You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [65]
Silver took a step closer to her desk. His face revealed, along with anger, panic and perhaps even fear. “Ariel,” he said, his voice falling an octave, “close your mouth.”
She stood up and stuffed her notebook into her bag. She fastened the straps, dramatically wrapped her long white scarf around her neck and then, when she was prepared to leave, she raised her eyes to him. At her full height and in her winter boots, she was taller than he was. She looked powerful, full of conviction, so certain of herself, not a hint of hesitation.
“You’re a fake, Mr. Silver. Pathetic,” she said looking directly at him. “I know, Mr. Silver. I’ve known for a long time.”
She came out from behind her desk and stepped forward so that they were, for an instant, very close to each other. And as she left the room she passed by him so closely that a strand of her hair trailed across his shoulder.
WILL
I thought I might be inspired, get caught up in the whole thing. All that chanting. Angry slogans. It was a gorgeous day. Sunshine. Cold. People everywhere. It felt good to be out in the city. But the spirit of the crowd felt wrong. Too many people out for blood. It got uglier and uglier as the protesters came to a stop, filling the Place de la République. The girls, faces painted with peace signs, had all gone home. The students singing “Imagine” had left. There were Stars of David and swastikas side-by-side on the same banners: “Sionisme = Nazisme.”
I stumbled into a crowd gathered near a group of stands selling merguez. I bought one and stood watching a group of Jewish students being harassed by some drunken kids. I looked on along with the rest of the crowd. I stared at the kid who was conducting the whole thing. I wanted to kill him. The people standing in front of me left and I found myself on the edge of the curb, on the same level as the students, and I continued to watch from behind my sunglasses. Then I saw Gilad and Colin. They looked frightened, boxed in by a growing crowd. I knew they were there because of me. Participate in the world, I told them. That tired speech. And here they were participating.
Stand up and show your students what it is to be brave, what it is to act. I’d do it for them the way I might someday do it for my own children. In spite of fear, I’d protect them. I’d be the one to step out of the crowd.
I didn’t think they’d seen me. I stood motionless, pretending to focus my energy on that belligerent kid. And when he hit the student with his bar and he raised it again, I stepped off the curb and told him to stop. “Arrête!” I said. And there I was in the middle, with quiet all around, and I could see him, every detail. I said nothing else. He saw instantly that I had nothing else.
Gilad and Colin saw it too. Their hypocrite teacher standing alone in the street, praying that “stop” was enough and knowing it wouldn’t be.
* * *
Saturday night had come and gone. It was nearly one in the morning. I got out of bed, dressed and went out.
I walked toward the Seine away from the noise of the rue de Buci and farther down the darkening street. I turned through the small arch and stepped out onto the cobblestones in front of the Institut de France. I couldn’t bring myself to walk onto the Pont des Arts. Lights on the water. Drunken students playing their guitars. Instead, I sat on the steps at the edge of the place, cast in a mean orange light.
There was nothing to think about. There was nothing to do. Nothing was next.
Couples walked along the quai. Some turned to look up at that golden dome, snapping photographs as they passed.
Somewhere in a bound album, I thought, I’ll be the shadow in the corner.
I walked home, up the dark street where I passed a couple pressed together against a wall. When I arrived in front of my building, her message came.
It was the beginning of November. There were six people in Bar du Marché next door. A local drunk was sitting alone in the entryway of an apartment building across the street. He cracked his