The shots become less frequent. From the corner of my eye, I see shadows stand up and then fall right back down. Pascal and I don’t move a muscle. We play dead.
And we wait. A long time.
I close my eyes, concentrating on the shots, trying to figure out how far they are from us. The sharp scent of gunpowder fills the room, and I think it’s strange that I know exactly what it is even though I’ve never smelled it before.
The shooters—there must be several of them since the firing is all around us—are no longer showering the crowd with bullets. They’re finishing people off one by one at point-blank range. When it sounds like footsteps are getting nearer, inside I’m screaming, Not me! Oh Jesus, please not me! And when they move away, I can’t help but feel relieved. Every time a gun is fired, I take a deep breath, realizing we’re not hit. I know that means someone else was, but I don’t give a shit. I just want to save myself and Pascal. He is going to hate me for bringing him here tonight. Some distraction!
I inconspicuously pull the neon-yellow earplug out of his ear and whisper, “Better than the trucks, huh?” I can tell he’s smiling.
I have to protect him, whatever it takes. I’m the one who brought him here, and I’m the one who’s going to get him out. Period. The shots get closer and I tense up, like a statue. I hold my breath and adopt a vacant look. Someone kicks my calf, hard, then my thigh, and finally my hip. I clench my jaw and contract all my muscles. I don’t make a single sound. I don’t even exhale.
Unexpectedly, as shots continue to fire, I start to get angry, despite my fear of dying here like a dog. I want to jump up and use the element of surprise to rip the Kalashnikov from the guy’s hands, then punch him in the gut and bash his head in with the stock. I want to be a hero; I want that with all my heart, but instead I’m just some loser lying on the floor hoping that playing dead will keep him alive, praying to make it out of here, to win this gruesome game of hide-and-seek. I think of those men in the Thalys train from Amsterdam to Paris who tackled their assailant and disarmed him a few months ago. I wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t taken that risk, if they’d hesitated, and I’m ashamed not to be more like them. I’m ashamed to be a coward, ashamed of staying down when these sick bastards are shooting like this is some damn video game. I’m ashamed not to have the guts to get up and fight when I know that in this crowd, we’re the older and wiser ones. That was clear when we walked in: this place is full of kids. They should be able to count on me. I’m ashamed and scared. I don’t have the balls to take the risk, much less to sacrifice myself. In some ways, it’s reassuring to know that nobody is brave enough to do it, that we’re all cowering like rats, waiting to be shot, praying to be saved.
The footsteps move away again, and I ask Pascal if he’s doing all right.
“Just great, man . . . ,” he whispers.
I’m relieved to know he’s still alive. I hear someone far away from us, a young woman, I think, start crying softly. A wail of anguish or pain, it’s hard to tell. Annoyed, everyone shushes her in unison, as if they were at the movies and some overly talkative broad was keeping them from enjoying the show. As if they were hushing a noisy brat in a classroom. The girl’s sobbing now, almost silently. Then there’s a barrage of bullets, and she stops. Is she holding back from fear of getting shot? Have they finished her off? I have no idea, but she’s quiet now.
Suddenly, at the other end of the room, a voice shouts, “They’re going upstairs!” A group of people next to us stand up and start running, stepping over unmoving bodies, dead or alive. I decide it’s time to get the hell out of here, that soon we’ll be in a café drinking beer, talking about the hell of a night we’ve had. We’ll slap ourselves on the back, laugh a bit too loud to ease our nerves, and wonder if maybe it’s all too absurd to have been anything other than a bad dream.
I squeeze Pascal’s shoulder, to let him know as discreetly as possible that it’s time to move. Only a yard from where we’re standing, a couple struggles to their feet. The man is holding the woman by her waist as she limps, looking like a marionette he’s pulling awkwardly along behind him by the strings.
The hail of gunfire starts up again. I don’t know where it’s coming from. The couple slumps to the floor before my eyes, mowed down like bowling pins. Pascal and I hit the deck immediately. All of a sudden, I don’t feel like laughing anymore—I never really felt like it, actually, it’s just a stupid expression. I’m starting to think we’re not going to make it out of here, that they’re going to take us all out one by one until the floor is covered in dead bodies. Bang, bang, bang, like a goddamn game of whack-a-mole.
We’d better keep our heads down.
“Hold on, Pascal. We’ll make it out of here, don’t worry.” I feel his head nod under mine, and I continue, “I’m sure the cops are about to bust in here and get the bastards. It’s gonna be okay. They’ll take them down real quick, you’ll see.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s shaking. His body is trembling so violently, it’s almost like a vibrating cell phone.
“Shh, hang on, okay? Hang on, I’m here. I’m right here . . .”
I keep whispering without stopping, the same thing over and over, to reassure him, to reassure myself. I can feel him calming down, his muscles slowly relaxing.
“It’ll be over soon, shh . . .”
3
SOFIANE
Of course, by the time I get there, the place is already full of people jammed in tight. Given the dense crowd, I know instantly there’s no way I’ll ever make it down to the stage.
I order a Coke at the bar and stand there a few minutes, trying to determine the most strategic spot. I quickly decide the balcony is my best shot; I won’t be in the heart of the action, but at least I’ll have a good view. And from there, I’ll probably be able to film a few songs with my phone.
When I get upstairs, I head toward the front to look out over the fans below: a preteen boy carrying his girlfriend on his shoulders, even though there’s nothing to see on stage yet; a redheaded woman waving her hand wildly in the air, probably trying to find someone in the crowd; two older men who’ve managed to make their way toward the front. One of them is wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat—the people behind him must be thrilled.
I send Héloïse a text: I miss you! It’s really too bad we don’t have the same taste in music. I’ve always thought it would be fun to go to more concerts together. I barely have the time to stuff my phone back into my jeans pocket before it beeps with an incoming message. I miss you too. Can’t wait until you get home to help finish the favors! Very funny. The lights dim, and I put my cell on vibrate.
Seven songs I know by heart, then chaos.
The pit starts writhing frantically, like weeping willows in a storm. Explosions, the smell of gunpowder wafting up to our nostrils in the balcony, the suddenly deserted stage, blinding flashes in the dark.
And the screaming.
I instinctively dive behind a row of red velvet seats, like dozens of other people around me. I wait for the shooting to stop, but the barrage only pauses for a few seconds, then gets going again, even louder. A little voice in my head whispers that I really should have stayed home and done origami with Héloïse.
Below, the gunfire continues relentlessly. The screams echoing through the air become increasingly rare. People keep quiet, or can no longer speak. A terrifying silence envelops the building, as if time has stopped.
On the floor in front of me, bodies start crawling, and I realize I can’t stay here. They—not that I know who “they” are—will come upstairs eventually. They’ll climb the steps and take us out one by one. It’s raining bullets on the ground floor, and I know they’ll come for us too. So I follow the others through the rows of padded seats, making as little noise as possible.
When I’ve crawled a few yards, I see a door. I crouch and run doubled over, protecting my head with my hands, toward the exit. People push and shove, fighting to survive, like stampeding wi
ld animals. When I finally make it past the door, I realize that it’s just a tiny little room, barely a dozen square feet. No emergency exit, no stairs down to the ground floor. We’re trapped. All the gunmen have to do is come up the stairs and open the door to finish us off. How many machine gun bursts does it take to wipe out forty people? Two? One, if the shooter aims well?
I watch, unmoving, as two men try to barricade the door with an old couch. Their efforts seem so futile, ridiculous even. A sofa as our last line of defense against assault rifles.
There is a door at the far end of the little room, but the glimmer of hope is quickly stamped out. Restrooms. Fucking restrooms that lead nowhere. Somebody is desperately trying to break through the drop-ceiling tiles. I watch as the white material crumbles. I feel like it’s making a hell of a lot of noise, like we’re going to attract the shooters’ attention. One by one, we climb up into the black hole that leads who knows where, probably nowhere. I bump into metal beams and choke back groans of pain. There are piles of dust everywhere, and I fight to keep from coughing, or at least keep my mouth shut when I do.
Everyone freezes and we stay hidden there in the dark, on the lookout. There are about ten of us up here in this makeshift attic, listening as the shooters make their way to the balcony, hearing their footsteps on the stairs. Apparently the soundproofing in the building isn’t so great. Nobody moves.
They’ll open the door, push the couch out of the way, make their way to the bathroom, and see the hole in the ceiling. It’ll take them only a few seconds to figure out we’re hiding up here. They’ll riddle us with bullets, shoot blindly through the ceiling, and we’ll be blown to bits, like clay pigeons at a skeet competition.
I close my eyes and focus on the sounds around me. Footsteps, screams, explosions, groans, blows, begging. All my senses are wired, on high alert.
The minutes tick by sluggishly. My lungs are on fire and I pray silently, to whoever might be listening, not to have an asthma attack. I’m scared shitless and, more than anything else, I feel so, so alone. So trapped. I want to grab hold of someone, anyone, but I repress the urge. I try to meet someone’s gaze. In vain.
I think of Héloïse, who must be busy meticulously counting her white and silver candies. With one hand, I pull my phone out of my pocket and quickly type out a message. I’m sorry I haven’t helped you more with the wedding. I love you, you know. I see others doing the same, the darkness dotted with an artificial glow, faces momentarily lit up. A minute later, she answers, Being sorry doesn’t cut it. You’re going to have to make up for it over the next three months!
Apparently Héloïse has no idea what’s going on. Suddenly I wonder if anyone outside knows what’s happening here. If the rest of the world knows. Or if we’re all alone, left to our own devices.
I decide not to worry her. What good would it do? I want to write something poetic and romantic that she’ll remember in case . . . in case she never sees me again. But I can’t think of anything. I’ve never been good with words, and my current situation isn’t helping me channel my inner Shakespeare. You’ve got all my evenings from now until February to work on anything you like. Not exactly inspired, but I don’t want to write anything too flowery either, because it would cue her in to the fact that I’m in danger. Her reply is almost instantaneous: Stop or I’ll swoon! I smile, and she sends another message: Hasn’t your concert started yet? My fingers fly over the screen. Yeah, but it’s far from the best I’ve seen. I cling to my sense of humor, even though I don’t feel like laughing at all. If I could, I’d call my parents, but there’s no way I could talk or even whisper on the phone. Too dangerous.
The footsteps seem to be getting closer, and I hear shouting, then people screaming and bullets silencing them. We all turn our phones off at once, as if on cue, and I can feel fear mounting in each of us. My left leg has fallen asleep, but I don’t dare change positions.
I wait, my senses straining.
I stifle the urge to check the time on my phone. I feel like the minutes are dragging on, like we’re in an alternate dimension. Is it still Friday, will the sun rise soon, how long have we been here, waiting, watching, biting our nails, saying our good-byes in our heads while praying to be saved?
Outside, sirens are blaring. Ambulances and police, I hope. Hurry up. I’m afraid the ceiling is going to collapse and that we’ll fall onto the gunmen, afraid that someone might sneeze and get us caught. I feel like an animal backed into a corner. A mouse hoping that the cats will soon tire of their game.
For a fraction of a second, I go deaf. There’s been an explosion, and I’m sure the whole building’s going to collapse, that we’re going to be blown to dust, without even trying to escape. Then, a second explosion. I grab hold of a small beam, as if it were somehow sturdier than the walls or floor. Then yet another boom—I feel it throughout my body and am left shaking, unable to move.
Below, a chorus of voices, a parade of footsteps.
I close my eyes again and focus on the sounds. Waiting for something to happen.
We’re saved. At last.
When I climb down, I lift my hands up high in the air so they won’t think I’m a terrorist and shoot me by mistake. The cops—all dressed like Robocop—must be pretty tense, so I want it to be very clear I’m not a criminal. I walk slowly, no sudden movements. I’m so afraid of catching a bullet now, just as this nightmare is so close to over. I walk back through the room we barricaded ourselves in, the balcony, the stairs down to the ground floor. I concentrate on the tips of my sneakers, the sound of my own footsteps. I try not to see, not to look around. I walk through blood, through shapeless pieces of flesh, but my eyes stay focused on my feet moving forward, in step with the police officer who’s escorting us.
As I walk through the glass door, which isn’t really a door anymore, my phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump. A text from Héloïse.
Damn it, Sofiane, you said you’d be home by midnight.
4
BASTIEN
In the end, I invite Leïla to come with me to the concert, and she accepts without a second thought, thrilled to have the chance to see the concert for free.
In the quickly growing line in front of the Bataclan, all the guys turn around to check out her amazing figure. We’ve known each other since high school, so I’ve gotten used to the effect she has on men, even if I can’t help but wish some of those looks were for me. There’s something magnetic about Leïla, though she never seems to notice. I know I’m being sized up, evaluated by the other guys who are wondering if we’re a couple or if they might have a shot tonight.
Once we get inside, we hurry toward the stage. The Bataclan isn’t very big, so if we want to get a good spot, we can’t dawdle at the coat check. After thirty minutes of chatting as we wait, Leïla wrinkles her nose like a little girl caught red-handed.
“Don’t tell me you have to pee!”
“No, it’s not that . . . It’s just so hot in here, I need something to drink. We’re crammed in so tight, it’s suffocating!”
“But we’ll never make it back to the front row if we leave now!”
“I can go to the bar by myself if you want to stay. I’ll try to make it back . . . ,” she says with a cajoling smile. As usual, she wins me over.
“No, let’s go. I’ll come too. I don’t want you to die of thirst.”
We slowly elbow our way through the crowd to the bar, assailed by groaning from malcontents who somehow expect to make it through a concert without anyone brushing up against them.
“What do you want?” Leïla asks me.
“Nothing, thanks. I’m not thirsty.”
While she’s ordering a beer from the bartender, I notice a thirty-something guy waiting to pay for his plastic cup of Coke. He has a short brown beard, a thin nose, and dark eyes that make me want to say something smart to break the ice. It only takes me a few seconds to realize he must be a serious fan of the band: he’s wearing a black Eagles of Death Metal T-shirt with a huge green s
kull sporting a mustache and sunglasses—a design I didn’t see at the stand near the entrance.
As I’m trying to muster the courage to casually talk to him, the bartender hands him his change, and his long legs take him quickly up the stairs to the balcony. My prey has escaped before I could even open my mouth.
“Are we staying here?” Leïla asks teasingly. She must have enjoyed watching my internal turmoil.
We take a few steps away from the bar to get a good view of the whole stage. The lights finally dim and the music really gets going.
We’re among the first to realize that the cracks and pops we keep hearing aren’t part of the show, and that they’re not coming from firecrackers or a fight. Because we’re at the very back of the venue, when we turn around at the first shot, we see what’s going on right behind us.
A few yards from me, I see a guy around my age, not more than twenty. Dark skin, black hair, sharp eyes. He’s waving his AK-47 around in circles, shooting down into the pit. The movement is methodical, calm, as persistent as a sprinkler watering grass. A bit farther from us, I can see other shadows doing the same thing. I think to myself that they seem to be incredibly well prepared. They’re not rushed at all—on the contrary. It’s like they know that, at this exact moment, they’re all-powerful. That nothing and no one can stop them or resist. Their composure is astounding, because it makes it seem like what’s happening is normal—minus the screaming and the sound of running feet—instead of completely surreal.
The crowd is disorganized, chaotic, hysterical.
My legs are paralyzed. I can’t act. I feel like I’m watching the scene from above. My brain feels dead, and it’s only when I meet the determined gaze of the guy holding the assault rifle that I snap back to reality. With what looks like a smile on his face, he coolly trains his gun on me.
Then, at last, I turn and run. I see Leïla ahead of me, sprinting. I dive onto a pile of people lying on the floor and crawl over their bodies despite the groans and wailing that grow louder. I keep climbing, without a destination. I hear bullets whistle past, all around me, I feel something, or rather someone, fall hard onto my legs. I try to pull myself out using my arms, but the weight on my thighs and calves is too heavy.
One Night in November Page 6
