The Radiant City. Lauren B. Davis
open palm on the roof of his cab, gets back in and slams the door. Then he presses the horn. The sound goes on and on until other drivers join in creating a furious clamour, and Matthew fights the urge to put his hands over his ears. People mill about, some turn back, some duck down side streets. Whistles blow. The bullhorn squawks and squeals. Perspiration runs into Matthew’s eyes and he wipes the salt-sting away. He feels the weird calm settling over top of the adrenaline, his vision distancing, as though looking at things through the wrong end of a telescope. Panic rises, but it is off to the left somewhere, happening to someone else. He follows Jack and within moments, they are at the corner of St. Michel.
It is a large demonstration, thousands, probably. There is something pagan about it, like a parade of some sort. The crowd is mixed—French, North African, young, old. A number of women wear the hijab. The clothes of the Africans are like bright flags in the burning sun. Matthew knows immediately who they are. These are the sans-papiers and their sympathisers. A few days ago, riot police stormed the St. Bernard church, which three hundred illegal African immigrants had occupied for the previous seven weeks while they demanded the right to stay and work in France. People had been hurt. The papers had carried pictures of the police using tear gas and clubs on the immigrants and their supporters.
Now the demonstrators carry banners. “XENOPHOBIE!” “Unies et Solidaires!” “Sans Papiers—Made in France!” People play djembe drums carried around their necks. They shout slogans. They march arm in arm. Traffic snarls Saint-Germain as far as Matthew can see. Police in black jumpsuits and high-laced boots stand around in groups of five or six, talking to each other, smoking cigarettes. Their white vans are parked at the corners.
Jack begins snapping photos. “Good,” he says to no one in particular. “That’s good.”
Matthew senses a change in the atmosphere, as though the air pressure has dropped. He scans the crowd—looking for the source, looking for conscious confirmation of what he has noticed at a subconscious, animal level. Finds it. A group of Frenchmen push their way to the front of the crowd. They yell taunts and jeers. It is easy to guess that these are Le Pen supporters—the political polar opposites of the demonstrators, dedicated to stopping immigration and “returning France to the French.” Two years before, skinhead followers of Le Pen murdered Brahim Bonarram by throwing him into the Seine.
Within seconds, a group of demonstrators breaks ranks and confronts the Le Pen supporters. An African man walks calmly up to the biggest of the thugs and spits at him. The slime hits him squarely in the face. Although it takes only a nanosecond after that for all hell to break loose, Matthew sees it coming, as though in slow motion. People run, some of them scream. Someone shoulders Matthew and he spins around, and is struck again. This time he falls to the ground and immediately the weird calm of a moment before is shattered into a million explosive percussions that go off inside his head like machine-gun fire.
Paris disappears. He tastes dust. The world reduces to the need to seek cover. He hears shots, people screaming, sees small bursts of flame around him. He covers his head and crawls on his elbows and knees, kicking out where he must. If he can just get to the wall, inside a doorway, he will be safe. Everything pinpoints to the idea of this safety. He screams. Obscenities. Loudly. Someone trips on him and he scrapes his knuckles. Floundering, Matthew grabs a metal pole with one arm and holds onto it as though it is a wooden spar. He wraps his legs around the pole and puts his hands over his ears, closes his eyes. He wants the noise to stop. Just make it fucking stop!
Then there are hands on him, huge, heavy hands, lifting him up off the ground. He goes to swing, to strike out at whoever it is. Something traps his hands, a great bear hug traps his arms. Someone speaks to him.
“Okay, Matthew. All right, Matthew. Everything’s fine, Matthew. You’re in Paris, Matthew. Nice summer day. You’re all right, Matthew.”
Whose voice is that?
“Come on, pal. Come on. Come on back.” The voice is familiar, but he cannot place it.
Gradually, the world begins to quiet.
“Breathe in. Breathe out. Not a problem. Okey-dokey. All right, Matthew.”
Oh, yes. That’s Jack.
“I’m gonna let you go now.”
“Let me go.”
“I’m gonna let you go.” The bands around Matthew’s chest loosen, but the hands are on his shoulders, turning him around. Jack’s face is close to his, looking into his eyes. “How you doing, buddy?”
“Shots,” says Matthew.
“No shots,” says Jack.
“No shots?”
“Nope.”
The world is quiet again, or at least, quieter. The altercation seems to have dissolved. The demonstrators are walking again. Even the car horns are quieter. “Oh,” says Matthew. The sidewalk dips and dances beneath his feet. He is afraid he may throw up. He reaches out and grabs the front of Jack’s shirt. People pretend they are not looking at him.
Jack keeps an arm around Matthew’s shoulders as he turns him toward two approaching cops. “Just be cool,” he says.
“Ça va?” one of the cops says, nodding in Matthew’s direction.
“Ab-so-lu-ment,” says Jack, smiling broadly. “A little too much sun and vin,” he says, making a tilting gesture toward his mouth with his hand, thumb extended.
“No problems?” says the cop.
“No, no,” says Jack.
The cop looks at Matthew. “Okay?”
“Sure. Parfait.” He feels glazed over, empty, a thin eggshell with nothing inside. If Jack moves away, the weight of the air will crush him.
“Okay. You stay out of sun, okay?”
“Sure,” says Matthew, and the cops move slowly away.
“Let’s get you out of here,” says Jack.
Matthew lets Jack lead him up rue Hautefeuille to place Saint-Michel. They walk slowly, and Jack keeps talking to him. Nonsense talk. “Doing fine. Doing good. Just walking. Walking in Paris. On a nice sunny day.” The way you would talk to a skittish horse. To a frightened child. Just the sound of the deep voice keeps Matthew moving forward.
Jack points to the underground pedestrian walkway, which will get them through the demonstration. “Think you can do that?”
“I think so,” says Matthew, but he’s not entirely sure.
“Atta boy,” says Jack.
The underground passageway reeks of urine and is dark after the bright sunlight. Matthew stiffens as they descend, but Jack’s hand on his shoulder is comforting. They pass only two other people, both women. They come up on the other side of the place Saint-Michel, next to the Seine. The demonstrators pass behind them now, across the St. Michel bridge on their way to the Palais de Justice on Île de la Cité. Jack is protective, his hand on Matthew’s upper arm, walking just slightly in front of him, clearing a path like a giant plough through a field of humanity. “See,” he says, “All over now. Nothing to worry about. All over now.”
They walk along the Seine, past the booksellers in front of their green wooden booths. The sun dazzles on the water. Notre Dame rises like a galleon. Matthew is afraid he may begin weeping and makes a sound. Jack gently squeezes his arm. It gives Matthew strength and the tears recede.
As they near the Square Tino Rossi, Matthew hears music. Singing. A man’s voice.
“Hmm,” says Jack. “That’s Gardel.”
“Gardel?”
“Carlos Gardel. The Argentinian saint of tango. They don’t dance to him in Argentina. Out of respect.”
“How do you know that?” Matthew says.
“Picked it up in Argentina,” says Jack. Then