On the last day of the Festival, the Producer headed back to the U.S. I scored a ticket to the Closing Film.
It was the first dinner in Cannes by myself. I found a café just two blocks from the buzz of the Pavilion. (Keep in mind, the Producer has been gone from town all of three hours….)
I was still standing, removing my jacket, at the outdoor café, when a young woman dressed in a grey t-shirt and cut-off jeans that were darkened by the damp bikini underneath stopped as she was walking past and said:
“Are-- are you going to the closing night party?”
“No, just the last film at 11 o’clock.”
“Oh! You are! Well, could I ask-- could I go with you? I’ve been here in Cannes and not really attended any of the events. I would like… I would like to go with you.”
We stared at each other for a moment. “Sorry. I just have the one ticket.” I waved the ticket like a surrender flag, not sure why I was apologizing.
She smiled. “Okay! Can’t hurt to ask.” And she was off.
I took my seat wondering how many men and women had passes for parties that evening that would give a whole new meaning to the term Access.
After taking my seat, no sooner had I ordered a meal when a police van pulled up to the corner forty feet from me. Two officers jumped out and began shutting down the narrow one way streets going north and south from the beach.
We were just two blocks from Palais and the Awards Ceremony were underway so I imagined this was to allow some dignitary to enter with a motorcycle cortege. Or perhaps leave early.
The wait staff seemed fairly interested and the couple next to me kept glancing up the street.
The waiter brought my salad and when he said something with clearly a bit of a chuckle in his voice, the couple next to me began laughing. I asked the couple if they spoke English. The blonde guy nodded and said he did. He translated.
“The waiter said: ‘Enjoy your salad; it may be your last.’ The police are up the street investigating a bomb in that car.” He pointed to a car that we could all see from our vantage in the café.
We sat there watching a few more police arrive. I began assessing the street, noticing a six story construction crane where the car was parked – which, if hit by a blast would fall… Well, heck, it’d fall directly on us! Everyone moved as if more annoyed or puzzled by the potential bomb than frightened of it.
I had just finished the salad when one of the policemen came back down the street and began waving everyone to get around the corner. My neighbor explained that they had found a device and were bringing in a robot to remove it. I got up and joined the others from the restaurant down the intersecting side street. (At one point, a wild haired young man in a suitcoat and jeans and credentialed badge from the Festival came up and asked me what was going on. When I told him the police were investigating a bomb, his eyes brightened and he began walking towards the scene. I don’t know if he had a camera and was trying to get some story, but interestingly, after one verbal warning, the policeman clapped a firm hand on his shoulder and began to drag him backwards and threw him at us.)
After the “device” had been cleared, we took our seats again and within 10 minutes everything had resumed to “normal” – with quotes around it because clearly normal has the capacity to become highly "abnormal" fast.
The next day, I did a Google new search for any mention of Cannes or bomb but only found references to the French film on Algeria which had brought security guards out in great numbers on Friday. Other than that: nothing.
I was – and still am – struck by the relative nonchalance of everyone including the couple next to me and the police. It was though apparently not my last salad.
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