I discuss politics more and more frequently. I abandon my family as required, but without stealing from them like the others ask. I work nonstop, I babysit, I clean houses, I contribute my share to the struggle, but I don’t forget my English melodies and my girlhood hopes.
One summer, there is a three-day music festival under the stars on the Mount. A friend and I decide to spend the night there, thrilled to stay up late out in the open, amid the sounds of conversation and gunshots. Bang, bang, a clay pigeon shoot. An imaginary hunt at the edge of a wood that attracts all those thirsting for life. But to hell with the guns if we can have fun. Of my childhood memories, this is the most beautiful moment. We dance for three nights on a makeshift floorboard, with a bird’s-eye view of the horizon and surrounded by the pleasant laughter of people gathered together, pacified for the occasion like a calm sea. We talk, we laugh, we eat. We climb down to quickly wash up and then climb back. In one stroke, the village has opened to everyone and a crowd of curious people is walking between hill and road. It’s blissful. Far from the shots, at the wood’s entrance, four boys seated around a fire silently listen to one of their own sing. Plucking the strings of a guitar, he plays a ballad that I’ve hummed a thousand times. Rifle shots mingle with the friendly words of teens openly living out their pacifist utopia. The boys smoke, drink beers, and speak to us with a softness we have rarely heard. We start to sing, in awkward English, the fullness of the moment. Occasionally collecting, one after the other, firewood that will warm us until morning. They come from nearby, they’re good and good-looking. The one singing has an unusual face, his left eye almost shut. He’s tall and moves his body like a supple cord, and exudes an admirable concern for others. I listen and watch him. I like him. The festival lasts three days. We don’t sleep at night. In the morning we drink coffee and then when the sun rises we doze off in the grass.
“Where do you live?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
We walk to the peak of the Mount and I point out the home from which I’ve fled.
“Do you see it? You see the big tree over there. It’s at the edge of my garden. It’s a Canadian pine. That’s my house.”
He tells me his name. His dad is a carpenter. I’ve heard of his parents’ business. We walk along the ridge and I learn that he’s a student.
I tell him, “I’m supposed to go to Clermont high school, as a boarder. But there’s no transportation to get there.”
“I spend the week in Amiens. I can drop you off on Mondays and pick you up on Fridays on my way back.”
“My father will refuse to pay.”
And we keep walking. We rejoin our friends.
He wants to change and asks me to accompany him. We climb down the Mount, we run, we hold hands, and I get into his car. A few miles away, we stop in front of a porch. I’m embarrassed, we enter the house.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet a friend.”
And he goes upstairs to shower. I stay with his mother.
“What’s your name?”
I’m filled with emotion. I feel like I’m saying my name for the first time.
“Welcome to our home. Do you want coffee?”
I’m taken aback. I’m scared. I fall in love.
I have coffee with her.
“Is my son good to you?”
I’m confused. Such kindness. I don’t have the right. And already I’m getting carried away. I love him, I love his mother.
“Yes, very.”
“He takes after his father. While we wait, come outside and hang the laundry with me.”
We pin up the clothes in the garden. Then she shows me some very high plants.
“My son teases me,” she says. “I know they’re not aromatic plants. Look, they’re taller than I am.”
He joins us laughing.
“If I tell you what they are, you’ll tear them out, so I won’t say anything. Come on, let’s go.”
He kisses his mother, who kisses me in turn.
I’m silent in the car. I’m building a house of cards. I see myself living with him and his parents. We find our friends again, the party continues. My boyfriend is cheerful and everyone is talking about us. The last dance begins, we move together, waving about wildly, holding each other close, as if we’ve already become a group united through pleasure. Others join us and we transform into a friendly circle that forces the band to accept our requests for livelier and more popular songs, effortlessly covering beloved hits by singers like Claude François and Dalida, which we sing as we jump and do a few faster moves so they’ll play a good song by Elvis or “Sex Machine.” We hope to push back the hunters, leaving us to reign alone on the dance floor, and make the band justify its presence with a performance worthy of whoever of our group is on stage playing the rock star. Already the entire place belongs to us, excluding those watching from a victory that isn’t hurting anyone but which they settle with small, bitter words, accusing us of drinking more than just beer. But I’m not doing anything after all but finally experiencing a freedom long hoped for. We continue until we’re sweaty, the night air cools us off, and then my boyfriend grabs the guitar, succumbs to the pleasure of playing. Leaving the singer on the sideline, he uses his voice as if it were enchanted, shutting up all those who think we’re not worth anything, but a country boy who sings in a foreign language and who furthermore is the boss’s son can’t be silenced, so we all get closer and listen to him pronounce the beautiful words of love of those over there in the United States who make us cherish freedom for what it has that is unique and rare and that we’re experiencing at this moment as if it’s come true. In chorus our voices tell the hunters:
Guess what, your kids are nothing like you
cowards hiding in a grave that’s gonna be the end for us all
your glorious generation is sucking us dry
your generation is burying us
you glean satisfaction from little but your camping trips
you mock intelligence when you have none
you prefer the dog to the starving man
you shoot at birds as we protest murder
you pick at the good fat still eroding the bone
you beg our bodies which refuse your rapes
—and like that, my boyfriend stuns them. Eyes closed, he invites these men who kill animals out of habit to stop once and for all.
The sun comes up. And the party will last all summer.
Back from the Mount, my father chases me away. “Slut.” I take my things and move into a friend’s house. Her parents leave for a few days. Happiness on the horizon.
Here we are again, there’s six of us. We combine our savings, we go shopping as if for a family. I stop at my house and grab a couple of records. I tell my mother, “I promise you, I won’t do anything wrong. I want to live. Finally experience a vacation. Two weeks and then I’ll be back.” She begs me not to take any risks.
My politically minded friends tell me I’m behaving badly. I respond that I just want this moment and then I’ll stop. Then I’ll be available and all theirs. I leave them. I wasn’t lying. I’m sure of it. But I’m chastised regularly. “You’re lost.” “You’re in way over your head.” I respond, “I promise, I’m one of you.” But I want the things I have yet to experience.
I’m not even sixteen. The summer is wonderful. The six of us take a car to go on a picnic. We venture beyond our boundaries. We visit new places. We feel connected and united. Others join us. Our drives are packed. At night we go back to a house. A parent’s or friend’s. We learn how to make a few basic dishes with joyful clumsiness. We kick balls in the street, we steal flowers from gardens, we give them to one another for a special occasion, happy holiday. And we laugh until the next one. We dance as we sing blues songs, imitating some of black music’s greatest figures. We experiment with sounds, with instruments. For me it’s the accordion, I play like an Yvette Horner overcome by rhythm. We improvise farcical skits about the lives that we loathe. We don’t sleep, we barely eat, we laugh, we run away to the sea, we eat mussels, and we return at night. We throw ourselves into the nocturnal waters of a neighboring pond, enter the orchards, crunch on fruits hidden in the grass. We scare one another in the dark forest, the trees picking up the echo of our voices, lighters in hand, bolting at the slightest noise, waiting for dawn, leaping roebucks, feeding ourselves with strawberries as tiny as teeth, rolling our bodies in beech leaves, smelling nature as if with a snout, imitating the wildlife we rarely see, despite our ever patient and silent efforts. We come home still starving. We make a meal out of sausages and chips, which my friends wash down with beer. I can’t stand the taste. But I’m funny and good at pranks so it’s like I already have some alcohol in reserve. This is the life we were waiting for. Loving as if by enchantment these boys who are nothing but gentle. An unmarred harmony that we hope will last forever. But how? Love scares me. It’s agonizing. Unfathomable. So I get rid of it through games and evasion.