Saturday, 14 February 2004
Alarm Clock
I don't live in a quiet neighborhood. In the heart of the garment district, delivery trucks daily block the narrow streets as backed-up traffic stretches for blocks. Parisian drivers are famously impatient, and nothing seems to attract their hands to their horns so much as being surrounded by others who are honking theirs.
The exception is the weekend, a 48-hour interlude of quiet. Aside from having paper-thin walls (almost certainly from a cut-rate job to subdivide a larger apartment into two) and the accompanying voices of my neighbors, I rarely have anything disturb me. The occasional bar-goers returning home late at night or sounds from wide-open windows across the street in summer time - little else reminds me that I'm in the heart of a city of twelve million instead of a sleepy little town.
Until this morning. This morning, sometime before the sun was bright or my neighbors turned on the stereo, I was awoken suddenly. At first, I would've sworn that it was a TV or maybe a bunch of teens kidding around. But the screaming went on, and then shouting in some African language.
And then more screaming. And then it was over.
While all this went on, I didn't get out of bed. I didn't open the windows to lean out. I barely even opened my eyes. It was more a nuisance or a curiosity ("I wonder if her friends will help out, or if the police will come first").
See, my neighborhood - home to itinerant workers, Chinese immigrants, young up-and-comers, and many families - my neighborhood is also home to many African prostitutes. Whether they live here or not, I don't know. But at night they take their stations near crossroads and along a close-by street. They linger at the Metro entrance and wander around in front of the Monoprix grocery store.
Even in my half-asleep state, I quickly concluded it was one of these prostitutes who was screaming. Why, I don't know, but I guessed - perhaps correctly, maybe not - that it was a trick turned bad, or a drunk who got too aggressive. In any case, there were shouts from more than one woman and the clacking of running feet after the first screams. The chorus of shouts went on for a few minutes, until the commotion finally died down. The best I can figure is that the police never came because it was shortly resolved by way of "we take care of own." Hopefully police assistance wouldn't have been needed, anyway.
And now, hours later and sitting comfortably in front of my computer, I can analyze the incident. I can break it down and write it out. I can call it an "incident" - not an attempted rape, or possible murder, or "just" a brief altercation.
I can think back to the very first name that came to my mind, even this morning, even mostly asleep: Kitty Genovese. And I can feel chills or anguish or anger or guilt. But the truth is, I'll never know what really went on. I'll pass to the next item on my agenda and I'll continue my life.
I don't live in a quiet neighborhood. This morning, I was awoken by screams and neither I, nor any of my neighbors, did a single thing. That's a sobering thought, a scary one. Hopefully, it's a thought that will really wake me up.