The Train to Paris (11 page)

‘What do you do in the real world?'

‘I teach English to unappreciative teenage boys in Manchester. Good to get away from it all sometimes. What about you?'

‘I'm studying art history. Not in the real world yet.'

‘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.

‘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 pay full fare for a seat that I was not allowed to sit in.

‘Welcome to France,' he said in English.

‘So when can I sit down?' I asked.

‘After Bordeaux.'

‘And I have to stand up until then?'

‘Yes.'

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 Élodie 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 didn't know the area code. It could be anywhere, given Élodie's 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 Élodie 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 again—the one that showed her back with its scar and imperfections—drawing 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 couldn't 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 Élodie's scent.

I decided to take a seat, since the thought of going straight to the apartment was not appealing. The wheels of my case resounded in the high-ceiling church. I put it between my legs and allowed my eyes to wander over the surface of everything. There was a monumental white Madonna and Child statue between the marble columns. She cast her eyes down over the congregation, while the child looked up at her inattentive face with a majestic longing. The statue was lit from above and this cast their shadows onto the wall.

The sun was setting behind a cloud, emerging to send rays through the southern row of windows. Light fell on the cracks and crevices in the floor tiles, and I could see the imprint of three centuries in them. I could see myself, too, reflected in the marble. My face was worn and unshaven, and my mouth was downturned.

The light passed away as fast as it had come. Everything was cast into shadow again. There was an old woman sitting a few rows up from me. Her eyes were closed; she must have been praying. I had never prayed before. Could I pray too, even though I had nothing to pray for? My desires had been realised, and not in the way I had intended. Now fear had taken their place. I closed my eyes.

The congregation dispersed. As I was about to leave with them I noticed a candle holder, which had a few spaces left. I fished for the last few coins in my pocket. I tried to think of a person for whom I could light this candle, and I looked up at the Madonna for guidance. Nobody came to mind, but I lit it anyway. The flame sprang into life as I held the wick out to another and it danced before me.

I walked briskly towards the other end of the Rue Saint-Sulpice. Ethan would have to let me into the apartment if he was not playing a show that night. He specialised in a fashionable revival of New Wave, and he was something of a genius at it. He had a record out on a Swedish label, yet he was a year younger than me. The intercom was broken, and with no security chip I had to call him from the hotel next door. The concierge recognised me from the last time this happened, and he gave me the telephone reluctantly. It was a luxurious hotel, the comfort and polish of which reminded me of Biarritz. I imagined Élodie walking in with her suitcase and asking for the best room, and both of us spending the night here, with more champagne and more caviar, and making love again.

Ethan met me in the lobby, with his unkempt ginger hair and his boyish grin. His eyes glinted in a way that suggested he was always glad to see you, and his arms were big and spread wide to welcome me and help me with my suitcase. He had not shaved once since we had met, and his adolescent beard meandered all over his chin and down his neck. He was wearing his faded Hawaiian shirt and a corduroy jacket that smelled of cigarettes. He used to wear that jacket instead of his blazer, in the days when we were imprisoned at school together, and his old orange Volkswagen was our escape. He sold that car to pay the first instalment of the rent. That had been his only contribution.

‘Professor Williams, I presume,' he said, and despite my exhaustion I could not help but laugh. ‘You took your time. What happened?'

I didn't know where to begin, or where to end. I mentioned nothing of Élodie, much as I wanted to impress him with the improbable story. Instead I gave him a version which suggested that I had slept on a bench in the Gare d'Hendaye.

‘Oh man, I feel for you,' he said. ‘I heard about those strikes, and I was wondering. Shame you missed out on the gig last night. The Swedes were there. You remember Helga, don't you? She bought me a drink afterwards. I wasn't complaining.'

‘I don't remember anyone of that name, Casanova. I'm amazed that you do.'

I allowed him to go into every sordid detail. It seemed that Helga had just left. He occupied one side of the living room, and his clothes spread from an open suitcase, his fold-out bed taking up half the room with a rumpled pile of sheets. The corner by the window contained his laptop and keyboard. This was where I had planned to put my writing desk. He had left the window open, and flies were crawling over the dirty dishes. The liquor supplies were depleted. A bottle of gin, which I could remember opening the day before I left, was nowhere to be seen.

‘Have you had dinner?' Ethan asked. ‘I've already eaten. And there isn't much in the fridge. Haven't gone to the market yet.'

‘I'll pick at something. I've run out of cash.' There was no point in asking him for money. He would gladly lend it, but only if he had any.

‘Suit yourself. If you don't mind, I'm about to lay some tracks down. It's going to be surreal pop excess. It all builds up from this resonant keyboard line, then climaxes with this looped orchestra sample that lines up with the main riff. You'll love it.'

‘No doubt,' I said. ‘Are you going to clean this place up?'

‘Sorry, man, I have to get this done while the juices are flowing. Maybe tomorrow. By the way, Sophie called a couple of times.'

He disappeared into his headphones. I brought the telephone through to the bedroom, but not to call Sophie.

The number took a while to connect. It rang several times, during which I felt my pulse rate rise. I was venturing into unknown territory.

‘Selvin Studios,' said a woman in an American accent, ‘how may I help?'

I put the receiver down in shock. This was strange. Had Selvin given Élodie this number in case she wanted to revive her acting career? Or perhaps it was a cover for them to stay in contact without arousing their spouses' suspicion.

I started up my laptop. There were a few emails that had come through since my departure, but I ignored these and made straight for the browser. I typed
Selvin Studios
into the search engine. The screen burst into life with images of tanned women with oversized breasts, bent over and displaying their backsides to the camera.
Starving cougars get
their prey
went the description. One of them was rubbing her nipple and looked pleadingly up at the man who stood over her. Another wore lace lingerie and gartered stockings, and I watched as her partner undid the clasps. He reached beneath the fabric and she gave an exaggerated moan. This made me flinch away from the screen and turn the volume down. Was Élodie in one of these videos? I searched for her name, but nothing came up.

Suddenly I felt nauseous, even though this discovery wasn't a surprise. Selvin, after all, had that air to him: a seamy and tyrannical voyeur. This did nothing to abate my humiliation. Was Élodie a porn star? The possibility made more sense the more I remembered of our night together. She must have given me the standard treatment, just without the cameras. I felt indescribably sad.

I closed the site. It was almost funny. What a fine joke for Élodie and Selvin to have played on me. She was nobody. That answered every last one of my questions. I decided then and there to forget Élodie Lavelle, and whatever fetid bag of history she carried with her.

Two of the emails were from Sophie. They both asked where I had got to, and the second one said that she was at the airport in Berlin and she wanted to hear my voice before she left for New Zealand. What was I going to tell her?

Returning to the main room, I overfilled a glass of wine. Ethan insisted on playing me the track that he had finished, and I leant against the dining table to hear all nine minutes of it. He closed his eyes and played along with an imaginary guitar. It was everything wrong with modern music. I told him so, and he was glad to hear it. This made me think of the tune Élodie had danced to on the terrace the previous day, and how cool and unforced it had all been. It was not so long ago, but it felt like an eternity.

Bolstering myself with the wine, I called Sophie on her mobile phone. She answered on the first ring.

‘Well hello,' she said. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Sorry I didn't call. I got waylaid in Hendaye.' The words felt wrong even as they left my mouth. ‘The railway unions were on strike.'

‘Oh Lawrence, that's awful. I thought something like that must have happened. Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine. It was stressful, and I'm tired, but I'm here now.'

‘You don't sound fine. Eat something and make sure to get some sleep. They're about to call my flight, so I haven't got long.'

‘Sure. I don't have much more to report. But I did want to say I'm sorry that we didn't have a better time in Madrid.'

I could tell that she was about to ask me what I was on about, but she held back.

‘There's always another time,' she said. There was a note of reservation in her voice. ‘Although I don't think I'll be over there in December. But we can talk about that later. Promise you'll call?'

‘Of course I will. And I love you.'

‘What was that? The connection is terrible here. Don't worry about it. This call is costing a fortune.'

‘All right. Travel well.'

She hung up. I poured myself another glass of wine, in the hope that this one would send me to sleep. I drank it too fast. Élodie would have been quick to reprimand me. But no, I could not think about her, or what she would have done under any circumstance. She belonged to her own curious world, and I had escaped from it.