The Train to Paris (3 page)

‘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 couldn'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.'

‘Maybe 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.

‘We can admire the view from here,' Élodie said. She led me onto the terrace and leant against the balustrades. ‘For what it is. I don't like this atmosphere.'

The afternoon sun had dipped and lit the bay, while the town behind us was bathed in shadow from the surrounding hills. The fishing boats and pleasure yachts stood side-by-side, all shining in the sunlight. Morisot could have painted this harbour, but it would never have been so crystalline. I would gladly have stood there for the rest of the day.

‘It's not so bad, is it?' I said, gesturing to the bay. ‘Why do we need to go to Biarritz when we have this?'

‘Trust me. Biarritz will have you eating your words. There is nothing spectacular about any of this.'

‘You would prefer a spectacle?'

‘Of course. I would rather be impressed than under-whelmed.'

I would have said the same before first going to Paris a few weeks earlier. It surprised me that anybody with Élodie's apparent wisdom and experience might hold this shallow view.

‘I hope you prove me wrong,' I said. I had to stoop to lean on the balustrade; it was designed for a person of her height.

‘This simply will not do,' she said. ‘You must tell me more about the girl. She is smarter than most, I presume.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘You met her at university. And you would never even consider a relationship with an uneducated girl. Your parents would not allow it, in the first place.'

‘You think you know everything,' I said. Had she already made up her mind about me?

‘That's because I do. And is she timid? Or does she mask all of her insecurities with a brave public face?'

‘You're not describing yourself there, are you?'

‘Oh how funny, Lawrence. Maybe you really are more perceptive than I gave you credit for. But tell me about her, or I will have to tell you.'

I tried to think of something that I could say about Sophie. What could I tell Élodie? She had long straw hair and a few freckles across her nose, and when we talked about art we could have been sharing some great secret, something that set us apart from everybody else. But it felt as though I could never really know her, even if she knew me.

I was distracted as a man walked past us with a child on his shoulders. They bobbed up and down the steep street. He walked with purpose and talked in Basque to the little boy. The tongue was alien to me, but it sounded gentle and kind.

‘All right,' I said, once they had walked out of sight. ‘She's a nice person, and I like her for that reason.'

‘Oh dear. It really is worse than I feared.'

She started to walk down a narrow street that wound its way towards the waterfront. There was an impressive statue, which I did not recognise, on one of the corners. It was a Madonna and Child, and the interaction between the two figures was more intimate than usual. The Madonna held something in her free hand that might have been an apple, but I could neither recognise it nor understand its significance. The walls around this part of the street were made from an earthy sort of stone, which I liked better than the clean whitewashing everywhere else.