The Train to Paris by Sebastian Hampson Page A

a thing could have happened. And the thought of the truth making its way to Sophie was paralysing. I would have to talk to her that evening, when I made it back to Paris. I could try and tell her the truth, even though it was still indecipherable to me. Or I could lie about why it took me so long to get back from Madrid. I could tell her that I slept in the station in Hendaye. But she would not believe me, because I would not believe myself. I had read somewhere that true liars have full faith and conviction in their narratives.
    The young backpacker emerged from the ticket hall. I waved at him as he walked past, and he returned it. He seemed gentle enough. His skin was pale and veiny, and he wore round, wire-framed spectacles.
    â€˜Sorry,’ the man said in a Birmingham accent. ‘I didn’t realise you spoke English. I hardly know any French.’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said. ‘Neither did I. Sorry.’
    â€˜Not at all. I’m Marcus.’
    â€˜Lawrence.’
    I got up to shake his hand, and I admired his railroad watch and his beard, which was thick and untended.
    â€˜So I take it you booked your tickets in advance?’ I said.
    â€˜Yes. Good thing I booked it for the two o’clock, otherwise I’d be in trouble. Did you book for one of the cancelled trains?’
    â€˜No. It’s a long story.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you go to the airport?’
    â€˜There’s an airport?’
    â€˜It’s around the corner. I would have gone there if I hadn’t already bought a return. It would have cost less, and they wouldn’t have given you an unassigned seat.’
    He was right. The seat number on my ticket was blank.
    â€˜Damn,’ I said. ‘So I can’t sit down?’
    â€˜Not unless there’s a free seat in the first-class carriage. I doubt there will be. This isn’t the best time to travel.’
    â€˜And they charged me a full fare for it. How bloody typical. You know, I don’t care anymore. I just want to get to Paris. Where have you been?’
    â€˜Went hiking in the Pyrenées. I wanted to follow in Hemingway’s footsteps and go fishing in Burguete. And the bullfighting was something else.’
    â€˜You went to Pamplona?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Marcus said, as though he had been itching to talk about it. ‘Have you ever been? It is the greatest thing.’
    He went on to explain it in detail. It was relaxing to listen without really taking it in. He sat down next to me, slinging his backpack to the ground with strong arms.
    â€˜So after all that I was keen to have some time off before returning to the real world. And I thought that I should finish off the Hemingway tour by visiting another of his haunts. You know he gambled in that casino down by the beachfront? I went in and drank whisky and soda in his honour.’
    â€˜What do you do in the real world?’
    â€˜I teach English to unappreciative teenage boys in Manchester. Good to get away from it all sometimes. What about you?’
    â€˜I’m studying art history. Not in the real world yet.’
    â€˜As long as you’re not doing it to annoy your parents. That was how I ended up studying literature. I keep thinking, How different would it have been if I hadn’t wasted my time and lived my life at that age?’
    We waited for the train together and I stopped thinking about Élodie. When the train arrived, I joined the queue for the first-class carriages, waving goodbye to Marcus and promising to send him the money I owed him.
    I waited until everybody else was on board before taking one of the padded reclining seats. The conductor came around, dressed in the sort of uniform that suggested rank and responsibility. I handed him my ticket.
    â€˜No, you cannot sit here,’ he said in French. ‘You wait until the car is full, then you take the empty seat if there is one.’
    I tried to explain myself and asked why I had been forced to