"They're here. Leave me alone."
Could be seen the tree of life, the saffron, the flower of joy and happiness, beside a marijuana plant, offering eternal sleep…
Kudseyi could have examined this masterpiece for hours. It seemed to sum up his world of war, drugs and power. He also loved the mystery contained in the stitch of its wool, which had always intrigued him. Once again he asked himself the question: "Where is the triangle? Where is fortune?"
First, he admired the metamorphosis.
That buxom girl had turned into a slender brunette, in the modern style of femininity-small breasts and narrow hips. She was wearing a black padded coat, straight trousers of the same color and square-tipped boots. A true Parisian.
But above all he was fascinated by the transformation of her face. How many operations, how many incisions had been needed to obtain such a result? The desire to run away, to flee its own yoke, was written all over that unrecognizable face. It could also be read in the depths of her indigo eyes. Their blue gleam could barely be seen beneath her drooping eyelashes, and it pushed you away, like an intruder, an unwanted presence. Yes, behind these modified features, in those eyes he could make out the primitive hardness of his nomadic people, a wild energy born of desert winds and the burning sun.
Suddenly, he felt old, finished. A charred mummy, with lips of dust.
Remaining on his sofa, he let her approach. She had been thoroughly searched. Her clothes had been examined. Her very body had been x-rayed. Two bodyguards were now standing beside her, holding MP7s, with the security catch off, bullets in the breach. Standing slightly behind them, Azer was armed as well.
And yet, Kudseyi felt vaguely apprehensive. His warrior's instinct whispered to him that, despite her apparent fragility, this woman was still dangerous. It made him feel slightly queasy. What was in her mind? Why had she given herself up like this?
She was looking at the rug, hung on the wall behind him. He decided to speak in French, to give an even more formal nature to their meeting. "One of the oldest carpets in the world. Russian archaeologists discovered it in the middle of a block of ice, near the frontier between Siberia and Mongolia. It must be nearly two thousand years old, and is thought to have belonged to the Huns. The cross, the eagle, the ram's horns are purely masculine symbols. It was probably hung up in the clan chieftain's tent."
Sema remained silent. A mute needle.
"A carpet for men, except that it was woven by a woman, like all the kilims of Central Asia." He paused and smiled. "I often try to imagine the one who made it. A mother excluded from the world of warriors, but one who managed to impose her presence even in the tent of the great Khan."
Sema did not make the slightest movement. The bodyguards drew closer.
"At that time, the weaver always concealed a triangle among the other patterns, to protect her rug from the evil eye. I like that idea. Patiently, a woman would produce a virile design, full of warlike symbols, while somewhere, on the border, amid a frieze, she would slip in a maternal touch. Can you see where the triangular charm is on this rug?"
Not a word, not a gesture from Sema.
He grabbed the carafe of ayran, slowly filled a glass, then drank it even more slowly.
"You can't see it?" he said at last. "Never mind. This story reminds me of yours, Sema. A woman hidden in a world of men, concealing an object that concerns us all. An object that should bring us good fortune and prosperity"
His voice faded away with these words, then he suddenly yelled violently, "Where's the triangle, Sema? Where's my heroin?"
No reaction. The words ran off her like drops of rain. He was not even sure if she was listening to him.
But then she suddenly said, "I don't know"
He smiled again. So she wanted to negotiate.
But she went on, "I was arrested in France. The police brainwashed me, gave some special mental conditioning. I can't remember my past. I don't know where the dope is. I don't even know who I am."
Kudseyi looked over at Azer. He, too, seemed amazed.
"Do you think I'm going to believe such as ridiculous story?" he asked.
"The treatment was a long one," she continued calmly "It's a method of psychic suggestion, using a radioactive product. Most of the people involved in the experiment are now either dead or in prison. You can check if you want. It's been all over the French newspapers these last few days."
Kudseyi weighed up these facts suspiciously. "So did the police get hold of the heroin?"
"They didn't even know that I had a consignment of dope.”
“What?"
"They didn't know who I was. They chose me because they found me in a state of shock, in Gurdilek's baths after Azer's raid. They finished off the task of removing my memory without knowing my secret."
"For someone with no memory, you seem to know a lot."
"I've been investigating myself."
"How did you find out Azer's name?"
Sema smiled, as rapidly as a camera's shutter could snap a picture. "Everyone knows it. Just read the Paris press."
Kudseyi remained silent. He could have asked further questions, but his mind was now made up. His long life had convinced him of an unbreakable law: the more the facts seemed absurd, the greater the chance they were true. But he still did not understand her attitude.
"Why have you come back?"
"I wanted to announce the death of Sema. She died with my memories." Kudseyi burst out laughing. And you think I'm going to let you go like that?"
"I don't think anything. I'm another person. I don't want to keep running because of the woman I no longer am."
He stood up and took a few steps. Waving his stick at her, he said, "If you've come back empty-handed, then you really must have lost your memory"
"There's no guilty party anymore. So there's no punishment."
A strange warmth entered his veins. Incredibly, he was tempted to pardon her. This was a possible conclusion. Perhaps the most original, most refined one… just let this new creature fly away, take wing… forget about it all… But he then stared straight into her eyes and said, "You have no face. You have no past. You have no name. You have become a sort of abstract being, that is true. But you have kept your ability to suffer. We will cleanse our honor in the stream of your suffering. We will -"
Ismail Kudseyi was struck dumb. The woman was stretching her hands toward him, palms uppermost.
Each of them was covered by a henna design. A wolf, howling below four moons. It was a rallying sign. The symbol used by the members of the new movement. He himself had added the fourth moon, symbolizing the Golden Crescent, to the three on the Ottoman flag.
Kudseyi dropped his stick, pointed at Sema and yelled, "She knows.
She knows!"
She seized this moment of stupor. She leapt behind one of the guards, grabbing him brutally. Her hand closed on the man's fingers, which were on the trigger of the MP7, sending a hail of bullets toward the dais.
Ismail Kudseyi felt himself take off from the ground, before being pushed to the foot of the sofa by the second guard. He rolled over and saw his protector spin in an explosion of blood while his gun fired in all directions, blasting the chests into a thousand splinters. Sparks shot up like electric arcs while the ceiling filled with clouds of plaster. The first man, who was being used by Sema as a shield, collapsed at the very moment she pulled his gun from his hand.
Kudseyi could no longer see Azer.
She dived toward the chests and overturned them for protection. At that moment, two other men burst into the room. No sooner had they arrived than they were hit-the dull, isolated sound of Sema's pistol punctuated the rattle of uncontrolled automatic weapons.
Kudseyi tried to slip behind the sofa, but he could not move-the orders from his brain were no longer being relayed to his body. He was paralyzed on the floor, inert. A signal rang though his being. He had been hit.