One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  Nobody pays any attention to me. Everyone’s busy with their own stuff, some talking to each other, others frantically tapping at their phones. I’m invisible.

  All of a sudden, I’m cold. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but I’m freezing from standing around doing nothing. I wonder where my coat is, then remember the woman with the ponytail who took it to hang it with Dad’s. Is this your first concert? You’re a lucky kid! You’ll see, the view from the balcony is amazing! Dad told her there was no point watching a concert sitting in a seat in the balcony, and that we were headed to the pit. The woman seemed surprised. The crowd can get pretty rowdy down there, you know . . . But my father brushed her warning aside with a sweep of his hand, like he used to do with Mom. I’ll be right there to protect him. There’s nothing to worry about! I remember that the woman was wearing a different color nail polish on each nail, like a rainbow. Yellow, orange, red, purple, and blue. It was too bad she didn’t have room for green—she would have needed six fingers to do it right.

  I rub my forearms to warm myself up a bit, but it doesn’t work very well. At least I’m wearing two T-shirts, one over the other. Dad bought me one at the stand earlier, before the concert started. I picked out a black one with a yellow hand, the pinky and pointer fingers sticking up. He said it was the rock-and-roll symbol and showed me how to proudly wave my fist in the air with two fingers up. The people waiting in line with us laughed.

  All around me, men and women are walking around wrapped in gold aluminum foil, like chocolate Easter bunnies. I figure my father won’t be much longer now, so I sit with my back to the frozen wall, pull my knees to my chest, and wait. To pass the time, I count the shoes that come into the cobblestone courtyard, watching out for even the tiniest glimpse of red in my line of sight.

  9

  LUCAS

  The line of people waiting to get in is already long when Anouk and I arrive at the Bataclan. Thanks to Djibril and Jessica, who got here earlier, we cut in a few yards from the end. I pointedly ignore the people who get huffy about our shameless disregard for the line. I mean, we’re all going to get in anyway, right?

  Anouk pulls out her cell and takes a picture of the two of us in front of the vintage light panel with “Eagles of Death Metal” printed in big black letters. It’s very Broadway. She eagerly gets to work posting it on her Facebook page, so the entire world will know where we are tonight.

  Once we get inside, Djibril and I grab a few beers at the bar, because a rock concert without beer isn’t really a rock concert at all. Anouk rather conspicuously points to a ten-year-old kid trying on a T-shirt three times his size at the merchandise stand.

  “Do you want anything?” she asks.

  “Nah, the line’s way too long. We can go afterward, it’ll be easier then.”

  We laugh as we watch the kid’s father teach him to make the sign of the horns.

  “When we have one of our own, we’ll bring him or her with us to concerts too, okay?” I whisper in Anouk’s ear, and she blushes slightly. I know she’d be on board for a baby, even though neither of us is even twenty-five, and she hasn’t finished her midwife training yet. As for me, I’m in no hurry, but this girl could be the one—I’ve known it since the first day we met at the Créteil train station. Her gently mocking smile, the way her tomboy exterior hides her inner sensitivity, her unpretentious ways. A whole host of little things that clicked with me right away. So, yeah, I absolutely want to have a kid with her someday.

  “Where do you want to watch from?” Jessica asks Anouk, since she also knows that my girlfriend is hardly at ease in tight spaces.

  “Let’s get close to the stage! Don’t worry about me!”

  I share a discreet, knowing glance with Anouk’s best friend, but Jessica simply shrugs, seeming to say, If she’s game, then let’s not try to figure out why! All four of us find a spot just a few rows behind the crowd-control gates, where several photographers with impressive gear are already setting up—the band should be out soon. A few other people are heading back out of the pit, probably eager for a drink now that White Miles has finished. I wrap my arms around Anouk and square my shoulders as much as possible to protect her from the crowd, which is likely to get pretty rowdy tonight.

  From the very first song, everyone starts dancing and jumping all around. Nestled in my arms, Anouk tenses up instantly, as predicted. She tries to put on a brave face—I’m totally fine!—but I can tell she won’t be able to stand it for very long.

  “Try to let yourself go with the flow, don’t fight it!” I yell loud enough for her to hear, but that just stresses her out more. She’s looking around frantically, like a scared puppy. Jessica leans toward her and says something into her ear. Anouk nods, then comes closer to tell me that the three of them are going to head to the back because it’s suffocating down here.

  Disappointed, I’m about to follow when she motions for me to stay.

  “Take advantage of being up so close! Then come find us at the end. Don’t worry about it!”

  I kiss her on the temple, then watch her leave. Djibril leads them in a single-file line, elbowing his way through the crowd. As they move farther away, the audience swallows them up—everyone’s eager to get a few inches closer to the stage.

  To my right, a super tall guy bumps into me as he climbs onto a friend’s shoulders. He’s crowd surfing now, carried overhead by the outstretched arms of the ecstatic audience that’s all screaming excitedly or singing the lyrics to the song that’s got us swaying in unison. I let myself go and start moshing so hard with those around me that my feet don’t even touch the ground anymore.

  I figure out that something’s wrong when I suddenly fall hard back to the ground. I turn to look at the musicians, as if they can explain what’s going on. I expect the singer to tell us in English that they pushed an amp a bit too far, but I get nothing from them. The guitar, the bass, and the drums are all silent—instead there are gunshots and screams. I recognize the sound of bullets, volleys of automatic gunfire, even though it’s the first time I’ve heard them in real life.

  Behind me, everyone is struggling to reach the stage, their eyes filled with terror. A girl with her hair in a ballerina bun freezes, then drifts slowly to the floor like a piece of paper dropped gently by the wind. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. I want to catch her, but her eyes have already gone blank, as if someone pushed her “Off” button.

  This isn’t a game; it’s not pretend. This woman’s dead, just feet from me. No one’s going to yell, Cut! A bit less tense next time, please!

  Everyone around me is trying to escape, but all I can do is think of Anouk at the back of the room. I can’t just take off and leave her—I have to find her. I push against the crowd, going against the tide, fighting for every step. It feels like every time I manage to gain an inch, I’m quickly pushed back two. The mass of people is as cruel and insurmountable as a tsunami, keeping me from reaching the woman I’m meant to be with.

  Then, like reeds in a storm, everyone lies down, throwing themselves to the ground, as if they’ve just realized that staying upright is the quickest way to earn a bullet in the back of the head. I step over several people before I realize that pretty soon I’ll be the only one standing—the perfect target.

  So I follow suit. I crouch down, lower my head, and crawl between volleys, which seem to be slowing. Someone next to me murmurs that the shooters are wearing explosive vests. That really clinches my decision to get the hell out of here ASAP. How’s there any hope of reasoning with guys who plan to blow themselves up in the end, who aren’t even afraid of dying?

  I try, from my huddled position, to find Anouk among the people lying on the ground, try to remember what she was wearing, if she had on any bright colors. But there are so many people, so jumbled together and tangled up, that I can’t even figure out which legs go with which torsos.

  Suddenly, to my right, a group of people stand and run toward what must be an emergency exit. I hesitate, but no
t for long. Driven by adrenaline, I jump up to escape. I’m not thinking about Anouk anymore, only about saving my own skin, about not dying here like a dog in a ditch.

  I run, hoping against hope that I won’t be struck by a bullet, trip over someone, or hit a dead end. People are piling up in the narrow hallway that’s now like a funnel. Without slowing down, I rush the mass of people, hopping and shoving my way through until I finally manage to get out into the street, where my feet hit the pavement in time to the gunfire, which has started up again behind me.

  I keep running and running because there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere safe in this street, not even a parked car. I run until I’m out of breath and my lungs are on fire. When my legs slow, I force them to keep moving. The sound of bullets has disappeared, though. I keep walking, convinced they’ll catch up with me, that they’ll finish me right here in the street. Maybe I’m being irrational, but there’s nothing rational about any of this. It would really suck to get shot now.

  My heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m afraid it’ll give out, that it won’t be able to handle my mad dash, my fear, my fight for survival. How stupid would it be to die of a heart attack after all that.

  I take my cigarettes out of my back pocket, then search for my lighter. Where the hell has the damn thing gone? I check to see if I’ve maybe left it inside the pack of Marlboros. Just two cigarettes waiting for me.

  I have a flash of Anouk lighting one right before posting the photo of the two of us outside the Bataclan on Facebook. She used my jacket to shield us from the wind so the flame wouldn’t be blown out right away. I remember thinking she was so clumsy she might burn a hole in the lining of my leather coat.

  I quickly dial her number and anxiously count the rings that inevitably lead to her voicemail. “You’ve reached Anouk. I’m not available right now, but . . .”

  Anouk, where are you? Don’t tell me you’re still in there, that Djibril and Jessica haven’t gotten you out.

  Djibril and Jessica. I’m about to call them too, then a sudden realization holds me back. If they’re still inside, the ringing could get them noticed. A death sentence.

  I want to turn around and run back to find Anouk, but my legs won’t budge. The truth is that I’m terrified at the very idea of heading back toward that building. The truth is that my feet won’t move an inch in that direction. The truth is that my life is more important to me than hers, even if I refuse to admit it out loud and try to convince myself that it would be stupid to go back anyway, that I can’t do anything for her.

  That it’s too late to change anything. Too late to save her if she hasn’t already saved herself.

  10

  ROMANE

  Everyone’s rushing forward, hoping to escape whatever’s happening behind us, even though nobody really understands just what that is yet. All I can think is that if everyone else is running, I should run too. If they’re trying to escape, there must be a threat.

  I grab Adèle’s hand and pull her along with me, without saying a word. We follow the crowd, hoping it’s the right decision. A guy my little sister’s age bumps into me as he heads to the back of the room; I try to push him back the other way. He doesn’t get it. I want to yell something at him, grab his sleeve to stop him, but he’s already disappeared into all the other unfamiliar faces. I hope he’ll realize what a mistake he’s making soon and turn around.

  Then everyone hits the floor. Adèle and I do the same, still hoping it’s the right thing. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that the pops echoing relentlessly behind us are gunfire. My instincts are screaming at me to get up and flee, to move as fast as I can, but the lights come on and I remain motionless, like everyone else. I would have preferred to stay in the reassuring darkness, which provided cover and let us believe we could go unnoticed, that we were invisible. The light is blinding, and I suddenly feel so exposed.

  My toes are killing me thanks to these stupid too-small cowboy boots. I try to focus on the benign pain in my feet to block out the rest—people going limp just feet from me, puddles of blood turning into streams that tickle my hands.

  I want to close my eyes, but not seeing is even more terrifying. I meet the gaze of a guy across from me with light-brown hair, and can’t help but be reminded of Gustave Courbet’s Desperate Man self-portrait. A look of utter despair and incomprehension. I study his face to avoid thinking about anything else: curly wisps of hair on his forehead; a well-tended, very gentlemanly mustache that contrasts with the tousled hairstyle; an aquiline nose; pursed lips gone almost white; a tattoo on his arm of huge purple tentacles slithering down from the sleeve of his T-shirt all the way to his wrist. I count the tentacles as if counting sheep—slowly, carefully. Eight twisting tentacles so perfectly portrayed that they almost seem to be moving, dancing over his skin. I wonder how much of his skin is given over to this octopus. Does its body cover his entire back, does it circle his torso, making him its prisoner?

  He doesn’t look away, and I wonder if he’s staring at me to reassure himself or to comfort me, to let me know I’m not alone. I cling to his gaze for minutes, maybe hours. Nothing seems tangible anymore. Adèle whimpers softly next to me, and I squeeze her hand as hard as I can, not daring to turn my head toward her, not wanting to move even the slightest bit more.

  “I can’t move my leg anymore, Romane . . . I can’t feel my foot!”

  Despite my concern, I really just want to tell her to be quiet, not to make even the least bit of noise. Phones are ringing all around us, more and more cells going off, a rush of different melodies and muffled vibrators—so the world outside must know?—and I hope against hope that my sister thought to silence hers before the concert started. When I feel mine vibrating against my hip, I push down on it as hard as I can to stifle the sound, so hard my hand starts to cramp.

  Don’t draw attention, breathe as quietly as possible, don’t move despite the unbearable tingling in my legs and the terror spreading through the crowd—invisible, but contagious.

  The stranger across from me stands up along with a bunch of other people. He’s about to flee, and I pray that he won’t be shot before my eyes. He whispers to me to come with him, but I know Adèle wouldn’t make it, that she couldn’t handle a mad dash right now. I feel like people are playing red light, green light all around us—with every bang, they freeze like statues. As a kid, I was always the first one to reach the wall when I played with my classmates. I was the best. Could I win tonight? Does my life really depend on that stupid game?

  I watch him hesitate and look around, then lie back down just as the merciless volleys of gunfire pick up again. Did he stay for my sake? That doesn’t make any sense . . .

  I dive back into his gaze and convince myself that as long as he’s here, everything will be all right. I try to blink as little as possible, only when my eyes are screaming out from the dryness.

  He silently mouths something at me, exaggerating his articulation so I can read his lips. It’s going to be okay. I want to ask him how he can know that, but I simply smile, heartened by this stranger doing his best to make me feel better.

  We’ve been lying here playing dead for hours now. No one’s coming to save us. No one’s coming, because if they were, they’d already be here.

  Or maybe it’s only been a few minutes. I don’t know anymore.

  The gray-eyed man a few yards from me will probably be the last person I ever see. Before heavy footsteps stop in front of me on their hunt for survivors.

  I hear them walking around, firing into the crowd as they whisper, “Shh, shh . . . ,” almost gently, as if we were children they needed to calm, animals they wanted to reassure before putting them to sleep.

  Despite my best efforts otherwise, I can feel hot flashes and cold sweats washing over me in rapid succession. I concentrate on reciting something, anything—it’s the only thing that brings me back from the edge once I’ve started to panic. In my head, I list the ingredients needed to make macarons. I’d taught how to
make them at my most recent cooking class, last Sunday. Meanwhile, I keep my eyes fixed on the stranger opposite me, and I decide to call him Charles, to make him seem more familiar. Charles, let me give you the recipe for macarons. You’ll see, they’re really not so hard to make, you just have to be patient. He seems to be listening closely, and for a moment I wonder if telepathy might really work in extreme circumstances like these. First you sift half a cup of almond flour, to get rid of any clumps. Then you do the same thing with a cup of confectioner’s sugar.

  Charles stays focused on me, so I continue. You whip seven tablespoons of egg whites until they form stiff peaks. I know, it’s a pain, and most people would just say three to four egg whites, but macaron-making is an exact science. I wonder if Charles would really have the patience to measure out the egg whites. He seems more like the kind of guy who’d just use three, thinking it won’t make much of a difference. I’ll have to ask him later if he’d measure them out or not. Later . . .

  If we ever stand up and make it out of this concert hall alive, I could actually offer to teach him to make macarons. Having an octopus tattoo doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t like to cook.

  When the egg whites are firm, you carefully add one and a half tablespoons of sugar. Charles smiles at me, as if he likes what I’m telling him. My pulse finally starts to slow, and I offer my own shy smile in return.

  I keep going with the recipe in my mind, transmitting it to him, without looking away. I ignore the huge explosion that makes me hover off the floor for a split second before my jaw comes crashing back down onto the hard surface. Pour the almond flour and confectioner’s sugar into the egg whites, like snow. Is the building going to come crashing down, are we going to die here, crushed in the rubble? Mix it all together as gently as possible—finesse is crucial here. Should I get up? It would be really dumb not to try to escape if everything’s about to collapse or explode. Could I carry Adèle, or drag her at least? Would you help me, Charles? A rubber spatula works best for mixing. The batter should become shiny. You’ll know when you’ve mixed enough. If the building were going to collapse, it already would have, right? Unless maybe its walls are crumbling slowly, about to give way, taking their time like thunder and lightning—first the flashes of light, then the rumbling, several endless seconds later? There, that looks perfect. The batter should form a ribbon when you lift the spatula. Chefs actually say it’s macaroning. Funny word, huh?