Mazarine Read online

  ‘Yes, I’ve always thought so.’

  She twirled her fork in her fingers, studied my face. ‘I think they were in Paris together more than once. My impression is that when Joe last met Mikail, Maya was there too.’

  ‘Do you think Mikail has been involved in protests?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Or riots?’ I asked. I felt she was weighing up what to say about her elder son, that there was something more.

  She sat back, gave me a hard look. ‘I took a trip to Europe last year. Mikail didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘His father told me Mikail had become very political and angry.’

  ‘Radicalised?’

  She let out a long breath. ‘That word …’

  ‘Yes, it’s an awkward word, but you’re making me worried.’

  ‘In my opinion it’s quite rational for Mikail to be political and angry. I’m occasionally quite political and angry myself. But I don’t get put on lists, stopped at airports, hassled in the street. According to my ex-husband, Mikail was angry about the way he’d been treated by authorities since he moved to Brussels, there were some incidents where he was stopped by police, and then since the terror attacks in Paris it was getting worse, a sort of vicious cycle, distrust and resentment on all sides. Mikail isn’t easy-going like Joe, he broods, gets upset. I’m just saying, don’t go to the police yet; let’s think about it first. You can’t just go off to the police and give them a whole lot of random facts, your daughter, my sons, Brussels, Paris.’

  ‘Well, sure. But you can’t tell me not to look for my daughter.’

  She didn’t reply.

  I said, ‘Is Joe angry and political?’

  She looked at me steadily. ‘No more than your daughter.’

  In the silence, I looked at the little black fleck in her eye.

  I went to the sink to fill my glass, and stood for a moment with my fingers under the stream of cold water.

  When I’d sat down again I said, ‘After the terror attack on the Charlie Hebdo magazine, when people were wearing those solidarity badges that said “Je suis Charlie”, Maya said to me, “Why not a badge that says ‘Je suis terroriste’?”’

  Mazarine raised an eyebrow.

  ‘After I’d thought about it, what she was saying seemed to me, not profound exactly but … apposite. I know her; I know how her mind works. She meant, “Why not ‘Je suis everybody’?” We humans are all in this together. The only way forward is together. Why not understand the motivation for terrorism, address the issues, work accordingly. Stop it before it happens.’

  ‘Je suis terroriste,’ Mazarine repeated.

  ‘Maya’s no different from me, from a lot of normal people, only she’s probably much cleverer than I am, more thoughtful. Like me and plenty of people, she thinks the Iraq war was disastrous, that it caused destabilisation and Isis; she regards a lot of American foreign policy as stupid and counter-productive, I mean, really, who didn’t and doesn’t, if they’ve got half a brain and an eye on history and current events?’ I paused, slightly out of breath.

  Mazarine sat without moving.

  ‘None of that means she’s in the least pro-terror or radical, she’s just sane.’ The heat had risen in my cheeks. ‘What’s changed is that people are nervous. We’re scared our children’s political ideas might be picked up by some NSA geek in a bunker in Hawaii. But we shouldn’t be. The kids haven’t done anything wrong, so I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.’ I pressed the glass to my face again.

  Silence.

  ‘Perhaps your daughter has radicalised my son.’

  Again, I couldn’t gauge her tone, whether she was serious.

  ‘Oh, come on. They’re two ordinary New Zealand kids. My daughter has a few mainstream political opinions.’

  ‘Joe isn’t political. And his religion is football.’

  I said sarcastically, ‘Your other son sounds rather more heavy-duty, though, if we’re talking about people being radicalised, which I’m not, by the way; I regard all this as irrelevant. All I want to know is that Maya’s okay.’

  My face was hot, but my whole body shivered suddenly and I felt chilled; perhaps the fever I’d experienced earlier had returned. I regretted my sharp tone; it was rude, and showed a loss of cool in the face of Mazarine’s deadpan style, which I couldn’t match, not in my current state and in my situation, which Inez would have described as a ‘pickle’.

  Mazarine folded her arms, jutted her chin, looked stubborn. ‘I really don’t think there’s anything to add. Mikail arrived in Paris from Brussels in mid-November last year, and stayed with my ex-husband.’

  ‘Right. And what about now, can I ask?’

  ‘Now he’s not there, as far as I know.’

  ‘Sorry, how do you know he’s not there?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my ex-husband may have mentioned something in emails.’

  I waited. ‘Yes, mentioned something?’

  She got up, cleared some plates, irritated. ‘Possibly that Mikail’s wife was asking for him.’

  ‘And what about Joe? Does your ex-husband know where he is?’

  She didn’t answer, only glanced away.

  ‘So, it’s not just Maya. Is that what you mean? Are you saying Mikail and Joe are missing, too?’

  EIGHT

  I was in the dark, silent hallway, taking my jacket and the dog’s leash off the hooks, when I turned to find Mazarine had come right up behind me.

  ‘Don’t go back now,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, we could go for a walk and discuss things.’

  ‘I’ll head back,’ I said, shaking my keys to summon the dog. I wanted to be alone in the motel. To my concern about Maya, Mazarine had added uncertainty — I’d envisaged seeking the help of some kind of officialdom, either here or overseas, if my girl didn’t turn up. Given the unexpected new details, the Muslim elder brother, the mention of the Brussels district that had been named as a ‘radical hotbed’, from which the brother had emerged in November last year, which was, if I recalled correctly, right after a serious terror attack in Paris, the vague suggestion that he could in some way be ‘dubious’, even though I knew Maya and Joe were as sensible and non-radical as they’d always been, along with the fact that they’d seemingly, all three, disappeared; given all that, could an inquiry on my part trigger scrutiny that might cause harm to three innocent young people? Would I be unleashing the dogs on my beloved daughter if I sought official help to find her?

  It was true, I was — perhaps many of us are these days — a little afraid of the State, and by the State I mean the internationally linked network of surveillance that’s meant to protect us but increasingly seems as much oppressor, at least potentially, as protector. We’ve been given the impression that once a person has caught the attention of the security services, of the Five Eyes, or whatever name you give to the vast, anonymous apparatus that watches us, then even if innocent, he or she will be at risk, certainly marked indefinitely.

  For all my dismissing talk, I felt anxiety, intensified by my exhausted and slightly unwell state, and my uneasiness grew as I stood in the dark hall facing Mazarine, who put a hand on my arm.

  ‘It would actually be criminal of me to let you drive.’

  Gently, she drew the keys out of my hand.

  I followed her down the hall. ‘At least you agree Maya’s missing.’ I was flustered, groping for the positive in all of this.

  ‘Although define “missing”,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘We’d better let your dog out, hadn’t we?’

  From the back doorstep, we watched the dog nose about under the fruit trees. Mazarine said in a flat, distracted tone, ‘You know, I often say to my clients, things will look more straightforward in the morning.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope,’ I said.

  After we’d aired the dog I fetched the laptop from my car and asked her if I could use her wifi.

  The password was PARIS3119.


  ‘Joe set up my internet,’ she said. ‘He knows a lot about computers.’

  She led me to a spare room, brought linen and a duvet, and made up the bed. The space was pleasant though cramped, with a bulky antique chest of drawers wedged against a large wardrobe, one wall covered by bookshelves.

  ‘All my furniture is too big for this house. Nothing fits. It will be a relief when I can sell.’

  ‘You’re selling?’

  ‘Sure. The house is relationship property. You’re lucky you found me here; I’m moving back to Auckland. This place was Jasmine’s idea: she wanted a lifestyle block, the orchard, the bees. You know what I dislike about this house? Low ceilings.’

  I looked up automatically. It wouldn’t have occurred to me.

  ‘I hate them,’ she said.

  Out the window, beyond the trees, the hills rose black against the sky, the highway lights running up them like stitching. Mazarine lowered the blind and turned on a bedside lamp. I looked at her looming shadow on the wall. I was embarrassed, dying to extract myself from her proximity and the strange house, both of which made me uneasy.

  ‘Would you like this to wear?’ She handed me an item of folded clothing, and a large, soft white towel.

  I stood in front of the bedroom mirror, looking at myself in the oversized T-shirt, not enjoying the suspicion it might belong to one of the sons. At least it was clean and smelled of soap. I could hear her moving about down the hall; she’d gone off to her bedroom carrying the large cardboard box, telling me it contained court files.

  There was nothing reassuring here; it was all so nebulous. I knew it was more rational to resist the trickle of paranoia, and yet, if the elder son Mikail had ‘disappeared’, it was hard not to worry that he’d had a reason for doing so, and if people were looking for him, for whatever purpose, they might well connect Joe and Maya with him. If they were all three missing, it was hard not to worry that they were missing together. I knew Maya and Joe were completely blameless but they were still vulnerable; after all, innocence isn’t a guarantee of safety.

  Switching off the light, I lay listening for sounds, but the bed was comfortable and warm, and I soon went into a heavy sleep, waking some hours later with my mouth dry and my mind racing.

  I reached up and pulled back the curtain. It was still dark, and I turned over to try to sleep again, but couldn’t relax, my mind repeatedly running over the same ground.

  Most likely, Maya would turn up having been on some riotous cheap holiday, and all would be well. If not, I would set in train a missing person’s inquiry, and then what would I do? Of course, it was suddenly obvious: I would go to London, conduct my own search, nag the authorities, if it came to it. I imagined myself haunting train stations, handing out flyers, trying to engage an uninterested media, whatever it took.

  The idea had been in my mind all along, I now realised: naturally I was going to look for her. Even if she turned up tomorrow, which was most likely, I would go anyway because she’d given me a scare, and I was dying to throw my arms around her and fondly tell her off in the old fashion: Are you trying to give me a heart attack? When I’d found her in London, I would simply be making her a surprise visit. If I failed to find her, I would go to Paris, Brussels, Istanbul or anywhere else where she might be.

  This was the right course of action, and there was such a momentary relief in deciding on it that I turned on the light and reached in my bag for a pen and my pocket diary. I took comfort from lists, liked to have a plan of action; it was a habit I’d developed since living alone, a substitute for discussing my next move with a partner or friend.

  As I was writing my notes, I saw I’d blown things totally out of proportion simply because I was missing her. Once I’d visited her, I would feel better and all my anxieties would evaporate.

  But after I’d jotted down my plan, along with a list of practical chores necessary for foreign travel, the most pressing of which was what to do with my poor dog, who was watching me trustingly from the rug on the floor, I was visited again by paranoia — now I was worried about the company she was keeping. Was there a risk I could do my girl harm if I let anyone know she’d disappeared — oh, and by the way, disappeared along with a couple of young Muslim men, one of whom had been described by his own father as angry and political, if not, to use the dreaded word, radicalised?

  No need to worry if she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Even if, hypothetically, my girl had done something wrong, even if she’d done something foolish or even terrible, I would do everything in my power to help, rescue or extract her. This was hypothetical when applied to Maya, because she was too sensible to do anything bad, but what about Joe? I had no idea what he was capable of. According to Mazarine, he and Maya were fond of each other, and I knew my daughter was a good, loyal friend to people she loved.

  If Joe (or the other one, Mikail) had done something wrong, Mazarine would probably feel the way I did, and would want only to protect her child. We were mothers. Given that, was it possible Mazarine knew more than she was telling? She was very negative about the idea of talking to the police; perhaps this in itself suggested she (and the Muslim ex-husband) suspected, or even knew, that something serious was going on. If it was, then no matter how good and law-abiding Maya was, she could be at risk.

  But then again, perhaps it was just her training as a criminal lawyer that made Mazarine cautious about the police.

  How many Muslim parents in the UK and Europe must be going through this, anxious about their children’s alarmingly secretive activities (yet doesn’t even the most innocent teenager delight in being alarmingly secretive), assured by all the relevant ‘anti-radicalisation’ services in the community that they can seek advice in confidence, yet knowing that as soon as they bring their child to the attention of authorities they are exposing not only the child but the whole family and community to forces that are themselves alarmingly secret, uncontrollable, relentless. It would certainly seem safer to try to correct the wayward child oneself.

  If, just possibly, Mazarine was right about the need for discretion, the alternative course was to go to London and look for Maya myself without telling anyone what I was doing, at least at first. Instead I would put it about by email, to my editor Harry, for example, to Natasha and Frank, to Inez and the Judge, that I was heading off to Europe to see Maya, and to work on my writing.

  When my girl and I were reunited, I would revert to my officially stated aim, and carry out research for the idea I’d always had: a novel set in London and Paris. A story about family connections, my own Tale of Two Cities. I had a name for it: Self State.

  Spending time abroad would defer the problem of my current house, which I never wanted to live in again, and the other question, of what to do about Nick. I should have rung the police immediately, to make my complaint plausibly soon after his break-in, but would that and a court order have any effect? I couldn’t see it meaning much to Nick. I’d never been afraid of him, but it was hard to relate my old sense of him (Maya would say my invented sense) with the man I’d discovered in her bedroom — that different Nick, with his strange eyes.

  He and I weren’t together very long. I thought we’d met before Joe had started turning up at our house, but I wasn’t sure, since Maya’s social life was conducted so much online, and I wasn’t clear when she’d met Joe.

  It made such a difference, the kids’ ability to interact with the whole world from their bedrooms. Of course I’d been aware of this contemporary phenomenon, endlessly discussed in the media and among parents, but I’d dismissed what I’d seen as scaremongering — after all, young people have been ‘up to stuff’ since time immemorial, and Maya was a good girl, and I wasn’t too worried about porn or violence, since I thought only the already-disturbed would become fixated on those, and so, because of my clearly laissez-faire attitude, now was the first time I’d had a real sense of how much hidden life was possible, and that I might possibly worry about it.

  Had Maya and Joe been in
regular contact with Mikail before the terrorist attacks in Paris and Brussels? It was perfectly possible that Joe, at least, had communicated with his brother online the whole time he’d been with Maya in Auckland. The district of Brussels where Mikail lived had been characterised in the media as a nest of vipers, the base for Belgian terrorists.

  Odd to think that the young couple could have been Skyping or Facebooking some ‘hotbed’ — well, wasn’t this what we were warned about now, that our children were being seduced in their own rooms, lured away by horrifying new bogeymen?

  To be clear, I did not, for a moment, believe that Maya would be susceptible to recruitment by foreign jihadists. She was incurably an atheist, a feminist, temperamentally and politically moderate, and had far too much of a sense of humour (that seemed an important factor) to do anything other than mock the idea roundly. It seemed unlikely she’d have got so attached to Joe if he were some kind of fanatic or ideologue.

  Of course, I wouldn’t be thinking any of this if she’d been communicating as usual. Yet again I wondered if it was my fault, whether I should have taken it upon myself to know more. But I trusted her. I didn’t want to be a spy.

  I leaned down and touched the dog, laid my hand on his softly breathing flank. If Maya and Joe were communicating with Joe’s brother, they’d never mentioned it to me.

  Lying in the strange bed, as the dawn light started to show around the edge of the blinds, I kept turning it over in my mind.

  Irreverence (as well as general sanity) would keep Maya from fanaticism, but could irreverence also tempt her into acts of rebellion or provocation that might carry some risk, especially if she’d made herself vulnerable by association?

  This was what worried me. Maya had one quality that old Inez lacked: courage.

  Before the sun came up over the hills, I spent an hour on my laptop, keying in the wifi password and searching for Maya online. I’d sent some texts and made casual online approaches to her local friends, looking for alternative email addresses or news, but received only vague answers with more emojis than words: Hi!!! No idea atm soz!!! Think she’s on holidays again LOL???