Mme Reynard had, discreetly and without asking or acknowledging it, moved into the apartment with Frances and Malcolm. Each night, after long hours in close quarters, Frances or Malcolm would stand and say, “Good night, Mme Reynard,” and Mme Reynard would stand as if to leave. “I hope to see you again, and soon,” she’d say, “though I’ve so much to do. My affairs are in knots since you two came along—not that I regret it!” Standing in the open door, she’d tell them, “But yes, you’ll likely see me sometime tomorrow. Pray you sleep as the dead, the dead.” Malcolm and Frances would retire, and Mme Reynard would sneak to the couch to prepare her bed. Early each morning she’d leave the apartment and return to her own home to shower and change her outfit, but an hour later she’d be knocking on the door, face bright, eyes slightly demented, newspapers and croissants wrapped up in her arms. “Are you receiving?” she would ask, and they would allow her in to begin another day together. Neither Frances nor Malcolm was bothered by this behavior, somehow. It was so thoroughly tactless as to be fascinating to them. Frances sometimes was frightened when she opened the freezer, but only for an instant, and her fear was never validated.
One evening, Malcolm was sitting on the sofa eating a carrot and wearing for unnamed reasons a suit. Frances was yet in her robe, and at that late hour, namely seven o’clock. She had not left the apartment in several consecutive days and had not taken the robe off during this time. There was a phase of each day through which she felt conspicuous to be so attired, specifically from when she sat down to eat her lunch and to the moment she took her first cocktail, just preceding her dinner. During this time she felt shabby, naked, a victim of drafts, untoward, and she combated such unpleasantnesses with blasts of perfume and makeup. She knew she was living improperly but hadn’t the strength to correct herself. She had twenty thousand euros left; she’d taken to flushing hundreds down the toilet each morning.
Mme Reynard stood looking out the living room window. She had been standing there fifteen minutes, and her carriage was slack, her expression vague. Through a period of five or so minutes, however, something caught her attention and held it. She became increasingly alert, and finally she said, “Come look at this, you two,” and Malcolm and Frances walked over.
There was a great violence occurring in the park.
Lately there’d been an unease amid the park’s inhabitants as a new faction of immigrants had arrived and insinuated themselves into that small parcel of land. The existing group of immigrants naturally were opposed to this, and there had been for some time an unseen line drawn down the park’s center. In the day the mood was grim; in the night, when the wine and substances began to circulate, then the situation became more volatile. Malcolm had seen several skirmishes, but more recently a calm had occurred that he’d taken for peace but that was actually the prayerful moment before combat.
It was not a battle that could be praised for its intelligence; neither side could point to any strategical forethought. It was a gutter fight on a grand scale, men with grandchildren punching other men with grandchildren; piles of men; men swung about by their hair; men clawing one another’s faces. It was a spectacular if grotesque sight, and Mme Reynard was pleased with herself for being the one among the trio to first take notice of it. Her friends were rapt, and all thanks to her. As such, she felt a certain ownership of the event, and she suffered an impulse to speak of it as something she was allowing them to view. “Lucky I happened to be standing in the window,” she said. “We’d never have heard it otherwise.” She closed, then opened her eyes. Neither Malcolm nor Frances was paying attention to her. “Close your eyes, Malcolm. You won’t be able to hear it.” Malcolm said, “I don’t want to close my eyes.” Mme Reynard felt it an ungenerous statement; in an effort to save face she began counting the immigrants, aloud but not loudly, busily, as though it were a needed thing for the benefit of all. “Fifty, roughly,” she said. “Twenty-five per side.” She sniffed. “It’s a fair fight, anyway.”
Malcolm and Frances made no comment. They’d become used to Mme Reynard’s neediness and had decided the best way to curb it was to ignore her until she began behaving attractively again. Sometimes it took a while, for Mme Reynard was not unfond of self-pity, but sooner or later, thanks to time, or drink, or a restorative nap, she would return to her typical grace and good humor.
The riot swirled below them. It was no longer a demonstration of aggression performed by individuals but a unified, tidal force. Frances said, “It’s becoming itself.” Mme Reynard experienced an envy at these words; she knew she would never have been able to come up with something so wonderful. Hers was a mixed fate, she thought: to know brilliance on sight, but never to command it.
Riot police came pouring into the park. Abnormally large and in battlefield armor, they went about their work with authority and vigor, certain of them with an apparent pleasure. They moved through the pack knocking down the immigrants one after the other; a tap on the skull and on to the next. Soon, half the immigrants lay unconscious on the grass, while the second half had been corralled by the police and now were clustered together in a band in the center of the park. The lamplight recast the faces in masks of terrors, hatreds; blasts of hot breath shot into chill air. The immigrants had ceased fighting one another and now were waiting for what came after, a new violence. The police held shields in their left hands; they raised their clubs in their right and inched closer to the huddled men. “Look,” said Frances.
One among the wounded had come to. He stood apart from the crowd, holding his head, recalling himself. Something in the grass caught his eye and he moved toward it: a billy club. He took it up and bounced it in his hand. He moved toward the policemen, who, being so focused on the group before them, were oblivious to his approach. The man selected his victim, raised his club, and swung it at a policeman’s leg at the knee. The policeman dropped and the man quickly repeated the action on a second, a third policeman. Some among the officers recognized they were being attacked from behind and a small group broke away to face off against the man. A pause occurred as each side considered the other.
“Look at his face,” Frances said.
The man was smiling. Blood cascaded down his face at an angle, resembling parted hair. He spit at the police; he taunted them. He menaced them with lunging motions and waved for them to advance. He was not afraid; he looked possessed, grand. Frances thought he was beautiful, and he was.
Now he attacked, and two more policemen were on the ground before the second two were atop him. They clubbed him until he was unconscious, then turned and resumed their advance upon the tightening band of immigrants. There were four smudge fires burning, one in each corner of the park; together they formed a tilting room of smoke. There was a knock on the door but no one moved to answer it. “Entrez!” called Mme Reynard. Julius and Madeleine let themselves into the apartment.