Kind of a Funny Story.
Let me jump directly to the point where we think we are about to die: I am sitting in the Café de l’Industrie near Bastille with A., the cousin-once-removed I have never met before, when I turn to the windows and see people streaming by. “Oh,” I say. It’s the Rollerbladers, I think, because it is Paris, and it is Sunday night, and there always seem to be parades of Rollerbladers Rollerblading down the street on Sunday evening. (This is important, that it is Sunday, November 15, and not Friday, November 13, two nights earlier, when terrorists murdered more than 100 people, three blocks from my apartment.) “Oh,” I say, turning, even as I’m realizing that they are not Rollerblading but running — but from what? From something. Is it happening again? I am turning toward A. but also, now, realizing that everyone in the café — which is packed, not a seat to be had — is up and then down and then on the floor. A., somehow, is under the bench, on which I am …