The Train to Paris Read online

‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m nearly out of cash.’

  ‘How were you planning to pay for a ticket?’

  ‘I don’t make many plans.’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘But I have a discount pass, so it shouldn’t cost much.’

  ‘That does help.’ She disapproved. The concept of a discount must have been foreign to her. ‘So you cannot pay for a hotel, or a taxi, or anything. What were you going to do with yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know. If worst comes to worst, I thought I could sleep in the train station.’

  She laughed, a high flutter that suited her superficial smile.

  ‘Why that’s absurd, Lawrence. Luckily for you, I have a soft spot for hopeless causes. Come, we must have some fun while we still can.’

  I went to pay for the drinks with the last of my cash. But, before I could, she had laid a platinum credit card on the table. It carried somebody else’s name.

  ‘Keep the money,’ she said. ‘Who knows when you might need it?’

  2

  There were no taxis outside the train station, so we sat and waited on concrete blocks that were either benches or partitions. Élodie treated hers as a luxurious sofa. She kicked her heels up and busied herself reapplying her make-up. A breeze had come in from the bay, and I took a nondescript black sports jacket from my luggage. She eyed it as if it were a clochard’s blanket.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked.

  ‘It is far too big for you. A young man with such an enviable frame as yours needs a good tailor. If we ever make it to Paris, I will show you where to find the very best. And they will teach you not to wear it with an illfitted old shirt. It isn’t the done thing.’

  I took the jacket off again. Inside the station, the Dax train was about to leave. It would not be worth taking, I decided, even if it got me to Paris any faster.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘In all senses.’

  ‘We are going to Biarritz, where there are nice hotels and nice restaurants, neither of which exists around here. Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘What about the hotels around here?’

  I was already growing tired of Élodie’s insistent snobbery. If she wanted me to feel inferior, then her motive was useless; she had already won on that score. She gave a theatrical shrug, as though she had prepared for this question a long time ago.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You stay at the hotel up there.’ She gestured to a building across the street with peeling plaster and an ancient drainpipe. ‘I will amuse myself.’

  ‘I would if I had any money. Is it really necessary to go all the way to Biarritz for the sake of a hotel?’

  ‘I cannot sleep in an inadequate bed, and nor should you. We must do the best with what we have.’

  ‘And what do we have? Your husband’s credit card?’

  These words made her quiet. I thought of the joke that I had made to myself, and how wrong it was. She was a married woman, and the rules were different. I began to walk off without much purpose or direction.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she called out.

  ‘Wherever I don’t have to incur debt to strangers.’

  ‘You won’t get far with no money.’

  I stopped. She was still sitting on the concrete bench, the picture of composure.

  ‘Don’t presume that you know everything about me and my husband, just because of your slight powers of observation.’

  ‘I don’t want to know about either of you.’

  ‘We both know what a lie that is. Come back here.’

  I disobeyed the order and set off again. The weather was changing—it would be a cool night. I didn’t wish to sleep in the drafty station, but I didn’t want to entangle myself in whatever game Élodie Lavelle had planned for us either. The addition of a husband made it all the more repulsive. I was above that sort of cruelty.

  I had no idea where I was going. The road stretched towards the town centre alongside the station. As it climbed, I could see the Dax train beginning its journey. The overhead lines made a layered backdrop to the scene. The rail yard was rust-coloured, and this matched the barren hill protruding from the Spanish side of the bay. It would have been a Gauguin landscape, if not for the parking lot that stood beside the rail lines. Gnarled trees and low hedges had been planted to divide the lot from the road and they were patchy and untended.

  The road steered away from the rail yard and I was confronted by menacing silence. A lone car drove past, the only sound apart from the fading steel wheels on steel track.

  I stopped walking, breathing heavily. I needed water. The shops were closed and hostile; their shiny white surfaces reflecting the low sun repelled everything.

  It did not take me long to change my mind. She was, after all, my ticket out of Hendaye. She was alluring, and she was interested in me. It felt as though I had already met her a long time ago. Somehow she knew who I was.

  I turned to face my reflection in a darkened shop window. My hair was long and curly and tousled from travel, falling over the edge of my collar. The old shirt showed my skinny, pale arms and the faint patch of hair at the top of my chest. I thought of seeing a tailor with Élodie, of wearing a suit that fit me to within an inch and accentuated my slender shape. Her vague promise had released this fantasy in me.

  Then I looked closer. The sleepless nights in Madrid had drawn dark circles beneath my eyes, and they would not open wide in the sunlight. I told the uncertain young man staring back that I would not involve myself with this woman any further than I wanted to. But what did I want? There, I told my reflection, was the answer. I smiled at him, and he smiled too, and I set off back in the direction I had come from.

  She was waiting for me on the same concrete bench, and she had spread out a newspaper to read. Her eyes did not lift as I drew near. The paper was a few days old.

  ‘Good Lord, that was fast,’ she said. ‘I was sure it would be a good half hour before you saw sense.’

  I sat down beside her. She folded the paper.

  ‘You get the prize,’ I said. ‘Did any taxis come in my absence?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘Do you think they might be on strike, too?’

  ‘Who knows?’ She tucked the paper into her suitcase. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. You must be in need of some food.’

  ‘Where should we go?’

  ‘Sadly we are not in a gastronomy capital. As I said, I have not been stuck here before. There might be something over by the fishing port.’

  I followed her down the same road away from the station. It was admirable how she managed to handle herself in such a tall pair of heels. I scanned the collection of tags and stickers on the suitcase. I could recognise the airport code for Nassau, and a bold United States sticker. Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Santiago de Chile were there too.

  ‘You’ve been to South America,’ I called to her. She was a few paces ahead. I couldn’t keep up with her.

  ‘Well observed, Lawrence.’

  The sun had now reached its zenith, and it came out from behind a cloud to beat down on us.

  ‘I do wish I had a hat,’ she said. ‘Women cannot wear hats these days. I find it very sad.’

  ‘Why can’t you wear hats?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ She said this wistfully, lost in the distance. I wanted to ask what she was talking about. ‘Incidentally, I have nothing to say about South America. I know what you were trying to do there.’

  ‘I was only curious.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I don’t want to think about it.’

  The same road was far less intimidating. It crossed over the railway, where the town grew darker. The street was narrow and passed between buildings that were packed tight together. Nobody else was around. The Basque country was alien—clean, with buildings all blindingly white. A strange perversion of heaven. But it was also a timeless place, with no sense of age to it. I c
ouldn’t place it in history.

  ‘I do hate it here,’ she said, as though reading my mind. ‘What a place to be stuck in.’

  ‘I agree. At least the company isn’t so bad.’

  ‘Don’t say anything like that again, Lawrence, or I will leave you to sleep in the train station. Sentimentality is not welcome, so leave it on the doorstep now.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She began to walk even faster.

  ‘My point, before you interrupted me with that nonsense,’ she said, ‘was that I don’t want to eat a thing in this town. You suit yourself.’

  I had eaten nothing since a light breakfast in Madrid, so it was hard to share her nonchalance. I suggested the first café that came into view. It was barely an improvement on the Casa Miguel, but it was more attractive than walking for another half hour. We were in the darkest part of the town now, and the entrance to the café was set back so far and so heavily canopied that it could have been some shady Mafia den. It was easy to imagine a group of old men conspiring in hushed tones at a corner table, but we were the only customers. I ordered a bouillabaisse since fish was the only thing on the menu.

  ‘This is absolutely vile,’ Élodie said. I could hardly argue with her. Cigarette ends and spilt drinks littered the floor, though the lighting was dim enough to disguise most of it. ‘Your French needs work, by the way. You need to stop saying please to everything. It makes you sound even younger than you appear to be.’

  ‘I’m learning,’ I said, trying to hide my blush. ‘The nuances are always the hardest.’

  ‘Perhaps. And yet you are going to attend lectures that are, I presume, given in French?’

  ‘Yes. I’m worried about it.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  I did my best to eat the bouillabaisse slowly, but animal desire got the better of me.

  ‘Now that cannot be healthy,’ she said. ‘First you starve yourself, then you inhale a bowl of soup. You will make yourself ill.’

  ‘At least I won’t be hungry.’

  She grimaced, as though I were an embarrassing child determined to ruin her lunch. I cracked a slice of baguette in half and used this to mop the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘You are so provincial,’ she said. ‘I hate to think where you learned to eat like that.’

  ‘I’m a peasant at heart,’ I said, wiping my mouth with the napkin. ‘We all are, really. Are you going to eat anything?’

  ‘I am saving myself for Biarritz. We will have caviar and champagne.’

  ‘Gosh. That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. It is staple food. I get the feeling that you are not used to this whole business. Let me guess: you flew to Europe economy, always travel discounted. Did you go to Madrid on the couchette? Yes? I thought so. You shared a cabin with five others, all of them disgusting student travellers. You do not stay in hostels, you are too good for that, but I would say that you are most accustomed to a flea-ridden budget hotel on the first ring road, where the breakfast is complimentary but no sane person would want to eat it. Am I correct on that score?’

  I had no reply to this, which she took as validation.

  ‘Thank you for reducing me to an ugly stereotype,’ I said.

  ‘My pleasure. In any case, you need to be shown an alternative to these boorish ways. Everybody must live the high life at some point. Even students. Now is your time.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  She showed her teeth for the first time. I had expected them to be as soft as her lips, but instead they were sharp, an uncomfortable detail in her otherwise flawless face. They should have been dangerous, but instead they were curiously inviting.

  ‘What were you doing in Madrid?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t Barcelona a more logical destination at this time of the year?’

  ‘Maybe. I have always wanted to go to Barcelona to see Gaudí. And Miró. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Of course. But I went there for a party, not to be a tourist. Which is why I have never been to Madrid. Nothing much happens in Madrid. So why would you go there?’

  I had no desire to answer the question, simple though it was.

  ‘I went there to see my girlfriend.’

  Her eyes widened in a knowing sort of way.

  ‘Ah. Now it all makes sense.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t all make sense. You don’t know me, you don’t know her.’

  ‘I do know you. I know you better than anybody else right now. Tell me about her. Who is she? What is her name?’

  She took out the cigarettes again, and I was disgusted as she lit up and allowed a haze of smoke to settle over us.

  ‘Sophie. We met in New Zealand. I came over here a few weeks ago to do my studies, and she is studying in New Zealand. But we thought that we could keep seeing each other because her father works in Berlin and she comes over to visit him at least once a year. She didn’t want to come to Paris.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She doesn’t like it there. So we decided to meet in Madrid for a holiday. Not the most romantic thing I could imagine.’ I ran a hand through my hair, as I always did under these circumstances. ‘So now she’s in Germany with her family. I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. You are too interesting for them.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Oh please, Lawrence. She sounds dull, her family sounds dull. I know the type.’ She drew on her cigarette. ‘You are in love with her, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what I am.’

  ‘Is she in love with you?’

  ‘Maybe. I couldn’t say.’

  ‘She is in love with you. I knew it. How obvious. You are just the type, of course. Stiff and awkward, pretending to be cultured, pretending not to care about her feelings but then unexpectedly giving her a dollop of sentimentality. How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty. Same as me.’

  ‘Is this your first relationship?’

  ‘First serious one.’

  ‘What about for her?’ I became quiet. Élodie could not contain her delight. ‘Oh dear. You poor young man. I hope that you aren’t intent on breaking her precious little heart.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that you’re an expert on heartbreak?’

  She smiled indulgently, conceding a small defeat. ‘You really oughtn’t,’ she said. ‘Besides, we’re not talking about me. I would suggest cutting romance out of the equation while you’re young. She might never learn, but at least you will. And don’t let it get too complicated. That way lies disaster. What was she like in Madrid?’

  ‘It was fine. She enjoys art, too, so that helped. We talked a lot about Goya. She’s the sort of person who can stand in front of La Maja Vestida and tell you everything there is to know about it. I think she sees paintings the way I see them.’

  ‘And did you make love to her?’

  She drew the phrase out as though the whole thing were a joke. I tried unsuccessfully to keep my expression blank. She grinned.

  ‘I know that look, Lawrence. I am sure you make a divine couple. Are you both virgins?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I knew it. And how long have you been seeing her?’

  I hoped that I could get away without answering. But she sat forward and waited. The truth of the matter was that we had not made love in Madrid, and I was not sure why. Everything had been congenial, but nothing had happened. And so I had left disappointed with myself. Why did I not know what to do in those situations? Why did everything have to be so formal and forced around Sophie?

  ‘For a few months before I left New Zealand,’ I replied.

  ‘My word,’ Élodie said, her amusement plain. ‘We have work to do, my friend. I have no idea whom I should feel the more sorry for: you or her. It is a perfect balance. My advice is to end it as soon as you can.’

  ‘Hey, I never asked for your advice. I do like her. A lot. You’re making an awful lot of presumptions.’

  ‘May
be I am. It is rather funny, though. When do you plan on seeing her next?’

  ‘I don’t know. She might come over here in December.’

  ‘At least you are keeping it indefinite. And now we must go for a walk. I need to know every last sordid detail.’

  I might have been furious with her, but she paid for my bouillabaisse, which I could feel sitting on my stomach. The locals stared as we left, as though we were an exotic species. Élodie was, and her genus was a rare one. But it was also one that could bite.

  3

  The town was deserted. I asked Élodie where we should go, and she stopped on the corner and cast around for an answer.

  ‘We can go to the old docks,’ she said. ‘And we shall see where that takes us.’

  Having no better suggestion, I followed her down a steep street. The houses here were more dilapidated, slipping towards the water. I imagined that the merest tremor would send them crashing over one another into the bay. A power cable hung loose from one of the villas and it now swayed in the breeze. This part of the town was stuck somewhere between the rusty grime of the rail yards and the sleepy old fishing port, which was all barnacles and salt. Both were untended and ugly, and yet something about this scene pleased me. I did not wish to disturb it.

  ‘You are so quiet, boy,’ she said. I had been listening to the sound of her heels on the cobblestones. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said without conviction. Her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, but I imagined they were boring into me.

  ‘Now really, Lawrence, I cannot support this. Is it because I mocked you and your little princess?’

  ‘No. Yes. I imagine you’re used to people reacting strongly to your insults.’

  ‘I’m not, as a matter of fact. You are the first one to take things so personally.’

  ‘You can’t get much more personal.’

  She swayed her head dreamily. The street widened to a square, which was paved with red stone and overlooked the port. It was lined with old stone balustrades, which were also crumbling. The lampposts had sirens attached to them. I knew this was common in French towns—sometimes you heard them in Paris—and yet there was something sinister about them here. It felt as though we were treading on enemy territory. Élodie was more concerned by her appearance than her surroundings. She would draw a hand up to her hair every minute or so and rearrange some part of it.