People were shouting like animals, as if they wanted to be heard from the President of the Republic's office, Julien Raymond.
He had only been in office for two years, but he had already become very unpopular with his drastic budget austerity measures to reduce the country's debt. Today, his popularity rating was lower than dirt. Never had a president of the Fifth Republic managed to unify the French so quickly. It was a recurring theme now during presidential elections: reducing social divides, uniting the French behind a flag and a common culture, marching together to give shape to a collective project. Julien Raymond had managed to unite everyone against him.
Pierre hadn't voted for him, but he certainly wasn't the worst candidate in the last elections. He wasn't satisfied with his work so far, but he acknowledged that his predecessor had left him with a France in a very bad state. It wouldn't be unfair to say that he had inherited a ticking time bomb. Reform seemed necessary, but doing so could only breed anger. So Pierre didn't feel anger towards this man and his government, but rather pity.
Far ahead, the angry crowd was stopped by no one, nor were they directed or supervised. From the start, the leaders hadn't seen a single blue uniform. If there were smoke bombs, they had been triggered by the protesters themselves. Their progress was so easy that the first protesters in this huge procession found it suspicious. Pierre, on his part, had never protested, but he knew what happened when protesters went too far. The riot police formed a barrier and directed the protesters towards lower-risk areas. When they became a little too threatening, they used smoke bombs and tear gas that made you cry and cough until you spat out your organs. In response, they received stones, Molotov cocktails, and even their own smoke bombs.
According to the news, there was always some damage on the fringes of the protest, yet he doubted there had been one as significant as this. The police, absent, didn't defend the shop windows of businesses and banks. Bus shelters and abandoned vehicles were not spared even though they were innocent. The black blocs took advantage and smashed everything that could be smashed. But the further the protest advanced, the less damage there was, as their energy was not inexhaustible. They had broken so many things with total impunity that most of them couldn't take it anymore. They were trying to recover to be in shape when they had to throw stones or cocktails at the law enforcement officers, representatives of the State on the ground and everything they represented, which was most detestable in their eyes. Corruption, racism, violence, overly restrictive laws, France and its values, simply.
However, the rioters hadn't only targeted premises associated with the government and finance. Temporary employment agencies, bars, tobacco shops, cafes, furniture stores, clothing stores, perfume shops, travel agencies, or housing agencies. Nothing or almost nothing had been spared. Often, trash cans were used as fuel and projectiles. Pierre witnessed many arson fires without the protesters deciding to intervene. Definitely not seeing himself as a lone hero, Pierre distanced himself further.
It's not my job, Pierre concluded, stepping aside, away from these people he deemed dangerous.
"Hey, watch it! Idiot!" muttered a voice next to him.
Pierre's shoulder had just bumped into that of a man in black whom he couldn't make out: his hands were gloved, a hood covered his face in addition to protective goggles, and a black cap under a black jacket hood concealed his hair. Everything was done so he couldn't be identified. He was a silhouette, a shadow in the crowd that everyone seemed to ignore.
There was no one to lift a finger and put him out of the demonstration even though the reason for his presence was no secret.
The man passed in front of him and joined a small group of three or four individuals dressed like him. Hmm, they're getting more and more numerous.
Better leave the procession.
By distancing himself from those dressed in black, Pierre quickly found himself alone in a street parallel to Rue Sébastopol.
The air immediately felt more breathable to him. In front of him, citizens of all ages and social classes paraded by the dozens, waving flags and signs or simply clenching their fists. He didn't know how long he stood there, planted like an idiot while a dense crowd marched towards the banks of the Seine. Did they even have a destination? He didn't know, and he didn't care much. He had come this far out of curiosity, and it had been more or less satisfied. Above all, he didn't want to get more involved with these people who could represent a threat to him.
So he decided to quickly return to his apartment, the only place in the city where he thought he would feel safe.
On the way, he could admire in serenity the chaos sown by the crowd. No business had been spared. It was truly a war landscape, the kind of landscape that shouldn't be seen in France. Cars had been overturned and set on fire, barriers thrown through windows, ATMs smashed, and doors broken down. Throughout the way, the smell of smoke, firecrackers, and smoke hung in the air. As soon as he reached his apartment, he locked it and checked the windows. Everywhere, he could see thick columns of smoke rising into the sky. Some were black while others were colorful.
Happy to be out of danger, Pierre let out a deep sigh and couldn't help but notice his breath. He hadn't brushed his teeth the night before or in the morning. Pierre hesitated, but unable to bear it any longer, he filled a small plastic cup with mineral water bought at Monoprix and put a dab of toothpaste on his toothbrush.
After a slightly too vigorous brushing, as evidenced by his slightly bleeding gums, he felt better. However, he still stank of sweat. He had always been like this. Before the cut, he would put on deodorant up to three times a day and change his shirt at least twice a day.
Now that he couldn't take a shower anymore, he felt like he was dripping. Fortunately, he had been able to buy some the day before in anticipation of these dark days. Without even rinsing, after all, he couldn't afford to use mineral water to wash his armpits, he generously sprayed his armpits with the spray until he no longer felt it. It wasn't reasonable given the situation, but he couldn't stand his own smell.
When he was young and in adolescence, he had suffered from bullying. One day, he had even been given a deodorant in class only to be mocked. He had hated that period. Not being able to take a shower reminded him of that painful time in his life.
And now, what do I do? No way I'm going out. It's too risky. I need something to do, or I'll go crazy!
Having nothing constructive to do in his apartment, he decided to sit on the balcony and read a book. He had a whole cupboard of them, but few had been read. Most were gifts from his parents who stayed in Normandy. He hadn't read a novel in ages due to lack of time and will. His recent readings had all been focused on the market economy.
He quickly skimmed through the available titles and after a moment of hesitation, his hand grabbed a book still wrapped in its protective plastic.
The author wasn't known, at least not to him. It was Norbert Léger. His specialty was uchronies, different worlds from the real world because of a change in its history. This one, 'L'homme en gris' (The Man in Gray), was no exception. In this fiction book, the author imagined a world in which France and its allies had lost World War I because the United States had never entered the war on their side. These countries had fallen into poverty and taken the path of hatred to rise again.
The story took place fifteen years after the end of the war, in 1933. The man in gray was a former French soldier who had decided to more or less follow the same path as Adolf Hitler. It was about his worldview, his doubts, his hopes, his ambitions, his loves, his crimes, and then his downfall.
Pierre unpacked the book and started reading the first lines. From the first words, he was captivated, which surprised him immensely. He hadn't expected to find a gem in his modest library when he selected it. The story was well-written, the descriptions were precise without being heavy, the atmosphere was heavy, and the characters were powerful.
Unconsciously, he spent the whole afternoon reading it and had devoured a third of it. Only the sounds of his stomach made him detach himself from this dark and cold universe. Above him, the sky had clouded over. He didn't think it was going to rain, but the disappearance of the sun behind an imposing gray cloud gave him the impression that the air temperature had dropped by a few degrees. The trader smelling of deodorant returned to his apartment and put on a simple hooded jacket with no motifs or striking details except for two white cords hanging on each side of his neck.
He allowed himself a snack in the form of a small raspberry-filled bun and a glass of very sweet apple juice. Then, he returned to his small library to see if he had other books by this author for later, when he finished reading this one. Unfortunately, he didn't find any.
Darn… That's too bad. I would have liked to read his other books if there are any.
Since the sun was still high enough, Pierre decided to continue reading. This time, he settled inside, on his beautiful couch. Using a small lighter, he lit the wick of the candle he had lit the previous evening to light up his meal. It was a colorful candle sold in packs of three at Monoprix for a modest price, scented with violet. He had chosen this pack of candles thinking it would last longer than the others, but he felt like he had been had. The wick had only burned for a few hours, yet a large part of the wax had melted. Because it was wide, only the center where the wick was located and therefore the flame had melted. The edges were still solid, which would be annoying in the long run when it would be necessary to relight it. He would then have no choice but to cut them with a knife to reach the wick with his little fluorescent yellow lighter.