One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  My future wife crosses her arms over her chest; I know her well enough to realize she expects an answer. Though I’m aware that nothing I say will make me look any better in her eyes, I mumble something, hoping to assuage her anger a bit.

  “You know how much I love this band. I’ve never missed one of their concerts—”

  “Exactly! You already saw them at Rock en Seine a few years ago and at Le Trianon this summer. I don’t understand why you need to go again tonight! They’re not gods! Can’t you just put in one of their CDs and crank the volume all the way up once in a while?”

  I know that what I’m about to say won’t help, but I can’t stop myself.

  “But you agreed it was okay when I bought the tickets this summer! It wasn’t a problem then! It’s not fair to make it into a big deal the night of—”

  “Not fair?”

  Héloïse echoes my words. I can already tell I should have opted for a different approach: the penitent boyfriend who apologizes to avoid being late and promises anything to prevent the conflict from escalating.

  “Do you think it’s fair that I spend all my evenings working on the invitations, sealing envelopes, writing addresses, planning the menu, finding a caterer, making table decorations, choosing music . . . Need I go on?”

  I hunch a bit, instinctively. I need to sweet-talk her. I can see she’s about to explode.

  “I know you spend a ton of time on our wedding, and that I should help you out more often, but we still have three months left to perfect the finishing touches—”

  “Perfect the finishing touches?”

  I sigh. Apparently, I’ve said something stupid again. Think before you speak, my father used to whisper when I was younger and my mother was fuming about the dishes piling up in the sink.

  “When all I have left to do is ‘perfect the finishing touches,’ I’ll be relieved, believe me! Tonight I’m making little gift bags for the favors. I’m going to spend hours folding origami envelopes, then filling each of them with ten white candied almonds and four silver-coated chocolate drops. In other words, an awesome evening’s ahead!”

  I want to suggest that we not hand out favors to our guests, but a sudden stroke of genius dissuades me from voicing the idea to my fiancée.

  “And tomorrow night I’m going to pull out my hair over the seating chart, figuring out who to sit next to whom so that everyone’s happy. My grandparents, who can’t stand my uncle Michel; your mother, who will want to be as far as possible from your father; my cousin Ludivine, who will want to sit across from her boyfriend rather than next to him because ‘It’s easier to talk that way!’ Hours and hours of hassle, and, in the end, no one will be happy anyway. Oh, and my brother will probably switch all the place cards around secretly to play the world’s funniest practical joke on me.”

  Defeated, I sit on the couch next to Héloïse. I hate to admit it, but I get why she’s had enough of these endless preparations. That’s precisely the reason I’ve stayed out of it since the beginning, except when all I had to do was choose between two distinct options.

  “How about this: I’ll miss the opening act and just show up for the Eagles. That leaves me an hour and a half to become an expert in origami. And I’ll be home by midnight, so I can put in another hour or two then.”

  Héloïse’s shoulders relax and I hug her close.

  “As for the seating chart, I’ll take care of it. Anybody who’s unhappy can come talk to me. I don’t want you to worry about it; I don’t even want you to see it before the big day. I mean, it’ll never be good enough anyway, right?”

  She smiles and rests her head in the hollow of my neck. “Thank you,” she murmurs in a tone that is both relieved and weary.

  “As for the music, there are plenty of great songs on the most recent Eagles of Death Metal album. I’m sure they’d be perfect to play as we’re leaving the church . . .”

  Héloïse lifts her head and frowns at me, trying to decide if I’m being serious or not.

  “I guess it was too soon for a joke. Sorry.”

  She mumbles something unintelligible, and I realize I’ve gotten myself into a real mess with this seating chart stuff.

  For the next hour and a half, I watch the living room clock out of the corner of my eye while toiling away folding purple squares of paper based on a pattern that’s much too complicated for my clumsy fingers. I suggest to Héloïse that it might be more efficient to have me put the candies into the envelopes she’s able to make in less than a minute, but she refuses to take pity on me.

  At 7:25 p.m., she taps her watch, and I jump up from the couch like a kid who’s just heard the recess bell.

  “See you later. Good luck!”

  “Have fun.”

  As I kiss her, I can tell her entire being is focused on the origami envelopes.

  I dash down the stairs of our building, thinking odds are I’ll be late. Undiscouraged, I run down the street all the way to the train station.

  Bataclan, here I come!

  4

  BASTIEN

  Like almost every other Saturday since the beginning of September, at around noon, my bus pulls into the neighborhood where I grew up. The sun is shining in Rouen, and it occurs to me that I would have been more comfortable in a T-shirt than in my black button-down.

  I use my key to open the front door of my childhood home and notice that the kitchen table is already set for lunch. My mother is busy tasting the veal stew that must have been simmering since this morning. I walk over to give her a hug and a kiss. When she turns to face me, her smile is radiant.

  “Hi, sweetheart. How was the train?”

  “All right. I took advantage of the time to work on my contemporary history presentation.”

  I started my first year at Sciences Po in Paris this year. It didn’t take me long to realize that while I had successfully sailed through high school without much effort, I was going to have to work a lot harder now if I wanted to be anywhere near the top of my class.

  My mother and I sit down to eat. I blow gently on my first bite of meat.

  “Do you have any plans for this weekend?”

  “No, not really. Maybe a movie tonight, if Arnaud is free. But I don’t even know what’s showing.”

  My mother keeps quiet, but I can tell from the look on her face that she’s pleased at the idea of having her beloved son all to herself until tomorrow night.

  “I might go see Dad this afternoon, lend a hand.”

  My father runs a butcher shop downtown—a family business for two generations, as he likes to remind everyone. All that really means is that he took over his father’s shop; no big deal. But that doesn’t lessen his pride in the least. I’ve always helped him on the weekends, serving customers or arranging the display case. But since September, I haven’t been able to because I’ve been a bit overwhelmed by school. Now that I’ve found my rhythm, though, I’m looking forward to helping my father on the weekends again.

  My mother puts her silverware down next to her plate and sighs.

  “Bastien, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You know your father might feel awkward if you show up at the shop. And there are always so many customers on Saturdays . . .”

  “Yes, and . . . ?”

  I keep pushing, even though I know exactly what she’s hinting at. I make her say the words, hoping that once she says them out loud she’ll realize just how ridiculous they are.

  “Do you really want to embarrass him?”

  “Why would a visit from his only son embarrass him, Mom?”

  She wrings her hands anxiously.

  “You know why . . .”

  “Because I’m gay? Because he’s afraid that everyone will know, as if it were tattooed on my forehead?”

  “He just needs some time to accept it, Bastien. Put yourself in his shoes—”

  “Why does he need time? You’re perfectly fine with me being gay. Why can’t he see that I didn’t change overnight, that I’m still the same person I alwa
ys was, that the only difference is that now he knows?”

  “He just needs to get used to it, that’s all. Please don’t get all worked up about it—”

  “He’s had all summer to ‘get used to it’! It’s been almost three months since he’s spoken to me! He’s so distant. He barely looks at me—he practically avoids me! Doesn’t he know this is the twenty-first century? That homosexuality is neither a disease nor a choice?”

  As usual, my mother defends her husband, even though I know she doesn’t understand his behavior and is just as hurt as I am by his reactionary attitude.

  “Look, it’s hard for him. And then there’s the fact that he was counting on you to take over the shop, to expand the deli and catering side of the business. It was a real blow, when you told us you were going to college in Paris—”

  “But, Mom, don’t you realize that you must be the only parents on the face of the earth who are disappointed that their child is going to college, and a prestigious one at that? How can you compare Sciences Po with working in a butcher shop?”

  She shakes her head disappointedly. We’ve barely touched our food, and now the stew is probably cold. I know she’s thinking that this discussion could at least have waited until dessert, that we’re wasting the stew.

  “Your father feels like you’ve rejected us, like we’re not good enough for you, like you’re ashamed of us—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me! Now I’ve heard it all! I’ve rejected him, when he’s the one who doesn’t want the family fag to embarrass him in front of his customers?”

  “Don’t talk like that, Bastien. There’s no need to be vulgar. Fine, go to the shop and work it out with your father. I’m done playing the go-between.”

  All of a sudden, I notice how weary my mother seems, and my anger evaporates just as quickly as it came on.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s not your fault.”

  She nods sadly and gets up to put my bowl in the microwave.

  “It won’t be as good reheated . . .”

  “It’ll be delicious, no matter what, don’t worry . . .”

  When we’re done eating, my mother lights a cigarette, takes an envelope out of her purse, and hands it to me. She’s written my name on it and even decorated it with a gold bow she must have saved from one of last year’s Christmas presents.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present, to congratulate you on getting into college. I’ve been wanting to get you something, but with everything that’s happened, I haven’t had the time until now . . .”

  I carefully open the envelope and find two concert tickets inside. Eagles of Death Metal, in three weeks, in Paris.

  “I overheard you talking about it on the phone the other day, so I thought maybe . . . I hope you haven’t already bought tickets?”

  “No. Mom, this is so nice of you . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “I got two. That way you can go with . . . whomever you choose.”

  “Thank you so much. You couldn’t have thought of a better gift!”

  She finally looks happy.

  After weighing the pros and cons, I decide to head downtown to confront my dad. The bell rings merrily as I push through the heavy glass door and into the butcher shop. My father darts out of the cold room, always eager to welcome a customer. He freezes when he realizes it’s only me, then goes back to drying his blood-stained hands with a towel that must have once been white, long ago.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Keen sense of observation you’ve got there, Dad.”

  He doesn’t seem to notice my gibe. He’s still wiping his hands, though they must be dry by now.

  “I thought maybe you could use some help?”

  He sizes me up with a contemplative glance. I hold his gaze. I’m just waiting for him to tell me to leave.

  “I was thinking of making a batch of lasagna. It always sells fast on Saturday nights.”

  “Perfect! Lasagna is my specialty,” I say as I head to the pantry for an apron.

  As I walk past him, he looks curiously at the four hoops wrapped around the rim of my ear. I decide to ignore his disapproving face.

  I spend an hour sautéing onions and meat for the sauce, then layering it between sheets of pasta. My father works at the counter next to me, cutting, trimming, and breaking bones. With every blow, I can’t help but think I’m the one he’s imagining under his giant cleaver.

  He doesn’t say a word, and I decide not to make it easy for him. The sound of the knife against the cutting board is the only sound heard for the rest of the afternoon.

  5

  LÉOPOLD

  “Think you could drive? I was hoping to take advantage of the ride to practice. I’m still having a hard time with one part . . .”

  Alexandre sighs at length but accepts the key I press into his hand.

  “Why me?” he groans, frowning at Sylvain and Tiago, who are already comfortably seated in the backseat of the station wagon.

  Without waiting for an answer, he settles behind the wheel, mumbling into his perfect hipster beard. I walk around the car to the passenger side and launch the metronome app on my iPhone before he’s even turned the key in the ignition. I choose the tempo, and the regular beat fills the car. Closing my eyes, I start drumming a fast riff on my lap with my sticks, ignoring the obnoxious comments coming from the guitarist and the bass player sitting behind me.

  “Are we going to have to listen to the metronome for the whole two hours?”

  “Tune it out. I need to practice ‘Territorial Pissings’ if we want to be ready for the concert tomorrow.”

  Two years ago, the four of us decided to start a Nirvana cover band. Over the past few months, we’ve started incorporating a few original compositions into our set list, but we’ve also come to accept that the Kurt Cobain classics are what bring people to our concerts. Tomorrow night we’re playing in a bar near Bastille. Alexandre, our singer, is the one who managed to find us a gig in Paris for the same weekend we were seeing Eagles of Death Metal. Two birds with one stone: part of the crowd on Friday, and up on stage on Saturday.

  For over an hour, I try repeatedly to find the right rhythm, but I feel like I’ll never get it. Behind me, Tiago is humming guitar chords to help me keep track of where I am in the song, but eventually I admit defeat and cut the tempo in half.

  “Okay, guys, it’s time to decide who’s had the worst day, or, in other words, who drinks for free tonight!” declares Sylvain.

  I turn off my metronome app and stash my sticks in the glove compartment.

  “Who wants to go first?” Sylvain continues. “Come on now, no need to be shy!”

  Alexandre glances over his shoulder before passing a truck going too slow for his taste, then dives into our usual game.

  “Nothing special on my part. I spent the day wandering the streets hoping against hope that someone might actually spare a minute of their time listening to my fine rhetoric. Today I was stumping for a nonprofit working to end world hunger. I hate to say it, but people don’t give a shit about starving kids—especially not during their lunch break.”

  Alexandre is a street fund-raiser for several different charities. He knows his speeches by heart and exactly what to say to tug at the conscience of random strangers. He has to be overflowing with enthusiasm and cheer all day long, without batting an eyelid when he gets shot down by harried passersby.

  “Today I got: ‘Sorry, train to catch!’ and ‘That’s great, but I already give money to the Humane Society; I can’t fund every cause!’ I had a guy point sadly at his headphones as if they were stuck on with glue, and I got an old lady who clutched her bag to her side, apparently convinced I was going to steal her coin purse. Oh, and the icing on the cake was the anorexic-looking chick in a mini skirt and high heels who said it was nice of me to ask, but she’d already had lunch. The nut job thought that my End Hunger campaign was about her!”

  I burst into laug
hter while thinking to myself how glad I am not to have Alex’s job.

  “Okay, my turn,” says Tiago.

  He works for a moving company, and even though he’s built like a linebacker, his days aren’t exactly relaxing.

  “Yesterday I emptied out my brother-in-law’s one-bedroom apartment. He’d been renting it to some loser for years, a deadbeat who hadn’t paid his rent in a year and a half. Then one day the guy up and left, without so much as a phone call; he just dropped his keys off at the rental agency. He left everything behind, as if he’d simply disappeared into thin air. And when we showed up at the apartment, it was the most disgusting thing we’d ever seen. The furniture was trashed and the walls were covered in mold, with some sort of green slime streaming down them onto the floor. There were cockroaches everywhere, and the floors were hidden under a layer of garbage. It was just plain nasty. And don’t even get me started on the stench, which made us all sick for the two hours we spent emptying the place out . . .”

  Alexandre makes a disgusted face, but Sylvain shouts, “Hey, wait! It doesn’t count if it was yesterday! What’d you do today?”

  “It was my day off,” answers Tiago with a shrug.

  “You’re out, then, buddy!” exclaims Alexandre.

  Tiago frowns but keeps quiet. He knows there’s no point discussing the rules of the game since Sylvain makes them up as he goes—always to his advantage.

  Sylvain clears his throat, preparing us for his tale. He works in an ad agency and always has the most unbelievable stories to share. I sometimes wonder if he makes a few of them up.

  “Get this, guys. Today we were casting the new Yeastop commercial.”

  He inserts long pauses at the end of each sentence for maximum suspense. Occupational hazard, I guess.

  “So I spent the whole morning watching beautiful girls deliver the line, ‘Thanks to Yeastop, yeast isn’t such a beast!’”

  Alex, Tiago, and I shake our heads, unimpressed.

  “Who thought up that shitty slogan?”

  “Hey! No making fun. I came up with it!” Sylvain shouted angrily.