Cornucopia
Page 114
*
O’Connelly was up to his word; pointing to each building, describing every street, nearly all of which dated back three hundred or more years. They crossed place de la Bastille where he told the two girls the story of Napoleon’s elephant as they dodged the traffic and wound their way through the Friday night crowd. The followed their guide down rue de la Roquette, then rue de Lappe with its crowds, bars and restaurants. At the end of the narrow street they turned left and five minutes later they arrived at Mi Ranchito Paisa, where they were warmly welcomed by Ernesto, the Colombian owner.
Claire had discovered the small restaurant soon after they had returned from the Hays Festival in Cartagena, where with Pat the relived their souvenirs of Colombian. It was small, simple and Colombian. A tabernita decorated in a folksy ranchito style. Their first visit had been on a quiet weekday evening when they talked and drank with Ernesto until late in the evening.
To start with O’Connelly ordered a round of mojitos, then dinner with the help of Ernesto: ceviche, guacamole, chicken and beef asada with plantain and rice, and a bottle of Spanish Rioja. It was almost as if they were back in Colombia as Ernesto hovered around exchanging words in Spanish with Liam as a salsa played in the background.
The ceviche was served as the Ernesto fussed around their table, delighted to see to the celebrated writer back in his establishment, serving the Rioja as the evening got under way. The restaurant was full and if the noise and laughter was any indication the evening was going to be one to remember.
After the excellent ceviche they enthusiastically watched as the arepa con carne asada was served with stuffed plantains and arroz con coco. As Ernesto refilled their glasses the sound of firecrackers echoed outside adding to the Latino ambiance.
Suddenly the entrance door burst open, a girl staggered in supporting her boyfriend. Ernesto startled by the sudden intrusion, but before he could shoo them out, the young man, who had obviously too much to drink, collapsed on the floor.
The girl screamed for help, he was bleeding profusely from the shoulder. Others pushed their way inside, their faces shocked, women sobbing.
“What the hell’s going on,” shouted O’Connelly as the sound of firecrackers going off sounded stronger from across the street.
“They’re shooting everybody,” a girl cried out. “Lock the door.”
Francis recognised the sound, it was automatic gun fire.
By now they were all crouched on the floor and diner was forgotten. Outside people were running. The firing was louder, hard thudding sounds, louder and louder, in short bursts.
“What the fuck’s happening,” yelled Clancy.
More people tried to push their way in.
Then there was silence. It was some moments before anyone moved.
Sirens hurled as flashing blue lights from a patrol car reflected off the buildings on the opposite side of the street.
“Call an ambulance,” someone shouted.
There were three people bleeding.
Some of the tables were turned over. Overturned plates of food lay on the floor with cutlery and wine bottles spilt their contents in dark patches across the tiles.
Clancy peered carefully outside. Opposite, across the narrow street, was a scene of horror: bodies lay everywhere, people screamed for help, tables and chairs upturned on the pavement terrace of La Belle Équipe and the Japanese restaurant adjoining it.
Scene near the Bataclan in Paris
“Are they gone?” shouted O’Connelly.
A crowd had started to gather as restaurants and bars emptied, certain nursed their wounds, many lay dead or dying on the pavement, some cried and others were were in a state of shock, there was blood everywhere, in the background the sound of sirens echoed as ambulances and police cars started to arrive.
Soon the police were shouting orders telling diners to stay inside. Neighbours leaned out from their windows overlooking the narrow street.
O’Connelly and his friends stood outside aghast, trying to understand what had happened. Others consulted their phones. It seemed there had been several attacks, there were confused rumours about the Bataclan, a concert hall, a short distance from rue de Charonne.
An unusually balmy November evening had been transformed into a scene of horror as terrorists shouting Allah Akbar fired into the evening crowds seated on the terraces of bars and cafés in a district popular with young Parisians, young trendy people. Apart from visitors familiar with Paris, it was a district little known to tourists, just a stone’s throw from the Bastille, where bars were trendy and affordable for young people out to enjoy themselves.
It had not lasted more than twenty seconds.
O’Connelly checked his phone. There had been a series of attacks and it was urgent to get his guests back home.
Fearing further danger he pointed in the direction of the Bastille. As they hurried past the site of the famous siege where the French Revolution had started, ambulances and police cars rushed to the scene, their lights reflecting off the Opera and surrounding buildings. In fifteen minutes O’Connelly and his shaken guests were back at his place on quai des Célestines, where everything seemed so normal.
Once inside he zapped the TV to news channels. Vivid scenes from the sites of what now appeared to be multiple attacks flashed onto the screen. Deeply shocked the three couples sat their with their eyes fixed on the screen until the early hours when special forces stormed the Bataclan. One hundred and thirty innocent people died.