We sit at Nouvelles Frontières on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, the travel agency that the Diables Rouges used last January to change our tickets to open returns. The travel agents wear shapeless black skirts and loud red blazers. The one working with Free makes even that look good. She explains that the flights are full pretty much all the time now that it’s after Easter, the start of the high travel season, and that his best option is one that leaves in two days.
“Two days from now is fast,” I say.
“It is,” says Free.
“You’re going to miss my birthday. I’m eighteen in a week.”
“I know,” he says, “but I got to git.”
I understand. I feel pretty sad all the same.
It’s been three days since the memorial at Stade Jean-Bouin. There was no funeral for Mobylette, not here. The Konates had his body sent back to Mali. The Oussekines buried Moose in Villeneuve but in a private ceremony, just them, in an undisclosed location to keep the press away.
Aïda told us that the doctors say Sidi is recovering well, but in the TV news reports that show him in his hospital room, he looks bad. Bandages and raw patches of skin and his eyes just empty. Every time, he’s staring into the camera and pleading for calm (Sidi, of all people), because things have gotten wild all over France. There are silent marches and sit-ins, but kids are also burning cars and attacking the police. All over. Towns big and small, north and south, east and west. One night it’s Clichy-sous-Bois, the suburb next to Villeneuve. The next night La Courneuve joins in. Last night the news reported cars burning in the projects in Toulouse, Lyon, Strasbourg and Marseilles. Nine hundred, a thousand cars torched before sunrise. The interior minister has declared a state of emergency in the “troubled areas,” but it just seems to fuel the anger.
The travel agent next to Free’s turns to me. “Monsieur Dumas, I checked like you asked earlier. Your return ticket is valid for another eight months.”
“Great, thanks,” I say.
The one taking care of Free types in his seat preferences, and he asks, “What’s up with that?”
“I need to stay a while,” I tell him, “to do Moose’s work.”
“Moose’s work?”
Monsieur Lebrun had suggested it after I told him I didn’t want to leave.
“I’m going to lead a workshop the mayor is organizing in the cités. He put me in charge of it.”
“For real?”
“Monsieur Lebrun asked me to keep working with the flag team and the juniors too, to get kids to bring their game to the field instead of the streets.”
“Dang, son. That’s dope!”
“Aïda and I have an appointment next week with the entire city council to talk about creating a fund in memory of Moose and Mobylette.”
He echoes me: “Moose and Mobylette. As it should be.”
Then he scrunches his brow.
“You and Aïda? Are you two serious then?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “She moves me.”
The agent hands Free his ticket, and we head out onto the boulevard.
“I was wondering why your moms came to town so sudden-like,” Free says. “This staying business—I’m guessing that didn’t go over so well?”
“Dad, he’s been great. He said he’d worry but that he was proud.”
“And your moms?”
“Well,” I say, “she still thinks it’s an ongoing negotiation.”
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Mom set the rendezvous at this restaurant called Les Fontaines, just up from the travel agency. She’s already there when we arrive. She just got off a plane four hours ago but looks as though she’s ready to begin a staff meeting. She wears a dark business suit and a Chanel scarf, her glasses perched on top of her head. But her face lights up when she sees me walk in.
“I don’t mean no disrespect,” Free whispers as we near the table, “but your moms is hot!”
“For Christ’s sake,” I whisper back, “she’s, like, fifty or something.”
I introduce Free. It’s clear from Mom’s face that she was expecting me to come alone, but I knew better. And she recovers quickly enough. They make small talk during the first course (paté for Mom and me, a frisée salad for Free). My mom starts in English, but Free insists on French. Where are you from? How have you liked Paris? Will you visit Montreal? That sort of thing.
Once the main courses arrive, he’s out of the conversation altogether. “Our agreement was that you would sign up for summer classes at Orford,” she says to me, “in exchange for missing the spring semester.”
“We went over this on the phone, Mom.” I’ve been rehearsing this speech in my head since yesterday, when I told her I planned on staying and she announced that she would be arriving this morning. “I love you, but I’m not you.”
Free cuts his steak, looking down like he doesn’t know us and just happens to be sitting at our table. I don’t blame him.
I continue, “You and Dad gave Manon, Marc and me great lives. Really, I couldn’t ask for more. But just because you and Manon and Marc went the corporate route doesn’t mean I want to or should have to. I know you and Dad don’t see eye to eye anymore, but I also know you respect him. I’m not saying I want to be a coach. I’m just saying that being a coach can be a noble pursuit too. Or a community activist or a teacher or a bus driver, for that matter.”
“So now you want to drive a bus,” she says.
“I’m just saying you have to trust that I’m doing what I think is right and best for me.”
“What you think is best for you? How can you know? You’re only a child.”
“I’m eighteen. Legally an adult.”
“Well,” Free says, “eighteen in a week.”
Neither Mom nor I think it’s funny. He returns his attention to his steak.
Mom removes her glasses, folds and unfolds them, worrying the blue plastic frame like a rosary.
“You and I are not so different, Mathieu. The good in you is what I loved, what I still love, about your father. And believe it or not, there’s also some of that in me too.”
“Then trust it, Mom. Trust me,” I tell her. “And if I screw up, if I make a mistake, trust that I’ll figure a way out of it.”
“Who am I to say, Madame Tremblay?” Free says. “What do I know? I’m even younger than Matt. But I would follow him anywhere.” He rests his knife and fork beside his plate. “What more can you want from somebody than honesty and the profound belief that he will always be the best that he can?”
“I’m outnumbered,” she says with a laugh. “I know, I know. And I do trust you, Mathieu.” She wipes her eyes with the end of her scarf. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to see my son, whom I haven’t seen in three months and, from all appearances, won’t see again for several more.”
“You’ll see me, Mom. I’ll come home when I can. And you can come visit, come to Villeneuve and see the work I’m doing.”
She puts her glasses back on, sits up straight. “So,” she says, clearing the tears from her voice, “what’s her name?”
“Her name?”
“The girl behind all this.”
“This isn’t about a girl!”
“Right,” she says. “Do I at least get to meet her?”
Free laughs. “She’s great, Madame Tremblay. You’ll love her.”