The worst of times…

A few weeks after La Rentrée my choir, the High Rock Gospel Singers, has its first performance of the term. Under the circumstances however, it’s an invitation we’d rather have not received.

A little boy has perished in a fire early September. We have been asked to sing at his memorial service in an isolated corner of Strasbourg, around the Hoenheim vicinity. 

On the night, there’s a mix-up with venues. The family decide to relocate the ceremony at the last minute. I find out by chance from some helpful parishioners, gathered at the old address in another isolated corner of Robertsau. I call Soprano and HRGS administrator Elisabeth. She sends her husband, Gilles round to pick me up when she realises her mistake.

En route, I try to find out more about the victim. I learn he was only 11.

What’s 11? Gilles ruminates You’ve barely started life.

We arrive in Hoenheim. Most of the choir are already on site. They’ve made a good showing (except for the males, of course). I’m feeling a little sheepish about my tardiness, even though I’m not at fault.  Elisabeth gives me an update. The choir has just been informed that the service is to take the form of an all-night vigil. We were expected on stage at 11pm. This is not feasible. Getting home at that time of night by public transport will be tough. Some members have work in the morning. A compromise of 9pm-ish has been reached. 

The sterile white interior of the venue is in contrast to its inviting peach-coloured exterior. The hall is virtually empty. So be it say Elisabeth and choir director, Kiasi. If we’re singing to a handful of people, we’re singing to a handful of people.

9pm comes and goes. Whilst waiting, I catch up with star soprano Nicole and ask after her baby. Kiasi takes me aside to give me hug and tell me I’ll be missed. I’m touched. He’s responding in person to the email I sent to the admin team, notifying them that my days in Strasbourg are numbered. I thought it went unanswered. 

Kiasi speaks at his normal machine-gun speed in English and French. Something about a missing or stolen bike. I think.  In any case, he’s been distracted- hence the radio silence. He asks about my future plans. I tell him of my reluctance to return to the UK straightaway. He suggests we meet up sometime before I go. I’m unbelievably chuffed, although a part of me suspects it might never happen.

A few more guests trickle in. Some well-mannered lads give all the ladies a bise on entering. I suspect this courtesy isn't totally motivated by politeness. We're an attractive choir. I oblige anyway.

A woman arrives in a wheelchair, silently weeping. An extended family member or neighbour, I assume.

It’s a fairly diverse crowd; the majority being Francophone African. Fellow soprano, Claire attempts to accurately guess the ethnicity of most of those in attendance. Ivorian she ventures. How do you know? I ask.

I’ve dated a few…Wait. Look at her, the one bleaching. Definitely Congolese!...

Shooting the breeze some more, I casually ask her to remind me of what she does for a living. I regret it. It becomes a pity-party about all the things she’s yet to achieve. Her career has stalled. She’s already writing herself off as an old maid at just 30. 

What's the point of starting a family at 40? she opines, looking sullen. 

Hold on. I’m 38.

Alas, this doesn’t stem the tide of insensitive comments. I'm not bloody well in the mood to be comforting a woman nearly a decade younger than me who she believes she's over the hill. Sitting to our left is Michelle-in her 50s, never married nor with any children. She listens patiently, not interjecting. I wonder what she makes of the discussion. I feel apologetic.

Claire wishes she started a family at 20. I reply that my mum had me at 19. It wasn’t a walk in the park by any stretch.

But at least by the time she was 40, you were grown.

It’s not as simple as that, I counter. Besides, I add, it’s different for our generation (well, mine kind of overlaps with hers). We have different economic challenges to the previous. It’s not as stable for us. People are having children later anyway. Look at Janet Jackson (admittedly, not ideal to have your first child at 50). There’s no point marrying for the sake of it…

Claire agrees begrudgingly but won’t be consoled. The conversation leaves me in a funk that weekend.

At around half-9, Kiasi speaks to one of the organisers. We perform our stirring rendition of Kum Bah Yah. We sit back down. From our seats we sing another one of my favourites from the repertoire; Hosanna, with a solo by Nicole I’ve never heard before. For the next hour or so, we’ll perform in this ad hoc fashion; intermittently preparing to leave with coats in hand, only to be asked to minister again. 

In between performances sweet, oil-saturated dumplings are passed around; akin to the Nigerian Poff-Poff to which I’m accustomed. I’m not a fan of doughnuts nor their international variations. I limit my intake to one and only because of genuine hunger.

Half-past ten. We’re hovering near the door ready to leave. We’re asked to wait around for some eulogies and prayers.  The first is theologically correct but rather clinical in the face of such suffering. Sometimes words fail where ordinary empathy would be best. Even Jesus wept. Rather than preach to the bereaved, weep with those who weep.

Be strong, my sister. The speaker addresses the woman in the wheelchair. 

I notice the framed picture of the victim. It breaks my heart all the more to see he was of African descent. Tragedy is tragedy. I have previously criticised ethnocentric approaches to collective mourning. And yet, I feel this loss more personally. My sentiments are encapsulated in the next address by Pastor Richard; one of the founders of HRGS. It is more lament than eulogy. His gravelly bass bellows about the loss to the community, the country of France (La Marianne!), as well as the African continent which, he reminds us, has already suffered so much.

He beseeches us not to give into the forces of hate; not to respond in kind to the rise of Right-wing extremism. The more he speaks, the more my stomach turns. The inference terrifies me. This story is tragic enough.

It’s finally time to go home. A kindly stranger is heading in my direction. She offers me a lift. Whilst she pops to the lavatory, I make conversation with the only other passenger.

Are you a friend of the family?

You could say that. I’m the ex-wife of the boy’s father.

I briefly assess this unassuming brunette. Uncharitably, I wonder if it was an immigration-related marriage of convenience.  

During the long-ish drive home, I seek more details from the ex, Sandrine. There’s so much of the story that doesn’t make sense. 

My dreaded suspicions are confirmed.  Arson.  The suspect was caught on CCTV, Sandrine explains. He’s well known in the neighbourhood for his affiliation with the Far Right. The driver, Laure, objects. Just because the victim happened to be brown, she quibbles, it doesn’t mean it’s a racist attack. She draws a dubious parallel with false accusations of Antisemitism. Sandrine insists to the contrary. The suspect's supremacist views were an open secret. Neither is it the first time that building has been subject to arson attempts. The cameras were installed for that purpose.

I ask if the child was left unattended and if not, how the rest of the family managed to escape.

Sandrine expounds. The boy's father, her ex-husband, was working an evening shift. His older son was away at university. The little boy slept on a fold-out bed in the lounge. The other children and their mother were asleep in adjacent rooms. The fire was started directly under where the child slept. The room was swiftly consumed due to the wooden flooring. By the time the rest of the family realised what was happening, there was only time to leap out of their first floor window to safety. His mother sustained severe injuries as a result of the jump.

Sorrow upon sorrow.

The fire occurred only days after the boy had celebrated his birthday, Sandrine adds. The same as Michael Jackson, I note, unsure if it's inappropriate. Sandrine confirms, apparently pleased I'm aware of this bit of trivia. Her own birthday happens to fall on the same date.

The boy had made a point of having a big party, to the initial disgruntlement of his parents. As a sickle cell sufferer, each birthday was a triumph to be commemorated. His mother and father worked hard to give him what he wanted. Sandrine was invited round. Her ex-husband’s new wife had bought her a cake especially. Normally, it would be Sandrine who’d extend an invitation to the family. On this occasion however, she was too preoccupied with moving house.  

I comment on the peculiarity of these relations.  It’s not typical for an ex to be on such good terms with her former husband and his new family; particularly when they had no children together.

Nothing about this story is of the every-day variety. It only compounds my immigration theory. I reason the family must be grateful to Sandrine for the part she played in helping the patriarch remain in France.

I’m finally deposited in front of my flat but not before the two women ask what I’m doing in Strasbourg. Sandrine mentions that she’s a French tutor. A few of her students also work for The Human Rights Organisation. Laure makes what’s supposedly a good-natured jibe about taking advantage of Sandrine’s services. It’s not the first time she’ll reference my wobbly French (even less reliable at that time of night, the height of fatigue).  From the little I hear, she speaks what sounds like fluid English.

In light of all that’s transpired that evening, I shouldn’t even notice Laure's slight. It stays with me nevertheless.

Indoors, I’m shaken by all that Sandrine has recounted. I pour my thoughts into a long, blow-by-blow voicemail to sis.