Revolution

by Jennifer Donnelly

  42

  I’m looking out my window at the lights of the buildings across from me when my phone rings. Rain’s hitting the glass, reflecting the light in a million tiny drops. I wish it could wash away the mistakes. The bad moves. The guilt and the sorrow. Mine. Alex’s. The whole world’s.

  “Sing to me,” I say into the phone. “Sing me the one about Sacré-Coeur. It’s so beautiful.”

  “I can’t. It’s so crazy tonight, Andi. There are three conventions in the city this weekend. I started my shift at four and I haven’t been without a fare since. I’ve got four people stuffed in this shit-box of a car right now. The traffic is impossible. But listen, I’ll make it up to you. Lay your clothes out.”

  “What?”

  “Lay some clothes out on the floor of your room so you don’t have to hunt for them in the dark. Then put your phone on vibrate so I don’t wake the whole house up, and leave it on your pillow.”

  “And why am I doing this?”

  Virgil swears again. Not at me. Under his breath. I can hear his dispatcher in the background, yelling and bitching.

  “Just do it,” he says to me.

  “It’s weird.”

  “Yeah. I know. So’s singing lullabies over the phone. Everything’s weird since I met you, Andi. Go to sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

  43

  My cell phone goes off, buzzing against my cheek like some horrible giant bug.

  “Yeah?” I rasp into it.

  “Hey, Andi, it’s me. You ready? Come downstairs.”

  “Virgil?” I say, squinting at the clock on the night table. “It’s four-thirty in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I know. We’re going to have to motor. Get off the phone and come down.”

  Before I can protest any further, he hangs up. I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, waiting for my brain to come online, then get out of bed and fumble my way into my clothes. I’m super quiet as I head into the bathroom. I don’t want to wake my father up. I can just imagine that conversation.

  Hi, Dad! Four-thirty? Is it really? Well, what do you know. What am I doing? I’m going out. With who? Oh, you don’t know him. I just met him myself. Where are we going? Good question! I have no idea.

  I ease the bathroom door open when I’m done, then tiptoe down the hallway, across the living room. I let myself out, creep down the two flights of stairs, and pick my way through all the crap in the courtyard. It’s cold and dark and I can barely see where I’m going. I let myself out of the street-side door, thinking this is insane, wondering if he’s still even going to be there.

  He is. He’s there. Sitting in his crappy car. Which is coughing and farting and looking even more banged up than the last time I saw it. He smiles when he sees me and opens the passenger door. I smile back. He’s got St. Vincent’s Marry Me playing on my iPod. I love that CD.

  “Hey,” I say. “Hey,” he says, and kisses my cheeks.

  He waits for me to buckle up, then throws the car into gear and we’re off, sputtering our way down the silent, empty street. He’s got two coffees sitting in the cup holders.

  “Thought you might need it. Help yourself,” he says.

  I thank him and take one. It’s black with no sugar, just the way I like it. It’s hot and strong and it warms me up.

  “How was your night?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  “That good, huh? So. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re going to the most beautiful place in Paris,” he says.

  “Cool,” I say. “I love that place.”

  He laughs and I decide to stop asking. To just sit back and drink my coffee and listen as St. Vincent tells me that the greenest of pastures are right here on earth.

  “How was your night?” he asks me.

  “Short,” I say.

  He asks me how I liked the catacombs. I tell him not very much. He wants to know why I went down, so I tell him about the guitar and the diary and Alex. Which makes me a little nervous because it sounds a little crazy, but he doesn’t tell me it’s crazy. He says it sounds cool and asks a lot of questions. I don’t tell him about the hallucinations I had, though. Or how I brought them on. Because I want a chance with this guy. I really do.

  “Come down with me some night,” he says. “I’ll take you to the beach. And the bunker.”

  “What are those?”

  “The beach is a party hangout. The bunker’s a series of rooms the Nazis used during the Second World War. I usually get in via the sewers. It’s tough getting the manhole covers up, but we can usually manage with two or three guys.”

  “Sewers and Nazis? Sign me right up,” I say. “Hey, maybe we can go to the dump after.”

  He laughs again. I do, too. I like making him laugh. He asks what else I’ve been up to, so I tell him about my thesis. He’s really interested. He knows Malherbeau’s work, likes the musical DNA idea, and asks me tons of questions. He suggests a few parallels I didn’t think of, like tunes from Philip Glass and PJ Harvey. It’s nice talking about my thesis with someone who doesn’t think music is for idiots.

  He’s zipping along as we talk, weaving his way west out of the eleventh. He picks up the Boulevard Voltaire, flies around the Place de la Republique, then heads up the Boulevard Magenta. After a few blocks, we hit roadwork, so he turns again, winding north through side streets. I watch the night city go by. I see the dark windows of shops and restaurants, the empty iron balconies of old limestone houses where husbands and wives and widows and babies and single girls and old men and dogs and cats lie sleeping. We keep traveling north, passing through the neon glare of the sex shops and peep shows of the Pigalle, into Montmartre. I think I know where we’re going now and I can’t wait to get there.

  I watch the night people of Paris as they move through the streets—a prostitute in black tights and a short skirt shivering on a corner; a guy in a suit, looking rumpled and dazed; street cleaners; garbagemen; farmers setting up stalls for the Saturday morning markets; antiques dealers heading for the fleas.

  I love this shadow city. I love the red-lipped working girl in her cheap heels. And the hornswoggler slinking home after his one-nighter. I love the pink-cheeked farmer’s wife carrying a wheel of cheese above her head. I feel something watching them. I’m not sure what it is. I feel something sitting here. In the darkness. With Virgil. It takes me a little time to recognize the feeling because it’s been so long. But then I do.

  It’s happiness.

  44

  We climb. Higher and higher. Up Montmartre to Sacré-Coeur, the church on the hill. To see the sun rise.

  Virgil wedges the car into a space the size of a shoebox on a narrow street just south of the church. He gets out, opens the trunk, grabs a tarp, a bag, and a blanket.

  “Are we going camping?” I say, looking at the blanket. “Otherwise, that’s pretty forward of you, son.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Take this,” he says, handing me the bag. “Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. I wonder if he’s going to try to put the moves on me. Any other guy would’ve tried something at one of the two million traffic lights we stopped at along the way. But I already know he’s not any other guy.

  When I don’t walk up the steep, cobbled street fast enough, he grabs my hand and pulls me along. We climb a flight of stone steps and come out on the huge, slanting lawns in front of Sacré-Coeur. You can see all of Paris here. Its lights are twinkling like stars in the darkness. He picks a spot in the middle of the lawn and puts the tarp down.

  “Sit,” he says.

  So I do. He sits next to me and drapes the blanket around our shoulders. I like sitting so close to him. He’s got that amazing smell guys have, warm skin and Tide. Or Persil. Or whatever they use over here. He opens the bag, takes out a thermos of hot coffee, a plastic food container, and two forks.


  “Bistella,” he says, handing me one of the forks. “My mom made it. Sorry it’s cold. It was supposed to be my dinner. It’s a chicken pie—”

  “—and it’s made with raisins, almonds, and cinnamon. I know my bistella,” I say. “I live near Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. There’s a Moroccan restaurant there. A Syrian one. Yemeni. And Tunisian.”

  I take a bite. It’s delicious and I tell him so. I take another. Bistella’s my favorite dish in the world. I take a third bite, then remind myself that I’ve had my dinner and he hasn’t.

  “I have to ask you something,” I say, licking my lips.

  “Mmm-hmm?” he says, chewing a bite.

  “When does it happen?”

  He gives me a look of majorly fake puzzlement. “When does what happen?” he says.

  “Ho, ho, ho. It’s soon, right?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he’s smiling now.

  I start looking around, but apparently I’m looking the wrong way, because he takes my chin in his hand and gently turns my head. “There,” he says, pointing. “In the east.”

  I look where he’s pointing. And then I see it. The reason he brought me here. I see fiery streaks of pink and orange along the horizon. I see the sun’s first golden rays. I see the frost-kissed rooftops of Paris glittering as if they’re made of diamonds.

  “Oh, Virgil, it’s beautiful,” I whisper. Because I can’t speak any louder.

  “I thought you might like it. Because you said you liked my song,” he says quietly. “The one about watching the sun rise over Paris.”

  He did this for me. This whole schlep out here. The coffee. The tarp. The blanket. All for me. He’s been driving all night. For hours and hours. He should have gone home to sleep. But instead he brought me here. To see the sunrise.

  I should say something more. I should tell him thank you, but I can’t. The big fat lump in my throat won’t let me. I get up and walk to the edge of the lawn and lean against the stone wall there, gazing at the sparkling city below me. I look back at him. He’s sitting there on the lawn, face lifted to the dawn, and I wish time would stop. Right here. Right now. So I could keep this forever.

  When I finally walk back to the tarp, my teeth are chattering. “It’s amazing. Thank you,” I say as I sit down and pull the blanket around me.

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  If he was going to make a move, this would be the time. But he doesn’t. Which is probably just as well. I mean, he lives in Paris and I live in Brooklyn. And I’m leaving tomorrow. And that’s pretty much that.

  I’m shivering like mad. The sun’s up, but it’s not making anything warm yet. I reach for the thermos of coffee at the exact same time Virgil reaches for another bite of bistella and we smack heads really hard. I’m swearing and rubbing my head. And so is he. And then I’m laughing. And so is he. And his face is so close to mine. And suddenly I’m not laughing. Because suddenly, he kisses me.

  45

  Lips and breath. The smell and taste and feel of him. The nuclear warmth of him. I want these things like I’ve never wanted anything.

  He pulls away and looks at me. “I hope that’s not too forward for you … son,” he says, a smile on his beautiful mouth.

  I pull his face back to mine. I don’t want him to talk. I just want him to kiss me again. I lean close to him, and touch him, and I can feel his heart under my hands, beating so fast.

  We stay like that. Until an old lady, out walking her dog, stops and raps her cane on the walkway and huffily tells us that this is a house of God.

  I know it is. For sure. Because a miracle just happened.

  But the sun’s out and people are walking up and down the path and the city of night is now the city of light, and making out in public is high on my list of heinous crimes. So we just sit close together and stare at the dawn sky.

  “When are you going back?” he asks me. Even though he knows.

  “Tomorrow night,” I tell him.

  “I’ll call you.”

  I laugh at that. Not merrily.

  Ever since I got here, I’ve wanted to go back. Now I don’t. I don’t want to leave Paris. Or this place. Or him. And it hurts. Badly.

  Push him away. Now, a voice inside me says. Before it hurts even more.

  “I don’t want you to call me,” I say. “I want you like this, like we are right now, not over some crap cell-phone connection.”

  “Why can’t you stay?”

  “I just can’t. There’s a situation at home. With my mother. It’s complicated.”

  “What is it? What’s going on?”

  How can I tell him? How? I told the police what happened. And my parents. And then I never spoke about it again. Not to anyone. Not to Nick or Dr. Becker. Not even to Vijay or Nathan. I can’t do it. I just can’t.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say abruptly. “I’ve gotta get back before my father wakes up and wonders where the hell I am.” I cap the thermos. Wrap up the rest of the bistella and put it in his bag. Then I fold the blanket and hug it to my chest. “I’ve really got to go,” I say again. “Now.” We both hear the pain in my voice.

  “You’re so sad, Andi. So angry. It’s in your face. In your eyes. It’s in every word you say. Every note of your music. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t care? Bring you here? Kiss you, but don’t care about you?” he says.

  I get up and walk away from him, then I stop and cover my face with my hands. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to push him away, to hurt him. Everyone else in the world, yes, but not him. But I don’t know how not to. Talking about it will kill me. I know it will. Just thinking about it nearly has.

  I walk back to him and kneel down on the tarp and take his hands in mine. “I’m worse than sad. And worse than angry, Virgil. A lot worse. And you don’t want to know what happened. Trust me on that.”

  “Andi …”

  “Please, Virgil. Please just take me home?”

  I’ve got tears in my eyes now. He wipes them away with his sleeve.

  “Okay,” he says, and I can see the hurt in his own eyes. “If that’s what you want. Let’s go.”

  46

  “Wait,” Virgil says.

  He unplugs my iPod from his dash and hands it to me. We’re sitting in his car, outside G’s house.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. But I don’t mean it. I’m not thankful. I don’t want it back. It means the end of my late night calls to him. And his early-morning calls to me. The end of songs and lullabies. The end of the only happiness I’ve known in the last two years.

  “Call me, okay?” he says.

  I picture myself doing that. Calling from New York. Hearing his voice and talking and laughing, and then hanging up after a few minutes and feeling ten thousand times more lonely after I call him than I did before.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I open my door and start to get out of the car, but he catches hold of my hand.

  “Like this isn’t hard enough?” I say, my voice breaking.

  He leans his forehead against mine, then lets me go.

  47

  My father’s at the table, dressed and eating breakfast. He looks up from his laptop as I come in.

  “Andi?” he says. “I thought you were in your room. Asleep. Where have you been?”

  “I went out to watch the sun rise.”

  He looks at me as if I told him I just got into Harvard.

  “Really?” he says.

  “Really.”

  “That’s nice, Andi. I’m glad you did that.”

  “Yeah, it was nice.”

  It was the nicest, most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. And now it’s over. And all I want to do is lie down in my bed and curl up into a ball.

  “I went out for croissants,” he says. “Do you want some? There’s coffee, too.”

  “No thanks, Dad. I’m re
ally tired. I think I’m going to lie down. Catch a few more Z’s. I need to visit Malherbeau’s house today. Do a bit more work on the outline. I’ll have it for you by tonight. And the intro, too. Are you going to be here?”

  “Yes, I’ll be here. I’ll be a bit late—I’ve got to be in the lab all day, and then there’s a dinner—but I’ll be here. Do you mean that, Andi?”

  “Mean what?”

  “You’re really going to have your outline and introduction done by this evening?”

  “Yes. I’m close. But I could use more visuals on Malherbeau. That’s why I’m going to his house.”

  “That’s wonderful news. I’m proud of you. Maybe the trip wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

  I smile at him. It takes everything I’ve got. “Yeah, maybe,” I say.

  I go into my bedroom, close the door behind me, and sit down on my bed. I open my bag and fish out my cell phone. I’m going to call him. Tell him I was wrong. I’m going to say I want to figure it out somehow.

  But I think about what he said, that I’m sad and angry. And I know he hasn’t seen a tenth of it. How do I tell him about the pain? About the pills I pop like M&M’S? How do I tell him how hard it is sometimes, to stay away from the edge of rivers and rooftops? How do I tell him what happened?

  I can’t, so I don’t.

  I lie down and try to sleep, but I can’t do that, either. I keep thinking of Virgil. I decide to listen to some tunes to help me sleep—I can do that again, I have my iPod back—but then I realize that music will only make me think of him more.

  I reach across the bed to the night table for Alex’s diary.

  16 May 1795

  The dead are all around me now.

  They push and jostle in the streets like housewives on market day. They wander the riverbank, silent and lonely. They haunt the places and people who once made them happy.

  Look at the Noailles children walking with their tutor. It’s not the breeze that ruffles the little girl’s hair, but her ghostmother’s breath. And there, upon the Queen’s Walk, see the rosebushes shudder? Antoinette has snagged her skirts again. Look there, at the Café Foy. See that shadow on the glass? It’s Desmoulins. Once upon a time he jumped up on a table and urged all of Paris to the Bastille. Now he stands outside, palms pressed to the window, weeping.