stained upholstery, the damp, slippery lathwork floors and the greasy grab handles.
In those days he had acquired the agility indispensable to the survival of the regular commuter, who can thread his way through the densest crowd of people without pushing and shoving and will always politely let the persons beside him go first without betraying that he has even noticed them. Léon knew that he could expect the same introverted consideration from his fellow passengers, and that pushing and shoving and insults occurred only when substantial numbers of tourists or elderly folk were in the vicinity.
He let the man on his right go first and moved into the space that opened up behind him, gave way to a woman with a pram and made it to the sliding doors in her wake. Then, in two or three quick strides, he reached the corner beside the opposite sliding doors, where there was ample standing room. He unbuttoned his overcoat and tipped his hat back, wedged himself in the corner so as not to have to hold on to a grab handle, and buried his hands in his coat pockets. While the open space in front of him was rapidly filling up, he scanned his surroundings commuter fashion, avoiding all eye contact, to satisfy himself that no potential source of annoyance lay in any direction.
Looking out of the window when the doors closed and the train pulled out, Léon watched the passengers waiting on the opposite platform, then the power cables snaking along the brownish-black tunnel wall, the red and white signal lights flashing past, and the yawning mouths of side tunnels. At the next station it became light again, then dark, and when it became light again he got out and ascended into daylight, bought his strawberry tartlets, and dived straight back below ground, where a train in the Porte de Clignancourt direction was just pulling in.
Léon allowed the tide of humanity to carry him across the platform and into a carriage as far as the same corner beside the opposite doors in which he had stood on the outward journey. When a train pulled into the opposite platform he looked at its cargo of passengers gliding by: men with newspapers, mutilés de guerre on crutches, women with shopping baskets. At first they were only vague, blurred figures flitting past him; then they slowed down and became more clearly defined, and when the train finally stopped he noticed, barely a metre or a metre-and-a-half from him, a young woman standing in the equivalent corner beside the sliding doors.
Wearing a black coat, a black skirt and a pale-blue blouse, she had green eyes, freckles and thick, dark hair bobbed at the back from one earlobe to the other, and she had a generous mouth and a dainty chin, and she was smoking a cigarette which she held between her thumb and forefinger like a street urchin, and she was beyond doubt, of that Léon felt instantly convinced, his Louise.
She had of course changed in the intervening ten years. The young girlâs childishly soft features had developed into the firmer, more angular features of a grown woman. The eyes that looked out from beneath her fine, straight eyebrows were alert and unerringly watchful, and the corners of her mouth conveyed a look of determination that was new to him. And when she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with her fingertips, he caught a flash of nail varnish.
Léon shook off his inertia at last. He raised his hand and waved, stepped forward into her field of view and â nonsensically â tapped on the window pane. But she, separated from him by only one metre of air and a few millimetres of window glass, pulled at her cigarette and blew the smoke downwards, flicked off the ash and stared into space. He rattled the closed doors that separated him from Louiseâs closed doors and tried to estimate how long it would take him to reach the other platform via the stairs. Then the open doors rumbled shut and put paid to his deliberations. He took off his hat and waved it in
In those days he had acquired the agility indispensable to the survival of the regular commuter, who can thread his way through the densest crowd of people without pushing and shoving and will always politely let the persons beside him go first without betraying that he has even noticed them. Léon knew that he could expect the same introverted consideration from his fellow passengers, and that pushing and shoving and insults occurred only when substantial numbers of tourists or elderly folk were in the vicinity.
He let the man on his right go first and moved into the space that opened up behind him, gave way to a woman with a pram and made it to the sliding doors in her wake. Then, in two or three quick strides, he reached the corner beside the opposite sliding doors, where there was ample standing room. He unbuttoned his overcoat and tipped his hat back, wedged himself in the corner so as not to have to hold on to a grab handle, and buried his hands in his coat pockets. While the open space in front of him was rapidly filling up, he scanned his surroundings commuter fashion, avoiding all eye contact, to satisfy himself that no potential source of annoyance lay in any direction.
Looking out of the window when the doors closed and the train pulled out, Léon watched the passengers waiting on the opposite platform, then the power cables snaking along the brownish-black tunnel wall, the red and white signal lights flashing past, and the yawning mouths of side tunnels. At the next station it became light again, then dark, and when it became light again he got out and ascended into daylight, bought his strawberry tartlets, and dived straight back below ground, where a train in the Porte de Clignancourt direction was just pulling in.
Léon allowed the tide of humanity to carry him across the platform and into a carriage as far as the same corner beside the opposite doors in which he had stood on the outward journey. When a train pulled into the opposite platform he looked at its cargo of passengers gliding by: men with newspapers, mutilés de guerre on crutches, women with shopping baskets. At first they were only vague, blurred figures flitting past him; then they slowed down and became more clearly defined, and when the train finally stopped he noticed, barely a metre or a metre-and-a-half from him, a young woman standing in the equivalent corner beside the sliding doors.
Wearing a black coat, a black skirt and a pale-blue blouse, she had green eyes, freckles and thick, dark hair bobbed at the back from one earlobe to the other, and she had a generous mouth and a dainty chin, and she was smoking a cigarette which she held between her thumb and forefinger like a street urchin, and she was beyond doubt, of that Léon felt instantly convinced, his Louise.
She had of course changed in the intervening ten years. The young girlâs childishly soft features had developed into the firmer, more angular features of a grown woman. The eyes that looked out from beneath her fine, straight eyebrows were alert and unerringly watchful, and the corners of her mouth conveyed a look of determination that was new to him. And when she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with her fingertips, he caught a flash of nail varnish.
Léon shook off his inertia at last. He raised his hand and waved, stepped forward into her field of view and â nonsensically â tapped on the window pane. But she, separated from him by only one metre of air and a few millimetres of window glass, pulled at her cigarette and blew the smoke downwards, flicked off the ash and stared into space. He rattled the closed doors that separated him from Louiseâs closed doors and tried to estimate how long it would take him to reach the other platform via the stairs. Then the open doors rumbled shut and put paid to his deliberations. He took off his hat and waved it in
Similar Books
