Terence
By Leslie Lisbona [Featured image: Leslie in Paris in her bomber jacket.]
On a September afternoon in 1986, under a sunny Paris sky, my brother, Dorian,and I walked into a BNP bank to open a student account. We had arrived fromNew York that morning, jet lagged and weary.
I was in my senior year of college, taking a semester abroad. Dorian was 36 andhad decided to come with me and stay for my first few days.
The mood in Paris was tense. There had been a string of bombings in crowdedplaces, and the French police were armed, suspicious, and everywhere. Theyseemed just as threatening as the terrorists, with their machine guns slung overtheir chests and their fingers resting on the trigger.
I was glad Dorian was with me. But even though we just arrived, I couldn’t stopthinking that he was going to leave. This was the longest time I would be awayfrom home. Queens College was a commuter school, and I lived with my parents.When I had suggested going away to college, my parents acted like there wassomething wrong with me. This semester abroad was supposed to be my chanceat independence. Now it seemed like it might be very lonely.
We had come to Paris a month before my classes were to start because I had totake a French language proficiency exam in order to enroll in the university.French was my first language and the language Dorian and I used when I was achild. Our parents were from Lebanon and spoke French and Arabic andsometimes a mixture of the two. The exam was scheduled for the next day.At the bank there was a long line. I told Dorian I wished he could stay in Pariswith me. I told him I was worried because after he left, I was going to have a lot oftime on my own, without any opportunity to meet other students. I pleaded withhim, working myself into a panic.
The line at the bank was moving by small increments. I sat on the marble floorwith all the other students from overseas, waiting my turn. Dorian said, “I’m goingto take a walk.”
The line snaked endlessly, and when I was finally near the front, Dorianreappeared. “Les, come here for a second.” He wanted me to meet someone.
I was afraid I’d lose my place, so Dorian turned to the guy behind me and unfurledhis French, which was better and smoother than mine. Rolling his rs, he asked himto hold my spot, and then he took my arm and led me back to the lobby.There was Terence, the one he wanted me to meet. He was a student, like me.He went to Parsons School of Design. He was stylish in a Duran Duran kind ofway. Dorian had met him the year before, taking Chinese classes at the NewSchool.
After the introduction, I turned to leave.
“Wait,” Dorian commanded. “Exchange numbers.” I glared at him, and he said,“You’ve been bothering me all day about not having any friends.”
I blushed and got out a pen, my hair falling into my eyes. I told Terence I didn’tknow anyone in Paris. He said he had traveled from New York with his classmatesand arrived with his social life intact. This made me ache for my two best friendsin Queens.
Terence and I were both renting rooms in someone’s apartment, so it was goingto be tricky to get in touch with each other. We scribbled our phone numbers asfast as we talked, and I said, “Nice to meet you,” and ran back to the line, hoping Ihadn’t missed my turn.
The next afternoon, I was seated in a room on a high floor of an old building,taking the language placement exam. More than halfway through the test, therewas a loud explosion that shook the floor and our desks. The proctor wasstartled, but after a few long moments instructed us to continue with the exam.Minutes later, sirens blared. We weren’t let go until we’d completed the test.All of us filed down the stairs. As I stepped out into the rainy night, I saw acommotion nearby. I saw people running. A five-and-dime store called Tati hadbeen bombed. I learned from the people around me that five were dead, womenand children, with dozens wounded. I dug my hands into my pockets and walkedin the opposite direction, wishing I could speak to my parents, conjuring theirvoices in my head.
A few days later it was time for Dorian to leave. I begged him to stay just anotherday, then I went with him to the airport and watched him go. “You’d better writeme,” I shouted. “I will,” he said.
When I got back to my apartment, the landlady snarled, “Quelqu’un a sonnerpour toi,” and handed me a paper with her scrawled writing. It was a messagefrom Terence. It said, “Party tonight,” with an address.
I put on my jeans with the flower applique on one thigh, my tan cowboy bootsand my brown leather bomber jacket and took the Metro to my destination.Depeche Mode’s “Never Let Me Down Again” could be heard a block before I gotto the building. The sounds of New York accents ricocheting through the stairwellmade me take the steps two at a time. There were many people my age, allpotential new friends. They were more fashionable and sophisticated than myfriends back home, drinking and swaying to the music. Cigarette smoke hoveredabove everyone’s heads.
I wandered around the crowded apartment looking for Terence. Someone waswriting on a large paper taped to the wall. As I stood next to him, he handed methe pen. I wrote, “Dear Terence, I couldn’t find you. Leslie.” I stayed a littlelonger, bopping my head to the music; I danced with a boy with spiked studs onhis shoes and then went home.
Soon after, Terence left another message with my landlady for me to meet him atPlace Saint Michel that night. He was already waiting when I arrived, wearing along wool coat. We found a table in a tiny cave-like restaurant, and he told methat he had been in Tati when it was bombed. He had been buying a radio andcassette player when it happened. His hands were shaking as he described thescene, the dead, all the blood. How he got out. Then he said, “I just wanted to goback home. Part of me still does.” He was near tears when he said this last part.After a long silence, I said, “Why did you take Chinese lessons?” He explained thatalthough he was Chinese, he didn’t speak the language. He giggled, and it wasinfectious, and we both had a good laugh. We finished dinner and stepped out tothe street. “Okay,” he said, “let’s meet next Tuesday in front of the PompidouCenter, say 6 o’clock?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Leslie Lisbona was a banker when she walked into Susan’s class 12 years ago. Thebest decision she ever made.
Comments