One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  Oh well, she’ll eat both. Hers and Lucas’s. For more than five years, she’s bought the same two desserts for lunch every Sunday. Lucas used to tease her that it was the kind of habit people have after being married for decades, but it never kept him from being thrilled with his mille-feuille.

  Old habits are hard to break.

  He would carefully set aside the icing from the top of the cake to save for last, because it was his favorite part.

  Is his favorite part, Anouk corrects herself sadly.

  He would always turn on the GPS, but would never follow the directions the robotic voice spat at him because he knew better, had a foolproof shortcut, knew the other way would be jammed no matter the time of day.

  He loved to end their conversations with corny expressions like Relax, Max! and See you later, alligator! He did it so often, Anouk found herself answering, In a while, crocodile! despite herself.

  He was a poor sport, incapable of admitting that he hated to lose. “You’re cheating! You don’t even know the rules!” he would exclaim, pouting every time they played Risk or Monopoly. Anouk would sometimes let him win, just to spare them both his bad mood.

  His favorite color was scarlet red, and Anouk had started wearing that color of lipstick because she knew he liked it.

  As she walks up an avenue lined with bushes dried and browned by the August sun, Anouk wonders if Lucas still thinks about her. If he also finds himself overwhelmed with wistful memories that do more harm than good. If he also imagines what could have happened if she hadn’t given him the concert tickets for their five-year anniversary. If he thinks everything could have been so different for them if not for that horrible night. Would they have stayed together, withstood the tests of time and day-to-day life? Would they have had a house full of children over the years . . . ?

  They had certainly tried, no one could say otherwise. For months, they both fought to make it work, to put that night behind them and move forward, together. Lucas tried so hard to earn her forgiveness, and to forgive himself. Anouk tried to pretend that everything was all right, even though she knew something was broken.

  He didn’t realize that she had seen him get up, turn around, and flee that night. She’d seen him hesitate, instinctively weigh the pros and cons of doing so before choosing to leave, deciding to run away from the gunfire, away from her. Would she have done the same in his shoes? Maybe, likely. But that didn’t keep her from thinking about it.

  Anouk had stayed in that concert hall for hours, seeing and hearing everything. Fighting to keep at bay the anxiety attack that was threatening to overwhelm her, to ignore the feeling she was suffocating, about to explode, to staunch her feral desire to scream and release the terror from her body. She had held on to life, alone, huddled next to people she didn’t know. She had never felt as vulnerable as she did lying on that cold, hard floor, never felt as fragile and helpless as she did listening to the bullets that could strike her at any time. At first, she kept saying in her head, Please let me be okay, please God, let me be okay, let me get out of here unharmed . . . , and then, as the salvoes of gunfire continued, seemingly unceasing, she had started to pray that a bullet would hit her head, or her heart: Please let it kill me on impact, so I don’t suffer, so I don’t die slowly and painfully, just end it all without me realizing I’m the one they’ve hit this time . . . Let the damn thing be over with quickly, let it end this unbearable fear that’s drowning me. Because it had seemed clear that it would all end there that night, that there was no hope of escape. That nobody would escape. That no one would be left to tell the story, to bear witness.

  Every time she had sensed movement around her, she had raised her head, despite it all, to see if it was Lucas trying to find her, coming to get her, checking all the bodies on the floor, hoping not to recognize her clothes or shoes among the dead.

  And when it had all ended, she’d stood up without daring to believe it was true, and had exited the building with her hands on her head—still sure that a bullet would fell her, that she would slump to the ground, like all the others. The police had warned them not to look around, but she couldn’t stop herself; she had to search for some sign of Lucas. She had known immediately that what she was seeing would stay burned on her retinas for the rest of her life, that she wouldn’t be able to move past it, that it would haunt her forever, but she had to look for him. Had to make sure he wasn’t lying there on the ground bleeding out. Had to listen, hoping not to hear the sound of his phone ringing in the deafening chorus of other cell phones ringing on the ground, with no one to answer them.

  She had seen a body on the floor wearing a teal sweater like Lucas’s. Had caught a glimpse of a guy with a similar haircut, unmoving in a dark puddle. A man in jeans, but who doesn’t wear jeans? She had felt guilty about the relief that flooded her every time she realized it wasn’t him. Because even if it wasn’t him, it was still somebody. Somebody’s boyfriend, father, or son, the person somebody was waiting for somewhere, without knowing. It wasn’t him, but it could have been. It wasn’t him, but on some level, they were all him.

  She had stayed up all night waiting to find him, to know that he was alive somewhere. His voicemail kept picking up, as if the phone was turned off or the battery were dead. Jessica and Djibril held each other close while Anouk hoped against hope that her boyfriend would finally appear.

  After giving a statement to a police officer who was just as dazed as she was, she had taken a taxi home. Nothing could have described her shock when she had found Lucas in the entryway taking off his coat. Trembling, Anouk had finally gotten the comfort she needed, nestled against his chest.

  In the days that followed, Anouk came to accept that her boyfriend had fled without looking back, that even in the aftermath, he hadn’t dared come close enough to the Bataclan to look for her, to make sure she was all right. Lucas’s guilt grew, and she did nothing to stop it. He felt like a worthless coward for thinking only of himself, for being too scared to go back and find her. He cried in shame sometimes, when he thought she was sleeping. She understood why he’d done what he had, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. She wanted to reassure him, but she couldn’t.

  Lucas had abandoned her that night. And even though it was understandable, justifiable, forgivable, and maybe even normal, Anouk couldn’t quiet the little voice in her head singing the same refrain over and over again: Lucas abandoned me. Lucas abandoned me. He fled and left me behind. He saved himself without a second thought and abandoned me. Abandoned abandoned abandoned.

  There was something definitive and irreversible about that choice. It was like she couldn’t trust him anymore, would never feel safe with him again. She hated herself for feeling that way, but her mind couldn’t convince her heart, couldn’t wipe away the feeling that she had been betrayed, rejected.

  Anouk had made it out of the massacre alive, but her life wasn’t so important to her anymore, because she hadn’t meant enough to the man she loved for him to come back for her.

  So, day after day, week after week, their relationship had crumbled. Like rotting fruit—no one could stop it. Sadness, bitterness, and regret had crept in as the list of things left unsaid had grown longer—Lucas afraid to tell her he would have gone back for her if he could do it again, that he would turn around and look for her all night if he had to, in bars, in courtyards and buses, inside the goddamn concert hall where they’d lost each other forever; and Anouk unable to explain how embittered and anguished she felt knowing she had meant so little to the man she had been sure was the one.

  Anouk had drifted away from Lucas, and he hadn’t done anything to stop it since he felt he deserved it, as a sort of penance. He could have fought to keep her, fought for them, but he would have had to believe in himself at least a little, would have had to be strong enough to admit that he had done what he could that night.

  Like everyone else.

  The words they couldn’t bring themselves to say were like a cancer relentlessly attackin
g each of their organs. They thought that talking would only make it hurt more, that it was better for each of them to try to come back up to the surface on their own, and that then they could be together again, like before. At barely twenty-five years old, they were too young for this kind of daily tragedy. They were at an age where, when things aren’t going so well, you break up without a fight because there’s time, so much time to have something else with someone else.

  So when the cancerous silence triumphed over their bodies, their hearts stopped fighting, deprived of oxygen and compassion. All that was left was affection and a bittersweet nostalgia that were no longer enough. Without a word, without a sound, their hearts stopped beating in the same rhythm, until the oppressive silence became unbearable, choking the life out of them both, like an ungrateful, overfed snake.

  One spring morning, Lucas finally read in Anouk’s gray eyes flecked with gold that it was over. He looked down at his feet, resigned to it. “I screwed everything up,” he whispered, unable to speak any louder. Without answering, because of the sobs threatening to escape her chest, Anouk helped him pack his things. He took only the bare minimum, not wanting to bring a bunch of stuff with him that would always remind him of her and of their failed relationship. Before leaving their home for the last time, he’d quietly sung the words to the song she used to love so much, “I would beg you if I thought it would make you stay,” and she had looked away, without a word.

  In the stairwell, Lucas had thought about all the times when Anouk took him on endless shopping trips. Are you sure this dress looks good on me? Is the color right? All the times he had sighed and answered that everything always looked perfect on her. All the times she had rolled her eyes in response to syrupy-sweet compliments.

  In the now-silent apartment, Anouk had thought about all the times Lucas went out of his way to send postcards to his parents during their vacations. All the times she made fun of his obsession, which she thought old-fashioned. All the times he proudly showed her the glossy card on his parents’ refrigerator—It makes them so happy, see?

  That day, Lucas would have given anything for a few hours shopping with Anouk, and she would have done the same to go back to their last vacation, in the summer of 2015, back to the sweltering streets of Barcelona to spend the entire afternoon going from shop to shop to find just the right postcard for Lucas’s parents.

  Anouk had watched as he exited the building and walked to his car in the pouring rain, and it occurred to her, with a heavy heart, that this deluge would have been the perfect backdrop for a Hollywood kiss. That in a romantic comedy, it wouldn’t have been too late, that there’s always hope for the happy ending everyone wants, whether it seems realistic or incredibly far-fetched. In a movie, there would have been a close-up of her tear-rimmed eyes, a fixed moment in time before she rushed down the stairs to reunite with Lucas in the middle of the street. He would have taken her in his arms, hastily dropping the heavy box he was carrying, and they would have kissed passionately, not at all bothered by the rain whipping at them or their soaked clothes. Cars would have had to stop for the young love-struck couple, blocking the road without even realizing it. They wouldn’t have heard the concert of horns beeping around them, nor seen passersby slow to watch their moving embrace from beneath their umbrellas. They would have been alone in another world—together.

  But Anouk had simply watched as the red Renault Clio’s lights turned on, and her gaze followed the car distractedly until it was out of sight.

  Because in real life, sometimes it is too late. And nobody is strong enough to change that.

  When she gets home, Anouk gently opens the pastry box and removes the top layer of icing from the mille-feuille. After enjoying the pastry cream and puff pastry, she runs her finger over the smooth, shiny surface of the icing Lucas loved so much.

  Out of nowhere, she bursts into tears, which leave winding paths on the icing where they fall. As she sits there alone in her kitchen, her crying turns into desperate sobs and hiccups, because no one’s there to take her in their arms anymore.

  10

  ROMANE

  A year later

  Romane conscientiously hangs the huge frame on the wall of the little guest room, which is full of piles of laundry waiting to be folded and books hoping to somehow find a spot in the jam-packed Ikea bookcase.

  Léopold watches as she takes a few steps back to evaluate her handiwork. Romane has her black hair up in a messy bun held in place by a colored pencil, with strands dangling around her temples.

  “It’s nice, right?” she asks, unsure.

  “It’s perfect.” Léopold reassures her with a smile.

  “But . . . is it a good idea to hang it here?”

  “It’s a great idea,” he says as he walks over and takes her in his arms.

  Together they contemplate the picture on the wall, without speaking. The only sound is the cooing of the pigeons on the roof of their old building, wafting in through their top-floor windows. Romane strokes Léopold’s forearm without thinking, her index finger running over the eight tattooed tentacles she now knows by heart, having admired and traced them one by one. There’s a tiny numeral hidden within each of them, tucked in among the suction cups, so that only the most discerning or practiced eye can see them. Eight numbers in all, which together make up the date November 13, 2015.

  The day they met.

  Because just over a year ago, the couple met under circumstances that neither of them will ever forget. They could have never seen each other again, if Léopold hadn’t thought to give her his number, and if Romane hadn’t worked up the courage to call him the next week. If they hadn’t had such a visceral connection, such a fervent need to be together to come back up to the surface, back to reality. If they hadn’t locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity, if he hadn’t held on by imagining the life he could have with the pretty girl across the way, if she hadn’t stayed afloat by silently explaining how to make macarons.

  They could have never seen each other again, but they did.

  They could have had nothing to say to one another, but they’ve never needed words to communicate. And silence doesn’t scare either of them, after living through endless hours of blaring Kalashnikov volleys.

  Léopold knows that the reason they’ve been together ever since, the reason they’ve hardly been apart since last November is because of—or thanks to—the connection they forged that night. Alex, Tiago, and Sylvain all lived through the same thing, of course. And Adèle too. But they didn’t wait it out with someone, didn’t share the strange combination of internal strife and resignation to death, which had seemed so imminent. They didn’t hope or hold on together.

  Over the next weeks, then months, they leaned on each other to regain their zest for life, to fight the irrational fear they had that someone was coming for them, that it would happen again. Romane didn’t have to explain to him why she suddenly stopped midaction sometimes, as the water from the faucet ran over her hands, because he always knew exactly what it reminded her of. And Léopold didn’t have to justify his obsession with making sure her phone was on silent—at the movies and everywhere else. When they both froze in unison at the sound of a distant ambulance siren or a car backfiring, neither of them felt the need to offer an explanation.

  It took a lot of patience, empathy, affection, and especially love. A lot of love.

  When people ask them how they met, Léopold and Romane simply answer, “At a concert,” with a smile, pleased with the banality of their answer, the way it never elicits any further questions or curiosity. It’s not that they want to lie or hide the truth, but they feel there’s no point bringing it up with people who would never be able to understand anyway. They’ve had enough compassionate faces, pity-filled looks, and comforting words to last a lifetime. Of course both of them know they’ll never be able to erase what happened that night from their memories, that the best-case scenario is that the images will fade, the colors and sounds become less vivid, less
violent, less omnipresent. They can only hope to get used to it, to adapt to them, to find a way to hide them deep down, far from others.

  They met at a concert, like hundreds of other normal couples. People imagine the dim lights, shy smiles, hands brushing against one another, and everyone finds it sweet. Romane and Léopold don’t mind the fact that the scene isn’t quite right, since the shared gaze that brought them together for hours was exactly that: sweet.

  They met at a concert, and have continued to go see their favorite bands play, dancing and singing in rhythm to the songs they enjoy. Romane and Léopold don’t always have the same taste, but neither one of them would ever imagine going to a concert without the other. Together, always. Out of love, and out of superstition. Romane has made sure to be in the audience at every one of Léopold’s concerts for the past year, in the front row no matter what, her eyes focused on the frenzied drummer. At first, she had to force herself, confront her fears, but together they repeat the same thing every time, a kind of mantra that keeps them moving forward: We can’t stop living. And they didn’t, not even when they sometimes felt like the simple things—eating, going out, talking, sleeping, and even breathing—took all their strength and energy, like they had to relearn how to do it all.

  They met at an unfinished concert, so when the Eagles of Death Metal announced their return to the stage in Paris, at the Olympia this time, exactly three months and three days after November 13, Léopold and Romane didn’t even need to discuss it to know they’d be going, whether or not they really wanted to. Romane thought of the concert as a sort of pilgrimage, an homage—she felt like she had to go, for all the people who wouldn’t be there, for the part of herself she had lost that night. Attending the concert would be like an act of resistance, proof that they would never forget. She hoped she might find herself again there, that it might be a good way to finally get some closure. She saw the second concert as a symbolic ending, even though she knew it wouldn’t put a stop to everything, that her wounds wouldn’t miraculously disappear. She hoped, at best, that it would help them heal, help the scars fade.