Chapter Text
The subway doors closed in front of her eyes with the same mocking self-assurance with which the cars began to move south. She clenched her fists at her sides, annoyed. That was the last train. The authorities had ordered the early closure of the stations around the demonstration areas for security reasons. So now she found herself on the other side of the city with nothing but a bag, a camera, and a useless ticket. The urge to let out a curse rose in her naturally when she turned to go back up to street level and realized it was about to rain. She didn’t even have an umbrella — as usual.
The French May. The protests had been going on nonstop for days. Students were taking to the streets, occupying universities, theatres, raising their voices. Workers were stopping the factories. What France had once been no longer suited them. And if De Gaulle didn’t like it, he could resign. They could do without him. No one, in that 1968 of iron fists and red flags, intended to look the other way.
Not even her. On the sidewalk of a street in the Latin Quarter, watching the frantic coming and going of people, cars, overcoats and hats that late spring’s strong wind still made necessary. She was no longer willing to tolerate what the world offered. And having come to know it only because she had been pushed out of the reality in which she had grown up was what left the bitterest taste in her mouth.
If it hadn’t happened, would she ever have found out?
Would she have remained unaware of everything, protected by the cotton wool in which the daughter of a wealthy family of former nobility was supposed to remain even once placed into the life chosen by her father?
The fact was that, if it hadn’t occurred, the execution of the order to baton the students and workers would have reached her only from behind the glass of a window. Judging with perplexity the tones so heated and violent of those who in truth were only asking for a job they wouldn’t die for, for a better society.
The fact was, though, that things had taken another path. About a year ago. And had it never been so, she would have been forced into a life she actually detested, into a hypocrisy that did not belong to her.
The fact was that her father’s reaction had fallen from above like an axe. And that he himself had seen to taking from her what she had. A most prestigious place in the Faculty of Law at the Sorbonne, the only woman in her year (which, moreover, was already almost finished…). To think that her no-longer future husband would even have accepted her as a lawyer wife! After all, she had to honor the family oath of upholding the law somehow. If her nature prevented her from the army, it certainly did not hinder her from wearing a lawyer’s robe.
A police siren began to force its way through the crowd in the distance. It took only moments; she grabbed the Zeiss Nikon Icarex 35 S from her bag and took the last shot on the roll. By now she had learned never to let her guard down. Every moment, every frantic or quiet detail spoke of a world ending and another beginning, and she didn’t want to miss a single one.
She took a deep breath, watching the vehicle disappear along rue Danton. Those were times of revolution. Of clashes, ideals; of flags in the wind and songs in the city streets. She had always had the feeling she had already lived through one. Lost in History, who knew how. And that she had already left behind a life that had felt too tight. That she had chosen for herself instead of being chosen. And that she had been happy, for the little she had been able to enjoy it.
A drop suddenly fell onto her hand. She lifted her face and another landed on her cheek. In the blink of an eye she slipped the camera into her bag so it wouldn’t get wet. And as the rain began to pour down over all of Paris, another curse escaped her lips. She had to cross the city — and under a downpour, at that. She might as well wait at this point.
Dark-faced, arms folded and the collar of her overcoat raised against the wind, she hurried toward the building behind her. It was the only one with a balcony large enough to shelter her: better than nothing.
She sighed. Her days had never been predictable. And all things considered she wouldn’t even have liked them to be. The taste of the unknown was thrilling. She also loved mental order very much, though. She had always managed to untangle thoughts and duties with enviable discipline. Being sent at eleven to a very strict boarding school outside Paris had served some purpose, after all. Except that she had rebelled later and, though she now had a semblance of stability, she felt she wanted more. A window on the Seine to air her ideas, a balcony where she could read on Sunday afternoons, a cat to keep her company. Those were the only things she truly missed from her old home. Along with her mother.
- Mademoiselle, excuse me…
That gentle voice pulled her from the labyrinth into which her mind had unwillingly wandered. She turned to see who it was, without answering. It wasn’t the right day for small talk.
The young man who had approached her was looking at her, pointing. He smiled, a little embarrassed at having to disturb her, but well, you see…
- Mademoiselle, excuse me, but I need to go in and you’re in front of the entrance.
She looked behind her and understood. It was the doorway at her back he was trying to indicate; the same one he was now attempting to get through with a drenched black bicycle to shelter it from the rain.
- Forgive me. - She replied, stretching out her arm to hold the heavy wooden door open. - I hadn’t seen it. I just needed somewhere to take cover.
- Of course, I completely understand. In this spring, which looks every bit like autumn.
He smiled, and as he did a small dimple nestled lightly in his right cheek. From a pot hidden in the lobby he took out a battered black umbrella, then went back outside. He shook it open away from them both and stepped aside to return to the street.
- If you trust me, I can walk you. I’m heading toward the rive droite. Where do you need to go?
She moved away from the wall but remained under the balcony.
- Rue Lamarck.
- Rue Lamarck? - the young man repeated. - And where is that?
- I’ll guide you.
She approached when she saw him move the umbrella aside a little to make room for her. She slipped her hands into her pockets and together they set off toward a city submerged in the most capricious of the fine seasons.
…
There was no silence on the way from place Saint-Michel to rue Lamarck. That handsome, very courteous young man was also quite a chatterer, with the right company. And since she was someone who thought a great deal, listened a great deal but spoke only when she felt she had something sensible to say, she didn’t mind letting herself be carried along by the conversation.
She thus discovered that he was a journalist — broke but hopeful. That he lived a bohème of great ideals very similar to hers, yet also worked like mad to have a place in the world. And then that he had grown up with his grandmother because he had been an orphan since childhood. He hadn’t gone into details, but he seemed at peace with the reality of it.
What surprised her most, though, was the trust he inspired in her. Maybe it was his bright, gentle gaze, his cordial manners… Or maybe it was true what people said: sometimes one feels more at ease with strangers than with friends. She, after all, who no longer had any friends… So when he asked whether she was married, what work she did, it felt natural to extend her hand and let him step a little into her world.
- I don’t have a husband, no. I refused the proposal of the one who was supposed to become one. But it was a decision I made fully aware of the consequences: I gave priority to my conscience.
- And are you happy? - he asked her. Then corrected himself. - With your choice, I mean.
- Yes. I wouldn’t trade my new freedom for anything in the world.
- I’m glad to know I’ve found a daughter of our times, then!
She smiled. No one had ever defined her that way. And for her part, she had never reflected on how much of that turmoil mirrored her. She drew her overcoat closer, instinctively, as if to protect the most hidden reasons behind the turns her life had taken.
- I followed what I believed was best for me. Photography is. You have to be always alert, always ready. I would never have adapted to a desk full of papers.
- Then you must have been at the club on rue Saint-Jacques this morning… - He paused to let her go ahead of him in front of a puddle, and they waited for the crossing light to turn green.
She nodded firmly. If no one bought the shots from a few hours earlier, she would keep them as an imperishable memory of an unprecedented encounter.
-Simone De Beauvoir is a woman without equal. Her words are always enlightening. I think no one has that much courage.
He noticed at once that her tone had changed. That there was a will to seek, a different momentum in her voice. And he pictured her like that, equally stubborn and determined, at the moment she had decided to change course.
Number 18 rue Lamarck appeared around the corner in all its gray splendor. The dark slate roof dripped the rain that continued to fall incessantly into the drainpipe. A car pulled out of a parking spot beside the sidewalk, past the trash bin set into the cement.
It was such a different place from the Latin Quarter. There was less confusion, less haste. But still a certain liveliness in the shop lights and in the people hurrying to get as little wet as possible.
- Rue Lamarck. We’ve arrived. I didn’t know this place.
- You’re not from Paris, are you? - she asked him as she absentmindedly slipped the keys from the pocket of her overcoat.
- Not exactly. I’m from Arras.
The discovery surprised her. She had spent childhood summers in those places, after the war. Their parents sent all five daughters up there to change the air in their lungs. And she well remembered the smell of freshly baked sweets when they passed the pastry shop, the wind in her hair on horseback through the countryside. Curious that she should have happened to meet a young man from those parts.
- I know the area. - She hurried to answer. Now that the journey was over, she felt as if even the spontaneity of telling him about herself had faded. They probably wouldn’t see each other again. There was no need to open other doors onto her past.
- It was a pleasure to be of help, mademoiselle. - He understood. But since he didn’t much want to let her go, he tried to stall with a joke. - Remember your umbrella next time, or you’ll have to listen again to the life story of a stranger who doesn’t know where you live!
When she smiled (perhaps more out of courtesy than real amusement), sheltered by the canopy above the doorway, she seemed even more beautiful to him. He noticed better her cornflower-colored eyes and her long blond hair, a little damp, framing her pale face. If he could have, he might almost have kissed her.
- I have to go now, you’ve been very kind. Thank you, goodbye.
And as Oscar went into the building and gently closed the door, André realized they hadn’t even introduced themselves.