It was the spring of 1968 and Paris was in bloom, having cast off all taboos. Love knew no limits, and to hell with the judgements of the elders. Old folks liked to act as if they’d never taken their clothes off; well, let them fume. Let them read the words on the posters, or sprayed hastily on walls: “Make love, not war”, “Be a realist – demand the impossible”, “Love without limits,” and other suitably provocative slogans. It was a call to disorder, and sexual revolution. Young people were sick of being serious, and boxed in, and of seeing their future in monotone. They dreamed in colour, of social justice and radical feminism. May ‘68 was for the dreamers. College students went out into the streets, their arms laden with pamphlets or cobblestones to throw at cars. When a cop came by they’d kiss one another, making it look as if they were just teenagers canoodling rather than rebels taking to the streets. Otherwise they’d end up in hot water, and their fathers would have to come and pick them up from the station. Their fathers were usually the ones preaching; they liked to watch General de Gaulle’s speeches on TV as they tucked into bloody steaks (cooked by their wives, of course). Father handled all their finances, and Mother stayed in the kitchen. Mother had no say in the matter, yet she did not approve of her children going out into the streets to cause trouble. People would think she hadn’t raised them right!
On a bench on the quayside Pauline and Charles were kissing, like the lovers in a song Brassens had sung fifteen years before. “Public benches are to lovers as streetlamps are to dogs on a leash,” it went, or something like that. Pauline had met Charles at a protest against the Vietnam War, on the University of Nanterre campus. He was an impressive speaker, and had introduced himself as a radical railway worker, with politics in his blood. Pauline had fallen for him immediately. He wasn’t some would-be Marxist bookworm like her friends, but a man from the real world. At home, they would say she was wasting her life going out with a railway worker. Driving trains was an acceptable occupation for the poor, but her parents had always maintained that she should have a proper education. Pauline’s family were part of the middle class. Her father was a banker, her mother a housewife, and her brother Jules had just finished his studies as a lawyer. Still, she had been given private lessons in piano, Latin, Greek and art history. As if the humanities still mattered. What a load! It was 1968, for God’s sake! What would they say if they knew she was protesting for abortion rights? Mother would have a heart attack. She’d douse Pauline with holy water while screaming a rosary, then boom! She’d drop down dead on the living room rug, and Father would throw a glass of red wine in her face to try to bring her round. It would be a hell of a sight. Pauline told Charles about her musings, and he laughed heartily. How would his parents react? Charles thought about it for a second. His father would laugh, for there was little he took seriously. Besides, he’d done worse at Charles’ age. He’d always been brought up to rebel. They had named him Charles after a French king, Charles the Bold. Now it was Pauline’s turn to laugh. The Bold – it suited him well.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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