Me, I was lucky, I lived alone. That 20x20 square feet was all mine and by all accounts, I
was living large. I had a hot plate, a college-sized refrigerator (which would
soon become too large once I learned to eat French portions) and a full-sized
bathroom. Full-sized by European standards, anyway. I even had a sunken bathtub,
practically unheard of anywhere past the white cliffs of Dover. Everything was
brand new in my teeny tiny place, from the tiles in the kitchen to the clic clac
to the Ikea dressing bureau (pronounced Icky-yuh) and matching makeshift
"Icky-yuh" closet doors that balanced on brick and plaster.
The only two things left over from a century of listless occupancy were the
floor of ancient Moroccan tiles which were cracked and shellacked in all the
right places, and of course, my very own 100-year-old swelling door. Many a
rainy day I'd been trapped behind that antique coffin, unable to do little more
than dream.
My flat had its pros and cons, but at least I had the basics. In the building across the
street, there were no creature comforts. That's because there weren't supposed
to be any creatures in there. And yet many families made a home of the vacant
dwelling. Despite no running water, electricity or clean toilets, night after
night I watched small children and mothers, grandfathers and sons cart in food
and candles and blankets. "We call them squatters," I strained to say in bad
French to my landlord, "what do the French call them?" Exhaling deeply on his
clove cigarette, he fixed me with a gaze I would come to ignore and replied in
perfect French, "Squatters".
Apparently, a squatter on fire was no big deal to the French. Not to the police
or firemen in my neighborhood, anyway. Perhaps they were weary of the game. I
could understand that. I mean, I was a new resident myself, and how many times
already had flames nibbled at this building? Perhaps they did not get the
emergency calls until late, although the number of cell phones being used by
neighbors in the street told me otherwise. Or, perhaps, it was the color of the
squatters that slowed their resolve. That's not an easy argument to make in
France, as the French will be the first to tell you that they are not
racist, that they do not discriminate. And I'm here to tell you that that
is absolutely true.
The French do not discriminate. They hate everyone equally.
Except for Americans. Not South Americans and not Canadians, but Americans from
the "Etats-Unis", the United States. We are so worshiped and so equally
scorned in France, it is quite inexplicable. On the one hand, there's the
devotion to our music, or clothes, our movies, lifestyle, and on the other hand,
a deeply rooted disgust of our greed, our never-ending consumption, our awesome
power.
I imagine it's very much like dating a Kennedy.
As the resident celebrite, I'd often wondered, had it been my apartment ablaze
that night, would the police response have been quicker?
As stated, I thought the loud woman from Africa was just communicating. My neighborhood was
full of loud, proud women who regularly "communicated". They came from such
exotic places as Algeria, Morocco, Nigeria, Senegal, Mali, Somalia, Madagascar
and, counting me, America. Calling out to her children, or cursing a lover she'd
caught cheating, or perhaps settling a score with a tribeswoman down the block,
I just naturally assumed this woman was doing what came natural in her
neighborhood, albeit 2:30 am was a bit out of character.
I should have realized. I should have guessed.
But I didn't. Not until my three cats leapt from the clic clac and dashed into
non-existent corners did I finally get it that something was terribly wrong.
In hindsight I think it is completely understandable that I didn't know right away.
After all, my apartment was so dark by then. For the first few months I'd lived
without proper curtains. I'd had little money and so I often fell asleep to the
artificial lanterns of the street. So I was awake pretty quickly the first and
second time. But by this, the third time, I'd had curtains made of long, thick
purple fabrics purchased rather cheaply at the Saturday market. Not three days
earlier, I'd hand-stitched them into life, cursing and hemming until they
fashioned a drape, then hand-screwing the rod to the wall, I hung them. I was so
proud. They looked awful, but at least the room was finally dark. Now, after
three months of unwanted night light, I had blissful peace. No wonder I didn't
recognize my neighbor's screams. I'd become happily spoiled.
"NON!!!!! ARRET! ARRET!"("Stop!") they all shouted from the street below. Obeying their commands, a
six-year-old boy stopped swinging his baby brother out the window. "ATTEND!"
("Wait!"), a teenaged boy yelled to him as he climbed down the outside of the
building, window box by precious window box. He finally reached the little boy and
after they worked together to lower the baby down in bed sheets, the older boy
plucked younger one from heavy smoke and they both jumped into waiting arms
below. As flames licked the centuries-year old stones, more children were
lowered to the ground in thick Kente cloths. There were no more children in the building when the firemen finally
appeared. I watched slack-jawed as they scurried up ladders and broke glass and
left. That was the first fire.
go to part 3...
