Reason to Live
Perrine stumbled blindly down an alley in one of the less respectable quartiers in Paris, her toes catching in every third cobblestone. Her left foot landed with a squelch in something yellow and slimy, and as she rounded the corner she almost ran over a small child hurrying in the other direction, arms full of pastries. A few seconds later she was nearly flattened by a huge baker, rolling pin in hand, spouting curses. Perrine noticed none of it.
She pushed through crowds, dodged cartwheels, and stumbled over gutters before finally pausing to look around, her eyes losing their dead blankness momentarily. The Seine flowed before her, dark and fast behind black railings and the dark rectangles of vendors' booths. Perrine tore her eyes away from the black water and moved again, hurrying past the books and paintings on sale, not stopping until she had reached the Ile, the peninsula jutting out into the Seine, the island where Paris had began as a little village, long ago. It was her favorite spot.
Perrine walked to the very point of the Ile, sinking down onto the gritty stones and watching the water rush by on both sides of her. The island was a favorite spot of students, too, and usually this little point would be crammed with them, talking and laughing, gobbling up picnics and making rowdy jokes. Not today. Today Perrine was alone.
She drew her knees up to her chest, tears beginning to pour unbidden down her cheeks. The memories, which she had tried to ignore, came flooding back with the tears. Les Halles, dark and dank, all the streetlights broken. The barricades, jagged random shapes jutting against the deep blue sky, sections only rarely recognizable as a chair, a cartwheel, a section of fence. The Friends of the ABC clustered around a table behind the barricade, making last-minute plans. The students aiming their rifles through holes in the jagged barricade, shots piercing the air. Enjorlas insisting that all the women leave, knowing that no one at the barricade would survive the night. Combeferre ordering her to go, deaf to her pleas, hugging her hard, then shoving her into the alleys with the other women, to safety.Combeferre, her Combeferre, lying facedown in the Rue Saint-Denis, red blooming against his side. Combeferre, dead.
Perrine's fingers scrabbled in the cracks of the stones around her, finally finding a pebble which she cast angrily into the rushing water. Why? Dieu, why? Why did the Friends of the ABC have to take up this ridiculous, hopeless war now? Why couldn't it have been some other group of students, just five years ago or five years ahead, students that Perrine didn't know, didn't love? Why did the students have to fight alone, while the poor they were supposed to be defending slept soundly? Her hands ground into fists. Five of the men had escaped with borrowed uniforms, five! Perrine had soon learned this, after she had run from the scene of the battle, begging for answers. Five men, and none of them Combeferre. No, he had to be the hero. Why?
Why, Perrine thought, did he die and leave me here alone? Why did I have to live?
She stood shakily, staring down the length of the Seine without seeing it. "I hate you, Paris! I hate you!" The city, quiet with coming evening, did not reply.
Soon afterward Perrine stood clutching the railing of Pont Neuf, gazing down into the eddies and whirlpools of the Seine. Why did she have to live? Why, indeed? What did she have to live for now? Her love was dead, along with many of her friends. All the plans they had discussed of marriage, children-all were dead now. What remained? Her teaching at the Lycee St-Germaine? Trying to make a roomful of snot-nosed children listen to her explanation of irregular verb conjugation five days a week? Or living in her parents' house, listening to the daily battles, the endless arguments.Combeferre had been her hope, her light, her reason to keep on living day after day. Now he was gone, and Perrine could see only one path ahead of her. She would be at peace, then, and she would be with her love again.
She had already swung one leg over the railing when she froze. There in the water below Pont Neuf, swirling in the current along with clods of refuse, floated a body. Pale, bloated, and very dead, the corpse swung slowly, horribly, in a circle before continuing its journey downriver. Perrine caught a glance of a twisted face before the body disappeared from view. The face, or what was left of it, tickled her memory, almost becoming someone she had known.
This is my peace? Perrine thought. This is my future? To become a bloated corpse floating down a dirty river, just another bit of trash in the Seine? My twisted features frightening pedestrians? Suddenly, new memories flooded in-memories of things she loved, things she would lose. Watching the sunset pouring light through a street. Sailing toy boats in the Jardin du Luxembourg with her cousin. Biting into a warm, fresh croissant loaded with butter. Laughing with her mother when her littlest cousin was learning to talk and called everyone "Papa" except her real Papa.
Slowly Perrine pulled her leg back over the railing, shivering slightly and staring at the river. Her head reeled with the enormity of what she had almost done. Yes, Combeferre is dead, she thought, but would he have wanted her to throw her life away? She imagined her love standing over her, his pale hair falling about his shoulders, his kind eyes twinkling at her. "No, mon amour," he said. "The Friends of the ABC dead-that is bad enough. To have you die too-I could not bear that."
"I love you," she whispered to her memory, and he smiled.
"I love you too."
Perrine wiped away her last tears and looked around her for the first time. Paris teemed with life-vendors, children, promenaders, and pickpockets streamed across the bridge, talking and laughing. Well, Perrine thought, I should probably go report that body I saw. She winced, shaking her soiled left foot. And get a new shoe! She began walking in the direction of the gendarmerie as the Parisian crowds teemed around her.
Perrine stumbled blindly down an alley in one of the less respectable quartiers in Paris, her toes catching in every third cobblestone. Her left foot landed with a squelch in something yellow and slimy, and as she rounded the corner she almost ran over a small child hurrying in the other direction, arms full of pastries. A few seconds later she was nearly flattened by a huge baker, rolling pin in hand, spouting curses. Perrine noticed none of it.
She pushed through crowds, dodged cartwheels, and stumbled over gutters before finally pausing to look around, her eyes losing their dead blankness momentarily. The Seine flowed before her, dark and fast behind black railings and the dark rectangles of vendors' booths. Perrine tore her eyes away from the black water and moved again, hurrying past the books and paintings on sale, not stopping until she had reached the Ile, the peninsula jutting out into the Seine, the island where Paris had began as a little village, long ago. It was her favorite spot.
Perrine walked to the very point of the Ile, sinking down onto the gritty stones and watching the water rush by on both sides of her. The island was a favorite spot of students, too, and usually this little point would be crammed with them, talking and laughing, gobbling up picnics and making rowdy jokes. Not today. Today Perrine was alone.
She drew her knees up to her chest, tears beginning to pour unbidden down her cheeks. The memories, which she had tried to ignore, came flooding back with the tears. Les Halles, dark and dank, all the streetlights broken. The barricades, jagged random shapes jutting against the deep blue sky, sections only rarely recognizable as a chair, a cartwheel, a section of fence. The Friends of the ABC clustered around a table behind the barricade, making last-minute plans. The students aiming their rifles through holes in the jagged barricade, shots piercing the air. Enjorlas insisting that all the women leave, knowing that no one at the barricade would survive the night. Combeferre ordering her to go, deaf to her pleas, hugging her hard, then shoving her into the alleys with the other women, to safety.Combeferre, her Combeferre, lying facedown in the Rue Saint-Denis, red blooming against his side. Combeferre, dead.
Perrine's fingers scrabbled in the cracks of the stones around her, finally finding a pebble which she cast angrily into the rushing water. Why? Dieu, why? Why did the Friends of the ABC have to take up this ridiculous, hopeless war now? Why couldn't it have been some other group of students, just five years ago or five years ahead, students that Perrine didn't know, didn't love? Why did the students have to fight alone, while the poor they were supposed to be defending slept soundly? Her hands ground into fists. Five of the men had escaped with borrowed uniforms, five! Perrine had soon learned this, after she had run from the scene of the battle, begging for answers. Five men, and none of them Combeferre. No, he had to be the hero. Why?
Why, Perrine thought, did he die and leave me here alone? Why did I have to live?
She stood shakily, staring down the length of the Seine without seeing it. "I hate you, Paris! I hate you!" The city, quiet with coming evening, did not reply.
Soon afterward Perrine stood clutching the railing of Pont Neuf, gazing down into the eddies and whirlpools of the Seine. Why did she have to live? Why, indeed? What did she have to live for now? Her love was dead, along with many of her friends. All the plans they had discussed of marriage, children-all were dead now. What remained? Her teaching at the Lycee St-Germaine? Trying to make a roomful of snot-nosed children listen to her explanation of irregular verb conjugation five days a week? Or living in her parents' house, listening to the daily battles, the endless arguments.Combeferre had been her hope, her light, her reason to keep on living day after day. Now he was gone, and Perrine could see only one path ahead of her. She would be at peace, then, and she would be with her love again.
She had already swung one leg over the railing when she froze. There in the water below Pont Neuf, swirling in the current along with clods of refuse, floated a body. Pale, bloated, and very dead, the corpse swung slowly, horribly, in a circle before continuing its journey downriver. Perrine caught a glance of a twisted face before the body disappeared from view. The face, or what was left of it, tickled her memory, almost becoming someone she had known.
This is my peace? Perrine thought. This is my future? To become a bloated corpse floating down a dirty river, just another bit of trash in the Seine? My twisted features frightening pedestrians? Suddenly, new memories flooded in-memories of things she loved, things she would lose. Watching the sunset pouring light through a street. Sailing toy boats in the Jardin du Luxembourg with her cousin. Biting into a warm, fresh croissant loaded with butter. Laughing with her mother when her littlest cousin was learning to talk and called everyone "Papa" except her real Papa.
Slowly Perrine pulled her leg back over the railing, shivering slightly and staring at the river. Her head reeled with the enormity of what she had almost done. Yes, Combeferre is dead, she thought, but would he have wanted her to throw her life away? She imagined her love standing over her, his pale hair falling about his shoulders, his kind eyes twinkling at her. "No, mon amour," he said. "The Friends of the ABC dead-that is bad enough. To have you die too-I could not bear that."
"I love you," she whispered to her memory, and he smiled.
"I love you too."
Perrine wiped away her last tears and looked around her for the first time. Paris teemed with life-vendors, children, promenaders, and pickpockets streamed across the bridge, talking and laughing. Well, Perrine thought, I should probably go report that body I saw. She winced, shaking her soiled left foot. And get a new shoe! She began walking in the direction of the gendarmerie as the Parisian crowds teemed around her.