Wearing a veil, Angelina hurried into the rising dawn and the drizzle of October, amid the headlights of cars decorating the city with strange garlands of yellow, white, and red. The cacophonic symphony of shoes on the asphalt sounded the rhythm of the weekday mornings. The huge colorless concrete bars poured out a crowd making headway in a hurry. Dressed from head to toe in sadness, Angelina rushed in the direction of the train station, where trains were waiting to head for the capital and the bus she needed to take was standing ready to transport her to her workplace.
DAY BREAKS, AND out of the buildings pours a noisy population of school kids, dressed in the latest fashion, colors, and extravagances, still sporting smiles on their faces, unwavering enthusiasm:
—How’s it going, Rosa, everything cool?
—Yeah, and you?
Four kisses to greet each other, everyone’s talking about the latest news in the hood and the party at Black Move.
—Saturday was the shit at Black Move, wasn’t it, Rosa?
—Oh yeah, great! Patrick really tore it up with the sound system, I swear!
—On my mother’s life, Rosa, he really tore the shit up. By the way, why did you get into it with Fatou?
—I dunno . . . I didn’t even really understand . . . She dances really good, you know, so I was looking at her, and she didn’t like that at all . . . I really don’t know, I don’t even know the girl!
—I dunno, but she is slammin’, damn! Right, Rosa, I’m gonna be late, better not miss the bus, gotta push off, later.
Rosa Maria’s school week begins with a ballet of bad grades, the joy of meeting up with her friends again, being summoned to the principal’s office: who trashed the English teacher’s car? Fire extinguisher thrown from the third floor a few feet away from the principal, sick leave for several weeks, nervous breakdown, teaching staff goes on strike with no intention of giving in to intimidation, opening of a computer room with internet access much to the delight of the students, sending home the troublemakers, destruction of classroom material, peddling soft drugs right at the school entrance . . . Sharing the giggles with friends during break time, sharing cigarettes on the bench in the back of the schoolyard, winks and stolen kisses beneath the poplar trees, some kids trying to remake the world are caught up in a heated discussion, others are struggling alone, misunderstood in the twists and turns of adolescence . . .
The site of Rosa’s general high school education consists in two dark green buildings on the outskirts of the city, boxed in between the highway and a forest in the vicinity of the industrial zone. Two rectangular structures built in a style that no art history book would even bother to comment on. The buildings had been put up in haste; there’d been no time to waste. A black metal wire fencing of nearly five feet frames the enclosure. In front, the bicycle shed, a real cemetery of stripped bicycles, wheels, frames, bikes abandoned by their owners after having been vandalized or the object of vengeance. In the middle, a concrete courtyard much like all the others and, in the back, sports fields with their nets and baskets torn, within the first months of having been inaugurated in the presence of the mayor and the deputy for the electoral district. Since then, every morning a noisy crowd makes its way there, full of excitement and hope in spite of the difficulties and the bad reputation of the school.
Rosa Maria is bored during school hours. She no longer understands the classes and couldn’t care less. Her nose stuck to the window, her gaze is lost beyond the sinister picture of the neighborhood, spiked with tall dirty bars for buildings, a depressing maze, and below cars in the parking lots.
She imagines golden-hued landscapes, birds flying high above, radiant sunlight on the wheat fields, on the frost or on the dark ground, the dance of pollen in April, the perfumes from the powder of the wheat come harvest time. Her daydreaming drifts further following the vibrant variations of colors according to the seasons, gold when the plain burns in the summer, the brown of the leaves and the black of the sticky ground that seal the autumn and winter, the green flowering of the spring, beneath a gray or blue sky. Further along, another world, the unknown, travels. The high school student concocts well-positioned trees lining the roadside, exciting cities that are great to live in, all kinds of colors. She imagines rivers where boats sail, luxury cruise liners heading for the end of the world. That’s where she should have lived, that way, Antonio wouldn’t have had to die the way he did on the pavement behind the supermarket. Rosa Maria is taking flight from her world, the reality of her life is oppressive, she’s made a little hole so that light can come in amid the gloom, and she’s immersed herself in it. Another dimension, a mirage, where her brother is still alive and Jason is madly in love with her.
An insolent student, unruly, closed off to even her most motivated teachers who have become the target of her profound feeling of malaise. A revolt is brewing deep within her and is trying to find the path that will take her far away, to sunny days, dreams of happiness, gold and blue.
Her teachers have failed in this remote unknown region of Île-de-France, flanked by a train station with a ridiculous name and lost to anonymity on the Parisian regional public transportation map. Their motivation has been severely tested. It’s the kind of battle that is won or lost by wearing down one’s opponent. It’s about not giving up too soon while still holding on to your sanity. They’re struggling to keep their passion for the subject they teach alive in the face of a mistrustful population with serious hang-ups, hiding behind defensive, impolite, and at times, even aggressive attitudes. Different groups have formed, and misunderstandings have come between the different generations. Everybody risks failure and discouragement. Disenchantment is lurking.
Rosa Maria is not at all concerned with the content of the school programs she suspects have been conceived most importantly for students who have nothing to do with her and her classmates. She is constantly feeling misjudged by her teachers, who seem distant and incapable of ever questioning the way they do things in an effort to try to understand her world. Rosa Maria is wasting her time at school and ruining the experience for the whole class, just like her brother did.
Antonio stopped going to high school during his senior year. He never felt like he fit in, felt looked down on. On principle, he took a stand as an enemy of the institution. He organized a strike that was widely supported by students and threatened to sequester the principal to protest against some racial epithets he was said to have uttered. The administration sent him home.
High school life keeps on going with its attendant terror in the corridors, dreams for the future made and undone a thousand times during break time, rumors of sexual harassment in the girls’ bathroom, for some, an enthusiasm for learning, a fierce desire to get through it, to climb the social ladder using their brains, fights in the entrance hall, some suspicious transactions behind the bus stop, the disciplinary board, the pride of obtaining a high school diploma with distinction. The weekend, to have some breathing room.
Boredom, anger, sadness, but also the pleasure of being together and exchanging ideas with friends pulls Rosa Maria limping along right until the bell rings at noon on Saturday.
ROSA MARIA STOPS in front of tower C. The guys and girls from the neighborhood are arriving in clusters. They’ve been waiting for this moment for a week now, good mood, party outfits, brand-name clothing, sweat suits. Everybody remembers the success of the previous week. The reputation of Black Move, the good sound system, not a single fight, and a smoking ambience, word had traveled throughout the hood. Rosa Maria takes note with some real concern about the new faces showing up. She’s especially paying attention to the teenage girls most likely to intensify the competition that’s already so tough when it comes to getting Jason’s attention.
A small mob gathers near the entrance to the basement, the crowd comes closer, surprised to find an unlikely couple wearing orange armbands with the inscription Police on their civilian clothes.
Captain Moussa Traoré and his partner, Lieutenant Laure
nce da Silva, are waiting. They’ve closed the door, posted a stop sign on a yellow fluorescent ribbon, prohibiting entry. The steps down to the party are closed off. Administrative decision.
The commissioner for the area has assigned two plainclothes officers to the neighborhood to work closely with the residents of project 6000 to better respond to their concerns.
—Hello, folks. I’m Captain Moussa Traoré from the national police force. This is my colleague, Lieutenant da Silva. No music today. The mayor along with police headquarters have decided to seal off the entrance to the basement for the peace of mind of the local residents, especially since nothing is up to safety standards for festive activities. It’s also being closed off for your safety. You certainly didn’t realize it, but it’s toxic to stay down there for that many hours. The air quality is not good at all, and with the cigarettes, it’s seriously dangerous! Why don’t you go to the real clubs? Around here you’re causing too much noise.
Sure of his position, Moussa Traoré raises his hands, smiles, and adds:
—And don’t worry, this is only temporary. I’m going to personally do all I can to fix this. The administrators in charge of community services are going to be asked to find activities for you that are safer and more appropriate. Proposals will be made to you shortly.
A voice rises up in the middle of the gathering:
—You’re boring us shitless with your TV reporter attitude. Take your big fat head and clear out of here. We want to dance, that’s all, we don’t need you or your bullshit plans. No one lives in this building, so cut the spiel, we’re not bothering anyone! You’re not from around here, go on, move it!
Laurence da Silva can feel the tension rising. She’d given in to her superiors reluctantly. They hadn’t left her much choice. She and Moussa were going to have to deal with the projects.
They have to keep things under control, especially since there are many more young people than they’d imagined. She takes Moussa aside:
—Captain, we can’t back off, but we definitely have to defuse the situation. The young people are beginning to get agitated. There are only two of us; perhaps we should call for backup, you never know . . .
Moussa Traoré addresses the crowd:
—Calm down and keep it clean. Listen, we respect you, so please show the same respect; cooperate, and everything will be all right. We’re aware that few activities were planned for the teenagers and young adults in this neighborhood; we’re going to fix it.
—You’re right, there’s nothing for us, so we done what we could. We don’t know you. We’re just asking you to stop bothering us, to go back to the police station, this is our turf. You forgotten you’re black or what? You didn’t even bother to find out who took Antonio out, this nightclub was his idea, you may even be the one who bumped him off! Get lost, goddamn it, we want to dance. Now fuck off, we’re gonna hit it for Antonio. Come on, guys, let’s go!
The crowd moves slowly toward the two officers; the confrontation is close. Moussa maintains his position, his arms open. Overcome with fear, Laurence hesitates but stands right by her captain’s side, calm, stolid.
The invective is infectious, an inexpressible clamor coming from the gathering is menacing, irritation, anger, the Black Move regulars are moaning and groaning, you can hear:
—Shit, motherfuckers, torch the place . . . Racists! We’re gonna max out the sound, up in your face . . .
Fists tighten deep down in their pockets:
—Yeah, it’s always the same, we don’t have the right to anything, motherfuckers, we’re not going to let you roll all over us!
Suddenly, someone from the building in front is chuckling, his voice covers up the racket when he lets out:
—This isn’t Africa, go on and wreak havoc somewhere else. Go on, get lost, faster than that, go on, scram, shoo!
A man at the window, in a white undershirt, a thick, graying, overflowing head of hair with a vengeful evil eye, screams:
—Go, faster than that! Go bust your lazy ass fathers’ balls, get out of here, scram!
Lucien Marchand, former corporal in the colonial army, embittered from his best years in the service of the nation spent beneath the tropics, watches the scene. Still proud for having brought civilization to the savages with swift kicks in the behind. After twenty years in uniform, he solemnly asserts as one might conclude after much deliberation:
—The Muslim is deceitful, the Negro is lazy!
Looking down from his third-floor apartment, he regrets watching his country go adrift. It’s killing him to see that the land for which he sacrificed his youth and shed blood is sinking into complete chaos, noise, and filth. It’s no longer our home!
A misanthrope, Lucien Marchand has been living alone since his wife passed away from a devastating cancer. Helpless, he witnessed the agony of the one person in whom he could truly believe. No doctor could save her from this treacherous illness, which gnawed at her from the inside. He tried everything, knocked at every single door, and no luck. The indifference to their distress further isolated them. She died in his arms, on her side of their bed. Lucien kept vigil over her body for a whole night, shedding lots of tears before calling for help.
His wife, his final link to the world . . . Nowadays, hours, sometimes whole days, go by without him ever saying a word to anyone.
Exasperated, he can’t take it anymore. Everybody’s doing whatever the hell he or she wants at the foot of the building. Insecurity. He finds all these foreign languages in the street intolerable, daily aggression to his ears, the swarm of impolite, dirty, rowdy kids, an invasion especially during vacation time, from morning till night, sometimes late into the night. Torture. The backfiring of scooters and all the other motorized engines. No, they don’t respect anything or anybody, these people, wild animals, not to mention all those illegal immigrants who don’t even speak French. Having lodged numerous complaints and written letters to the mayor and commissioner, he sees the authorities have finally taken action to stop the deafening mayhem on Saturday afternoons.
—Get going, you little shits, go back home, go back to your countries where you belong. I don’t wanna see you round here anymore!
Serious rage rises up in his direction, a flood of threats, the excitement of the young people is turning to hate:
—Shut your ass, you son of a bitch. What, you bored now? You ain’t got your wife to bang around no more? You’ve been on our case ever since she kicked it. Get the fuck outta here or you’ll regret it.
—Bunch of idiots, you don’t have the right to talk about her, you better shut your traps . . . Don’t you ever!
In the middle of the irritated crowd, Jason stamps his foot firmly on the ground several times:
—Fucking shit, sick and tired of this shit, man. They’re always fucking after us!
After a long week of organizing all types of articles on shelves under the authority of his unpleasant boss, taking out the trash, and cleaning the floor of the minimarket where he works, the young man has focused all his free time on the Saturday afternoon party. Besides his job, his energy goes into making preparations.
He finishes his beer in one final gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. An unsavory determination is beaming from his gaze. He’s wearing his black well-polished shoes, his white jeans, and a light blue polo under a light coat. This morning, he stopped by at Boubacar’s, the hairdresser. He’s got class, style. He’s ready to dance and do his show; the police are robbing him of his show. It’s too much! And that other racist is laying it on way too thick:
—Get lost, I’m telling you. What are you waiting for? Are you deaf or what, you don’t understand French?
—No, now you’re going way too far. We’re not going to let you treat us like this, shit!
Rosa Maria edges her way next to Jason. She finds him so handsome, drop-dead gorgeous. She whispers in his ear:
—It’s not a big deal, Jason, maybe they’ll open up next week. Come on, things could get out
of hand here, everybody’s getting irritated. Don’t listen to the old fart, don’t pay attention to what he’s saying, he’s always mean, this guy. Let it go, please!
The young man’s hard of hearing, beside himself, always the same injustice, humiliation nonstop. He works five days a week and earns a miserable income. It’s only during the festivities in the basement that Jason exists fully, the uncontested king, the looks the girls beam his way when they fall on him tearing it up in the basement. He snaps:
—They’re all pissing me off!
Suddenly, he insults the neighbor’s mother; the others follow up, echoing him, invective erupts from the crowd:
—Go home to your mother, that whore, stick a pen or whatever you want deep into . . .
Captain Moussa Traoré is worried and calls for calm:
—Hey, hey, it’s OK, let’s calm down! Sir, please. Close your window, don’t aggravate the situation!
Things risk escalating. A bottle of beer is thrown into the air, flies a moment in the open air, and winds up smashing Lucien Marchand right in the face, already reddened and distorted by anger. He screams, the cry of a wounded animal drowned out in the fever coming from the street, and disappears from the rectangular window frame.
The police go into a tailspin:
—My God, who did that?
Everybody’s still laughing when the former soldier reappears at the dormer window, his face scarlet from blood and rage, with a hunting rifle in his hand. He points it and mumbles vengeful words:
—Bastards, little shits, I am going to take care of you, you bunch of dirty Arabs and Negroes. I’m going to smoke the whole lot of you!
He points the gun. A horrible detonation rips through the sky of project 6000. Another shot follows. Screams, tears, an all-out stampede, scrambling, making a run for it. Moussa Traoré and Laurence da Silva, horrified, make big gestures with their arms and urge the young people to take shelter. An SOS call is launched by telephone. We need backup urgently. Maximum state of alert.
Concrete Flowers Page 6