One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  Several people work together to lift me up. Everyone’s fussing over me; I almost feel like the Queen of Sheba on her throne. Then more arms grab me, pull me up, and I forget where I am, tossed about, unable to do anything for myself. The pain in my stomach is spreading, dull and throbbing. It’s so bad I can’t feel it anymore. It’s a strange, inexplicable feeling: hurting so much I don’t hurt anymore. It’s like the pain is taking over, my body disappearing, fading into it.

  The skylight leads to the roof, where I can make out several figures in the dark. Someone lays me down.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back,” they say. I smile—as if there were any risk I’d disappear into the night. “Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. Hold on.”

  I suddenly realize Sacha’s not crying anymore. Maybe he fell asleep? He must have found his thumb and sucked it to soothe himself. I better get to bed soon too, since Sacha always gets up at six and I don’t even know what sleep in means anymore. Yeah, if I want to be well rested, I have to get to sleep too. Tomorrow will be another long day. I feel so tired all of a sudden.

  Somebody’s pushing on my stomach, but I don’t know why. People are gathering around me, but nothing makes sense. It reminds me of my labor with Sacha: the epidural was too strong, everything hazy. These people are all slurring their words, and now they’re fuzzy, so fuzzy. Their voices are like echoes in the mountains, their syllables bouncing around, lengthening with every word. I listen to the multicolored sounds as they spring forth, grow louder, then slowly fade away.

  Now, Sacha is right next to me. His baby smell—a cloying blend of shampoo and spit-up—fills my nostrils, and I suddenly feel light.

  It’s cold and the hairs on my arms stand on end. But there’s no wind, not even the slightest breeze, just shadows dancing above me, singing a strange, discordant melody, keeping me from drifting off peacefully. Could I have forgotten to do something before going to bed? I’ve got that annoying feeling that I’ve missed something. But just as I almost put my finger on it, it slips away again, leaving my hand pitifully empty.

  My eyelids struggle to open a sliver, and I notice the stars in the black sky. It was a really good idea that William had to stick them to the ceiling in Sacha’s room. The tiny glowing lights sparkle weakly. The overhead light must have been out for a while now, but time always flies when I camp out next to Sacha’s crib to get him to sleep. He’s snoring softly next to me, and the sound of his breath lulls me like the sound of waves rushing in and out. I close my eyes and peacefully embrace the moment.

  I’m not going to spend the whole night in his room. I’ll just stay until his breathing is deep and steady—the moment when I know he won’t startle when I get up. A hand strokes my face, sweeping gently over my forehead. Must be William coming to wake me. You’ve fallen asleep again, honey! I hear indistinct whispering and want to place my index finger on my lips to tell him to be quiet—it took so long to get Sacha settled. He takes me in his arms, and I hear my son turn over in the crib, his sleep sack rustling against the fitted sheet. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know exactly what position he’s in now. On his back, hands level with his head, lips slightly parted. He’s finally surrendered, so peaceful.

  7

  DAPHNÉ

  I rush up Boulevard Voltaire, almost running, since I’m on the verge of being late—as usual. I barely had time to close my register and whip off my bright-red uniform, which is too tight in the waist, before dashing out the door to my second job. The coat check at the Bataclan is waiting for me, along with a line of concert-goers standing outside the building’s outlandish Asian-inspired façade.

  Doriane is already there, obviously, and even though she never says anything when I’m late, the simple fact that she’s always there first makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel slightly better to remember she’s a student, that she doesn’t have another job or a child to manage in addition to her own life, but in the end I can’t help but envy her carefree punctuality. Being on time is disturbingly easy for her. For most people, even. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one always running, always trying to beat the clock.

  I nod sheepishly at my coworker—already standing tall, ready to welcome the first people in line to drop off their things—then hurry to the break room to put away my own: a bunched-up trench coat and a tattered leather purse. I race back to the counter and assume the most affable face I can manage.

  Audience members file by for the next two hours, leaving their coats, sweaters, purses, or sometimes even shopping bags from a preconcert spree. The regulars recognize me and smile; the others simply slap their things down on the counter. When the line begins to dwindle, Doriane and I can finally talk.

  “I didn’t think you’d be working tonight.”

  “Really, why?”

  “It’s your birthday, isn’t it? I would’ve thought you’d have someone cover for you so you could celebrate with your family!”

  “Actually, my husband threw a surprise party for me last night! Planned the whole thing,” I explain as I put a worn camouflage jacket on a hanger.

  “Wow! No way my boyfriend would ever do anything like that. Sounds like you’ve found a great guy!”

  The concert’s been going for a few minutes, so I have to raise my voice for Doriane to hear me. We’re interrupted by a young woman asking how much it will cost to leave her purse and coat. Doriane answers, and the blond man who’s with the woman clears his throat.

  “Are you sure you want to leave your things, Margot? We’ll have to wait in line to get them back afterward . . .”

  “I know it’s not cheap, but I really don’t feel like carrying my coat and bag around all night!”

  The man sighs, giving in. Once Doriane has put their things away, they walk away holding hands, hurrying to see the band, which has already played a couple of songs.

  “Do you know who’s playing tonight?”

  “Eagles of Death Metal!” answers my coworker enthusiastically.

  “Never heard of them . . .”

  Going by name alone, I’m pretty sure my eardrums are in for another trying evening.

  When the band is already half an hour into the concert, Doriane goes to smoke a cigarette in front of the entrance, and I stay to staff the counter in case an audience member suddenly decides to get his or her things.

  When she comes back in, accompanied by a gust of cool outside air, she takes my place, and I head to the restroom. Out of curiosity, I walk through the back of the auditorium and watch the enthusiastic musicians bouncing around the stage. Their music is more rock than metal, it turns out, though it’s still plenty loud.

  I hurry to the restrooms on the left side of the venue—though we’ve gotten in the habit of taking turns once the show’s started, there are always supposed to be two of us at the coat check, so it’s best not to draw attention to myself.

  While I’m washing my hands, the strident sound of audio feedback floods my ears and makes me shiver. These guys aren’t very good—everyone in the audience must have just plugged their ears and clenched their jaws. As I leave the restroom, my hands still wet, I see a panicked horde rush past me. I’m thrown back against the wall, stunned.

  There must be a fire. Something must have caught fire on stage, a short circuit. There must be a fire in the main auditorium and everyone’s trying to escape. They’re climbing all over each other to get out, like frightened animals.

  For a split second, I think about going to get my purse from the break room. Julien gave it to me when Charline was born, and I love it, even though the leather’s become worn and damaged over the years. But the crowd is pushing me backward, and I realize there’s no point fighting against the current.

  Ahead of me, someone finally manages to open an emergency exit, and a flood of people bursts into the silent alley next to the Bataclan. A few people fall down right in front of me and get trampled, suffocated. It’s horrible. Behind me I see a hand reaching up from the ground, grabbing at anything at all to
escape the mass of bodies crushing down on its owner. Without thinking, I grab it and pull the arm toward me as hard as I can, but then I feel myself getting dragged down in turn. Instead of saving this person, I’m going to get sucked into the pile, into the pit of writhing, living quicksand.

  Instinctively, I let go. The hand keeps trying to grab onto me, but I push it away forcefully. The fingers get hold of my necklace; I feel the nylon string come untied and the tiny beads scatter. I imagine the bright-green dots flutter to the floor in a colorful shower. I hear explosions. Have they just started? The fire must be razing everything in its path. I have to get away from this inferno.

  When I was about ten, an entire family died in a house fire in our neighborhood. They got stuck upstairs, and I can still remember the giant orange flames licking the outside walls until they were black. I remember my dad outside in the street, in pajamas with his too-short garden hose. And the German shepherd, who managed to get out of the family’s house because he must have been sleeping in the garage, was sitting on their front lawn howling for his owners, helpless and inconsolable. The windowless ruins of the place stood there for years to remind us. I’ve never slept the same since that night.

  I ignore the screams and groans and push toward the emergency exit, now just steps away. Once outside in the fresh air, I head left, toward Boulevard Voltaire, but a man in a hoodie pulls me firmly behind him in the other direction. When I try to fight him off, explaining that I need to get on the Metro at Saint-Ambroise, he yells, “Do you want them to shoot you or what?”

  In a daze, I follow the stream of concert-goers that continues to pour out the emergency exit door. I head up the dark alley, skirting the walls. Since everyone else is running, I do too, without knowing why. Since the others seem to be avoiding open spaces, I do the same, without asking questions. I mimic the others, maybe out of instinct. The hooded man’s words keep echoing through my skull but they don’t make sense. What was he talking about?

  When we reach Rue Amelot, people disband and I watch them disappear in all directions into the night, without knowing which way to go myself. I finally decide to get on the Metro at the closest station, even if I have to change trains a few times to get home.

  At the turnstile, I realize I don’t have anything on me: no coat, no purse. For the first time in my life, I awkwardly jump the gate, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure a ticket inspector isn’t rushing my way.

  When I sit down in the nearly empty car, the few passengers on board glance at me quizzically. I must look crazy, breathing heavily, and with my unseasonably light shirt and messy hair. I want to tell them I’ve just escaped a terrible fire, but all of a sudden I’m not sure exactly what I’ve escaped. After all, I didn’t see any flames or smell any smoke, or even feel any heat . . . People were fleeing something, but I don’t know for sure what it was.

  My hands still trembling, I rest my head on the vibrating wall and try to figure out what’s just happened. The dark-blue rectangular signs of two Metro stations fly by, and when I catch a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the window, it seems to be asking me why I ran until my lungs could burst without knowing what I was running from, and without stopping for a second to help someone else. Flashes of scenes run through my mind: the green beads falling away, the hand shooting up like a periscope out of water, and the crazy guy in the hoodie who dragged me along behind him. I feel like they’re all pieces of a puzzle, of a riddle I should be able to solve. Something very simple that I just can’t manage to grasp.

  When I get home, Julien’s pacing the living room. He runs over as soon as he sees me and hugs me so hard my ribs cry out in pain. Without any warning, I burst into tears, accompanied by uncontrollable hiccups.

  “I broke the necklace Charline gave me yesterday . . .”

  He still doesn’t relax his embrace. It’s like he wants to suffocate me.

  Finally, he whispers, “I’m so happy you made it home. I was so scared when I saw what was happening on TV . . .”

  My eyes still brimming with tears, I finally manage to step back and ask him hesitantly if the fire’s under control. My husband looks at me, confused.

  “What fire?”

  8

  THÉO

  When my dad lets go of my hand, I tell myself it’ll be easy to find him again, but when I raise my head to look for him, I realize he’s not next to me anymore and I start to panic.

  It didn’t scare me when we heard the explosions, and everyone started screaming and running this way and that—it was like the concert hall had suddenly become a giant ant hill. Have you ever noticed how ants walk and walk without really going anywhere, turning in circles instead of heading directly where they are going? Well, it was just like that. Grown-ups were running everywhere, but I didn’t feel like any of them knew what they were doing. Not at all.

  But I didn’t get scared, because I was with my dad. He took my hand and whispered in my ear, “Everything’s gonna be okay, Théo. I’ll get us out of here!” He cleared a path through the crowd for us, and I focused on his hand because I was too short to see anything else. I got squished, pushed, and crushed, but I held on, following Dad as if I were waterskiing and he were the boat.

  And then my fingers are in a free fall, and I realize he’s gone. Disappeared. I spin around, protecting my face with my forearms, like a boxer. No sign of him. I yell, “Dad!” but there’s so much noise, so many other voices, that I know it’s a lost cause. Where could he have gone?

  Suddenly someone lifts me off the floor, picking me up under my arms like a sack of potatoes. I can’t see his face, but from his shoes I know it’s not my father. His shoes are black and shiny, so shiny I can almost see my reflection in them. Nothing like my dad’s red-and-white Pumas. The man puts me down in a corner and whispers, “Don’t move, buddy!” then stands up again with his back to me. So I don’t move, even though I’d rather be looking for my dad. To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do—should I listen to this stranger or not?

  Since no one’s there to tell me otherwise, I stay put behind the man. He sits me down along a wall and covers me with his body. I feel like he’s going to suffocate me, and he smells like sweat. I can’t see anything now, but I hear fewer people running and screaming, only the sound of firecrackers continues. I don’t know if they’re really firecrackers, but since I have no idea what else they could be, that’s what I’m calling them. Their rat-tat-tat-tat never stops. It fills my head so full I feel like my brain is going to explode. So I concentrate on the man’s scent to block out the rest. I breathe in deeply, and the mix of deodorant and strong sweat strangely reminds me a bit of Dad.

  Later I’ll have to remind Dad about the promise he made, because I know him and he has a habit of forgetting our conversations a little too quickly. In the train, I asked him if we could get a real Christmas tree for once this year.

  “A real tree?” he repeated, as if he didn’t understand what I was asking.

  “Yeah, a real tree. I mean, not made of plastic,” I clarified.

  He raised his eyebrows to demonstrate his lack of enthusiasm, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “There are lots of stores that give you a gift card if you buy a real tree, so it doesn’t really cost much in the end . . .”

  I knew that money was always important to Dad, so I started with that. He screwed up his face and pursed his lips, weighing the pros and cons. I launched my counterattack without letting him speak.

  “And I promise I’ll sweep up the needles every time I come over. And I’ll help you throw it out in January!”

  My father sized me up, trying to decide if I was trustworthy. It was the perfect moment to deal the final blow.

  “Mom and Olivier don’t want to get a real one”—I made the saddest face possible—“but if you say no too, it’s okay, I’ll get over it . . .”

  Without missing a beat, I turned away to watch the countryside through the window as our train sped past. Ever
ything was going according to plan—I was sure that bringing up my mom and Olivier would do the trick. Dad is always worried that I’ll forget about him, or start liking my stepfather more.

  “We’ll go pick it out together in a couple of weeks if you really want one,” he offered nonchalantly.

  I was much too big for a hug, so I smiled and raised my hand for a high-five.

  The man in front of me gets up all of a sudden, and I forget about Dad and the Christmas tree. Running legs fly by, and he grabs me to follow them. I have a hard time running as fast as him, so he basically ends up lugging me along with him—it’s like walking on the moon.

  Even after we reach the street outside, we keep running, and it occurs to me that the farther we go, the harder it’s going to be to find my dad. We duck into the courtyard of a building where there are already a bunch people waiting for who knows what.

  “Are you okay, buddy?”

  I nod. The man looks around, maybe searching for his fiancée or a friend. Suddenly he signals to a group of people in a corner of the courtyard and tries to take me with him. My legs don’t budge an inch.

  “I’m going to stay here.”

  “I can’t leave you here alone,” pleads the man.

  Now that I have a few minutes to really look at him, I realize that he’s not as old as my dad. He looks about the same age as Uncle Marc, my mom’s little brother. He doesn’t even have a beard or anything, but he does have a pierced eyebrow.

  “I’m not alone, there’s my dad!” I exclaim excitedly when I see my dad and his red-and-white sneakers enter the courtyard. Without waiting a second longer, I start running toward him, and the young guy with the piercing heads over to his group of friends, relieved to know I’ll be okay.

  But when I reach my father, I realize I’ve made a mistake. The man is wearing the same exact shoes, but it’s not my dad. I stop short, and he doesn’t even realize I was running toward him. The two-tone Pumas walk past me without pausing, and the stranger reunites with a woman who jumps into his arms and bursts into tears.