Not Such Idle Hands

(c) Daeya Malboeuf

On the way into work the other day, I overhear a discussion between otherwise unknown colleagues.

‘How are you settling in to life here?’ asks one interlocutor.

‘Actually, I don’t find it very friendly’ is the reply.

Instinctively, I chime in

Me neither

Later that morning, I have a similar conversation with new colleague Predrag, fresh from Croatia. He’s soon to be joined by his wife and small children. We swap pleasantries and notes about finding accommodation.  He then asks my thoughts on the city. I try to be diplomatic.

Well my experience moving here on my own would be different from yours…

Not missing a trick, Predrag sees through my evasion. He tells me his single Bosnian friends have found Strasbourg rather alienating too.

It’s great if you have a family but…

…As his friends put it, it’s a City with a village mentality.

When I share this conversation with sis and a friend, independently of each other they reply:

Strasbourg doesn't sound very appealing, or...if it weren't for your interest in the language, I'd wonder why you're still there.

A part of me feels it's unfair to give the town a bad image. It is so easy on the eye. It's just compared to a city like London where, for all its faults it is open, diverse and any and everyone can potentially find their own 'tribe', Strasbourg by contrast closes in on itself.

Speaking to Predrag about his friends' experience, it feels good to be understood. It’s not all in my head then, which has been a gloomy place of late. I’m also missing the regularity of choir practice after a sporadic start to the year on that front.

I'm doing what I can to resist the grim thoughts. The devil makes work for idle hands and minds. Thus, I’m in default busybody mode.  

My melancholy seems to be a good creative fuel. A friend in the UK and I are keeping each other accountable regarding our fiction exploits. We both agree that when inspiration flows it’s truly a spiritual experience. I believe I feel closest to God in those moments.

I’ve also volunteered to take on more tasks at work whilst a colleague is on extended sick leave. It’s certainly more hectic, and there are some teething problems adjusting to working with different budgets and management styles. At least the job feels more rewarding.

One afternoon in early January, the strains of fluid piano playing float down the corridors of Le Chateau whilst I’m on my lunch break. My curiosity leads me to two colleagues having an impromptu sing-along to Billy Joel’s She's Always a Woman. Of course I join in, mangled lyrics and all.  One should never pass up such serendipitous artistic opportunities. It’s as if for an instant, I've woken up in a musical.  Thanks to this happenstance I discover that a colleague at THRO regularly organises open mic nights. A suivre...

That weekend, I attend a short story workshop with po-faced American author, playwright, musician and artist Mark Safranco. A talking shop, more like, since we don’t get any writing done. Polymath Safranco is ironically averse to workshops, preferring a Q&A format. An audience with....if you will. It’s a useful session nonetheless. There's much to be gleaned as he discusses his journey and writing methodology. He graciously answers questions with a broad East Coast inflection over a two-hour period. Although we don’t do any writing exercises, I still leave with a short story idea.

That evening I meet up with Gael, a mutual acquaintance of the Afropean team.  Having reached out to me over the Christmas break, we’ve agreed to meet up in the New Year.  No romantic intentions; strictly platonic.

He has travelled all over Africa and Europe, thanks to his job as a chemical engineer. Add to this his Senegalese, Lebanese and French heritage, not surprisingly he's also multilingual. Gael is not a pedant like me, who wants to be a scholar in every language. He’s happy to make himself understood for functional purposes. His experience of learning Portuguese for example, was a baptism by fire whilst working in Mozambique.   

Gael and I spend an agreeable evening speaking about everything under the sun including a lively discussion about the Christian faith vs. indigenous practices; not too dissimilar to that I had at the Afropean symposium with one of his idols Tété-Michel Kpomassie.

Gael also has a passion for music and hospitality. He’s returned to his old stomping ground, Strasbourg to open up a bar that reflects the Afropean ethos.  He proceeds to qualify what that means. He extols the virtues of his European girlfriend who has a passion for Congolese culture and politics. He believes she’s more qualified to be called Afropean than those Francophone Africans born in France with little active connection to their culture. I agree culture trumps ethnicity. Someone of mixed-heritage like Gael, who was born and raised on African soil before moving to France, is culturally more connected to the Motherland than yours truly although I am ethnically ‘thoroughbred’. Still, I don’t think his girlfriend his automatically a candidate for the Afropean label. I am also frank about my distaste for what I call Kim-Kardashian syndrome; black men who want a ‘black-white’ woman instead of the real thing. I explain to Gael that although I don’t have any truck with the cultural appropriation argument, (there’s no such thing as single ‘black’ culture or identity for one) I do take issue with the apparent self-centredness of many black men. It's as if the struggle concerns them alone.

 They seem to ignore/be oblivious/indifferent to the plight of women of African descent. Neither are they self-aware of how much they have bought into the narrative of disregarding us whilst venerating Caucasian women.One can’t ignore the fetishisation either of the stereotypical African buck which has nothing to do with valuing culture.

I have female European friends who genuinely take interest in various African/Caribbean cultures and are married to men from that background. I too have eclectic taste in men. But let’s not pretend it’s a level playing field for women of all backgrounds. From a global socio-economic and media perspective, women of African descent are often at the back of the queue.

Gael and I discuss the desire of many immigrants to assimilate, in a country that insists you’re French before (or instead of) anything else. We speak about colourism. I remark that some of those of lighter hue aren't as sensitive to the issue as they should be. I tell him about the documentary Dark Girls and mention the case of former Brazilian carnival queen Nayara Justino, stripped of her title for being considered ‘too’ dark-skinned. We both acknowledge the reality that most high-profile brown women are light-skinned and/or mixed race. Gael nods sympathetically and makes all the right noises. Yet there seems to me a cognitive dissonance in regards to his reaction and whom he’s dating. It’s too familiar a story. I wonder if he has, or would ever, date a woman with a similar background to his Senagalese mother, for example. I mean to ask but somehow don't get round to it.

 It’s not to say every brown man that dates someone from a different background is a sell-out. I just don’t think they’re honest enough about how much of the European ideal (both aesthetically and economically) they’ve imbibed.

At the end of the evening, despite an otherwise pleasant exchange, I can't shake the vague sense of disillusion.

This Week's Soundtrack: Oxnard by .Anderson Paak, Sade Birthday Mix.

Seasonal Tristesse

 

(courtesy of www.adavic.org.au)

In the absence of a guest to tend to, I flounder during the Christmas break. I find myself floating in a forlorn fog around New Year. Almost from the moment I drop Coral off at the coach station, I am in tears most days.

It’s been a good few years since I had the January blues. Last year the novelty of relocating to France and finally moving into my own flat was enough to keep me upbeat.

This year I have been laid low by the combination of overcast weather (I really need sunlight), the sense of isolation to which I thought I’d become accustomed, the old anxieties about ageing and the year ahead. Try as I might, I’m also anxious about work after my last appraisal; more precisely the pressure to be even more visible, despite my efforts. The thought of phatic post-festive conversation fills me with an unreasonable sense of dread.

During the break, I endeavour to have as much human contact as possible to combat the seasonal melancholia. 

I attend a mid-week language meet-up which, to my disappointment, has precious few native French speakers. Amongst them is globetrotting polyglot Jean-Paul; seven languages and counting and nearly as many children with different mothers. His Anglophone accent is so natural, I assume at first he's a Yank. He seems incredulous about my linguistic frustration. Perhaps his innate abilities make it hard for him to relate. In his own way he doesn’t want me to be defeatist. Still, his pep-talk is somewhat counterproductive. Later the group has a stimulating bilingual chinwag about the current political challenges on both sides of the Channel. I leave the meeting in cheerier mode.

My friend Jeanne invites me round for some festive games/unofficial housewarming. She’s just moved into a new flat on the other side of town with good mate, Annalise.  Jeanne’s family are visiting from the South. I have another lively political discussion; this time with her younger sister Francoise, about what she believes is the deterioration of the French public sector. As she contemplates the perceived efficiency of the private sector, I instinctively defend the current model. In theory. It’s better to attempt to reform a creaky system than undermine it altogether (especially since austerity politics has a lot to do with the current decline). We’ve lived through that nightmare in the UK. Francoise isn’t sure. In my faltering French I concede that a heavily centralised system is not the answer. Alternatively, a better devolved public ownership model could well be the way forward.  I’m frustrated that my French isn’t as fluid as I’d like it to be but the conversation is a good mental workout.

We’re later joined by Annalise’ brother Cédric and his ballerina girlfriend and friend, Monique. We spend a while introducing ourselves, accompanied by a not-so-brief bio. Somewhat disgruntled, I note Cédric-as young as he is- already following the trend of so many African/Caribbean men in his preference for vanilla over chocolate.  With my eclectic taste in men, I have no problem with the idea of mixed relationships. However, in a western context in which much of the representation of women of African descent is less than positive (if represented at all), unconsciously or not it appears many black men have trouble seeing us as valid romantic choices.

At the cusp of his 20^th year on the planet, Cédric also makes me feel old.  I could have been his mum if I’d started early. He’s not much older than I was when mum was my age.

Despite these gloomy thoughts, I still have some fun getting my head around the complicated rules of Annalise’ parlour games and eating one too many pizza slices. 10pm. The
frolics are only just getting underway and yet I have to leave if I want to make it home at a decent hour. I miss my connection anyway.

New Year’s Eve is spent in contemplation and prayer, watching the various firework displays outside my window. The air is thick with gunpowder. Unlike last year, when I was in the mood for some quiet time, I’d have preferred to spend the night in the company of my church brothers and sisters. Alas, no NYE service is planned. The time alone nevertheless turns out to be beneficial.

My Japanese sweet pea, Kokoro is also in town for the end-of-year celebrations. I find out by chance when she responds to a festive email greeting.  We plan a catch-up that week. It’s the first time we’ll have seen each other since she relocated for work reasons to The Benin Republic in the autumn. 

Behind Kokoro’s typically understated replies, I detect the move has been more difficult than she is letting on. Thankfully, safety doesn’t appear to be an issue. Integration on the other hand is still a challenge. The expat community meets more sporadically than what she was used to in Strasbourg. Towards the end of the meeting she admits to the sadness that comes with solitude. She's still trying to put on a cheerful front. I can only imagine.

It’s with mixed-feelings I return to work the next day. As usual, the break seems to have too quickly come to an end. Then again, the latter part hasn’t been so restful thanks to my propensity to fret. I don’t have a good reason to waste my annual leave moping at home. Besides, most of my colleagues won’t return until the following week. I should take advantage of the post-festive calm.

That week also marks the return to choir practice after taking a week’s break. The turnout is better than expected. It’s just the combination of silly antics and graft I need. We get through more songs than normal. It’s good to be back.

At the end of rehearsal, alto Yvette takes the opportunity to bid us a tearful farewell. Not before she does a blinding solo. My fellow choristers watch bemused as my jaw hits the ground.  In the three months I’ve been a member, Yvette’s not been given a chance to shine. She’s humbly kept her peace whilst less-gifted vocalists are routinely handed the figurative mic. 

The practice concludes with some remnants of seasonal refreshments. I descend on Yvette, effusing praise. I feel as if we’ve just met only for me to lose her. We previously bonded over our common observations of Strasbourg life. She’s decided to return to former stomping ground, Bordeaux where she has a more established network of friends. I suppose it’s an excuse for me to head south again. In the meantime, we make plans to link up before she leaves for good in February.

That weekend I’ve set aside for some spiritual recalibration. I avoid my phones and email for much of the time. I only leave the house to attend church on Epiphany Sunday.

As I’m to discover from the positive and fruitful start to the following week, some dedicated God time does me good.

Pre-Festive Frenzy Part 2

The countdown to The Most Wonderful Time of the Year is on. I’ll be a bit busier than usual this year. My new mate Coral has kindly accepted my invitation to spend some of the festive period at mine. Why not? She hasn’t mentioned any plans to return to Tunisia for the festive break. It doesn’t make sense to spend Christmas alone in our respective Franco-German corners. This is after all the season of peace and goodwill to all. I’m looking forward to putting some of that Christian hospitality into action.

Continuing the family’s seasonal tradition of bucking the roast turkey trend, this year I’ve opted for a simple French rabbit stew. The idea comes from noticing a readier supply of rabbit meat here compared to the UK. Choosing an relatively uncomplicated recipe, it’s just the excuse I need to experiment with a meat with which I am scarcely familiar. Since Coral and I are both tee-total, I swap the red wine ingredient for grape juice. A friend warns that rabbit might be too adventurous for Christmas. Having checked with Coral if she has any dietary requirements, she doesn’t seem to be fussy. I set to work deciding on a varied three-course menu, should something not take her fancy. I even print one out with cursive script on coloured paper at work. Well, you have to make an effort.

I plan my shopping schedule in such a way to dodge the crowds. Thank God for an early pre-Christmas finish at work. To create the perfect menu with fresh ingredients, I brave discourteous shop assistants in Kehl, dreadfully inefficient customer service and dozy sales assistants at a local deli and catch the tale end of the last market day before Christmas. For dessert, I cheat and buy some lemon tarts. You need to walk before you can run.

Contrary to what the above suggests, I do have other preoccupations apart from honing my hostess skills. The social calendar automatically fills up this time of year. I attend a so-called Jazz Gospel charity gig at the Temple Neuf in town. I spot a number of familiar faces in the audience; from church and other Christian contexts. The show doesn’t live up to the promise of the glossy flyer. The repertoire is closer to pedestrian pop. The singer’s articulation is pretty dire and she appears to invent lyrics-or simply sounds-when she hasn't memorised the words. Now, knowing how hard it is to master a foreign language, I try to be sympathetic with those in a similar boat. Much of my French pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired. However, since joining HRGS choir, I have become accustomed to Francophones who have an impressive grip on English pronunciation. My expectations have been raised.

That wouldn’t even be an issue if the vocals were up to standard. Having been classically-trained, the singer turns out to be a far better pianist than vocalist. It makes me wonder why she just didn’t do a piano recital instead.

I am glad to have made the journey in any case. The walk to and from the Temple is an opportunity to see Strasbourg in its night-time Christmas glory. Unwittingly I find myself walking the tragic trail of the recent terrorist attack; passing various memorials, beautifully arranged.

The following day, after church I take the opportunity to pass by Javier’s old flat to drop off his Christmas cards. To my disappointment, it looks as if he’s moved on.

Whilst I’m in the area, I visit the Catholic church opposite the block of flats. I always had a soft spot for the interior décor, particularly the elaborate nativity scene. This year it’s even more ambitious, with a mechanically-controlled miniature hot air balloon and a running brook. I linger for a good moment and still don’t find Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus. Never mind. The stillness is inviting.

Later that week, I head out with my Brazilian Portuguese class to a nearby (European Portuguese) restaurant. I only plan to stay for a drink. With Christmas coming up one needs to watch the calories and the pennies. 

It’s not the most economical venue. I’m not too impressed with the head waiter’s cultural insensitivity either. Whilst going through the history and preparation of specific dishes, chapter and verse, he makes a vague reference to Africa and looks at me. I react defensively.

‘Which part of Africa are you talking about? It’s a continent...I’m not from the Lusophone part anyway’.

After a year plus in Strasbourg I have less patience for these displays of ignorance. He’s not too flustered by my indignation, trying to salvage the point. One of my fellow students looks at me with what I can only describe as incredulous exasperation. Whether it’s aimed at me or the waiter, I can’t tell. At least I have the company of Barbara; a Kiwi who settled in France the year I was born. After initially being my typically guarded self, I thaw and I’m glad for her acquaintance. I leave the gathering having had some decent French practice and glorified pineapple juice.

Coral is scheduled to reach Strasbourg early afternoon on Christmas Eve. I spend the days leading up tidying, cooking and continuing my custom of watching my favourite Christmas specials (Boondocks, Charlie Brown, Community third series, etc.).

I pick Coral up at the coach station. She is a dream guest. She’s neat, considerate and an excellent conversation partner. Amongst other topics we discuss UK, French and North African politics, concepts of politeness across cultures, unwelcome male attention, our latest fiction-writing exploits and her love-hate relationship with the cello, which she has played since was six. She tells me the psychological torture of Whiplash is not far from reality, according to her experience at a conservatoire in Tunis. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a classically-trained musician make such an observation.

When we’re not talking late into the night, we entertain ourselves with Netflix. It’s a chance for me to satisfy my curiosity about The Lobster; a humorous and surreal parody of society’s obsession with coupling up and stigmatising the single. Coral and I mentally check-off all the clichés in Sandra Bullock’s nevertheless engaging apocalyptic-horror vehicle The Bird Box. The woman hasn’t aged a day. She and John Malkovich give kick-ass performances which make up for some of the hackneyed tropes, as do the adorable child actors.

Although from a Muslim background, Coral accompanies me to a Christmas Eve service at a local Lutheran church. We arrive a little late. The church is full and cosy. I do a loose translation for her whilst she tries not to be distracted by the cute but unruly tyke in front of us. It’s a short but very sweet service. We sing carols in French, English and German. It's the closest I’ve experienced to a typical British carol service thus far in France. Yuletide hymns don’t seem to be a big part of the cultural landscape, even in Christian contexts. I miss it a great deal.

Coral seems grateful and pleased with my festive culinary efforts. On Christmas Day after attending service in a freezing St Paul’s church in town. I rustle up a substantial brunch to hold us to dinner. Coral doesn’t over-indulge. 

Two days fly by. Whether out of extreme courtesy or awkwardness, I can’t convince her to take a doggy bag.  We part company ways for now back at the coach station on an Arctic-cold Boxing day.

In the days to come, I will drift around, feeling a little aimless now that I don't have company to fuss over. 

Pre Festive-Frenzy

The Christmas-related busyness has begun. 

The lead up to this year's celebrations coincides with the one year anniversary of moving into my flat. I commemorate the occasion by making my surroundings suitably and tastefully festive.

My choir’s unofficial tour of the Alsace region continues into December. We have two shows scheduled the second week of the month.

Members’ turnout is starting to diminish, including musical director Kiasi, whose day-job commitments call him away.

That Saturday, it’s a joint performance with Voix Solidaire; another community choir. Their MD, Richard, happens to be one of the founding members of HRGS (he is quite keen to stress the connection). The event is confusingly called a telethon. Apparently, in France these aren’t necessarily the televised fundraisers of yesteryear where celebrities pretend to take donations over the phone. It’s just a straightforward charity gig.

Members of VS make encouraging noises whilst we run through the night’s repertoire (still no Christmas songs). The two choirs are to collaborate on a couple of numbers.

Assistant choir director, Evan reminds us that it’s not the size of the choir, but the heart (it’s a play on words that works better in French). Still, he’s struggling. With Kiasi away, he can’t sing with the tenors who are especially thin on the ground. It’s true that we can produce a good sound with few people but it depends on who has shown up. Some have sharper musical sensibilities than others.

It’s showtime. We open with a combined performance of a traditional East African chorus. HRGS then leave the stage to let VS continue, taking our seats in the front row. A couple of the veteran members (now on maternity leave) are in the audience. I'm anxious to impress. I don’t want them to think the standard has deteriorated because of the newbies.

VS are a choir in the loosest sense of the word. Apart from Richard occasionally assisting us with his trusty bass and a gamely tenor (whom I wish we could poach), the other members have either forgotten their harmonies or didn’t have a concept of them in the first place. To make matters worse they swipe one of our medleys, butcher it and have the nerve to invite us on stage to partake in the carnage.

I can’t speak for the rest of the choir but I lose my sang-froid after that. My concentration is all over the place and my vocal range compromised by a cold. The rest of the choir isn’t on the best form either. Evan ditches one of the numbers on which I was meant to do a duet with fellow soprano Louise. He opts instead for some tunes for which we don’t have enough personnel to do justice.  One of the contraltos is off-key. He’s also having difficulty pitching us correctly. Too many false starts. Kiasi manifests towards the end. The mortification is complete. I leave straight after the show. It’s the worst performance since I joined the choir.

Or so I think, until the next day when do another telethon.

There are fewer of us. No Kiasi again. The pitching is still all over the place. Evan makes the mistake of giving a soprano solo to a contralto that is not a soloist and has a limited range. The result is strangled. A fellow new member is forcing herself to sing soprano when she’d sit more comfortably at a lower range. Another soprano descends into a fit of giggles and has to be reprimanded. It’s the first time I’ve seen Evan genuinely upset. My cold has worsened and my voice is unreliable. I’m trying to fill in the harmony gaps for missing members but find it hard at the best of times to project my bottom range.

Oh well. At least we’re given free cake and drinks at the end. The car journeys are fun too. En route to and from Strasbourg we sing along to Christine & the Queens (Evan is a fellow fan) and discuss the latest twists and turns of the Gilet Jaune movement that has taken over France. The choir is a good litmus test for Macron’s failing appeal; if it were ever there. He’s not popular, even amongst those who I assumed weren't politically radical.

Working mum Elisabeth says she doesn’t approve of the violence. However, she understands the why the motley movement protests against the escalating cost of living and the French president's seeming indifference. She and her family are just about keeping their head above water, she says. Besides, she adds, Macron only started to take the campaign seriously when it turned violent. 

It doesn’t surprise me that chickens have come home to roost. I never trusted former banker Macron and his third way approach. We’d seen it all before in the UK and where it leads. Nonetheless, any triumph I feel that Macron’s admirers across the Channel have been proved wrong comes at the cost of a frustrated French populace.

The following Friday is jam packed with activity. I have an appraisal in the morning that’s been postponed owing to my manager Lucia’s hectic schedule and, more recently, because of the terrorist attack in the City Centre earlier that week. That afternoon we have our team Christmas lunch and in the evening I’m performing again with HRGS. Despite the delicate security situation, the choir directors want to press ahead with the album fundraiser we had planned.

My appraisal goes fairly well. Lucia is pleased with my progress. One thing remains an issue. I’m still considered too reserved. My colleagues want to see me popping in and out of their offices more often. I challenge this objection as politely as I can. It strikes me as a nonsense. Following my previous appraisal, I’m already making a concerted effort to be more ‘visible’, speaking to colleagues in person rather than always by email and joining in with the odd tea and coffee break.

Lucia thinks I’m shy. I explain this is not the case. I’m just used to a different working culture (less 1984 I should add. I don’t say this).

Lucia suggests I attend one of the courses on working in a multi-cultural environment. I agree reluctantly and sign up. The next one is not until the Autumn 2019. I don’t bloody well need it anyway. I was born and raised in one of the most diverse cities in the world. I’ve worked in organisations far more multicultural than THRO; where I don’t even need both hands to count all the brown employees, excluding manual staff. Without wanting to blow my own cosmopolitan horn, I could teach The Organisation a thing or two about multiculturalism.

After stewing over it, I courteously explain my misgivings to Lucia the following week. To my mild surprise, she doesn’t contradict.

I forgot you came from London, she admits.

The team Christmas lunch is a more subdued (and thankfully economical) affair compared to 2017. There are fewer of us. Sophie doesn’t make her promised cameo. Other staff have moved on, are on mission, on leave or have other engagements. My office mate Daphnia is a saving grace. I feel more at ease speaking with her over my pot roast and tartine (glorified toast, rather than the quiche I have been expecting). She is fuming over what she sees as a callous reaction from some politicians to the death by shoot-out of the perpetrator of Tuesday’s attack, Cherif Chakatt. Only God can judge, she insists.

That evening I make my way through heightened security to St Paul Le Vieux church for the choir’s performance. It’s a welcoming space; far more modern than I expect. As if to make up for the poor turn out of the last couple of performances, the choir is out in full force. There are members present that I’ve only seen sporadically during rehearsals. Better still, Kiasi is free to conduct this evening. He’s been missed. Thanks to his innate abilities and great pitch, he makes choir directing look easier than it obviously is. 

SPLV church (courtesy of Alsace-Lorraine Photos)

He and co-director Evan have planned that we perform our splendid interpretation of Kumbaya as a flash mob. We blend with the audience, begin singing from our seats and gradually make our way to the stage. Considering we haven’t rehearsed it thoroughly, it’s a slick operation. I’m aware of making some errors especially being too hesitant to belt at key moments, given that the choir is scattered around the room and we’re not singing in our usual sections. Nevertheless it’s a transcendent moment; fitting as a homage to Chekatt’s victims. The church acoustics enrich the harmonies. It feels like a dream. I deem the whole performance a success; the best show I’ve done with HRGS.

At the end of the gig, I’m approached by Yvonne. She wants to apologise for earlier putting my nose out of joint. I took umbrage with her overly-inquisitive questions about my origins and comments about my Anglophone accent. It makes me self-conscious.

I’m Nigerian too. I had a feeling we had a similar background.

She is very conciliatory, showing true Christian good will. I relent and explain why I reacted so defensively. I know she means no harm. I can also be quite moody and guarded when I want to be. I keep this part to myself.

Dark Days of Christmas

(courtesy of the NY Post)

One Wednesday morning in mid-December, I’m up and out a bit earlier than usual. I have French grammar workshop to attend.

We’re thinner on the ground than expected. Apart from that, it goes well. Thanks to the session I have a firmer grasp on the French gerund and learn something new about grave and acute accents. It’s a positive atmosphere. Except the tutor keeps making reference to a suspect on the loose. Finally, I can no longer hide my ignorance.

Sorry, I don’t understand. What happened?

Patiently, she begins to explain. An assailant, already a ‘person of interest’ to the police, opened fire the previous night on revellers near the famous Christmas market. He managed to escape. She wonders why I’m not up to speed. I don’t have a TV nor a smartphone I reply. I haven’t listened to the news on the radio that morning either. Come to think of it, I haven’t checked either my English or French phones since the night before. Prepare to be bombarded with messages, she says with a knowing expression. I imagine my poor mum, frantic with worry. She’s probably filled my voicemail box. I return to my office to check the news online and my phones. On the way, I pass my colleagues in the café, huddled round a table looking concerned and deep in conversation. I sneak upstairs. The building is unusually quiet.

Over the course of the day, by way of emails from The Organisation, online news and titbits from colleagues, the picture becomes clearer. Career criminal Cherif Chekatt was said to be radicalised during a stint in prison. After killing and injuring 18 victims, rather implausibly he escapes in a taxi. Before asking to be dropped off in the middle of the Neudorf vicinity, he proceeds to confess -even exaggerate-his atrocity to the driver, claiming also to have stockpiled grenades. Incidentally, the police carry out a raid earlier that day on a flat in which said artillery is found. The taxi driver unwittingly corroborates Chekatt’s story, enabling the police to identify the suspect.

There are tales of unsuspecting tourists sequestered in the City Centre into the early hours of Wednesday morning, detained by security. My current manager, Rosa, (filling in for Sophie whilst she is on maternity leave) was supposed to fly out to Croatia on mission via Frankfurt. She lives in the town centre. There are no taxi services available after the attack. Security around the German border is leaving reported traffic backlogs of over four hours. Neudorf being a stone’s throw from France’s neighbour, the authorities fear Chekatt might have fled. Rosa has no choice but to cancel the trip, forewarning her colleagues in the Balkans by email.

I think of my movements the night before. I left my evening Portuguese class around the time the attack occurred. I was invited to a Christmas meal afterwards near the city centre by my church house group but decided to head home instead, since the next morning would be an early start.

I check my phones. I have two messages from concerned friends in the UK. A few more trickle in later that morning. Some other Brit friends text or email, evidently clueless about what has occurred. No word from mum. I email sis in Japan. She’s none the wiser. The attack isn’t as prominent on the BBC website as I’d expect. It’s been buried under the latest Brexit saga; a vote of no-confidence against Theresa May.

I’m starting to feel offended. My former office mate Claudia claims she’s had non-stop contact from concerned UK acquaintances. Are my friends that complacent or desensitised?

 I text a few of them back to know how well the news has been reported in the UK. I receive conflicting responses. From what I can gather, it’s been covered on the Tuesday night but dropped off the radar, possibly because of Brexit. My mum doesn’t find out until Wednesday evening. By chance she’s apprised when she walks past Reuters' scrolling news in Canary Wharf. (Her brother, my uncle, learns of the incident on the night itself but doesn’t know how to break it to mum). She said she’d have otherwise still been uninformed. A friend also admits that if I hadn’t mentioned the incident in my response email, she’d have never known. Sky News plays on loop in her office lobby but it’s been consumed with Brexit. This is the problem with the 24 hour news cycle, I bemoan. Breaking news becomes figurative fish-and-chip paper far more quickly. Don’t take it as a sign of neglect, she reassures. You are loved.

(courtesy of The Daily Wire)

Ironically, I receive more messages about my well-being from my Europe-based acquaintances. The news is far better covered on the Continent. I have often wondered if anything happened to me in Strasbourg, whether I had enough ties for anyone to notice. Sadly, it takes this incident for me to be able to answer in the affirmative.

Colleagues from work send texts. Acquaintances both old and new email me. I’m touched by the efforts of my fellow-choristers at the High Rock Gospel Singers, most of whom I have known for less than three months. I receive a number of texts and missed calls. I apologise for the radio silence, explaining I’ve only just learned of the tragedy. Later that week, musical director Kiasi tells me off for making him worry.

It’s a surreal day. I’m busy, working with a nervous and frankly distracted air. I take my mind off my own hurt feelings about the lack of contact from the UK to check on colleagues, church acquaintances, friends and find out more about those directly affected. A colleague recounts by email hearing gunshots and being stranded in the City Centre because of the security situation. Her friends are barricaded in a restaurant into the wee small hours. A body of one of the victims is apparently brought into the establishment.

I feel the urge to listen to my choir’s rendition of Kumbaya. I read about Chekatt’s victims. One  is left brain dead. Another was a Thai tourist. I imagine his wide-eyed curiosity and excitement at visiting one of the most famous Christmas markets in the world. I think of his family; how they would have received the unexpected news of their relative's demise during what should have been a simple winter break. Silently, as not to attract my colleagues' attention, I start to weep. A delayed reaction but one for which I am perversely relieved. I am glad that terrorism is not such a common occurrence that I stop feeling anything at all. By the end of the week, the number of dead climbs to five. I pray for the victims, their families and all those grieving at this time of year; a supposedly cheerful season that can nonetheless be punishing for those in pain.

I have an online meeting that evening with my branch of Labour International, most of whom are based in Paris. I'm in a stroppy mood. It seems they only remember when prompted. 

Whilst Chekatt is at large, Strasbourg is on edge. Schools close and colleagues with children stay home to look after them. All markets remain shut. Residents of the Neudorf area are encouraged to stay indoors except for essential trips. Members of Chekatt’s family are rounded up by the police for questioning. On the way home, a kindly colleague tells me to stay safe. He will be under self-imposed lockdown that night.

A few days later, I am pleasantly surprised to receive frantic texts from my aunt and her son. It seems the news is still filtering into the UK but not yet widely known. I check the BBC news page on Thursday night. According to the site Chekatt is still on the loose.

The following morning, I continue my annual tradition of distributing Christmas cards to my colleagues. A number of them thank me personally.

It’s especially important to remember the nativity at times like these, says Georgiana. Especially after what happened last night.

It is then I learn Chekatt has been killed in a shoot-out with police in Neudorf on a road not too far from my church. I know it quite well from when I was flat hunting during my stay with Javier.

Chekatt obviously didn’t stray far. I think I hear Claudia say Good when Georgiana recounts the latest turn of events.

(courtesy of MPRnews.org)

Later that afternoon, during the team’s Christmas lunch, my colleague Daphnia waxes furious at the vengeful response from local politicians, who appear to condone the police’s shoot-to-kill policy. I’ve never seen her so riled. She plans to write to the mayor. She’s worried about the effects on her teenage son, who has parroted their sentiments. Only God can judge, she inveighs. I agree. But people are scared and angry. It’s not good enough, Daphnia replies. Strasbourg prides itself on being a defender of human rights. Its humanitarian organisations campaign against the death penalty. Chekatt made some terrible choices but we don’t know what led him to that point. It’s hypocritical she says, to applaud his death.

I hear the same compassion from members of my choir that evening. The directors gently insist we go ahead with the fundraiser in the centre of town that we have planned. Security is even tighter and the army more present. Not just because of the attack but also because President Macron is paying a visit. 

Some of my musical comrades are shocked and appalled at the social media reaction to the killing of Chekatt. You should never rejoice over someone’s death, warns Leila, even the wicked.

We dedicate a couple of songs to the victims of Tuesday’s attack and their families, including the beautiful alternative arrangement of Kumbaya. Kiasi and Evan decide it should be done flash mob style. Choir members blend into the audience and we begin singing from our seats. At the right cue, we assemble on stage performing with all our hearts. The gorgeous harmonies echo around the church hall, thanks to the fantastic acoustics. It’s a transcendent moment; sublime even. Beauty from sadness.

The same thought comes to mind that weekend. Whilst strolling back from a rather disappointing and misleadingly advertised ‘jazz-gospel’ charity concert, I pass Rue des Orfévres and Place Kleber where Chekatt’s victims fell. Makeshift shrines glow with tea lights. I’m struck by their heartbreaking beauty and that such a stunning scene would not exist if not for sorrow. The tragic paradox of a broken world.

The City looks resplendent draped in Christmas décor, as if oblivious to the blood that has been spilled. The Christmas market and other festivities have resumed, albeit with an even stronger security presence.  Commuters, shoppers and tourists alike are all but stripped searched. Armed police spot check passengers' belongings on the bus.

On Sunday, prayers are offered up at church for all those directly affected by the tragedy. No doubt the same is done in places of worship throughout the country.

Life goes on.