Für Marlene

This evening was unusually dark. Rasul waited by the Debourg Metro Station, a gritty district near the industrial zone—unpleasant, but tolerable. As the newcomer standing beneath the flickering streetlight, he needed to prove his worth. The shadows triggered memories of Karelia, where he had been stationed. He faced two options: renew his contract as a ’kontraktnik’ in the Russian military and risk dying in a border conflict for an empty slogan or escape to Europe to build a life of his own. The military paid well, true, but it demanded a life devoted to Russia and offered a death that signified nothing.

“Comrade Rasul knows the system,” he used to tell himself. An army friend from Moscow had always rambled about Marbella or Monaco—places where money flowed, where a man could live without limits, here today and somewhere else tomorrow. Being a puppet in a uniform was not his dream. “Ten million euros,” the friend would say. “That’s what it takes to step outside the system.”

Rasul didn’t need ten million. He required two hundred and fifty thousand. Just for a while, he promised himself. Selling drugs for one year. One year of dealing. One year of dirty money to build a lifetime of clean business.

The money would be well spent: he would open a shashlik chain in France, expand it, and eventually franchise the brand. Then, he would enjoy life in Marbella or Dubai. ’Shashlikov’—a name people could actually spell. He imagined his idea of a ‘business shashlik’—pre-prepared yet juicy, without the stench of burnt coal and grease. The office crowd loved shashlik, but they avoided smoky street grills and greasy train station stands. If he could have them pre‑prepared but still juicy, then he could sell them even in those high-end vending machines they install in every office. Eight euros per snack, two skewers, perfectly fresh. Thanks to his grandma’s recipe, he would be the only one who could pull it off. Nobody knew the recipe. A business plan estimated he required exactly 250,000 euros to launch his dream. And Kadik promised he could make that exact amount in a single year of dealing.

He had promised Kadik a year of labor out of gratitude—a repayment for smuggling him into Europe and securing his residence permit. Kadik’s connection was a man named Shamil. Shamil claimed to be Dagestani, though rumors whispered he was actually of Armenian descent, his family having lived in Dagestan generations ago. Though, Shamil’s family had settled in France for nearly a century, he retained deep ties with Dagestan; he knew a lot of people in the French government, and they all owed him. He used his manufactured heritage and connections to bond with newly arrived Dagestanis like Rasul; he would help them to obtain documents and a place to live; building a loyal crew to safeguard his operation. Without them, the Algerians would easily push him aside and seize the territory.

At this moment, memories of his grandmother came to mind; the recipe was her biggest secret and the source of envy for all the women in the village. Nobody could make the shashliks the way she could. He took care of her until her passing. She would have been proud had he continued in the Russian army, like her father and her husband—decorated heroes of Stalingrad and Kursk.

He remembered how they sat down in the cold winters. She made him a cup of hot tea. He remembered how she used to recount her life over a cup of tea, a wise woman with endless stories to tell. His grandmother would never condone this occupation; it was haram. The imam disapproved of his plans as well, but he always thought about where his family still was. For three generations, his people had bled for the Russian army, and yet they were still in Aksay. A young Avar would never be allowed to become more than that in Russia.

He thought about her while he looked briefly into the sky. “I want more; please forgive me, and please beg Allah to forgive me.”

He was dropped off by the patisserie; down the road stood the former Gerland Stadium. The driver had told him earlier that most customers were prostitutes, and here and there was a client who wanted to get high before seeing a prostitute. And if someone approached him and wanted something, then he should phone Kadik.

Fear was pointless; the truce with the Algerians was settled, and his pockets were empty in case the police frisked him. His only lifeline was a cheap burner phone with a prepaid SIM card, meant solely for calling Kadik. Kadik would then notify another guy, who sat in the so-called bunker; this guy would hand out the drugs, and another guy would pick it up and hand it over to the customer at another spot, further down Rue Challemel - Lacour. Later, he would get his share from every sale he generated. This was his world now.

He scanned the well-lit street. The patisserie sat just steps from the metro entrance, offering a quick, inconspicuous escape route if trouble flared. Across the asphalt, a kebab shop served as a hangout for local sex workers; Kadik had assured him they would seek Rasul out whenever they needed a fix; they knew he was there. His instructions were simple: sit in the patisserie, drink coffee, and blend in. The baker knew the arrangement but kept his mouth shut to avoid any trouble.

On the surface, the area looked neat compared to South Russia, the only place he knew — well, that was not difficult — nevertheless, one could feel that not all was right. Further down, the sprawling industrial sector filled with caravans after dark. When local sporting events let out, men flocked to the trailers to blow off steam. Word spread among the prostitutes, and now it was the red-light district for the poor, and the girls endured it; by numbing themselves with his product.

Rasul stood outside now. At first, he sat down inside and drank a coffee, but later he decided to go out onto the street and wait there. He lit one cigarette after another, waiting anxiously for his first sale; two hours passed, and nothing happened. Then someone approached. He wore a hoodie of Olympique Marseille and had a sports bag slung over his shoulder. With his shaved head and broad shoulders, he looked like a nightclub bouncer. He didn’t look like a typical customer. Rasul wondered if it was the guy who sat for hours in the kebab shop with this other man. He was worried and hoped that they were not looking for trouble.

But the guy smiled warmly. He put a cigarette in his mouth and jerked his chin toward him. Rasul felt relieved; the other guy looked for a lighter. He figured the man must have seen him smoking before.

The guy asked him politely,

“Brother, do you have a lighter?”

Rasul answered,

“Yes, of course, my brother, here you go.”

“Alhamdulillah!”

the other guy said.

Rasul reached for his lighter when he suddenly felt a punch; it knocked him down on the ground instantly. More kicks followed; he tried to cover his face. The attacker hurled insults at him. “You fucking Caucasian Mountain ape, tell Shamil he pays or we split his…”

Rasul noticed a shadowy figure approaching from the back and a hot sting on his side. A warm substance poured onto his body— his own blood!

The two attackers argued with each other. One roared,

“You moron, he should only be beaten up as a warning to Shamil, not stabbed. I already had him down.”

“Yeah, sorry, I thought you needed help,” the stabber replied.

Rasul tried to stand up, but he could not. People stopped and stared. A woman shouted hysterically, “What did you do? What did you do?”

Rasul was fainting; every heartbeat appeared to drain a little more of his life.

“Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” the woman continued.

In panic, one of the guys yelled.

“Run. Fuck!”

Rasul fell unconscious.

Rasul’s driver waited nearby, his engine idling. At the sound of the commotion, he rushed toward the noise. He recognized one of them from previous encounters.

“Those fucking Algerians,”

he muttered,

“They never stick to the deal.”

He drew his weapon and opened fire.

The sharp sound of the gunshots shattered the street’s silence, the echoes bouncing off the narrow facades.

His targets collapsed as panic erupted; the street cleared in an instant as bystanders scrambled for cover. The driver fumbled for his phone and dialed Kadik.

“Kadik, Kadik, I believe I shot two Algerians.”

“Not on the phone! Check first and tell me later what the case is, hurry, hurry, before the police arrive.”

The driver rushed over to check Rasul first. Rasul lay in a widening pool of blood, entirely motionless. The driver assumed that Rasul had died. He then sprinted toward the other men a further twenty meters down the street. The bullets had struck both men in the back of the head. The blood was still pouring. There were no doubts left—they were both dead.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, approaching fast; making a split-second decision, the driver left Rasul behind.

He sprinted toward his white Peugeot 508. His tires squealed. The engine roared, and he sped away.

Meanwhile, Kadik waited, pacing nervously. He could not afford a turf war; it was a problem, and the people he knew took problems seriously. He needed to report to Shamil; he was sure the incident would not please Telikov, but these thoughts must be put aside.

The first thing he needed to do was to find out what happened.

The moment the driver burst through the door, Kadik cornered him.

“What happened?”

The driver gasped, his chest heaving as his heart pounded violently against his chest.

“I don’t know —it all happened so fast. I stayed close to his place-you know, I have a girl there.”

Kadik’s patience snapped. “Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. I don’t want to hear your life story.”

The driver swallowed hard.

“All right then. I do not know, I heard sudden screams and there was Rasul—he was covered in blood, man! And then I looked further and saw these guys. They tried to escape. I knew them; they were with this Hamid, this prick.”

Kadik went pale.

“You fucking idiot, one of them is the brother of a police officer!”

“What?”

Kadik felt the room spin.

“Oh no, fuck no. Shamil made the deal with the police!”

A nervous twitch ran through his arm.

“You shot these bastards!”

The driver began to shake; this would infuriate Shamil. And whenever Shamil grew angry, Telikov’s wrath was never far behind.