From what he could hear, the man on the ground was from Mali. He didn't know where his attackers were from, but there was no doubt they came from a Maghreb country. A feeling of shame overwhelmed him at this sight.
We should be helping each other! Watching out for one another! Stop! Stop!
This sad spectacle had become common. It could happen anywhere, anytime. That's why each group had gathered and occupied a neighborhood. Thus, those like him who lived in Le Marais did not approach Les Halles, the territory of the Moroccans.
For some unknown reason, they didn't seem to like them. He, however, had nothing against them. Before the blackout, he had many Moroccan friends. He saw them as brothers. Such disdain and hatred were therefore incomprehensible.
Everything seemed to have changed when they took over their new neighborhoods.
The residence of the Saidi family was in a beautiful building with six levels, not counting the attic. There was a very long balcony on the third level with a black wrought-iron railing. It was a true work of art, worthy in his opinion of a palace.
It was far from what he had known all his life in Saint-Denis. He loved his neighborhood, yet the towers and apartment blocks were as ugly as prisons. He doubted it was the same architect.
All the buildings in this neighborhood, like the others in central Paris, were beautiful. Naturally, they were much less so since the blackout. This one had been spared for no apparent reason, but that wasn't the case for the building opposite. Built on the same model, one could still vaguely distinguish an inscription on the facade indicating "police prefecture."
It had turned black as coal due to a gigantic fire that had been lit on the night of the third and fourth day. It had burned completely, and the roof had collapsed. Because there had been no one to extinguish the flames, the fire had spread to neighboring buildings. The entire block had burned. Out of curiosity, he had entered, but couldn't go far because of the debris. Nothing had been spared. He didn't know how it was upstairs, but he suspected there must be charred bodies.
That was long before he moved into the building opposite, so he didn't feel guilty. He had nothing to do with it. If anyone should feel guilty, it was those who had set the fire.
Amin arrived in front of his building and went up to his home. The staircase was relatively clean thanks to his father's influence. He had ordered that no one throw dirt inside or at the foot of the building. This was to avoid what happened to other buildings where other members of their community lived. Thanks to him, they didn't live in a dump.
Knock, knock.
Without even waiting for his mother's response, who must have been inside, Amin pushed the door open and took off his shoes. They were of very good quality, branded, meant to evoke the greatest American basketball players. Of course, he hadn't paid a cent for them. On the first night, he had gone out with his two brothers to take advantage of the power outage. Naturally, he hadn't suspected at that time that the electricity wouldn't come back.
All the young people his age and from his neighborhood, with few exceptions, had done the same. Everyone was now well-shod and well-dressed, but what did it matter now?
I'm so hungry…
Fatima, Amin's mother, was indeed there, cleaning the living room. She didn't have much to do other than that, as a woman, she didn't have many tasks unlike her husband who came home quite late every evening. Her role was mainly to maintain their home, which she had arranged to her taste. The apartment had become much less cold than before.
When they had discovered the place, perfectly located right in front of the Pont Notre-Dame, they had first been surprised by the size and style. There was a beautiful parquet floor, the walls were painted with light colors that went well together, and there were also very nice pieces of furniture. All the personal belongings left behind by the former owners had ended up in the street. All the photos had thus been replaced by theirs, although there weren't that many.
"Ah, Amin, I didn't hear you come in. How was it? Did you find anything?"
Fatima, dressed traditionally, had stopped working as soon as she saw her youngest son enter.
"No, nothing. I went to the docks to reach the underground, but there were people. So I went elsewhere."
"You did well, my son," Fatima replied, nodding. "People are dangerous. Even if they look like us. Even if they are Muslim and even if they are Algerian. You can only truly trust your family. By the way, do you know where your brothers are?"
"No."
Fatima, short and corpulent, had lost a lot of weight. Despite her clothes, it was impossible not to notice. He even doubted she was depriving herself so her children could have a bit more to eat. She was the opposite of her husband: tall and thin. He wasn't a handsome man, yet he wondered how he ended up with his mother. Even if she were the last woman on earth, Amin wouldn't have turned to her to start a family. In reality, neither his father nor his mother had a say. Their marriage had been arranged by their parents. Even in France, this practice existed.
Although Amin's father was very traditional, he didn't like this practice. It was the only reason explaining why Amin's brothers weren't engaged at their age. Like the French, they could freely choose their partners. Naturally, there were steps to follow, and Mohamed and Fatima Saidi had to approve of the relationship. More than an ideal, they had to be Muslim and Algerian.
Then Yousef burst into the apartment, his face covered in blood and his clothes partially torn. Out of curiosity, people had followed the young Yousef and had come to the Saidi's place in large numbers to see what was going on.
"Mom! It's Ahmed! Where's dad?!"
"Ahmed?! What happened?! Where's your brother?!"
The apartment plunged into complete chaos.
Shortly after, tragic news reached Mohamed Saidi's ears. His eldest son had been killed.
Mohamed, a man known for his calm temperament, instantly felt his blood boil. Blinded by rage, he ignored the Council and gathered several dozen people around him, including Yousef to identify those who had made the monstrous mistake of attacking his family.
However, he ordered Amin not to leave the apartment. Someone had to stay to take care of the heartbroken mother.
The wait was long and painful for Amin, his mother, and all those close to those who had gone with Mohamed Saidi. They received the first information several hours later. They learned that there had been a violent confrontation at the border of their neighborhood, a little away from the Seine, between Mohamed Saidi's men and Ayoub El Fassi, one of the most influential members of the Moroccan community. Unfortunately, blood had quickly been shed, something the Council naturally didn't want.
It was only in the early evening that the fight ended. Sadly for the Saidi family, the outcome was catastrophic. In seeking to exact revenge, Mohamed Saidi had been killed with a knife. Young men had taken great risks to bring back his bloodied body, as well as Ahmed's.
But that wasn't all. In this confrontation, young Yousef had also been killed. According to witnesses, young Yousef had insulted and provoked El Fassi's son before injuring him. In return, he had received a knife wound to the throat. Mohamed Saidi had drawn his gun and killed El Fassi's son before being shot himself, though it wasn't clear by whom.
It was too much for Fatima Saidi, who collapsed in the living room. Except for her youngest son, her entire family had been decimated. With difficulty, Amin had taken her to her room and laid her in her bed.
Later that evening, an influential man in their community, known for his great ambitions for France, came to speak with him man to man despite his young age. He talked at length, but Amin barely listened, so great was the shock. Before leaving, he gave him an object that had belonged to his father.
He wished it were a rosary or something of the sort, but what this man gave him was a 9mm pistol with a half-empty magazine. The last thing he said before disappearing into the night was that Amin was now the man of the house. He had to honor the memory of his father and brothers and continue their fight.
He didn't respond and simply accepted the shiny, heavy, cold weapon. He immediately hid it so his mother wouldn't find it. Neither now nor ever.
What should we do? What's going to happen to us? Allah, help me! I beg you, send me a sign!
While he prayed silently in the empty, dark living room, barely lit by three almost entirely melted scented candles, tears streamed down his hollow cheeks where a patchy dark beard had grown. He prayed all night until the candles had completely melted.