commercial transactions, purely discretionary, and today it seems Madame does not care to smile.
“Pain au chocolat,” says Matthew.
“Quoi?” Madame frowns and squints as though he has a speech impediment, and so he repeats himself, adding a bottle of water to his order.
There is a shriek behind him. Matthew jumps and turns, legs bent, heart pounding. A young woman in a strapless sundress curses as she tries to manoeuvre a baby stroller containing a shrieking toddler through the door. She rams the wheels against the door jam, jarring the child. One of the young Italian girls, cigarette in hand, jumps to help her, chattering away in Italian. The woman with the baby thanks her and then casts an evil look Matthew’s way.
Matthew puts his money down on the glass, and the woman behind the counter scoops it up before he realizes she has handed him the wrong thing. He looks down at the bottle of water, and what appears to be an apple turnover. He briefly considers not making a fuss. However, even if he wanted an apple turnover, this one does not look in the least appetizing. Oozing industrial filling, the pastry gives the impression of papier-mâché. The woman looks at him irritably, for he is not moving, and gestures with her hand for him to step aside so she can serve the mother with the still-screaming child.
“This is not a pain au chocolat,” he says, in French.
“It is what you asked for,” the woman says, looking past him.
“I asked for a pain au chocolat.”
“Non!” She clicks her teeth and shakes her finger back and forth in front of him. “I gave you what you asked for.”
“You misunderstood me, then.” Matthew is aware of the young woman behind him; her impatience prickles the back of his neck. His anger rises, popping and fizzing in the veins, not quite at a boil, but fast approaching. He grits his teeth and tries to smile. “But I don’t want this.” He puts the offending pastry on the counter and nudges it toward her.
The supercilious woman takes a breath, as though readying herself to let lose a stream of vitriol. Perhaps it is some sliver of ice beneath his flushed skin, some shard of volatility that makes her hesitate. Perhaps she can sense he is holding onto the counter so as not to lunge across it and grab her by her throat.
She snorts. “It’s not my fault you speak French so badly.” She snatches the pastry off the counter, tosses it next to her pack of cigarettes near the register, grabs a pair of tongs and clamps the pain au chocolat. She holds it out to him, but it is sadly dented. He takes it, turns and stomps out.
The pastry is dry as bark in his mouth and he washes it down with the water. His stomach feels better afterward though, even if his palms are sweaty. He stands in the shade of the green-domed newspaper kiosk trying to get a little respite from the malodorous heat.
Matthew sees Jack lumbering along the sidewalk of Saint-Germain. His head is down slightly and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. He carries a heavy camera slung across his chest. He nearly collides with a crumpled-looking old lady in front of him who stopped suddenly to let her Yorkshire terrier relieve itself. He says something, presumably “Pardon,” and the woman pulls her dog toward her in mid-poop, the crap dangling from its trembling legs, as though she is afraid Jack might kick it. Jack steps around her and people move aside to let him pass. A mother yanks her little boy out of his path. A young man, big, but not as big as Jack, wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, hesitates for a moment as though deciding whether or not to challenge Jack, whether or not to play a little sidewalk chicken and see who will move first. He makes a wise choice and at the last moment rolls over.
At the corner, Jack waits for the light to change and there is a space around him that other pedestrians do not enter. A no-go zone, it seems, picked up by osmosis. Matthew wonders how he might cultivate one of those.
Matthew stands and they greet each other, shaking hands.
“How’s it hanging?” says Jack.
“Too crowded. Too hot. Otherwise fine.”
“Tourists, huh?” says Jack. “Any movies?”
They scan the offerings at the three nearby theatres—a selection of French comedies that neither speaks French well enough to enjoy and three American action films: Independence Day, Chain Reaction, Mission Impossible. They look at each other. “Nah,” they say.
“Let’s get out of here then,” says Jack. “Up to the Seine. It’ll be less crowded there.”
They head along Saint-Germain, but as they walk they hear a commotion of some sort ahead of them, and Matthew’s skin tightens. He glances at Jack who, frowning, peers over the heads of the sidewalk crowd. There are voices, some shouting. Car horns. Someone has a bullhorn. Matthew tries to make out the words and cannot.
“Can you see what’s going on?” he says.
“I don’t know.” Jack has picked up his pace, and as before, a space opens before him. “Demonstration of some sort, I think.” Matthew follows, thinking that they should be slowing down, should be running in the opposite direction, but they do not do that. They head into whatever is before them, on instinct, on adrenaline, on training.
People are unable to pass. Cars are at a standstill. Horns honk impatiently. A taxi driver gets out of his cab, yells something at the people in front, slaps his 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
