pay full fare for a seat that I was not allowed to sit in.
âWelcome to France,â he said in English.
âSo when can I sit down?â I asked.
âAfter Bordeaux.â
âAnd I have to stand up until then?â
âYes.â
And so I found myself in the corridor by the luggage racks. At least I had a view. The landscape was already changing as the train moved further away from Biarritz. It made a brief stop in Bayonne before curving away into the countryside. The whitewashed villas were becoming scarcer, changing to the more familiar French stone cottages. The barren Basque country gave way to woodlands, some with autumnal foliage beginning to show through. Then the woodlands disappeared, replaced by industrial estates and motorway overpasses. I wondered where Ãlodie was now, if she was already in Paris or if she and Ed Selvin were travelling somewhere else together.
I struggled to remain awake. There was a weight in the air, a fatigue that filled the carriage. It would be a few more hours before they released us into the Parisian wilderness. I wanted to be there. Paris was not home, but at least it never changed.
11
The train was passing through Poitiers when I remembered the telephone number. I took the scrap of paper out of my laptop bag where I had thrown it and tried to decide what to do. It was an American number, although I didnât know the area code. It could be anywhere, given Ãlodieâs endless itinerary. I wanted to call it. Whoever answered could perhaps shed some light on the mysterious lady.
I had taken a seat. A lot of people had alighted at Bordeaux and there were no more stops before Montparnasse. Everything was quiet and peaceful in the carriage, and the train had picked up speed now it was on the Atlantique high-speed line. The catenary poles swept past, some of them distinct, some of them in a blur. It was becoming dark outside, the landscape fading.
My thoughts about Ãlodie were no longer so clear, either. She had treated me so cruelly, so blithely. Yet I could not restrain a fantasy in which she appeared on the train at that moment. I could see her, walking between the carriages and somehow keeping her footing despite the unsteady movement around her, and those ridiculous heels. She would be wearing the white leopard-print dress againâthe one that showed her back with its scar and imperfectionsâdrawing on a cigarette and breathing the smoke into my face.
When the train arrived at Montparnasse I had a lump in my throat that I couldnât get rid of. I had not eaten. This was accentuating a hollow in my stomach.
As soon as I got off the train I searched for a bathroom. I ran cold water over my face again, confronting myself in the mirror. Streaks of grime intersected with my image. I rinsed my mouth and told myself that this was the real world, unembellished and bare.
The city was alive as it always was on a warm summer evening. Many people were out and about, and the café terraces on the Rue de Rennes were filled with men and women in sharp suits and dresses. I might as well have been a tourist, with my worn-in travel clothes.
I crossed the road and turned up the Rue de Mézières, which connected to the Place Saint-Sulpice. The orange sky sat between the two mismatched towers of the church. I had never been inside the church, and although my body ached and wanted nothing more than to be fed and rested, I felt an urge to pause for a few minutes of contemplation.
Inside it was refreshingly cool. Saint-Sulpice was resplendent in its ornamentation, but it was austere enough to give a slight sense of unease. In the middle of the aisle I took in all the sculptures, the cracked stone arches and the marble columns that rose high over the congregation. Thuribles hung from the ceiling, and the scent of flowers and incense wafted through the church. It reminded me of Ãlodieâs scent.
I decided to take a seat, since the thought of going
âWelcome to France,â he said in English.
âSo when can I sit down?â I asked.
âAfter Bordeaux.â
âAnd I have to stand up until then?â
âYes.â
And so I found myself in the corridor by the luggage racks. At least I had a view. The landscape was already changing as the train moved further away from Biarritz. It made a brief stop in Bayonne before curving away into the countryside. The whitewashed villas were becoming scarcer, changing to the more familiar French stone cottages. The barren Basque country gave way to woodlands, some with autumnal foliage beginning to show through. Then the woodlands disappeared, replaced by industrial estates and motorway overpasses. I wondered where Ãlodie was now, if she was already in Paris or if she and Ed Selvin were travelling somewhere else together.
I struggled to remain awake. There was a weight in the air, a fatigue that filled the carriage. It would be a few more hours before they released us into the Parisian wilderness. I wanted to be there. Paris was not home, but at least it never changed.
11
The train was passing through Poitiers when I remembered the telephone number. I took the scrap of paper out of my laptop bag where I had thrown it and tried to decide what to do. It was an American number, although I didnât know the area code. It could be anywhere, given Ãlodieâs endless itinerary. I wanted to call it. Whoever answered could perhaps shed some light on the mysterious lady.
I had taken a seat. A lot of people had alighted at Bordeaux and there were no more stops before Montparnasse. Everything was quiet and peaceful in the carriage, and the train had picked up speed now it was on the Atlantique high-speed line. The catenary poles swept past, some of them distinct, some of them in a blur. It was becoming dark outside, the landscape fading.
My thoughts about Ãlodie were no longer so clear, either. She had treated me so cruelly, so blithely. Yet I could not restrain a fantasy in which she appeared on the train at that moment. I could see her, walking between the carriages and somehow keeping her footing despite the unsteady movement around her, and those ridiculous heels. She would be wearing the white leopard-print dress againâthe one that showed her back with its scar and imperfectionsâdrawing on a cigarette and breathing the smoke into my face.
When the train arrived at Montparnasse I had a lump in my throat that I couldnât get rid of. I had not eaten. This was accentuating a hollow in my stomach.
As soon as I got off the train I searched for a bathroom. I ran cold water over my face again, confronting myself in the mirror. Streaks of grime intersected with my image. I rinsed my mouth and told myself that this was the real world, unembellished and bare.
The city was alive as it always was on a warm summer evening. Many people were out and about, and the café terraces on the Rue de Rennes were filled with men and women in sharp suits and dresses. I might as well have been a tourist, with my worn-in travel clothes.
I crossed the road and turned up the Rue de Mézières, which connected to the Place Saint-Sulpice. The orange sky sat between the two mismatched towers of the church. I had never been inside the church, and although my body ached and wanted nothing more than to be fed and rested, I felt an urge to pause for a few minutes of contemplation.
Inside it was refreshingly cool. Saint-Sulpice was resplendent in its ornamentation, but it was austere enough to give a slight sense of unease. In the middle of the aisle I took in all the sculptures, the cracked stone arches and the marble columns that rose high over the congregation. Thuribles hung from the ceiling, and the scent of flowers and incense wafted through the church. It reminded me of Ãlodieâs scent.
I decided to take a seat, since the thought of going
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