The Train to Paris (13 page)

‘If you say so.'

‘You know, you haven't even told me what happened in Madrid.'

‘Because nothing happened in Madrid. You can ask me that sort of thing later, once I've had a drink.'

Ethan found this amusing, and I realised that it was one of Élodie's lines. I even sounded like her when I said it. He left me to myself, and I returned the new clothes to their rightful place at the bottom of my armoire. There was no use in pretending. They did not suit me.

13

The winter mornings were
the best. The Luxembourg Gardens were empty and the trees were bare. Over the next week, I took to wrapping myself in as many scarves and jerseys as I could find, and reading a book down by the shady Medici Fountain with a coffee in a paper cup. It was bitter, but it was peaceful. Nobody walked past for hours. Then, before the spectre of Élodie could begin to haunt me, I would return to the apartment. Ethan would ask where I had been, and I would refuse to tell him. Instead I would ask him about his mad life and his music, because he was always happy to talk about them, and he always had something to say that would distract me.

Distraction helped. Study worked most of the time. Élodie began to fade away, returning in short bursts whenever I studied Manet. I could see her face in
Olympia
if I focussed on the shape of her jaw, and her penetrating stare. She was more familiar here than she was in Titian's voluptuous
Venus of Urbino
, with her enticing, sublime form and her soft breasts. But both paintings were alluring.

I returned to the apartment after a walk one particularly cold evening. Ethan was out, and it was dark and unwelcoming. I drew the curtains and turned the heating up. There was a pot of lentil and potato soup from a few days prior sitting on the stovetop, which I reheated. Ethan had left his bed unfolded once again, and I stuffed the sheets together and folded it into the sofa. I collected up the dirty clothes that he had left on the floor and closed them back into his suitcase, leaving it upright and latched. He would never have cleaned them up, although this was not due to laziness. He had more interesting things to occupy himself with. I did not.

The telephone rang as I was about to ladle the soup into a bowl with a slice of dry baguette. It had to be Sophie.

‘Hello?' I said.

‘Lawrence, darling.'

I stood with my mouth half-open. After months of expecting to hear her voice, I found myself caught off guard.

‘Élodie,' I said. ‘What do you want?'

‘I want to see you, of course. It has been
far
too long.'

She said this as though it was my fault.

‘It has. Why didn't you call me?'

‘My life has been rather chaotic. We need to do something, though. I haven't shown you around Paris. Meet me tomorrow at Clemenceau, by the Grand Palais, ten o'clock. We can have some more fun.'

‘What? No, I have university tomorrow. I have a life.'

‘University is not a life, Lawrence. Meet me tomorrow. We both know that you want to.'

As I was about to reply she hung up. I held the receiver at arm's length. For once I knew what I wanted. It was satisfying to think that she would wait for me in front of the Grand Palais, possibly for hours, and that she would be humiliated for the first time in her life. She deserved no less.

With a surprisingly clear head I returned to my soup. At that moment I was proud of myself for not succumbing to her allure, and this time it would be for good. I gave the matter no more thought. I was happy with my resolve. And to prove it to myself, I called Sophie.

‘Lawrence,' she said. She sounded tired. ‘You've forgotten about the time difference again, haven't you?'

‘Oh. Sorry. It must be early.'

‘It is. Don't worry, I had to get up anyway.'

‘So how are you?'

‘I'm fine. How about you? What are you writing on?'

‘Manet. In fact, I was going to ask you about that. I need to write an analysis of one of his paintings, and I can't decide between
Olympia
and
Argenteuil
.'

‘Which one is
Argenteuil
?'

‘The one with the couple on the seaside. You know, she's holding these crushed flowers and the boatman is talking to her. Anyway, it's different from
Olympia
. The brushstrokes are more impressionistic. Could be an interesting comparison.'

‘Hang on. Let me look it up.'

I heard the tap of her fingers on the keyboard, and then I heard nothing but breathing while I waited for her to say something.

‘What do you think?' I said.

‘It's not a very nice picture.'

‘Don't you think? The paint application is impressive, isn't it? I like that their eyes are indistinguishable.'

‘Write about
Argenteuil
, then, if you like it so much.
Olympia
is crude. And everybody has said everything there is to say about it.'

‘But
Olympia
is a more beautiful painting, isn't it?'

‘No, not really. She's a prostitute. Do you find her attractive?'

‘It's not really about her.'

‘No. But Lawrence, it doesn't matter what I think of them. You write on whichever one interests you more. Whichever one you have more to say about.'

The next morning I woke earlier than usual. My sleep had been disturbed by some strange and shapeless dreams. Élodie had been the one recognisable figure, drifting in and out of my subconscious like an incessant wave. It felt like something of a failure on my part.

I took a long shower, waiting for my thoughts to loosen and clarify. The hot water ran out. I returned to bed in an effort to keep out the chill, and lay awake for at least an hour. Four floors below, the street sweepers were already at work.

I wanted to see Élodie again. I wanted to be the centre of her attention, and to be on the receiving end of her boundless energy, no matter how misplaced or disturbing it was. But she would have won if I gave in to such desires.

Ethan had made it home, miraculously enough, and he was snoring in the next room. His suitcase had exploded again, his shirts hanging off my reading chair.

When I could bear it no longer I tried on my new clothes. This felt innocent enough. I imagined what would impress Élodie the most, in the alternate reality where I did go to meet her. It was definitely an alternate reality. I struck a pose in the mirror wearing the high-waisted trousers and the pink silk shirt, holding an imaginary martini glass. I had never owned a pink silk shirt before. I drew back and laughed at myself. But I didn't take the clothes off. I sat down on the end of my bed in my sad little apartment. Perhaps this was all my life would ever amount to.

I began to write the essay on Manet, stopping and starting several times. The paintings were next to each other on my computer screen, and I examined them closely. There was unhappiness in
Argenteuil
, while there was loneliness in
Olympia
. But I did not want to write on either of them. I wanted to go and see Élodie.

After two hours I abandoned the essay altogether. Ethan had not yet woken. I took overcoat and gloves and closed the door on him. It was cold out on the street. I was in a trance. But I didn't have to think; I had to walk down to the métro station, from where I only had to purchase a ticket and get on a train.

The train rocked on its loose steel wheels, unsteady beneath my feet. I arrived at Clemenceau ten minutes early. People were milling around the Grand Palais, all moving in different directions as though they were in a Caillebotte painting. I could see down the Champs-Élysées, where a team of construction workers was beginning to put up the Christmas stalls. There was an industrious quality to it all. I thought of the lecture that I was missing, and this heightened my sense of exhilaration. I waited by the steps of the Grand Palais, each minute wound tighter than the last.

Half an hour later I was prepared to abandon all hope. She had played another cheap trick on me. Perhaps she was watching me from around the corner, bent double with hilarity. Or perhaps she was inside the Grand Palais. I wanted to see her gleeful face in the window.

As I was about to return to the métro, I saw her emerge from the crowds on the Champs-Élysées. She glided across the pavement. I had never seen anything like it before. While other women aspired to this swan-like elegance, she made it the simplest act in the world. She was dressed in a black fur coat that was not too ostentatious and fitted tight across her chest. Still she wore the butterfly sunglasses, despite the bleak weather, and still her skin was pale and ghostly. I recognised her handbag, and the perfume. Her scent was so intoxicating that I could smell it before she had drawn up to me. I was taller than her, yet her prevailing force washed over me, and I might as well have slumped to the ground and lain there.

‘I thought you might come,' she said. Her eyes were hidden behind the glasses, but it felt as though she was sizing me up again. ‘You are different. More robust.'

‘You must be imagining it,' I said. The cold accentuated my nerves. She showed her teeth as she smiled. One of them had chipped since I saw her last.

‘But the clothes won't do. I hope nobody has said that they suit you.'

‘I thought you might have approved.'

‘They are an improvement, but not by much. We can do better. Now, come with me, silly boy. We absolutely must catch up.'

I struggled to keep up with her as she headed in the direction of the twin Arches. She smoked a cigarette as she walked.

‘How are you, Lawrence?' she asked. ‘Been enjoying yourself, I hope?'

‘Not particularly. Frankly, I've been chewed up ever since you abandoned me that night in Biarritz. I thought that you'd never call.' I had rehearsed this response, and it sounded as though I was delivering it on a stage.

‘Oh, that.' She said this as though it was a trivial detail in her recollection. ‘Don't take it personally. I wanted to see Ed again.'

‘So why didn't you come back to the suite?'

‘Because he took me out gambling. We had an awfully good time. You missed out. And then I could not go to bed. The night went on.' She must have seen how crestfallen I was. ‘Oh dear. You thought that I had abandoned you for good.'

‘You didn't call me for three months. What was I meant to think?'

‘You should have approached it logically. An erudite boy like you should have found that easy. I have been too caught up in this mad little world to give you the slightest thought. I don't make any apologies on that score.'

‘I really did think you had changed for a moment there,' I said. ‘What have you been doing that is so much more important than me?'

We walked on in silence. She drew in her chest, and we stopped at a pedestrian crossing while a string of aquamarine buses crossed the avenue. Their exhausts sent up a pall of frosty smoke.

‘Let's get a coffee,' she said finally. ‘I can't promise any scandalous details, but I can give you the gist of it.'

I followed her across the avenue and down a side street. The crowds thinned and the chain stores disappeared. The café was pressed between two other buildings and would only have been noticed by those who knew where it was.

Élodie continued to smoke, and she ordered two espressos before I could ask for a
café au lait
. I went through the list of things that I had intended to ask her about, the most important being why she had ignored me at the clothes shop. The blind optimist in me thought that perhaps she was about to reveal something. I sat forward, and this annoyed her.

‘Do sit back, Lawrence. It makes me uncomfortable.'

I obeyed, sufficiently humiliated. When my coffee arrived I added three cubes of sugar.

‘So are you going to tell me a story?' I asked.

‘Not until you tell me what you have been up to, young man,' she said. ‘You have the look of one who has committed a terrible sin. Confess.'

‘You are the only sin that I've ever committed. My life has been completely free of theatrics ever since our encounter.'

‘I find that hard to believe. How is the little lady? Is she still your
lover
?'

‘She might be. How's the husband? Is he still your benefactor?'

Élodie drew on her cigarette, pressing it hard between her fingers.

‘Now I won't tell you anything.'

I hung my head. ‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘That was unfair.'

‘You take these things the wrong way, Lawrence.'

‘Maybe I do.'

‘Yes, well. I asked about the girl. What is there to tell?'

‘Nothing much. We talk as often as we can.'

‘She doesn't know about me, does she?'

‘No.'

‘Why not? Are you too crippled by emotional guilt?'

I had not felt as guilty as I thought I would. I drank my coffee absent-mindedly, forgetting that it was hot, and burnt my tongue.

‘You could put it that way,' I said. ‘I hardly need to ask whether you've told anyone.'

‘Oh, it's a wonderful story. I tell it all the time at parties. In fact, I have some people who are dying to meet you this evening. If you can spare the time from your busy schedule.'

‘Will Ed Selvin be there?'

‘Good Lord, no. I haven't seen that man since Biarritz. I have no idea where he has gone.'

‘Really? I was under the impression that you had run off with him.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘I saw his wife the next day, alone in the lobby. I inferred that he had left her there.'

‘You should never infer anything, Lawrence.'

I was prepared to argue the point, but she put her cup down and prepared to leave. This immediacy was disorienting. Once again I was a seasick passenger on her fast-moving pleasure yacht. I followed her, and left a few coins on the tabletop because she had forgotten to.