'Today is the first day of the rest of our lives, Michel!' Rene's eyes glistened with pride. 'Let's go and make history together!'
They exited a rusting white Citroen and walked along Rue Beranger. A slight tremor set in Michael's muscles and his armpits were slick with sweat. None of it mattered though. Not to his friends who were waiting at the end of the street with arms full of protest posters and faces beaming with anticipation. They were his family now, and not by blood — by belief. They all came from different places but they shared a future together. The future where no one had to suffer and the rich swines got what they deserved.
Denise kissed him hard on the mouth and Michael answered amply, almost ferociously. Blood buzzed in his veins and the crotch of his pants tightened slightly as they walked hand in hand and hollered at the top of their lungs:
'Les bourgeois c'est comme les cochons
Plus ça devient vieux plus ça devient bête…'
The Place de la Republique swarmed with people, most of them young, with the same frenzy in their eyes. They waved banners on top of their heads, shouted slogans, stomped their feet and shook their fists in the air. A man to Michael's right poured cheap Bordeaux down his throat and measly chest, his white shirt soaking red. A woman right next to him ripped her blouse open and waved it like a flag, her small breasts bouncing inside a yellowish cotton bra. A three-year old girl sat on top of her father's shoulders and sucked on a lollipop while her parents barked at each other.
Paris was a city of revolutions. Michael learned it as soon as he came to Sorbonne, four years ago. Demonstrations were something like a public holiday here, a chance 'to show them'. What exactly needed to be shown and to whom, did not really matter, as long as people could march and shout and drink themselves to unconsciousness. That is why it never really changed anything.
But today was different.
'They only start listening when you do something,' Rene's voice sounded in Michael's head. 'It's the only way.'
They had placed two bombs, 250 grams of Semtex each, below a makeshift stage the day before. Someone from the government was supposed to speak today, someone rich like a swine.
Michael grabbed Denise's palm and started shoving trough people to get closer to the center. A guy stepped on his foot heavily, another one bumped a wine bottle against the back of his head, but his fingers didn't let go and his elbows didn't stop slamming until he reached the Monument a la Republique and climbed on the lion's pedestal at the foot of it. He could see the stage from there, could see the history unfurl with his own eyes…
The barriers! There were supposed to be crowd control barriers and a 2-meter space below the stage!
Michael's heart jumped to his throat as he realized there were no such thing. People clung to the wooden beams of the makeshift construction, some of them had even climbed the stage and sat on its edge.
It was all wrong.
Michael scanned the crowd searching for Rene. He had the device, he could stop all this. But it was impossible to tell one blond crop from another, one shouting angry mouth from the rest. All faces were ablur.
He let go of Denise's fingers and slammed through the mob shouting:
'Get away! There is a bomb!'
No one paid him any attention. He was just another hot needle in the stack, another volatile Parisien celebrating freedom at its utmost.
He started grabbing people and shaking them, screaming at their faces, spit flying everywhere.
'Get out of here! Please!'
Someone threw a punch at him. He heard his nose crack and felt something warm and salty gush out. Then someone else stepped on his foot and he lost his shoe, scraping asphalt with his bare sole.
It didn't matter, not now.
He battered on slamming his elbows left and right, breathing raggedly. If he could only reach it in time, he could diffuse it or throw it further away from the crowd, minimize the damage somehow…
But he was too late. A loud bang ripped at his eardrums and then there was thick silence pierced with ringing. He skin went afire and his lungs gulped for air as he was thrown back by the explosion. Bodies tumbled on top of him, hot and heavy, slick with sweat. They squirmed and screamed but there was no sound, only gaping mouths and screwed up faces, wide eyes and tangled limbs.
Michael extricated himself from a knot of flesh and crawled on his knees. A small body lay ahead, face down. A small body in a blue cotton dress, chestnut curls in a chaos around the head.
'No!..'
His tongue made the movements and his voice chords strained, but no sound came out. He crawled a few more steps and reached for the girl. Her face was white, skin paper thin, like a mask. She was warm but terribly still.
'Marion!..' Michael roared. 'Marion, no!'
He hugged her to his chest, rocking back and forth. He slapped her face gently but her head only rolled from side to side. He covered her tiny eyelids with kisses, squeezing her body, looking for remnants of breath.
'No, no, no… Oh God please… No…'
Cold fingers fluttered across his shoulder and he looked up. Dawn seeped through dusty brown drapes flooding the room with silence. Simone was staring at him intently.
Michael brushed sweat from his brow and sat up in bed, breathing hard. Simone slipped from under the sheets and trotted to the kitchen, returning just a few moments later with a small bowl of liquid.
'What's this?' Michael licked his parched lips.
'Chamomile,' Simone put the bowl inside his shaking hands. 'It'll calm you down.'
He took a few sips and watched her go to the window. Simple white panties and a tank top hugged her petite body. She seemed oblivious of the fact that she was almost naked before him.
A few minutes passed in silence. Michael's heartbeat slowed as he kept sipping from the bowl. Simone stared meditatively down the empty — and finally quiet — street.
'You must think I'm a wuss…' Michael coughed out a laugh.
Simone turned to him and tilted her head to the left, studying him carefully. In the darkened room her eyes looked an endless fall down a rabbit-hole.
'I think you're trying to hide who you are,' she whispered.
Michael averted his gaze and gulped down the rest of the tea.
'When you finally succeed,' she continued. 'A part of you will die.'
He wanted to contradict her but he already knew she was right. The longer he pretended to be the cold operative, the more it became his only reality and the longer it took to unearth the boy he had been before Section. Sometimes he thought it was for the best. Other times, he felt like cutting himself or shooting a bullet through his calf just for a shred of feeling.
'You know what they do for people who perform death penalties?' Simone sat at the foot of the bed, her bare thigh just inches from Michael. 'They split the process into tiniest little things. One man mixes the chemicals, another one prepares the syringe, one more connects the tubes and so on. Each one ends up doing something irrelevant and mundane. None of them can say that they killed a person. But together, they did just that.'
Michael furrowed his brow.
'Why are you telling me this?' he asked.
Simone gave him a long look.
'It's a way… to survive. If you have to do certain things,' she explained.
'How do you know so much about it?'
'I had to learn it very early on,' her fingers traced a pattern across the bed covers. 'As I said, my father didn't leave me much of a choice.'
Michael had a sudden urge to wrap himself around those frail shoulders. Instead, he got up and went to the shower.