hooded, armed with machine guns, marching slowly in V-formation through what looked like the estates in Argenteuil. This was no mobile-phone video: the resolution was very high, and someone had added a slow-motion effect. Static, imposing, shot from below, the clip could only have been meant as proof that boots were on the ground, that the territory was under control. If there was an ethnic conflict, I’d automatically be lumped together with the whites, and for the first time, as I went out to buy groceries, I was grateful to the Chinese for having always kept the neighbourhood free of blacks or Arabs – of pretty much anyone who wasn’t Chinese, apart from a few Vietnamese.
Still, it would be prudent to come up with an evacuation plan, in case things took a sudden turn for the worse. My father lived in a chalet in the Massif des Écrins. He had just moved in with someone (at least, I’d just found out about her). My mother was living out her depression in Nevers, alone except for her bulldog. These two baby boomers had always been completely self-centred, and I had no reason to think they’d willingly take me in. Occasionally I found myself wondering whether I’d ever see my parents again before they died, but the answer was always negative, and I didn’t think even a civil war could bring us together. They’d find some pretext for refusing to let me stay with them. They never had any shortage of pretexts. I’d had a handful of friends over the years, kind of, but we weren’t really in touch. There was Alice. I supposed I could call Alice a friend. All in all, now that Myriam and I had broken up, I was very much alone.
Sunday, 15 May
I’d always loved election night. I’d go so far as to say it’s my favourite TV show, after the World Cup finals. Obviously there was less suspense in elections, since, according to their peculiar narrative structure, you knew from the first minutes how they would end, but the wide range of actors (the political scientists, the pundits, the crowds of supporters cheering or in tears at their party headquarters … and the politicians, in the heat of the moment, with their thoughtful or passionate declarations) and the general excitement of the participants really gave you the feeling, so rare, so precious, so telegenic, that history was coming to you live.
To avoid a repeat of the last debate, which I’d spent dealing with my microwave, I bought taramasalata, hummus, blini and salmon roe. The day before, I’d stocked the fridge with two bottles of Rully. As soon as David Pujadas went on the air at 7.50, I knew this election night would be top-notch and that I was about to experience some exceptional TV. Pujadas was always very professional, of course, but there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye: the results, which he already knew, and which in ten minutes he’d be allowed to divulge, had come as a shock. The French political landscape was about to be turned upside down.
‘Tonight will go down in history,’ he began, as they reported the first returns. The National Front was way ahead, with 34.1 per cent of the vote. That part was more or less expected. It was what the polls had said all month – Marine Le Pen had gained only a few points in the last weeks of the campaign. But behind her, the Socialists had 21.8 per cent and the Muslim Brotherhood 21.7 per cent – they were neck and neck. With such a slim margin, they could easily switch positions, and probably would several times before the night was over: so far only the polling stations in Paris and the other big cities had reported. With 12.1 per cent of the vote, the conservative Union for a Popular Movement was clearly out of the running.
The UMP candidate, Jean-François Copé, didn’t appear on-screen until 9.50. Haggard, badly shaven, tie askew, he looked even more than usual as if he’d just been through an interrogation. With pained humility, he agreed that the conservatives had suffered a
Still, it would be prudent to come up with an evacuation plan, in case things took a sudden turn for the worse. My father lived in a chalet in the Massif des Écrins. He had just moved in with someone (at least, I’d just found out about her). My mother was living out her depression in Nevers, alone except for her bulldog. These two baby boomers had always been completely self-centred, and I had no reason to think they’d willingly take me in. Occasionally I found myself wondering whether I’d ever see my parents again before they died, but the answer was always negative, and I didn’t think even a civil war could bring us together. They’d find some pretext for refusing to let me stay with them. They never had any shortage of pretexts. I’d had a handful of friends over the years, kind of, but we weren’t really in touch. There was Alice. I supposed I could call Alice a friend. All in all, now that Myriam and I had broken up, I was very much alone.
Sunday, 15 May
I’d always loved election night. I’d go so far as to say it’s my favourite TV show, after the World Cup finals. Obviously there was less suspense in elections, since, according to their peculiar narrative structure, you knew from the first minutes how they would end, but the wide range of actors (the political scientists, the pundits, the crowds of supporters cheering or in tears at their party headquarters … and the politicians, in the heat of the moment, with their thoughtful or passionate declarations) and the general excitement of the participants really gave you the feeling, so rare, so precious, so telegenic, that history was coming to you live.
To avoid a repeat of the last debate, which I’d spent dealing with my microwave, I bought taramasalata, hummus, blini and salmon roe. The day before, I’d stocked the fridge with two bottles of Rully. As soon as David Pujadas went on the air at 7.50, I knew this election night would be top-notch and that I was about to experience some exceptional TV. Pujadas was always very professional, of course, but there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye: the results, which he already knew, and which in ten minutes he’d be allowed to divulge, had come as a shock. The French political landscape was about to be turned upside down.
‘Tonight will go down in history,’ he began, as they reported the first returns. The National Front was way ahead, with 34.1 per cent of the vote. That part was more or less expected. It was what the polls had said all month – Marine Le Pen had gained only a few points in the last weeks of the campaign. But behind her, the Socialists had 21.8 per cent and the Muslim Brotherhood 21.7 per cent – they were neck and neck. With such a slim margin, they could easily switch positions, and probably would several times before the night was over: so far only the polling stations in Paris and the other big cities had reported. With 12.1 per cent of the vote, the conservative Union for a Popular Movement was clearly out of the running.
The UMP candidate, Jean-François Copé, didn’t appear on-screen until 9.50. Haggard, badly shaven, tie askew, he looked even more than usual as if he’d just been through an interrogation. With pained humility, he agreed that the conservatives had suffered a
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