Concrete Flowers

by Wilfried N'Sondé

  Then a rainstorm of various types of projectiles comes crashing down onto the police shields of the officers lined up in tight rows. Burning objects, pétanque balls, bottles, stones.

  Rosa Maria, an indifferent spectator to the fire in the neighborhood, strolls along, still consumed by the lukewarm love trickling down between her thighs. Project 6000 is once again in an uproar. The boys are all there, Mouloud, Jason, Mohammed, Pascal, Hamid . . . everybody, no exceptions. She’s known each and every one of them for years now. Like her, many of them were born in the neighborhood. Today, their faces are hard, their cheeks frozen, with venom on their lips and metal on their dilated pupils, their gazes are pumped up, radiating resentment!

  She no longer sees them. Rosa Maria prefers to become invisible and fluid and to undulate toward the sky, to go far away, way beyond Paris and even the surrounding national highways, on a flying carpet launched at a steady speed, her mind slowly making a run for it, at which point she slows down, shivering at the memory of the embrace.

  —What are you doing, Rosa? I told you to go home. Shit’s gonna go down, the cops are coming down.

  Deaf to his words, she smiles discreetly and keeps on moving slowly and calmly. Children are being harangued in the street, forces are gathering, rage is brewing, a danger, an avalanche, a cannonball.

  In the middle of all the chaos, Rosa Maria takes off, ignoring the anger coming from her friends gathered in front of the entrance to the tons of concrete. She remembers the pleasure of Jason, his lower lip trembling, his eyes that closed after he came . . . In Rosa Maria’s belly, a rush of blood, a spark, is throbbing again, rising up toward her breasts, before spreading quickly throughout her entire body. Tingling sensations, a wave of pleasure, a heat wave that makes her shudder from the tips of her fingers to the roots of her hair and gives her the sweet sensation of balancing, without support, the soles of the feet posed gently on quicksand.

  The steel lodged in clenched fists, cement in the legs. The projects has once again boxed itself in with its rings of expressways, somewhere far off the beltway. The complex is ecstatic, its sons are ready, an urge to fight and to shock pulsating in their whole beings! Police on one side, on the other, guys from the neighborhood originating from at least four continents, possessed by the same desire to exist, to exist . . . A new kaleidoscope, unique, hesitating, a crowd whose contours are unclear, galvanized, determined . . . Then an all-­out meltdown.

  The police, who up until this point had gotten down on one knee to brave the rage, suddenly rise up like one man! The order to attack is given. The police run, clubs in hand, visors lowered; they prefer to see just enough to distinguish, especially not to feel anything, no longer feel, reestablish the natural order of things, break bones, and destroy muscles. Impose silence and peace by beating on heads, systemically trampling on their demands, definitively silencing them beneath their boots. The return to normal is being prepared and will be systematic, precise, and final. Civil servants are on the job.

  Rosa Maria is dreaming, she’s on her way to someplace where there are beaches and sun. Intangible, she’s leaving behind the despair, the violence, and the fire. Exiled in her dream, the girl is radiant.

  Rage is circulating unabated and boiling in the veins of the projects, getting out of control and seeping into everything. A craving to massacre and destroy. The asphalt in the heart beats a haunting rhythm that comes together and makes a lump in the chest.

  The streets won’t be able to withstand the attack much longer; the meager forces of courage are falling apart before the organized and powerful surge of the police. And there is but one feeble trembling voice, choking far off, stifled hope:

  —We can’t take it anymore, we’re going to break everything! Tonight it’s . . .

  The showdown ends, handcuffs on wrists, with slaps in the face and insults, faces against the ground twisted into painful grimaces, knees planted into the backs of adolescents to prevent resistance. Club to the torso. Rage has failed, its face is projected against the wall in the back of the cells at the police station. Powerless before the unequal balance of power, the protest had been crushed, humiliated, momentarily reduced to silence.

  Smoked, stripped, burned-out cars, spilled trash containers, businesses ransacked—the neighborhood of project 6000 will carry these marks like wounds for a long time. The scraps of an apocalyptic landscape, a sneak peek of the end of the world. In the middle, legitimate violence proudly parades.

  Rosa Maria arrives in front of her building and bumps into Margarine, beside herself:

  —Rosa, where you coming from? It’s war out there, didn’t you see?

  Rosa Maria rubs her eyes and hesitates to return to reality.

  —I saw . . . it made me afraid.

  —You’re acting weird, Rosa. Did you smoke or what? I came out of the supermarket with your sister Sonia late afternoon when she’d finished work. She was the one who told me that the fascist pig in tower D, you know the old guy Lucien what’s-his-name, the one who’s always insulting Arabs and blacks, well, he went nuts and started shooting at everybody.

  Rosa Maria remains unfazed.

  —I swear! You know, apparently there were some young people on the sidewalk in front of Black Move, then there was some mix-up with the old geezer, who wanted them to scram. They insulted him, and he blew a fuse, he grabbed a piece and fired three or four times, I don’t remember how many.

  Rosa Maria would like Margarine to shut up, too many tragedies, blood and fire, she can’t take it anymore.

  —After, the entire neighborhood came downstairs. The guys broke everything, they burned cars and trash containers, some really crazy shit. That’s why the cops filed charges, it got way out of hand. I think they arrested around fifteen guys! You should have seen it, those cops, all muscle, lined up against these tiny skinny kids in their sweat suits and sneakers . . . seriously crazy.

  —Yeah, some seriously crazy shit . . . OK, Margarine, gotta go, I’m running late.

  IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK when Rosa Maria comes through the door. Her sister Sonia rushes up to her.

  —Shit, Rosa, what the hell have you gone and done again? Have you seen what’s going on outside? Mom is worried, and Dad’s gone dead silent. I told him that you went to see a friend who’s sick, to take her the homework. You hold it together now, we’re going to eat.

  Rosa Maria says good evening and sits down at the table in the dining room to the left of her father. Salvatore Milano, his wife, Angelina, and his three girls, Sonia, Rosa Maria, and Anna attentively watch the televised news that relates what just went down in a special report:

  Integration, immigration. Lucien Marchand, retired military officer, maniac, a veteran of the colonial army was taken in for questioning, temporary insanity, remanded into custody, provocation, on the threshold of tolerance. French, of foreign origins. Law enforcement demonstrated exemplary courage, young people, looting, the riot police were deployed in great numbers throughout the notoriously difficult housing project and at the RER train station . . .

  The special bulletin continues, integration, immigration . . . street scuffles at housing project 6000 . . . police . . . rioters.

  Accompanied by images of veiled women crying, young dark-­skinned or black people, eyes filled with hate, making threats in a disconcerting commotion, cars still burning in the parking lot. Riot.

  The newscaster then abandons his dismayed expression, turns toward the left camera and addresses the spectators with a smile, white teeth perfectly aligned, ready for the weather report for the next day. Clouds, downpours in the north, and clear skies for the rest of the country!

  Salvatore orders that the TV be turned off, dinner is ready.

  —They should load them all up and send them back to the jungle, it’s them and their rotten drug dealing that led my son to tragedy, degenerates, good-for-nothings, these young people, monkeys!

  Rosa Maria, beautiful and strengthened by the love pulsating throughout her, tightens her fists
around her knife and fork. She’s drawing on a renewed courage that allows her to wear her head high, determined not to let injustice go on. Her expression gains confidence, she breathes deeply, turns her face to the right, and stares directly at her father. Rosa Maria is daring. Her legs shake a little bit, but she is stronger than ever:

  —First of all, you’re not more French than them, and plus they’re not monkeys, they’re my friends. Antonio liked them a lot too!

  In the Milano household, time suddenly stops. Only little Anna keeps on eating as though nothing has happened. Angelina turns white and fears the worst:

  —Be quiet, Rosa, you don’t speak like that to your father!

  Sonia adds:

  —Shit, Rosa, shut it, goddamn it!

  —But it’s true, they’re not monkeys, they’re my friends. I l—

  Salvatore gets up and slaps his daughter, his huge specialized worker’s hand catching her white cheek. Rosa Maria falls to the ground. Anna screams and cries. Angelina blocks her ears, sobbing and shaking her head from left to right. Before her father’s determination as he moves dangerously toward her sister crouched down, dazed, Sonia steps away. Rosa doesn’t manage to dodge the kick to her side that lodges her back to the wall, suddenly blocking her breathing and doubling her over in two.

  —Go on, get out of here! I don’t wanna see you no more!

  IN THE ROOM she shares with her two sisters in the back of the modest apartment, Anna opposite and Sonia in the lower bunk, Rosa Maria is still enjoying being half-asleep. Her cheek on fire and her ear still ringing, she is still shaken up from the events of the previous night and cradled in Jason’s love, the first time, happiness finally. The fire in the housing project and some screams still haunt and frighten her. The blows from her father. She is hanging on relentlessly to the taste of his lips pressing on hers, the lights of Sicily, the Mediterranean Sea. Rosa Maria hears little Anna playing with her doll down below, she half opens her eye on the space that has become too cramped over the years. The aging furniture reduced to the bare minimum, a wardrobe of plywood in which the clothing for all three girls is piled, a chair and a table for schoolwork. The square room is ugly with a low ceiling. The sun, even though it is blindingly bright and high in the sky, barely penetrates the room. For each of the girls, intimacy is confined to the contours of her mattress. In the morning, the bedroom conceived for one person stinks of sweat and a strong musty smell.

  Rosa Maria wraps herself up into her comforter and turns toward the wall in hopes of dreaming some more.

  —Hey, wake up, Rosa, you can’t be still sleeping? It’s almost midday. Don’t worry, you can come down and leave the room, the parents are gone, they won’t be back before dinner.

  Sonia busts into the room, she runs to the window and opens the shutters.

  —Goddamn it, Rosa, because you’re scared, you leave the little one playing in the dark! You should have seen it, it rained like crazy this morning. Luckily now it’s almost beautiful out.

  A draft of fresh air caresses the nape of Rosa Maria’s neck while she lies on her belly. Her face, puffy from the night and swollen from all the blows, is still buried in the pillow she holds tightly between her bare arms. She gets up, squints her eyes a little bit from the sliver of sunlight, and wakes up slowly, slightly shivering, a bundle of nerves, surprised by the empty space beside her. In love, she is still moored to the most marvelous of dreams. Rosa would have loved that the next morning never came to pass, to remain under the illusion of living like a bird, light and carefree, sleeping and singing every day, flying above the complex, perched on a branch looking down on the world.

  —Hey, Rosa, what came over you last night to make you talk to Dad like that? The next time, believe me, he’s gonna kill you! You gotta really understand that between the unemployment, Antonio’s death, and everything . . . it makes sense that he’s on edge!

  The images from yesterday are now coming into full view in her mind, the forbidden dance, the gunshots, Jason’s magnificent body, the most beautiful she could ever imagine, the pain and then the pleasure in her belly, the ecstasy, the complex in flames, the attack by the police officers, everything. She’d like to lie down and escape in her sleep.

  —We didn’t do anything wrong, Sonia, I swear. Plus, after all, it’s true, I can’t let it be said that they’re monkeys, they’re my friends, they’re really good to me.

  —Your friends? They made a goddamn unbelievable mess. You gotta be really stupid to break everything in your own neighborhood, it was already ugly. Now, forget about it! You just have to look around. We don’t even have a supermarket anymore, gotta go really far to do shopping, with bus tickets and everything, can you imagine the cost? My boss called me, I’m going to be transferred to Paris! Thank your friends, that’ll mean more than an hour-long commute every day. I like your buddies, but honestly, we didn’t need this!

  —They’re not the ones who fired the shots. It’s only natural that they got angry, you gotta understand them too and not keep misjudging them.

  —Well, OK, Rosa, we’re not going to bicker about it. Come on, up you go, we’ve got housework and so on to do. Show me your cheek, holy shit the black and blue! The old man went right for it. You gotta really watch out next time. Go on, hurry up, I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.

  Rosa Maria climbs down from the bunk. She hears children playing outside, behind the building near the parking lots. They’re all running around, bickering, she can’t really tell if they’re having fun or fighting. These kids are filled with so much life, pure energy, an explosion of enthusiasm in the middle of what’s left of the mess. They’re making comments about the events of Saturday with a strange kind of excitement.

  —Did you see what happened yesterday, it was like war . . . the older kids really fucked everything up . . . It was awesome!

  They’re playing, their feet in the ashes that cover the whole street. They’re dying to grow up and dream of one day imitating their idle elders, backs up against the walls of project 6000 or rear ends stuck to public benches, bored, spitting for hours on the ground, laughing, hanging together, and fighting with the police, push comes to shove.

  Rosa Maria looks at them with tender eyes, she’s dreaming of gold, of blue, of desire like an offering, a treasure, clear water, a caress that recalls the summer and the velvety feel of the volcanic dusty grounds beneath the soles of the feet.

  LATER ON IN the afternoon, a group of boys gets together around the bench close to the football field. They assume the triumphant position of winners, shoulders upright and high, a serious attitude. They are the heroes of the day, the martyrs of Saturday night. Their faces are serious, the disorderly rants were silenced with clubs, but they dared, the projects had defied the authorities. The turmoil is still alive; it’s beating a quick pulse under the pores of the skin, a biochemical disorganization that goes right to the brain, a storm in the making, uncertainty.

  Further along to the right, toward what is left of the supermarket, a patrol of policemen with helmets is ready to intervene should it become necessary. The policemen walk in step, guns at their chests and the shields behind. They are maintaining a respectful distance to avoid any form of provocation. They advance within ten yards toward the bench to make their presence known then disappear to the right behind a building. The latest model sneakers grip the asphalt, the pressure of the thumb and the index finger become more apparent on the cigarette in the corner of the pinched lips. Necks stiffen. Muscles, sculpted during several hours in the makeshift fitness room in the basement, tighten suddenly. Nervous laughter. Rage is brewing again, outbursts of loud, uncontrolled voices:

  —Goddamn it, they take us for clowns.

  —Look at those bastards, they keep patting themselves on the back like last night . . . They took advantage with their vans and all the gear, you would think they were in a movie. Is it a civil war or what here? Came with I don’t know how many dogs, some of them even hit the kids, little kids, like Boubacar’s bro
ther. On my mother’s life! Honestly, they hit him so many times on the head that he’s in the hospital! Word, if they come close, those sons of bitches, I’m gonna let ’em have it, like yesterday, direct!

  HAMID IS HEATED up, a bundle of nerves, ready to fight. He’s looking for a way, an outlet for his anger, fists in his sweatshirt. He’s also afraid, what if the police come back? Overexcited, he’s shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Rage is still boiling, less intense than yesterday, maybe more dangerous because it’s so contained, it’s bad. The frustration of failure, the young people are on the losing side here. Jason adds:

  —Goddamn it, first they go after Antonio, who wanted nothing to do with them. He was afraid of these motherfuckers, you know. After, that idiot smokes us like rabbits! Shit man, if the Good Man had been here, they would never have dared to close Black Move, he would have torched all their police cars. Holy shit, I wonder how they managed to get him!

  —Personally, I think it was when he had his friends in Paris, he got too hot for them, he was getting too confident, oh yeah, on my mother’s life!

  Commotion sets in, the commentary starts melding into a confusing mess.

  —Yeah, they should have let us kill that other motherfucking fascist pig, shit man, I would have so fucking killed him!

  —They always protect the others, as if we were their dogs. We open a room to be able to party, all cool, and they come pulling guns on us. That’s out of control, man, seriously.

  —That’s why Antonio was trying to dodge, he went to see the real guys in Paris, but even then, you see, they don’t leave you alone!