Bonnie and I rushed to the
window and stared out. Atop the shoulders
of two muscular males sat a gaunt, longhaired man dressed in black. The two men
transported their passenger across Boulevard Saint Michel toward Gilbert‘s. Protesters
swarmed around the elevated figure as a sea of hands reached out, fingers
extended, straining to touch the object of the adulation, to make contact with
any part of him: his sweater, trousers, shoes, anything.
“Bonnie, who‘s the guy
everybody‘s so worked up over?”
She glanced at me briefly
before turning her eyes to the spectacle on the street. “Don‘t tell me you
don‘t know?”
I glanced down at her. “OK, I
won‘t, but I still don‘t know.”
“That‘s François, François the
Incendiary. I thought everybody knew him.”
“Call me Mr. Nobody, because I
don’t.”
“He‘s the leader of the student
protest movement in France. When that guy speaks, demonstrators listen and act.
Let‘s go outside and see what happens.” She headed for the door.
I grabbed her arm. “Why? To get
caught in the middle of a riot?”
Suddenly, store lights
flickered. “Ladies and gentlemen, Gilbert‘s is now closed,” a clerk shouted. “For
the safety of all, management requests that you vacate the premises.” Customers
inched toward the door, then stopped. “I must insist,” the clerk added, “all
must leave.”
Outside, Bonnie and I filtered
into a mass of chanting demonstrators. “François! François! François!” Voices were tides of sound, echoing up and down
Boulevard Saint Michel. “François! François!”
“Bonnie, What the hell are
we doing here in the middle of a mob? Let‘s get out, while we can.”
“Ah, come on, Paul.” She craned
her neck to see over the people standing in front of us. “Don‘t be such a
stuffed shirt. What are you so afraid of? I‘ve always wanted to hear François
speak, just to hear for myself why students get so enthused by what he
has to say. Let‘s listen.”
“François! François!” Herds of
demonstrators swarmed down the boulevard. Others emerged from intersecting
streets. “François!” Sidewalks fronting Gilbert‘s now overflowed. Necks
craning, protestors clogged the thoroughfare, backing up traffic and enraging
motorists.
“Have you people lost your damn
mind? What‘s gotten into you?” one motorist yelled, leaning out his car window.
Horns honked.
François dismounted from his
porters and, amid choruses of cheers, leapt onto a vendor‘s table where, arms
raised, he signaled for silence.
“Quiet!” someone yelled.
“Yeah. Why don't-cha?” someone
added. “François is ready to speak.”
One of the leader's aides
handed him a bullhorn, and he pressed its mouthpiece to his lips. Immediately,
Boulevard Saint Germain transformed into a sepulcher: total silence. “Fellow
revolutionaries,” the Incendiary bellowed, “Patriots of France,” he paused, the
intermission accentuating silence like an exclamation point. “Hear my words.”
Cheers exploded, followed by a
chain of chants: “François…François…François!” The speaker once more signaled
for silence.
“Comrades,” he continued, “comrades.”
Again, an explosion of cheers.
“Quiet, let him speak,” a man
yelled.
“The time,” François said, “has
come, the day, the hour; the moment is at hand! Not tomorrow, as the
bureaucracy would have you believe, nor some unnamed future date. Fellow
revolutionaries, now is the time when we must end once and for all the
university‘s inequalities, dismantle its archaic bureaucracy and curricula and
make known to the world our grievances.” With a raised fist, he shouted into
the bullhorn, “Now! Now! Now!”
The crowd responded: “Now! Now!
Now!” Beneath the din of the throng edged another sound, the wail of police
sirens, but the resonance of approaching sirens didn‘t deter François. “We have
not gathered here,” he extolled, “to capitulate!” His words were now fireballs
of passion. “We shall not be moved!”
“Never!” demonstrators responded. “Never!”
“Nor shall we cower,” intoned
the speaker.
“Never!” protestors replied.
“Or be intimidated by billy
clubs.”
“No.”
“Or tear gas!”
“No! No!” The crowd chanted
louder and louder.
The screech of police vehicles
slamming to a stop punctuated protesters' chants as officers with shields,
nightsticks, and gas masks, poured from vans. “Form ranks!” barked the
commander. “Double time!” Like automatons, lawmen scurried.
“The presence of policemen will
not weaken our resolve,” François the Incendiary orated.
“No!” responded a chorus of
frenzied voices.
Officers formed lines on the
sidewalk across the street from Gilbert's. “This demonstration,” the commanding
officer bellowed, “is unauthorized. You have sixty seconds to disperse.” No one
moved. “Fifty-nine seconds.”
