That Summer
I promised one of my readers that I would tell him the story of the time I nearly got shot by François Mitterand's bodyguards. And though I'm often late with these things, I do eventually get around to them. So. It was the summer of 1989, right after my first year of college, and I was living in Paris. I've told a couple of stories from that summer, because it remains very vivid in the memory, for reasons that are perhaps obvious.
To set the scene: I was supposed to live with a French friend, she stunned me by changing her mind after I'd already arrived in France, I looked around desperately for another place to live, and ended up in the apartment of the boyfriend of the sister of a woman I met at a party. I shared this space with a Portuguese actor named Miguel, who looked like Antonio Banderas and always walked around in his underwear. It turned out the sister's boyfriend, who was supposed to be in Nice, was actually living across town with his other girlfriend, and told me he'd throw me out of the apartment if I informed the sister of this. My situation could not have been crazier.
It also happened that 1989 was the French bicentennial and my aunt the historian came into town towards the middle of my stay. I had not informed my parents of the precariousness of my living arrangements, and was trying to keep it a secret from my aunt. I could not take her to the apartment, because it was kind of squalid, and inhabited by a half-naked man that I barely knew, whose relationship to me I could not explain. She kept expressing a desire to see it, I kept trying to head her off at the pass.
My aunt was in Paris because her new girlfriend was a very famous historian of the French Revolution, who had been invited by the French government to participate in a series of lectures and panels at the Sorbonne, organized in honor of the bicentennial.
Now there's another element to this story, which is that the boy I was obsessed with (the younger brother of one of the Daves, for those of you keeping track), with whom I had a tortured intense friendship that never went anywhere, happened to be related to another historian of the French Revolution. Which of course I took as a sign from the gods that we were meant to be together. I mean, how weird is that? I thought it was strange enough when I learned that his father was a historian of the 18th century, like my aunt, but then when my aunt's girlfriend came into the picture, I thought it was the finger of fate, pointing at me.
Because, of course, his father was on ALL OF THE SORBONNE PANELS with my aunt's girlfriend. She happened to mention the father's name casually, when saying I should stop by, and I nearly burst into tears from the beauty - and the frustration - of it. (Faraway yet so close, &c.)
As the first panel approached, I began to feel very apprehensive about the whole thing, because although I had a perfect right to attend the event, I felt vaguely stalkerish going to see his father. So I debated back and forth about whether or not to go, finally deciding that it would be silly not to, because I'd probably find the stupid thing interesting in its own right.
So I went. And because it was the beginning of the festivities, there was a reception, with hors d'oeuvres and waiters with trays of champagne. I walked into the grand hall at the Sorbonne, looking around for my aunt, not finding her, and was still having some nagging doubts about whether I should be there at all. Then François Mitterand arrived, with his entourage.
I'd just taken a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, thinking that alcohol seemed like a good thing at that moment.
This was a near-fatal mistake.
I was by myself, feeling self-conscious, in a room full of cold, aloof, very important French people, searching the room for my aunt, filled with angst and self-doubt about my presence there. And perhaps these factors and the few disorientingly fizzy sips of champagne I'd taken combined to affect my motor skills.
Because I dropped the fucking glass.
It shattered, making a shockingly clear sound as it hit the floor, causing at least two of the policemen in the room to draw their guns. I wasn't surprised; it seemed somehow fitting, that this would be the way I would die, while trying and failing to meet the boy's father.
But of course the policeman saw immediately that I was just a clumsy 18 year old, rather than a wily assassin, and they waved me off. Which I took as my cue from fate to just skip the panel and forget the father. Not to mention the boy himself.
To set the scene: I was supposed to live with a French friend, she stunned me by changing her mind after I'd already arrived in France, I looked around desperately for another place to live, and ended up in the apartment of the boyfriend of the sister of a woman I met at a party. I shared this space with a Portuguese actor named Miguel, who looked like Antonio Banderas and always walked around in his underwear. It turned out the sister's boyfriend, who was supposed to be in Nice, was actually living across town with his other girlfriend, and told me he'd throw me out of the apartment if I informed the sister of this. My situation could not have been crazier.
It also happened that 1989 was the French bicentennial and my aunt the historian came into town towards the middle of my stay. I had not informed my parents of the precariousness of my living arrangements, and was trying to keep it a secret from my aunt. I could not take her to the apartment, because it was kind of squalid, and inhabited by a half-naked man that I barely knew, whose relationship to me I could not explain. She kept expressing a desire to see it, I kept trying to head her off at the pass.
My aunt was in Paris because her new girlfriend was a very famous historian of the French Revolution, who had been invited by the French government to participate in a series of lectures and panels at the Sorbonne, organized in honor of the bicentennial.
Now there's another element to this story, which is that the boy I was obsessed with (the younger brother of one of the Daves, for those of you keeping track), with whom I had a tortured intense friendship that never went anywhere, happened to be related to another historian of the French Revolution. Which of course I took as a sign from the gods that we were meant to be together. I mean, how weird is that? I thought it was strange enough when I learned that his father was a historian of the 18th century, like my aunt, but then when my aunt's girlfriend came into the picture, I thought it was the finger of fate, pointing at me.
Because, of course, his father was on ALL OF THE SORBONNE PANELS with my aunt's girlfriend. She happened to mention the father's name casually, when saying I should stop by, and I nearly burst into tears from the beauty - and the frustration - of it. (Faraway yet so close, &c.)
As the first panel approached, I began to feel very apprehensive about the whole thing, because although I had a perfect right to attend the event, I felt vaguely stalkerish going to see his father. So I debated back and forth about whether or not to go, finally deciding that it would be silly not to, because I'd probably find the stupid thing interesting in its own right.
So I went. And because it was the beginning of the festivities, there was a reception, with hors d'oeuvres and waiters with trays of champagne. I walked into the grand hall at the Sorbonne, looking around for my aunt, not finding her, and was still having some nagging doubts about whether I should be there at all. Then François Mitterand arrived, with his entourage.
I'd just taken a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, thinking that alcohol seemed like a good thing at that moment.
This was a near-fatal mistake.
I was by myself, feeling self-conscious, in a room full of cold, aloof, very important French people, searching the room for my aunt, filled with angst and self-doubt about my presence there. And perhaps these factors and the few disorientingly fizzy sips of champagne I'd taken combined to affect my motor skills.
Because I dropped the fucking glass.
It shattered, making a shockingly clear sound as it hit the floor, causing at least two of the policemen in the room to draw their guns. I wasn't surprised; it seemed somehow fitting, that this would be the way I would die, while trying and failing to meet the boy's father.
But of course the policeman saw immediately that I was just a clumsy 18 year old, rather than a wily assassin, and they waved me off. Which I took as my cue from fate to just skip the panel and forget the father. Not to mention the boy himself.
posted by fortuna at 9:13 AM
2 Comments:
Just think how cool it would have been if you'd been non-fatally shot then woke up in the hospital to find your tearful love interest and his father kneeling at your bedside muttering prayers for your recovery, etc.
It was an almost brilliant mistake.
Damn! Didn't think of that.
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