One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  René despondently takes the yogurt jar and the tiny white candle from his coat pocket. He lights it, doing his best to protect it from the freezing gusts of wind, then gently places it next to a peace sign drawn in black ink. As the trembling flame warms the small glass, he drops in four silver hoops one by one, then turns and leaves without looking back.

  5

  LÉOPOLD

  A week later

  Romane had copied Léopold’s number down on the white board in her kitchen before the ink faded from her palm. In case she wanted to give him a shot, as he’d mumbled with a smile before she left with Adèle for the hospital. At the time, she’d found the expression particularly awkward, and she’d seen in Léopold’s eyes that he was thinking the same thing.

  At the end of the weekend, Adèle, whose foot had actually only been grazed by fragments, had hurried home to their native Dijon on crutches, eager to get back to her roommates and be pampered by their parents, who lived just a few streets away. Though it was hard, Romane had gone back to work at the Ministry the following Monday, as the phone calls from friends and family gradually slowed, leaving behind a devastating solitude, a loneliness so intense that she felt like she was drowning.

  Then, the following Friday night, it all suddenly became intolerable as she watched the clock hands tick closer to nine thirty. She picked up the phone and dialed Léopold’s number.

  She had no idea what she was going to say, so when he picked up, she felt incredibly stupid, muttering, “It’s Romane,” in a voice that was slightly too shrill. There was a pretty good chance he wouldn’t even remember her name—so much had happened that night.

  But Léopold knew who she was right away. They went through the usual small talk, both of them self-consciously not asking the other how he or she was doing. They talked about the weather getting colder, about Adèle heading home, about Léopold’s three friends, who were all safe and sound. Léopold really understood what she was going through, could hear the distress, sadness, and fear in her voice, maybe because he’d been wrestling with the same strange feelings himself for the past week.

  Before hanging up, they made plans to have lunch together the next day, in a bistro near the Jardin des Plantes. Romane hadn’t dared admit to Léopold that even the idea of going to a restaurant terrified her, and Léopold hadn’t bothered her with the fact that he lived in Amiens, because the two-hour drive to and from the capital to see Romane again didn’t bother him one bit.

  When they walk into the restaurant on Saturday, they make sure to ask the waiter for the table located the farthest from the door and windows. Better safe than sorry.

  And now that she’s across from him, now that he can enjoy the sweet way she brushes her long bangs out of her eyes, Léopold asks the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask on the phone.

  “How are you?”

  Romane tries to go off on a tangent, to sidestep the question altogether, but he cuts her off in the kindest way possible, and repeats, “How are you?”

  And for the first time, she doesn’t say she’s doing all right. She doesn’t try to “put things into perspective,” or reassure the person asking the question, like she has with her sister, her parents, her friends, and her coworkers. She doesn’t try to fool him. With her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, she confides in Léopold as if they’ve known each other forever, feeling like he’s the only one she can talk to who really understands—and it’s true.

  She tells him about Adèle, who seems just as carefree as ever, as if nothing could ever get her down. She tells him about her nightmares and leaving the lamp on her bedside table turned on all night long. She tells him that she has to take Atarax to sleep, and how guilty she feels about being in such a state when she’s lucky to simply be alive. She tells him how alone she feels, how it seems like she’s walked through a door, leaving everyone else behind in a different world, where everything from her life before is like a scene out of movie or a dream. She tells him how in meetings her brain suddenly loses its ability to focus, carried away by waves of horrific visions that keep coming back. She tells him that she can’t take the Metro anymore because of the groaning tracks, and that she’s always discreetly looking for the emergency exit wherever she goes. She describes the memory that haunts her, of the exact moment when it all went to hell, that fraction of a second when the world turned upside down. She tells him about the unshakable feeling she has that it was all fake, that she imagined everything that happened that night, and how ever since it’s seemed like she’s floating above the rest of the world, like she has no place in it anymore. She tells him how everything else now seems so silly and superficial: grocery shopping, cleaning her apartment, going to the pharmacy for throat lozenges, being jostled in the street by rushed passersby. She tells him how afraid she is that it will never go away, that it will be a part of her forever, that it will swallow her up, devour her before she can work up the strength to fight back.

  Léopold listens without saying a word. He clenches his jaw and, despite his best efforts, his eyes tear up. Because though he’s a bit better at holding his demons at bay, every single word that comes out of Romane’s mouth could be his. He understands everything she’s feeling, emotions that others can’t even imagine. Of course he’d like to comfort her and tell her that they’ll pass, that they’ll fade. But the truth is that he has no idea, even if the psychiatrist he’s been seeing has told him that all these emotions are perfectly normal. He sits there, powerless, only managing to place his hand on Romane’s, eliciting a smile from her teary face.

  When it’s his turn to speak, he talks about other things. He tells her about the concert he, Sylvain, Tiago, and Alexandre put on last Saturday night, after spending the entire day at the hotel wondering whether or not it was a good idea to go on stage, wondering if they even could, if the audience would dare venture out to a café for the evening. He tells her what a stressful decision it was, how they felt like having a good time would be inappropriate, almost indecent, and describes the café owner’s face when the band showed up with their instruments. He tells her how beat-up the drum set he had to use was, that it must have seen its fair share of more or less gifted drummers before him. He tells her how he managed to keep tempo when they played “Territorial Pissings,” and he doesn’t even mind that she just shakes her head without understanding what a major accomplishment that was. He tells her about their music, and how it brings him back to life.

  When she finally admits that she hasn’t been able to listen to any music for the past week, not a single song, he’s shocked. Even more than by anything else she’s confided in him.

  “So I guess if I ask you to listen to one of our latest compositions, you’ll refuse?”

  Romane shakes her head hesitantly.

  Léopold pulls out some earbuds and plugs them into his phone. After tapping at the screen briefly, he hands them to the young woman, who doesn’t dare say no. She pushes them into her ears, without looking away from Léopold, using his eyes like a buoy, like she did that night.

  A gravelly male voice starts singing very softly, then the instruments burst onto the track one by one. First the guitar, then the bass, which lays out the choppy rhythm, then finally the drums. Romane squeezes Léopold’s hand and lets the music fill her head.

  She forgets the sound of glasses clinking at the bar, forgets the loud laughter of the group at the table a few feet away, forgets the door to the restaurant, slamming open and shut every time someone comes in or out, forgets the motorcycles buzzing in the streets, buses hurtling over clanging sewer grates, and jack hammers pounding away in the distance.

  She listens to the music, paying special attention to the drums, and she forgets.

  6

  MARGOT

  Two weeks later

  She was the only one in the family who had agreed to attend. The organizers had kindly offered to pay for a taxi all the way from Nantes, to make things easier for her. At eighty-four years old, and with
a bad hip, Margot’s grandmother, Michelle, wouldn’t have been able to take the train on her own and navigate the unfamiliar stations and streets.

  Margot’s parents were so consumed by anger and resentment at the senseless way they’d lost their daughter and son-in-law that they’d refused to attend, and William’s parents were simply too sick with grief. And who could blame them? They had their hands full with Sacha. Their grandson was still babbling, smiling, and demanding all the attention the world could offer—he kept them going, kept them grounded in day-to-day life. They had no choice. So Michelle had decided it was up to her to represent her granddaughter and her husband at the memorial service in Paris. Someone had to be there; she couldn’t bear it otherwise.

  They sat her in the front row, because climbing the bleacher stairs would have been too complicated with her cane. Everyone pampered her, but their good will was powerless to warm her soul, especially in this huge cobblestone courtyard, where even the slightest gust of freezing air managed to find its way past her pilly wool coat.

  The seats filled one by one, but Michelle stayed focused on the black-uniformed band that kept playing pieces she didn’t know. She still had so many unanswered questions, and not knowing, having no one to answer them, was suffocating her.

  Had Margot suffered, had she screamed in pain, had William been there to hold her in his arms until the end, had they had time to tell each other good-bye? Had she been caught by surprise; had her life simply been extinguished in a split second, before she realized what was going on, or had she tried to escape, her eyes wide with terror? Had she suffered for hours? Had she been scared, had someone stayed with her to reassure and comfort her? Had she been excited about the concert, had she been looking forward to going on a date with her husband for weeks? Had she felt the bullets wedge deep in her flesh, had she watched the dark-red stain spread on the fabric of her dress without understanding where it was coming from? Had her granddaughter even been wearing a dress that night? Had she helped other people get out of that cursed building, or had she thought only of saving herself, even if that meant trampling the wounded without remorse?

  For the past two weeks, Michelle has been trying desperately to quiet these incessant questions. In vain. She keeps them to herself, though, forming a lump in her throat, because she doesn’t want to upset her daughter any more than she already is. And nobody has the answers anyway.

  She told herself she could share her grief with others by coming here, but when she finally finds herself sitting in an uncomfortable chair amid a sea of strange, solemn faces, she realizes just how solitary mourning really is.

  The din quiets when the president arrives and “La Marseillaise” is played—a bit too enthusiastically for Margot’s grandmother, who would prefer gentle, soothing music.

  She watches as he sits stoically in a lone chair across from the bleachers, and she feels a bit sorry for him, up there all by himself. She wishes she could pull her chair up next to him so he doesn’t have to be alone, carrying the weight of this terrible massacre on his shoulders.

  Three young women sing Jacques Brel’s “Quand on n’a que l’amour,” and Michelle has flashes of Sunday mornings at home years ago, when Henri would turn on the record player. She sees Margot and her cousins dancing and spinning around their grandfather’s legs as he tries to push them aside, in a hurry to get back to whatever he’s working on in his little office. She can hear her deceased husband’s grouchy voice, but especially the little girls’ squeals of delight.

  My dress spins the best, doesn’t it, Grandma? Margot would ask pleadingly.

  Yes, my love, your dress spins the best . . .

  Michelle wraps her coat tight around herself, and it occurs to her that Jacques Brel is ruined for her now. She studies the three young women, who look about the same age as the granddaughter she’s lost, and she can feel her heart tightening in her rib cage, like a sponge being wrung out, squeezing out every last drop, every last tear. She shivers as she listens—from sadness, grief, and the cold. On a screen to her right, photos of the victims flash by in sets of five. Michelle forces herself not to look; she doesn’t want to see the smiling, carefree faces, like those of Margot and William. She stares straight down, focusing on the pale-gray cobblestones, to avoid catching a glimpse of her granddaughter on the screen.

  When a blonde woman starts singing “Perlimpinpin” by Barbara, Michelle whispers the words along with her, softly, just for herself. And for Margot—though she probably wouldn’t have liked the song. It’s too slow, Grandma! You can’t dance to it, and music is meant for dancing! Her granddaughter had tried quite a few times to get her to listen to modern music, to strange bands that seemed to yell more than they sang. Wild music, as her Henri used to say. And yet, it occurs to Michelle that it’s rather strange to memorialize all these young people who listened to rock music by singing “La Marseillaise” and Barbara. She wonders if Margot and William would have appreciated the lyric tone, the solemn, weighty atmosphere.

  A man and a woman begin listing all the names of the victims and their ages. Slowly, clearly. It’s never-ending. Michelle suddenly feels empty—her granddaughter and son-in-law are just two names amid so many others, and she’s just another grieving grandmother among so many other broken families.

  But it seems so clear to her that Margot was unique. There are so many things her grandmother could say about her. If she’d been here today, she would have spent her time moaning about the cold, because she would have forgotten her scarf or her gloves—she always forgot something. She would have struck up a conversation with the person sitting next to her as if they were old friends, because that’s how she was: engaging and talkative. She would have had tears streaming down her face, and she would have worn them proudly, without a trace of embarrassment, wiping them away with the back of her hand when they itched, and sniffling, because she never tried to hide her emotions. And because, obviously, she would have forgotten to bring tissues.

  But if Margot had been here today, there would have been no today at all.

  A cello starts playing, a tormented cry that suddenly fills the courtyard of Les Invalides. It makes Michelle want to get up and leave, taking her unspeakable grief with her. She doesn’t know why she came anymore, why she thought this ceremony would help her find some peace, why she thought being surrounded by people who are suffering as much as she is would lessen her own pain. Grieving alongside all of France doesn’t make her feel better; the fact that Margot and her husband belong to the entire country in a way, that they’ve become symbols, anonymous celebrities whose names are on everyone’s lips, doesn’t comfort her in the least. The cello stabs at her heart, slicing deep as it brings back memories of her granddaughter. The bow seems to be playing directly on her nerves, and Michelle has to fight the sudden urge to double over, bested by two invisible hands doing their utmost to twist her esophagus into knots.

  Then the president stands up, crosses the courtyard with measured steps, and begins to speak in a somber tone. Michelle thinks of the people listening to him on their television screens, busy with other things in the warmth of their own homes.

  Tonight she’ll be back in her home, a house too big for her and her orange cat. She’ll sit back in her easy chair with the lever for adjusting the back, and the big tomcat will purr on her lap, pleased to have his owner back. Michelle will look through the old photo albums one more time, watching her granddaughter grow up as she turns the pages—her first smile, first steps, first pair of glasses. Her birthdays. Waving at the camera in her white wedding dress. Lovingly kissing her little Sacha at the maternity ward.

  She’ll look at the pictures again and again, hoping that somehow, if she just keeps doing it, her heart will go numb and the grief will fade.

  7

  DAPHNÉ

  A month later

  Eight-year-old Charline hasn’t been able to get much of an explanation out of her parents, but from what’s been said at school—and especially on the playgro
und—she’s managed to piece together what happened on the night of November 13.

  She wishes she could ask her mother about it more, but Daphné refuses to talk about what she saw. Charline imagines all sorts of things instead.

  Despite that, she’s been reassured to see her mother looking happy and energetic for the past month. “She’s living life to the fullest,” as her father says. And everyone is thrilled with the new Daphné, who takes her time rather than rushing around and worrying herself sick about every little thing.

  She’s still often late picking Charline up at school, but it doesn’t seem to upset her anymore. She just offers the principal a big smile and wishes her a wonderful evening, and Mrs. Coullet does the same, surprised to discover how contagious a mother’s good mood can be.

  Daphné enjoys cooking on the weekend now too. She no longer sees it as a chore, and Charline is thrilled to help her prepare lentil-and-sausage stew and moussaka.

  All the little things in life that used to stress Daphné out are now a source of enjoyment. So while Charline’s head is still full of unanswered questions she wishes she could ask, she doesn’t want her mother to think any negative thoughts, especially since she’s afraid that at any minute Daphné might start running around trying to beat the clock again.

  Sometimes she notices her mother staring into space, her eyes empty, unseeing. Other times she freezes in the middle of talking or doing something. Sometimes Charline has to repeat, “It’s your turn!” insistently, when they’re playing board games together. And she occasionally forgets to close her bedroom door at night, or turn off the stair light. A few days ago, Daphné even left the water running in the bathroom. When Charline realized it, she simply went and turned it off, without mentioning it, because she really doesn’t want to worry anyone.