I realize the gunfire is getting closer and immediately stop moving.
Thoughts are flying through my head, no longer under my control, like they’re talking among themselves, independent of my wishes: Not now, not like this! and then a conflicted feeling of almost serene acceptance—I’m going to die. This is the end—a strange impression of resigned well-being that disappears as quickly as it comes. There’s no way I’m going to die here, for no reason at all! Defiance overwhelms me and a primal anger takes over. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be as I try to escape than as I cower here in a pile of dead bodies still warm from the life seeping out of them. I move my legs around a bit, discreetly, to keep them from going numb. I close my eyes and fight the disagreeable tingling that warns me they’re falling asleep. Inch by inch, I manage to pull myself out from under the body slumped over me.
When the shots move away, toward the other side of the pit, I take advantage of the distance to get up and run, stepping over or trampling other people. Despite my best efforts, I trip on an obstacle—an arm, a leg?—and fall flat on my stomach in a dark, lukewarm puddle on the floor. The hail of bullets moves back toward me and I freeze, feeling the blood of less fortunate people soak into my clothes. Because I’ve been lucky so far—obviously, since I’m still alive, and no bullet has pierced my skin.
I stay alert, vigilant, and the next time things go quiet, I’m already in the starting blocks. I run—no, I fly for my life. I look in vain for the exit. I’m like hunted prey, like a wasp trying to find an open window or a sparrow banging into walls hoping to miraculously escape. With everyone pushing and shoving, the halls are like a labyrinth. I used to have a recurring nightmare about a house with burgundy-red walls, where I ran and ran without ever finding a door. I would try to escape, but always, I inevitably ended up back where I’d started. Then I would wake up and fight my hardest not to fall back to sleep too quickly. I’d like to tell myself that I’m going to wake up, and that when I do I’ll grope around to turn on my bedside lamp, and the fear will evaporate as quickly as it built up. In the meantime, I keep pushing through other people, hurrying toward any possible exit.
I finally stumble upon an open door and take refuge inside what looks to be a dressing room. There’s no way outside, and the shots continue to echo beyond the door. I hesitate. Should I hide or go back out in hopes I’ll finally find the emergency exit? Other people come in behind me and close the door. We all glance at one another, terrified. I huddle in a corner of the room, as far from the door as possible. There’s nothing to block the door with. A girl with a long neck turns out the lights, and we find ourselves sitting in the dark, listening to the muffled sound of gunfire through the walls.
And now the waiting begins. Leïla isn’t here, and as I finally manage to catch my breath, terrifying images ruthlessly assail my consciousness. Please tell me she made it out, that she’s still alive . . .
The few other people in the room with me immediately pull out their phones, and I hear their fingers dashing across the screens, their hushed voices on the verge of tears.
I grab my phone from the pocket of my too-tight pants and dial my mother. One ring, two, three, four . . . Come on, Mom, pick up . . . Her voicemail answers, but doesn’t even provide the reassurance of her voice. A metallic recording chimes, “The person you’re trying to reach is currently unavailable,” and I hang up. The screen of my HTC tells me it’s 10:11 p.m., and I realize that my mother is probably lying comfortably in her bed, while her phone has most certainly been left behind, forgotten somewhere downstairs. I try the landline, even though I hate to wake her up with a start and scare her—no one ever calls our house after eight o’clock.
After three endless rings, someone finally picks up. I hear my father’s gruff voice, ready to bark at the idiot who has dared bother him so late at night. Just as I’m about to speak, I hear footsteps approaching, then they stop right in front of the door. There’s a motionless shadow in the sliver of light coming through the crack at the bottom. The shooting continues amid the deathly silence. Outside, a breathless voice screams, “Please, I beg you . . . ,” and a volley silences it without further ado.
I hear my father proffering increasingly annoyed hellos in my ear. I can’t answer him, not with a gunman on the hunt just a few steps away. “You think you’re real funny, huh?” I focus on his distant voice and choke back my hiccups of terror. “Most people are sleeping at this time of night, you know!” I duck my head to my knees, make myself as small and compact as possible, wishing I had a shell to protect me, like a turtle. “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
I hear you, Dad. I hear you, even though I can’t answer. Don’t hang up, please, please don’t. Talk to me, talk about whatever you want, but keep talking.
There’s a deafening crash as the door bursts open and light suddenly fills the dressing room. On the other end of the line, I hear my father letting rip with “Are you gonna keep this up long, this silent game?”
5
LÉOPOLD
The Bataclan is small, almost cozy, but as a result, it’s already sweltering inside. I quickly tie my sweatshirt around my waist while doing my best to follow Alex, Tiago, and Sylvain in a single-file line toward the stage.
“Wouldn’t it be awesome to play here, guys?”
My three friends nod vigorously in agreement. I take out my phone to snap a picture of the four of us with the stage and its collection of different-sized amps in the background.
“Maybe one day we’ll be the ones everyone comes to see!”
I wave my arm around in enthusiastic emphasis and accidentally hit the face of a young guy trying to edge his way forward. He rubs his silver-hoop-clad ear, grimacing in pain. I offer a lame apology, and he smiles—clearly not one to hold a grudge. He glances at my arm and shouts, “Nice tattoo!” as he studies the octopus poking happily out from under my T-shirt. His girlfriend, a voluptuous brunette, is waiting for him a few steps ahead, and he hurries to catch up with her.
I take advantage of the fact that the lights are still on to post the photo I’ve just taken to our band’s Facebook page, with the caption, “Tonight we’re in the audience!” The huge guy next to me is watching, clearly curious. He’s so tall and massive that he reminds me of the hero from The Green Mile. I’m sure he could crush my phone to pieces in the palm of his hand without breaking a sweat, without even feeling a thing. I make a mental note not to mosh with him. Too dangerous.
When Jesse Hughes sings the first words of “Save a Prayer,” one of my favorites from the latest album, I take out my cell and dial my best friend, Stan, who lives near Bordeaux and couldn’t make it tonight. I can’t hear it ringing, but I can see on the screen that he’s picked up. I scream, “This is for you, dude!” into my iPhone, then hold it up above my head so he can hear what he’s missing. I’m sure he’s put his phone on speaker and is swaying alone in his living room, wishing he were here with us.
Sylvain is having fun playing the solos on air guitar, and Alex is crowd surfing a few rows in front of us, carried by the outstretched arms of the ecstatic audience. Tiago is giving his all in a particularly energetic moshing style—not everyone’s piece of cake. I do my best to anchor my feet to the ground and avoid being carried away by the undulating crowd.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the crowd stops swaying and lurches, seized by a wave of panic that’s spreading at lightning speed.
Threatening silhouettes bark, “Allahu Akbar,” and in the split second it takes me to turn around, the massive John Coffey doppelganger topples down onto me, throwing me to the floor.
I wish I’d thought fast enough to bolt. I feel people climbing and crawling over me, then everything slows in an eerie silence. It’s like I’m underwater—everything takes longer, seems heavier.
Bullets are flying and, given the number of bodies falling to the ground, they’re hitting their targets. I want to get out of here, but moving—even the slightest twitch—is clearly out of the question.
With each volley of gunfire, I feel the ground vibrate under my cheek, stomach, and palms, all pressed to the floor. I’m like a tracker in a Western, ear to the tracks listening for a coming train. But the train’s already here, and I can’t tell if my body is trembling with fear or if it’s shaking in wake of the blasts. It takes all my strength, but I slowly free my legs from beneath the unmoving body that’s cutting off my circulation. Gently, inch by inch. Avoid drawing attention. I have to get out before my legs go numb.
I lock eyes with a woman only a yard from me. I’ve never seen so much helplessness, fear, and silent pleading in a single expression. I stare back at her and try to telepathically communicate that it’ll all be okay, that she’ll make it out of here, that this has to stop soon. That the cops are going to burst in and shut these guys down within minutes—they have to. This is definitely the first time I’ve ever really hoped the police would show up somewhere.
I stay like that for an eternity, losing all sense of time. I let myself drown in her eyes, focus on them like a lighthouse in the night. For now, we’re alive.
Even amid the chaos, it occurs to me that, under better circumstances, this girl could be just my type, with her big, wide eyes, and ebony hair fanned out on the floor around her. Under better circumstances, I probably would have struck up an awkward conversation by asking her where to find the restroom while my friends mocked me loudly. I could have asked her to have a drink with me, all the while afraid she’d turn me down disdainfully. I might have run my fingers through my hair—always tastefully disheveled—to boost my confidence. I could have told her I’m a drummer in an awesome rock band, counting on the fact that musicians always get the girl. She would have smiled shyly instead of staring at me, imploring me to save her. She would have laughed at the jokes I attempted to make, blushed when I complimented her, when I told her just how pretty and attractive I found her. Who knows, maybe after the concert she would have given me her phone number, scrawling it on my palm with an old Bic pen she’d unearth from the bottom of her overflowing purse. I’d tell myself she must have given me a fake number, that when I’d call the next day, I’d realize that it wasn’t hers at all, that I was on the phone with some gruff guy with such a deep voice there was no room for doubt. But I would have been wrong, and when she’d pick up the phone, I would have heard the impatience in her voice, which she would have tried to disguise with feigned indifference, and I would have casually asked her to dinner sometime. I wouldn’t have said tonight, to avoid seeming over-eager, and she would have told me that she had a free evening the following week, so as not to seem desperate. We would have seen each other again, both of us a bit clumsy and tense, afraid to disappoint or seem unlikable, afraid of not being as attractive as in the dim lights of the Bataclan. It could have been the beginning of something.
I’ve already come up with a whole story with this girl, and I don’t even know her name. I keep my eyes on her and feel like I could almost forget what’s going on around us. Suddenly Tiago shakes my arm and whispers that it’s now or never—they’re reloading and we have to go, quick. I stand halfway up and see the shooter rifling through his backpack, probably looking for more ammunition. He’s got his Kalashnikov under his arm, and I notice it’s held together with duct tape. I can’t help but think sarcastically that their budget must have been too tight for new guns. Several groups of people start moving, half-running, half-crawling in a haphazard choreography. I’m about to go too when I look back. The black-haired girl is still lying on the floor, watching me wordlessly, even more terrified than before. I whisper at her to get up and come with me, but she very gently shakes her head against the floor, without moving any other part of her body.
I hear a loud click and realize the hail of gunfire is about to start up again. I’ve missed my chance.
I lie back down, without taking my eyes off my silent confidante. After all we’ve been through, after the whole story I’ve invented for us, I couldn’t have left her behind anyway.
I smile sadly at her, and we wait.
For now, we’re alive.
6
MARGOT
The lights are already out and the music blaring when we finally make it inside, sweating from the run from the République Metro stop. After we quickly check our coats, William suggests we stay near the bar, behind the roiling pit, but I insist we go up to the balcony, and he gives in to make me happy.
The seats upstairs are all taken, so William heads to the banister to watch the band from above. The crowd is amped up and I’m glad we’re not down in the pit, getting bumped and jostled from all sides. At the end of the song, the guitarist throws something to the audience—probably a guitar pick—and I see a tattooed arm reach out to catch the precious object. From back here, it looks like the guy has an octopus covering his entire arm, and I wonder how someone gets the crazy idea to permanently mark their body with that. Do octopuses symbolize something?
I miraculously manage to find an empty seat in the front row and drag William along with me. The people behind us grumble, and I try to make myself as small as possible, half-sitting on my husband’s lap. If the babysitter hadn’t canceled at the last minute, we’d have been on time and would have had no problem getting two seats . . .
Suddenly William jumps up and leans over the banister. I don’t even have time to realize anything out of the ordinary is happening, until I see him slump and fall over the side. I stand up, screaming, and see the crowd below swaying bizarrely. Dozens of people drop like dominoes. My terrified cry stops short in my throat when I finally realize that there are madmen downstairs shooting into the crowd of cowering bodies.
Someone pulls me backward, hard, and pushes me into a seated position behind the red seats. Everything is muffled, the sound of my heartbeat echoing in my temples nearly drowning out the screams and the shots. I stay put, shaken to the core, unable to find any words for what I’ve just seen, for what’s happened and is still happening. I know William isn’t next to me anymore, but I don’t understand how he could have disappeared so suddenly, without a scream or a sound.
All around me I feel people crawling, almost submissively, politely, but I’m fixed to the spot—it’s all become too absurd, too unreal for me to act.
Once again, someone—the same person or someone else?—takes hold of my shoulders and makes me get onto my hands and knees. I hear whispering, but can’t make out the meaning: “We have to go,” “We can’t stay here.” I have only one thing in my mind: Where is William? Is it possible this whole thing is just some twisted practical joke, worthy of The Game? If I stood up right now, would he be standing over there, motioning at me to join him? Could this all simply be a hallucination, a terrible nightmare?
A shadowy figure shakes me, again and again, like some limp rag doll, then slaps me, harder and harder, until my eyes finally connect with the ones across from me. A man in glasses is staring at me. He holds my face tight between the palms of his hands.
“You can’t stay here, understand?” he urges.
I don’t answer. My lips seem to be sealed, sewn together.
“Do you have children?” he asks.
Do you have children? The short sentence ricochets around the inside of my skull like a pool ball until it finally makes sense.
It brings me back to the surface. I open my mouth, in need of oxygen, and grab hold of the stranger’s wrists.
Sacha.
I finally manage to get to my knees and start moving, trying to escape. Then, without knowing why, I collapse onto the floor, unable to move. A dull pain is radiating from my lower abdomen, and when I instinctively run my hand over it, I feel that my dress is soaked. Panic rushes through my veins, like an electrical shock.
“You can make it, I won’t leave you!”
I keep going, half-crawling, half-carried by this man I’ve never seen before, who seems determined to do whatever it takes to save me.
Sacha.
I can picture his cheerful face, h
is long eyelashes that will make all the girls fall for him in a dozen or so years, his little arms that reach out for me as soon as I come into his line of sight.
When I pause to catch my breath and look around, I see dozens of people huddled together, eyes to the ceiling as if they’re expecting a helicopter to drop a rope down to save them. I glance up to see what’s attracted their attention. A skylight and a glimpse of dark sky. That’s our beacon of hope? People are giving each other boosts, but I stay seated, doing nothing. The bespectacled stranger won’t give up on me, and ties his heather-gray scarf around my stomach, so tight it feels like he’s a saleswoman trying to convince me that, yes, I can fit into a size 4.
“Women and children first,” says a voice, and I suddenly want to laugh—it’s all so grotesque. We’re on the Titanic, we’ve hit an iceberg, and our lifeboat is this skylight. So far away and so high up that there’s no way I’m getting through it. None. My legs have fallen asleep and I feel light-headed. One by one, they help each other up, arms outstretched so that strangers can pull them into the Parisian sky from above.
“You have to stand up. I know it’s hard, but you can do it.”
I want to tell him to let it go, that there’s no point. But then I hear Sacha’s distant voice from his crib, static on the baby monitor, then Ma-ma-ma, which I like to interpret as Mama. I have to go to him before he starts crying, before he starts to think we’ve abandoned him. The longer he waits, the harder it is to calm him down, to reassure him. I’m coming, sweetie, Mommy’s coming, shh . . .
I’m shaky, but the man helps me up. I’d like to tell him how sorry I am to have ruined his scarf—I’m sure it’s cashmere—and that I’ll buy him a new one. I know this little store in the Marais that has lovely things. I feel like I’m floating, like nothing matters anymore, and I let myself be led along as if I were drunk.
One Night in November Page 7
