Revolution

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “You ready to go again?” he asks me, looking around. “It’s just the two of us. Everyone else split.”

  I nod and we start a second set. Some Nirvana. Another John Butler tune. “Fearless” by the Floyd. “Beautiful” by G. Love. Virgil does most of the singing. I join in here and there. I’m not as good as Khadija, my voice is too raw, but it works okay on these songs. We do a very unplugged version of “Breaking the Girl” and “Snow,” and then I need a break again because my voice is getting raggedy but Virgil says he wants to do one more by the Chili Peppers. All I have to do is play. He’ll sing.

  He plays a few notes. I know the song. Really well. And I don’t want to play it. So I don’t. I stop. But Virgil doesn’t. He keeps playing. For the first time since he kissed me he’s really looking at me. And he keeps looking at me as he sings the lyrics.

  “My friend is so depressed

  I feel the question of her loneliness

  Confide… ’cause I’ll be on your side

  You know I will, you know I will.”

  And it’s me who looks away, because he cares, even now, even after I sent him away and thought the worst about him. It’s more than I deserve and I don’t want him to see my eyes fill with tears as he sings: “Imagine me, taught by tragedy. Release is peace.”

  He plays it gorgeously and cheers go up when he finishes. He nods and puts his guitar down. He’s looking at me again when the noise dies down.

  “You didn’t say nice,” he says.

  “Sorry. It was. You played it really well.”

  “You know what I mean. When I said I saved your life and you owed me, you said twice, not nice.”

  I don’t say anything now.

  “What were you doing at the tower?”

  I want to lie. But when I look in his eyes, I can’t.

  “I knew it,” he says, his voice low and hard. “Damn it. Damn you. Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say angrily. But I’m not angry. I’m scared. I’m terrified.

  “Too bad. I said you owe me and I meant it. You owe me an explanation.”

  I haven’t touched the wine someone poured for me. I pick it up now and knock it back.

  “You should talk about it. You need to talk about it. Whatever it is, it’s killing you. For real.”

  “I did talk about it. To the police. And my parents. That’s all the talking I need to do.”

  “You haven’t told me.”

  “Wait, tell me again … who the hell are you?”

  He shakes his head and looks away. He’s going to leave now. Of course he is. Isn’t that what I want? But he doesn’t. He takes my hand in his and holds it and says nothing. We just sit there. Together. It feels stupid and awkward and I don’t know why he’s doing it until suddenly I do. He’s going to wait for me to tell him and he won’t let go until I do.

  I wonder, again, how I could ever tell him. I can’t. I just can’t.

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hand feels strong and steady. It feels like a last chance.

  “My brother died,” I say suddenly, in a broken voice. “He was killed. Two years ago. It was all my fault.”

  65

  “My brother’s name was Truman and he was on his way to school. He was walking past this crappy welfare hotel, the Charles. It was about to be made into condos but tenants still lived in it. Poor families, old people, and a guy named Max. He was skinny with bad teeth. He wore beat-up suits and bow ties. He would sit outside the place on an old lawn chair.

  “Truman and I went to the same school. I was supposed to walk him there every morning. On the first day of school that year, Max appeared. He’d just been dumped at the Charles by the city. He saw us and hauled himself over to us, getting in our faces. ‘Maximilien R. Peters! Incorruptible, ineluctable, and indestructible!’ he yelled. ‘It’s time to start the revolution, baby!’ I grabbed Truman’s hand and pulled him away. ‘Won’t talk? What’s the matter? Think you’re royalty living in your brownstone castles?’ he said.

  “Truman was afraid of him, but he stood his ground. ‘Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard,’ he said. It stopped Max in his tracks. Then Truman introduced himself. He held out his hand. Max took it. Then he growled at Truman. He screwed up his face and growled like a dog. Truman winced but he didn’t budge. Max burst out laughing. From that day on, he called Truman Prince Valiant.

  “We saw Max almost every day. Usually he was yelling about the revolution he was going to start, telling everyone to kill the rich and give the city back to the people. He ranted about the mayor, the housing commission, and Donald Trump. Someone said he used to be a lawyer, a public defender. Everyone said he was harmless and that he’d be gone soon anyway. The city was going to rehouse the Charles’ tenants so the developers could get started.

  “But Max wasn’t harmless. He was a schizophrenic. He was out of his mind the day the police came to evict him. It was in December. We were on our way to school. I was supposed to walk all the way with Truman, but I bumped into this guy I liked. His name was Nick. He said he was starting a band and he wanted me to be in it. He was smoking a blunt. Said he’d taken some pills and that he had more at home. He wanted me to come over. So I said I would and then I told Truman to go on alone. It was only a few more blocks to the school. He knew the way. Truman didn’t like Nick; I could tell. He didn’t trust him. And it pissed me off because deep down, I didn’t either. ‘Andi, come on,’ he said. ‘Just go, Tru,’ I said. ‘I’ll watch you walk down Henry. You’ll be fine.’ He waved goodbye. And I waved back. I … I waved goodbye to him. I—”

  I have to stop here. And bury my head in my arms. Virgil says nothing. He just waits until I can speak again. After a few minutes, I lift up my head, wipe my face, and continue.

  “We decided to cut all our morning classes, me and Nick,” I say. “We’d just turned off Henry Street onto his street—Pineapple—when he said he was hungry. There’s a little deli just past the corner. He went in and I waited outside for him. He never called afterward. Never once in the whole month I was out of school. The next time I saw him, he was on the Promenade. Sitting on a bench with a girl on his lap. He didn’t remember. Not a thing. He gave me a hug, told me he’d heard what happened, said he was so sad. He’d been stoned out of his mind the whole time.

  “I read the police report afterward. It said that Truman had walked past the Charles. He’d seen the police. He must have. There were plenty of them. He didn’t know enough to cross the street. To get out of there. The cops were evicting tenants who’d refused to leave. The police report said it was a bad scene. An old lady was crying. She had all her things in two D’Agostino’s bags. She said she’d lived there for the past twenty years and didn’t want to leave. A mother was yelling in Spanish that she wasn’t going into a city shelter with five kids. Max was yelling, too. He was on the sidewalk arguing with the cops.

  “Some woman walked by just then. She was wearing a fur coat and a lot of jewelry and eating a muffin. It set Max off. ‘Still eating cake?’ he shouted at her. She got scared and dropped her muffin. He picked it up and threw it at her. ‘We’ve got no cake! No bread. No nothing. Don’t you understand that? All we’ve got is rats and bugs and cold water. You’re going to take that from us, too?’

  “A cop grabbed him and told him he was done. That’s when Truman walked by. Just as the police told Max to go get his things. But Max wouldn’t go. He yelled. He shoved one of the cops. The cop tried to arrest him and that’s when Max snapped.

  “He grabbed Truman. Then he pulled a knife out of his pocket and held it to his throat. He dragged my brother down the sidewalk, yelling at the police to back off. They did and Max started making demands. Some were semirational—like stopping the eviction. Some weren’t—like giving Manhattan back to the Indians. More police came. They tried to calm Max. They asked him to let Truman go. Max said no. He said he was going to take the prince away. He would teach him. Someone needed to learn how to r
ule the world right.

  “I was still outside the store and I heard the sirens. I walked back to Henry Street to see what was going on. I saw my brother in Max’s arms and I started screaming and running toward them. Truman was crying. When he saw me, he tried to break loose. He struggled with Max and the knife Max was holding cut him. Not badly, but enough to draw blood. A rookie officer freaked. He drew his gun. Max saw him. He panicked and bolted into the street with Truman. The guy in the delivery van was arguing with his dispatcher. He never saw them. He only knew he’d hit them when he heard the thump. When he saw what he’d done, he collapsed. My mother collapsed, too, when the detectives came to the house to tell her. I was there. The police brought me home afterward. My father was there, too. He hadn’t left for work yet. All he could do, at first, was shout ‘Where were you?’ at me. He apologized later, but I told him he didn’t have to. I mean, he was right. Where was I? Where the fuck was I?”

  I stop talking and pound my palms against my forehead.

  “Hey … stop,” Virgil says, pulling my hands away.

  I shake my head. “I see him all the time, Virgil. I see him waving goodbye to me. Not wanting to but doing it anyway because I told him to. I see him in Max’s arms. He was so afraid. He was reaching for me. If only I’d gone with him. If I hadn’t seen Nick and cut class. If I’d—”

  “All the ifs don’t matter. Max killed your brother.”

  “If only I’d—”

  “Andi, did you hear what I said? Max killed him. Not you. He killed your brother two years ago. Now he’s killing you. Don’t let him do it.”

  “I don’t know how not to,” I say helplessly. “I keep trying to find an answer—with a shrink, with my drugs, but I never do. It used to be that my music kept me going, but I’m even past that now. I feel like it’s too late for me. Like stepping off the Eiffel Tower would only have been a formality. Like I’m already dead.”

  He’s about to say something when somebody tosses a bone across the room. It nearly hits him in the head. He swears at the guy. “No wonder,” he says. “Pack your stuff, we’re getting out of here. I’ll tell the others. It might take me a minute to find them all, so sit tight. I’ll come back for you.”

  He takes off and I put my guitar in its case. A call goes up for more music. Someone sparks up the iPod again. People start dancing. It’s turning into a rave. Pills are being passed around. A guy hands a joint to me but I decline. I’m already sorry I drank that wine. It’s fighting with the Qwell, making me feel really whacked out.

  I wish Virgil would come back. Now. I look around for him, but don’t see him anywhere. I pack up his stuff, too, so we can get out of here faster. I put his guitar back into his case, fold up his map and stuff it into my bag. I look at my watch. The numbers blur, which freaks me out a bit. When they come back into focus, I see that it’s nearly midnight. Constantine walks by. I’m just about to ask him if he’s seen Virgil, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  66

  It’s not Virgil.

  It’s the goth, the hot one. He’s looking down at me and the feeling that I know him is so strong, it’s scary. He has dark eyes, high cheekbones, thick brown hair tied back in a ponytail. His face is powdered a ghostly white, his lips are rouged, and he has a black beauty mark pasted on his cheek. He’s wearing these funky pants that end at his knees, a ruffled shirt that’s open at the throat, a long silk vest, and a red ribbon tied around his neck. It’s too weird.

  “What is that music?” he asks me, nodding at the iPod.

  “I don’t know. Some house mix,” I say.

  “But what is that which makes the music?” he asks.

  “Um … an iPod?”

  “I have never seen such a thing.”

  “Yeah? Well … don’t know what to tell you. Maybe it’s a new model,” I say.

  He sits down next to me, runs his hand over my guitar case and says, “I enjoyed your playing. Very much. And your instrument has a lovely sound. Who made it?”

  “It’s a Gibson.”

  “May I?” he asks, pointing at the case.

  I take the guitar out and hand it to him. He inspects it. “How unusual,” he says. “The body is a good deal bigger than most I have seen. Italian?”

  “Dude, it’s a Gibson. It’s American,” I say, getting kind of annoyed with him and his schtick.

  “The Americas,” he says. “I did not know there were good luthiers working there. Perhaps it is a more civilized place than one is led to believe.”

  “I guess. Do you want to play it or what?”

  He nods, then plays a piece by Lully. I can barely hear him over the din but what I can hear is beautiful. He’s an amazing player. No, actually, he’s astonishing.

  “It is a worthy instrument,” he says when he finishes, putting it back in its case. “I write music, too,” he says. “Or rather, I did.”

  His eyes flicker to the red ribbon on my neck. “I did not know you were one of us. I did not see you at the widow Beauharnais’ ball. Or any of the balls,” he says. “Who is your family?”

  “What’s that to you?” I say testily. I’m starting to feel dizzy. It was a mistake to drink that wine, a big one. I want Virgil to come back. I want to get out of here.

  “Be not afraid. Your secret is safe with me. My friends … you see them there? Stéphane, Francois, Henri … they all just barely escaped.” He touches the ribbon gently. “You wear the red ribbon, do you not? Do we not all wear it?” he says, gesturing at his friends. “Have we not all suffered? Who have you lost?”

  My fingers wrap around Truman’s key. How does he know I lost someone? “My brother,” I say.

  He nods. His eyes are sad. “You have my condolences, Monsieur.”

  Monsieur? He thinks I’m a guy? What the hell? I’m about to tell him I’m not when he says, “Who are the others at this Victims’ Ball? I recognize none of them.”

  Victims’ Ball? The weirdness is suddenly getting a whole lot weirder. I remember the term Victims’ Ball from my visit to the catacombs. Aristocrats who lost family members to the guillotine during the Terror held them after the fall of Robespierre.

  “Is this a history class project?” I ask him. “Like a reenactment or something?”

  It’s his turn to look confused. He’s about to say something to me when his words are cut off.

  “Run!” someone shouts. “It’s the cops!”

  67

  People are swearing and shouting and burying their pot and their pills and running everywhere and knocking candles over. I can barely see. A guy leaps over me. I get hit in the head by someone’s bag. Two spelunkers tear past me, headlamps blazing.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my guitar, and scramble to my feet. As I do, a girl crashes into me and nearly knocks me over. I want to run but I don’t know where.

  “Virgil!” I shout.

  “Andi! Where are you?”

  “I’m here! Over here!”

  I can’t see him. A fresh wave of dizziness washes over me, so strong and sickening that I think I’m going to puke. There’s the sound of a bullhorn. The police are telling us to stay put and not to panic. Which makes everyone panic. I feel someone pulling on my arm.

  “Leave him!” a voice calls out.

  “I cannot! He’s one of us!” the goth guy shouts back. “Come! Hurry! You cannot be found here. None of us can,” he says to me. He pulls me along with him down a tunnel. I’m tripping over my feet. Twisting and turning, trying to break free. I don’t want to go with him. I want to find Virgil. Finally I get loose.

  “Virgil? Where are you?” I shout. I can’t see him. I can’t see anything because it’s pitch black down here without the candles. The only light now is coming from the beams of police flashlights. It blurs as I look at it, seems to hum and pulse. I remember that I’ve got a flashlight, too. I fish it out of my bag and turn it on. Now I can see. I see a policeman. And he sees me. He starts walking toward me.

  I really don’t want to call
my father from a Paris police station. Especially not in the state I’m in. I start running for the tunnel. I can see the entrance to it in the glare of the flashlight beam. I’m off balance. It takes all I’ve got to make my feet work right. The tunnel forks. I go left. I hear the police still behind me. I take another left, running as fast as I can. Stumbling. Nearly falling. After a few seconds, I see a faint glow up ahead of what looks like the white of somebody’s shirt. It’s the goths, I think. I hope.

  I call out to them and run faster. And then my foot catches on something and I’m airborne. I come down hard. I’m lying on the ground. My head’s throbbing. Something warm and wet is trickling down my cheek. I’m so dizzy I feel like I’m going to die. I close my eyes, trying desperately to make the spinning stop, then open them again. I’ve never seen such darkness. Or heard such silence. There are no more voices. No more lights.

  For a second I wonder if I’m asleep or passed out or dead.

  I can’t be those things. If I was, my head wouldn’t hurt so much. I am alone, though. Deep under Paris in the catacombs. In the dark. With several million dead people all around me. And no idea how to get out.

  I scramble to my knees and feel around for my flashlight. My hands travel over dirt and bones and I nearly sob with joy when I find it. It went out, but I give it a shake and it comes back on. I pick up my guitar case, and start off after the goths. I have to find them. They’re my only way out. I hope like mad that there are no more forks in the tunnel. No wrong turns to take. After a few minutes, by some miracle, I spot them. They’re up ahead of me. Moving slowly.

  “Hey!” I shout in French. “Yo, wait up!”

  They stop and as I catch up to them, I see why they’re going so slowly. They don’t have a flashlight. They have a candle.

  “Enough already,” I say, handing the hot one the flashlight. “Get us out of here.”

  But he doesn’t move. Instead he plays with the flashlight. He shines it up on the ceiling and all over the walls. He shines it in his face. His friend takes it. Turns it upside down. Shakes it. Accidentally turns it off. Asks me to light it again.