#eujolras

May 7th, 14:02

“If she wins, they're going to blame us again,” Courfeyrac says, taking the glass Musichetta gives him. They're in the backroom of the Musain, helping Musichetta and Grantaire prepare for the electoral night. Whatever the results are, the kind of people who come to the café won't be satisfied, and neither will the ABC. Enjolras just hopes they'll put their anger to good use. “They wouldn't be totally wrong, though,” Cosette provides, and all the faces turn to her. “No, no, don't get me wrong, I'm not voting either ! But I know that it increases the risks.” “But we're ready to face the risks, though, aren't we ?” Combeferre asks, and Cosette nods. “Because we're not voters, we're activists. We are involved in politics all year long, not just during the elections.” “We're still fucked if she wins, though,” Musichetta declares. “We're fucked if he wins too,” Enjolras answers. “As Combeferre said, we'll be in the streets whatever happens. We've never changed anything by voting for reformists or socdems, anyway,” he says, settling a table. “But we're going to change things with the protests”. “But if they vote for Macron, do you think they'll protest against him ?” Grantaire says, leaving his silence for the first time. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “We know you don't believe in what we do, Grantaire, you don't believe in anything,” Enjolras snaps. “You're wrong, Enjolras,” Grantaire smirks. “I believe in the natural selfishness of men.” “If you were right, Grantaire, then no revolution would have succeeded. But we both know that's not what happened.” “People were hungry, they couldn't have a job, they couldn't feed their children, they cared about that only. No one’s going to make a revolution because of values, Enjolras, as beautiful as they are.” “That's where we don't agree.” “There are a lot of things on which we don't agree, Enjolras.” “Stop fighting, boys. We'll see what we do depending the results,” Musichetta cuts them. “Now we gotta prepare for the anarchists you lot are bringing to my café tonight.”

 May 7th, 16:38

“I voted”, Joly declares when he joins them in the backroom. Enjolras, sitting on the floor, quietly scrolling through Twitter, was suddenly not so quiet anymore. “I’m sorry ? You did what ?” “I voted,” Joly says again. “It hurt, but I decided that I wanted to vote.” “You voted for Macron,” Enjolras repeats, unbelieving. Joly swallows, uncomfortable. “I voted for Macron.” Enjolras snaps his eyes shut. “I can’t believe you did that.” “It was my choice, ok ? I wanted to vote. I’m just- there are too many risks. I couldn’t …” “We get it, Joly, don’t worry”, Musichetta says, giving Enjolras an insistent look that shut him up. “No one’s gonna judge anyone here. As long as you didn’t vote for Le Pen, that is.” Grantaire, beside her, scoffed, and Enjolras shook his head. “I won’t say anything,” he declares, but everyone knows what he thinks. “You can’t ask for people not to say anything if you don’t vote, and then despise those who vote, Enjolras,” Grantaire starts, but Cosette pats his shoulder, giving him a pointed look, efficiently calming him down. “I just don’t understand, that’s it,” Enjolras starts. “You just- you could have told us. We could have talked about it.” “You would have tried to dissuade me, I know you, you know. But it’s done now. I just don’t want to feel guilty if anything happens.” “She won’t win,” Enjolras declares, confident, and Grantaire snorts, but Enjolras pretends he hasn’t heard. “And even if she won,” Combeferre starts, “and I trust Enjolras when he says she won’t, but even if she won, we wouldn’t be the ones responsible for it. Because when Estrosi or Valls kept spreading the ideas that got her there, we fought against it, we fought against racism, fascism, long before the elections. So, fuck their barrage républicain. It’s not our fault.” Cosette nods, thoughtful. “What do we do tonight, if she wins ?” She asks. “She won’t win,” Enjolras repeats. “I know, but just imagine if she does.” “We start fighting,” Combeferre provides, and everyone nods. There’s fire in their eyes. The ABC are fighters, that’s what they do. They fight through words and through protests, but in the end, it’s the cause that matters, not the means. And tonight, the cause needs them. Tonight, people everywhere in France are gathered, terribly angry, terribly disappointed, and they’ve never been that ready before, to destroy a system that’s been sick forever. “The ABC meets tonight, and I’m sure many others Musain regulars plan to come to listen to the results. If she wins, people are going to be so angry, they’ll start protesting immediately. Paris is going to burn,” Enjolras claims, excitedly. “Don’t say that, Enjolras, that’s really not what we should do. Be angry, of course. Protest, maybe. But we need time to organize. With the state of emergency, the election, May the first, the police are everywhere. If we do anything as chaotic as what you say, we’re going to get killed. It’s a suicide. We don’t want this.” Everyone nods. “Let’s just wait a little, see what people do. There’s the Social Third Round tomorrow. People are going to plan things. For now, we wait for the results. We stay together - and by together, I don’t only mean the ABC, I mean us, the activists. This is no time to divide. Whatever happens, tomorrow, we go to the protest, we meet people there. There will be the NPA, there will be the syndicates, there will be the anarchists. It’s time to make allies.” As always, Combeferre is the wisest, and no one can disagree. They just go back to work, silently. Enjolras, still on his phone, is trying to invite as many persons to the Musain as possible. Musichetta keeps washing the dishes. Grantaire keeps doing nothing, only supervising everyone with a smirk on his face. The world keeps turning, and the fascists keep voting.

 May 7th, 19:30

The bar has just opened, and people are already angry. Behind the counter, Grantaire and Musichetta prepare the drinks of the first revolutionaries who have arrived, dressed in red and black, with fire in their eyes and venom in their speech. There’s the ABC, the regulars, who usually hold their meeting in the backroom in front of the fond eyes of Musichetta and the cynic gaze of Grantaire. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Joly were the first to arrive, along with Cosette who never officially joined the ABC but is always there with Marius and, often, more useful than him. Marius has then arrived with some of the Insoumis he works with. Though Enjolras often mocks his admiration for Mélenchon, the Insoumis are still allies among them, as long as no one urges them to “vote useful”. At six o’clock, Eponine has taken Gavroche from his friend’s house and brought him to the meeting. At six thirty, the rest of the ABC arrived : Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan with his boyfriend Montparnasse, an anarchist who wears black even when he’s not in protests, for the aesthetic. Soon, some others come. There are regulars, people who assist the ABC meetings though they never cared to join, people who demonstrate with them. Two CGT members, some anarchists, some Insoumis, NPA members. They're here in the hope to change the world one day, but for now they just wish for it not to collapse tonight. But as Combeferre once said, with Macron as a president, they'd be able to fight for progress. With Le Pen, they'd struggle to preserve even their right to exist. They're all gathered around the little TV that Musichetta has settled for the occasion, chatting on their own, not yet listening to the journalist's declarations. Like every election night, the atmosphere is tense, but this time more than ever. The first round was a time of hope : the Insoumis wanted Mélenchon to win, and though they wouldn't admit it on the moment, the rest of them did to. It would have been too beautiful. Le Pen ejected from the beginning, a true leftist opposition, and though Macron would have probably won in the second round, the fascists wouldn't have had the legitimacy they have found now. In the streets, it's hard for them. The racists, the Le Penists, they used to hide, they used to be ashamed. Of course, it changed since 2002. The Front National was now a party that could win. But these years more than ever, Marine Le Pen did everything she could to normalise their party, to un-demonize their opinions. And during these two weeks, the frontists knew that 20% of the population thought just like them. They were not ashamed anymore, they were proud. They could talk about it. And now everything was tense. As if it wasn't enough to know that a person out of four had voted for a party that was founded by former SS members, people now seemed to believe that the Front National was a party just like the others and that protesting against them or even opposing them in a debate was opposing democracy. And after all, they were quite lucky. Only 5% of Paris had voted for Le Pen in the first round. Mostly, they only met the fascists on the Internet, and it was already too much. But sometimes, when they were together, they could almost forget that the rest of the country was that obtuse to change. They could believe they'd change the world, and that was the most important. Because in this kind of movements, hope is the biggest part.. The moment you lose hope, you can't achieve anything anymore. The moment you lose hope, fighting becomes too hard. It's easier to survive in a world where you don't belong if you're sure that you have the power to change it. “She's going to win,” Bossuet declares suddenly, worried. Musichetta and Joly press themselves at his side, shaking their heads. “No, sweetheart, she won't,” Musichetta affirms, confident. “You've heard Enjolras. The country isn't that shitty. The barrage républicain will give legitimacy to Macron, and the percentage might give legitimacy to the frontists, but she can't win.” “Listen, everyone,” Enjolras declares, suddenly standing up, and people at the counter get quiet to listen to him. “Tonight, whatever happens, is a night of loss for us. Either the winner is a fascist one-eyed daughter” (people in the audience start boo-ing) “or the winner neo liberalism and social regression like we haven't had since Vichy. But the fact is - we don't need to be afraid. Of course, neither situation is pleasant for us. No left candidate still in the race,” (the Insoumis shake their heads, silently disapproving the disqualification of Mélenchon) “and everyone urging us to vote for the “lesser of two evils” as if Macron had suddenly become the only chance of salvation for humanity. But there's a thing that we need not to forget. What happens during the next five years is not only determined by tonight's results. Whoever our new president is, we're not going to stop fighting. The most important thing to do will be taking the street, as soon as tomorrow, to show that we are not satisfied with all of this. We are not satisfied,” he repeats, and his restricted audience cheers, “with having as a president those who campaign against our rights. We're not satisfied with an electoral system that gets a candidate elected when less than ten percent of the population believes in their political agenda. We are not satisfied with being governed by politicians who never knew what it is to be poor, to be discriminated against, to work, to struggle !” The audience cheers again, and Enjolras grins, galvanised. Even Grantaire almost seems to believe in what he says, when he's got this kind of fire in his eyes. When he realizes this, Enjolras’s smile grows even bigger. “It's time we show this kind of people that we exist. It's time they realize we're not going to stay quiet and stay still while they pulverise every single human right that our ancestors fought for and sacrificed for. We are ungovernable!” This time some people at the bar start applauding and standing up to follow Enjolras. Courfeyrac whistles, enthusiastic. Combeferre seems a little more worried for his friend, but there's pride in his gaze. “Comrades,” Enjolras says again, “today is a turning point in French democracy. After tonight, nothing will ever be the same. Our system has failed us. French citizens held onto it for so long, because they believed it was the only way to express our opinions. Do you know why they believed that ? Because they were never given an alternative. They were never shown that there are other ways, there are other systems. French representative democracy is dead. Let's not cry over its corpse for too long, but instead prepare for its successor! Power to the people!” The audience explodes into cheers. Enjolras is grinning so hard Grantaire thinks he's going to get blinded forever by the light that emanates from him.

 May 7th, 19:54

“What if everything was actually a joke and Poutou is the real winner of the election?” “What if Macron was actually an anarchist that tried to infiltrate the government in order to destroy it from the inside ?” “What if Le Pen won but it's actually just Russia interfering and Hollande discovers it ?” “What if you just shut up with your theories Courfeyrac?” Courfeyrac pouts but he knows that Enjolras is actually just terribly, terribly nervous. No one in this bar wants Macron as a president, of course, but the alternative being Le Pen, well, they'd be quite relieved to see the banker's face at eight o'clock. “Everyone should shut up, actually,” Combeferre declares, quietly aggressive. We're going to have the results in five minutes. Just drink, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, everyone. It'll get easier.” “Ah, Combeferre, always the voice of reason.” It's Grantaire, of course, as if the prospect of drinking was enough to wake him up from his semi-trance of the afternoon. He feels less strongly about the election ; not having campaigned that much, actually. He helped the ABC, of course, that's what he does. But his own soul was not as much in the action as Enjolras’s or Combeferre’s was, for example. “Drink with me, fearless leader,” he says, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. “There's no leader in an anarchist society, Grantaire.” “But anarchy can't work, and you know this.” “If we keep saying it's impossible and we don't try to change the world and the mentalities to make it possible then yes-” “Guys, I don't want to interrupt, but there's like eleven seconds left.” The room gets quiet. They hold their breath. “The new president of France is,” Pujadas announces, “Emmanuel Macron !”. They breathe again. “OK, OK, it's alright, she lost, we're fine.” Cosette declares, breaking the silence that seems to have taken the room. “Now we fight against him.”