You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [54]
Those men were strong, waiting for a violence certain to arrive.
Later they’d use their batons, their fists. They’d be attacked, barraged with bottles. They’d throw people to the ground.
There were already signs on the statue of la République. People milled around, waiting for the protesters who would march en masse from Bastille. The wind had picked up and was blowing leaves across the square. Groups of kids hung around wearing the Paris street-tough uniform of the day—nylon track suits, pants tucked into white socks, fanny packs slung around their waists, and little caps worn backward, or with hoods thrown over their heads. A crowd was gathered at the base of the statue looking up at some boys who’d climbed halfway to the top and were hanging a large banner—“Anti-Bush/Anti-Guerre.” There were girls sitting on top of a bus stop drinking beer. Pretty students with peace signs painted on their cheeks wandered through the crowd handing out anti-globalization stickers. Vendors sold merguez from a makeshift grill.
It felt like a carnival, the crowd so young. They were jubilant. I’d never been to a protest and I was thrilled to be in the midst of so much enthusiasm, all those kids, not much older than me, singing, chanting, and hating the United States together. A girl wearing a military cap, her hair in pigtails and a T-shirt—fuckUSA—smiled at me. When I smiled back she pushed a T-shirt into my hands and insisted I put it on. I tried to refuse but she was too beautiful. I pulled it over my head. She kissed me on the cheek and danced into the crowd.
There were banners everywhere. Signs plastered to walls, bus stops, and lampposts. People were pouring in from every direction. Traffic had been stopped and the wide streets were a mass of protesters. There was a constant buzz of sound and motion and all of it seemed to be accelerating as I made my way across the place to meet Colin. In my new T-shirt I felt connected, part of the wild crowd around me.
They raised their fists in the air. “FuckUSA,” they chanted, laughing.
“Oui mon vieux,” a bearded man said as he passed.
“Non à la guerre, non à la guerre,” people sang.
“La paix, pas le sang, la paix, pas le sang, la paix, pas le sang.”
There was the faint sound of far-off chanting and the steady beating of drums.
Colin came up the steps, out of the métro, lighting a cigarette. He grinned when he saw the T-shirt.
“In the spirit aren’t you, mate?”
“Find the right girl and you can have your own.”
I put my hand out to shake his but he slapped my palm twice, and then offered me his fist. I followed his lead and touched my knuckles to his. He laughed his sharp laugh and shook his head at my clumsiness.
“Don’t get out much do you?”
We’d started walking and I looked straight ahead. “I’m out all the time,” I told him.
“Yeah? I never see you clubbing, man. Or at the Champs.”
“Not really my thing.”
“That’s cool. So where do you go?”
“I don’t know, just out in the city. Walk around. Go to cafés. I listen to music sometimes. You know.”
He gave me a look and nodded his head as if coming to understand something. “You’re a bit of a fucking loner then aren’t you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe,” I said. “I guess.”
“I mean that’s cool. Most of those fucking cunts at school aren’t worth your time anyway. That’s sort of Silver’s trip, you know? Being fucking in it. Out there. Connected and shit. Not wasting your time with fucking idiots, doing fuck all.”
The way he spoke made me nervous. Walking with him I felt polite, mild. Colin spit. Flicked his cigarettes into the street. Swore. Talked loudly. He was tight and angry and I was drawn to him, envious of his disregard for the world, his easy swagger. I was also embarrassed by him, by his crassness, the amount of sidewalk he took up, the volume of his voice and even by his clothes. He dressed like a kid from the banlieue, those white nylon track pants tucked into his socks. He had the same bravado, the same arrogant gait.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess