Double Twenty

CHAPTER 6 - I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) (The Proclaimers)

"We are our choices." – Jean-Paul Sartre

Matthieu struggles to acclimate to the pale neon lights of the university, which cast a jaundiced hue on the worn walls. He observes nearly everyone around him and barely remembers a few faces without being able to name them. He tries to ignore their discussions about the latest episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," France's slim chances of winning the next World Cup—if only they knew—and the still-strong enthusiasm for Nirvana and grunge music. Among the students, he spots the usual cliques of narcissists, addicts, anxious types, political activists, studious ones, and proto-feminists, but he has no time to spare for them; he finds it more useful to scan the fashion styles, expressions, and attitudes in vogue to perfect his cover.

First observation: there is not much diversity or mixity; the language is not yet permeated by rap and street culture. Some boys greet him. The girls kiss him on the cheek. He seems quite popular. At least, he doesn't go unnoticed, and not just because of his suburban-style outfit. Everything is confusing in this hallway, as they await some kind of execution orchestrated by an arrogant teaching assistant barely in his thirties. Suddenly, he turns around and accidentally knocks a stack of books out of a young girl's hands. He quickly picks up the books while grumbling, and the first feeling he experiences as he stands up is his heart literally escaping his chest: Victoria. He vaguely remembers having a crush on her. Unrequited, of course, but he waits for a spark, a wave of memories to put him back in context. Nothing comes.

"Can't you be careful?" she says, a blush rising to her cheeks. "Who thought of making hallways this narrow, damn it!" he replies. "Oh, so it's my fault. Am I too fat?" Unlucky for her, Matthieu is a master of acerbic replies. "The light isn't very flattering either," he retorts. She stands there, stunned for a moment, then bursts out laughing again. "You're really unique. By the way," she looks him over. "Nice style. Did you have trash to throw out before coming to class?" "I adapt to my environment. No way I'm making an effort for fatties who have nothing better to do than lug piles of books down hallways narrower than their asses." "In top form today! We'll see how you do in the seminar! We're up with Omer, Benoit, and Coralie." Matthieu doesn't react. But who is this Coralie? She understands without a word that he has no idea who she is talking about. "Short brunette, glasses, always in the front row, 19 average." "Ahhh yes, Coralie," he says, forcing a smile. Victoria gives him a strange look. "Still having trouble with your stomach?" He frowns. He wonders if his health problems are front-page news at the university. Unless... their relationship is more intimate than he supposed. Something to investigate. "No, no, I'm fine, thanks." An impatient voice echoes in the hallway. "Group 8, it's your turn." "Let's go!" says Victoria fervently. She places her hand on his forearm. "It will go well, don't worry." At this touch, he immediately feels much calmer, more relaxed, a shiver running down his spine.

The small lecture hall is as standard as can be, with a few rows of seats, a desk, traditional board, fixed microphone, and overhead projector. Coralie, followed by Omer, Ben, Victoria, and Matthieu bringing up the rear, sit in the front row. The teaching assistant, 1m85, Cerruti suit, Weston loafers, Hermès belt, looks like any right-wing politician of the time, or worse, a centrist. Fixing his sheet, he seems ready to start roll call but freezes upon seeing Matthieu. "Mr...," he begins, obviously addressing Matthieu, "Dumas. Mr. Dumas," he says with a haughty and somewhat affected air, "I cannot tolerate such provocation. Your outfit is completely inappropriate and, if the rumors I've heard are true, you are not only habitual in this behavior but also a source of trouble for our institution. What do you have to say to that?" Matthieu stands up, as straight as justice, removes his hoodie, placing it next to him.

"Sir, what do I say, dear Master, first of all, I apologize to my classmates present here," he turns to them and bows his head. "I had absolutely no intention of standing out in such a way or of harming the respectability of the university. It so happens that I was the victim of a particularly heinous burglary last night. Hooded individuals broke into my home, tied me to a chair, and took the few resources and belongings I possess. You are not unaware that a wave of such crimes is currently occurring," (Matthieu bluffs, but it's credible), "living in the nearby suburbs, I am more easily exposed to these lawless individuals who despise the justice of men and, for some, the God they so fervently invoke." He looks up at the ceiling. "Though shocked, wounded in my flesh and privacy, I made the debatable choice to come to you dressed like this so as not to jeopardize my future, while I was the victim of ignorance and educational laxity. I do not downplay my previous actions that you have recalled in front of my classmates, plunging me into embarrassment and shame, but as a victim of infamy, I must now resume my life, bearing the weight of my past and the acts of the present. Sir, if you wish, I will leave this room immediately, but I beg you, judge my classmates for who they are and not for having, though reluctantly, simply put up with my presence." Matthieu remains standing, the amphitheater plunged into a pensive silence. The teaching assistant paces, thinking of the best way to act.

"Very well, if what you say is true, which I highly doubt, I propose you answer this question, which you must have studied despite the tribulations you allude to." "Thank you, sir," Matthieu replies. "So, Mr. Dumas, what can you tell us about the rule of law that necessarily applies to all French citizens?" Matthieu launches into a clear, well-argued presentation, nourished by years of TV debates, police series, conversations, and a few bits of lectures reactivated by the shock he is undergoing. The teaching assistant approaches the front row, inspects the bench, the desk, looks everywhere for possible evidence of cheating. Nothing. "Mr. Dumas, I must admit your answer was interesting and compels me to give you a second chance. Now that you've monopolized the attention, let's move on to your classmates."

Omer, Benjamin, Victoria, all look at each other without understanding what just happened. Matthieu, head down, has a stern look. Blood rushes to his temple, and his hands tremble. He is forty-seven, and this "little bastard" has just humiliated him. He managed well, but this is only the beginning. With money, no one could treat him like this.

The teaching assistant drops his bone. The subject is even simpler than the one he gave to Matthieu, but the goal is to force them to tear each other apart. Coralie, like a true pit bull, hogs the microphone. Victoria alternates between offensive and defensive phases, preparing her rebuttals to better surprise her opponent. Omer and Benjamin count the points. After a few minutes of fierce battle, in which Matthieu refrains from intervening, the referee blows the end of the match. They leave without knowing who won, but for Victoria, there is no doubt; it's her. Italian on her mother's side, and from Austrian nobility on her father's, she is not one to be dominated. Blonde, green-eyed, alabaster complexion, slender figure, 1m73 in heels. Matthieu long thought he had more chance of time travel than dating her. Barely out of the room, she literally throws herself into his arms. "Why didn't you tell me? I was so scared hearing you, and what a beautiful speech, you were brilliant Matt, I'm so proud of you," she says, tenderly brushing his cheek. Omer, on the verge of apoplexy, looks at him with heavy innuendos. Benoit understands nothing, and Coralie simply congratulates him, but she wants to clarify some points that still puzzle her. "Matthieu, congratulations, that was great. I'm sorry for what happened to you, but I didn't quite get it. Who are Saul Goodman, Annalise Keating, and 'Faites entrer l'accusé'? Is that right?" He could tell her, "You'll find out in a few years if you watch Amazon or Netflix," but he simply responds, "I must have taken my notes wrong. It seemed to me they were references in the lecture." Leaving her in advanced perplexity, he walks away with Victoria still clinging to his arm. She stops suddenly. "Darn! I forgot my books in the exam room," she says, kissing him on the cheek again. "See you later!" Matthieu doesn't like the feeling he's getting, it feels a lot like a guilty conscience. Omer, who is a head taller than him, wraps his rugby player's arm over his shoulder. "You're my idol. See, two hours ago, I would have spat or pissed on your grave, but now, I'm buying you a beer!" It's barely 11:00 in the morning.