“Oh God, not again?” Isobel looked impatiently up from her tabloid – a pan-European edition, in English – and scanned the view from the train window. The passing mural of landscape was slowing, green fields and olive groves giving onto loose clusters of tired stone and plaster houses with cluttered yards. “Not another stop. Where the hell are we now?”
Charles flustered with a map. “I’m not sure, let me see -”
She watched him fumble for a moment, then took the map from him brusquely, tsk’ing impatiently. “Give it to me. You know you can’t read a map to save your life.” She snapped it open, found the relevant section, and briskly folded it down. “Le Creusot. Whatever the hell that is.” she pronounced, closing the map and thrusting it at him. “If you insist on booking us on these idiotic little adventures, you should at least learn the route you book.” She took up her tabloid again.
“I’m sorry, I knew it wasn’t a non-stop, you know, just a fast train. I didn’t think there’d be this many stops…”
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Isobel said from behind the newspaper, “Never again, Charles. Never.”
As the cement rim of the platform slid into view, the train slowed and gently lurched to a halt. Charles looked nervously out the window. The area of platform outside their compartment was sparsely occupied, mostly by a knot of people – primarily elderly women amply swaddled in thick woolen wraps – who were swarming affectionately around a towering young man with tousled brown hair and a bashful smile. At a twitch of her finger, one corner of Isobel’s newspaper flopped over, permitting her a view of the scene outside. “Oh, looky here,” she said, “Fresh off the farm.” The small crowd steered the young man gently towards the train, their legs nudging something in their midst along the platform as they went. One of them opened a door adjacent to Charles and Isobel’s compartment, and the group parted to permit the passenger access to the train. As they did, Charles could see what they’d been pushing along: an enormous black suitcase, dreadfully old-fashioned and laden with contents. It looked as if it might burst at any second. “What the hell do you suppose he has in that ridiculous bag? The prize pig, by the look of it.” Isobel mused, but before Charles could answer, she said, “Is he actually getting on our car? Charles?”
“I think so…”
“Oh for God’s sake…” said Isobel, disgustedly.
With help from one of the men in his entourage, the young man hoisted the enormous black suitcase onto the train and, after a fevered round of two-cheeked kisses with the women and back-slapping hugs with the men, climbed aboard himself. He stayed at the door, waving and calling, until the train was well out of the station, then moved into the main corridor, dragging his suitcase with one hand, holding his ticket with the other. He stopped at Isobel and Charles’ compartment, checked the number above the door, then slid it open, nodded, smiled broadly.
“B’jour,” he said, nudging the enormous case into the narrow space between the seats with his knees.
Isobel smiled indulgently. “Speak English?” she enquired.
The young man nodded hesitantly. “A little, yes.”
She pointed to the sign above the compartment door. “I think you must be in the wrong car. This is First Class.”
He smiled, shook his head, and showed her his reservation card. “Is okay. First class. yes? All first class.”
“Charles?”
Charles examined the card, and returned the young man’s affable nod. “You’re in the right car, alright.” He turned to Isobel. “I didn’t reserve the whole compartment,” he said, somewhat apologetically. Before she could protest, he turned back to the newcomer, who was struggling to hoist his formidable suitcase onto the overhead luggage rack. “Here, let me give you a hand with that…” But the sheer weight of the bag defeated them both, and they let it fall with a heavy thud back onto the floor. “You don’t believe in travelling light, do you?”
“My aunts…” the young man gave an apologetic smile, “They insist I bring so much…”
“We can probably leave it on the seat,” suggested Charles, “Unless someone else comes on…” He was helping the boy nudge the bag into place when he felt an angry tug on his jacket, followed by a quiet bark from Isobel. “Would you stop encouraging him.”
Charles slumped back into his seat. “What do you mean?”
“It’s bad enough he’s allowed in here, you don’t have to socialize as well,” she hissed.
The French boy settled himself in the window seat facing her, carefully folding his legs into the narrow space to avoid any contact with hers. Huffily, Isobel buried her face into her tabloid. They sat in silence, feeling the train gather speed as it cleared the town limits. After a few moments, Isobel sniffed loudly, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “This is repulsive. I can practically smell the cowshit-”
“Darling, keep your voice down,” Charles said quietly, adding, too late, “Please.”
Isobel’s features hardened. “I’ll keep my voice where I bloody well like.” She snapped her newspaper closed, slapped it onto the seat and stood, grabbing her handbag. “I’m going to find a drink.”
“Yes, let’s, I could use-” said Charles, rising halfway before Isobel’s prod on his shoulder pushed him back into his seat. She pushed past him towards the door.
“No, you stay here. You can talk to your new friend,” she said acidly. Isobel threw a quick saccharine grin at the French boy. “Keep an eye on my things,” she added, and walked out of the compartment, slamming the sliding door as best she could against the rocking motion of the carriage. The soundproofing effect of the closed door restored a sudden sense of silence to the compartment’s tight interior.
Charles stared out the window. He could feel himself flushing as he always did when Isobel treated him like this in public. It was a painfully familiar sensation. He was aware of the boy looking at him. After a minute, Charles returned the glance. The boy gave him a sympathetic smile.
“My wife doesn’t like the train. Prefers to fly.”
The boy nodded.
“Myself, I love them,” Charles continued, looking wistfully out the window. “Always wanted to travel Europe by rail.”
“Yes, me too,” said the young man. “And look.” He fished his wallet out of his coat and delicately extracted a small laminated card which he proffered to Charles with all the pride of a new father presenting a photo of his firstborn. “Good all over Europe. Three weeks, first class.”
Charles examined the rail pass, and smiled with genuine envy. “You’re a lucky man.”
The boy nodded vigorously in agreement. “I am, bien sur.”
His name, he explained in rough English, was Lucien, and he lived in a small village outside Le Creusot. He had recently completed a course of study at the university in nearby Lyon – the first member of his family to do so – and planned now to go to work applying his newfound knowledge to the family business. First, though, he had been given a stupendous graduation gift. His proud relatives had decided he should see something of the world before he settled down to the serious business of full time employment, and so had given him a train pass, some spending money – even this suitcase. It was a little old perhaps, but sound enough – and certainly big enough for the trip of a lifetime, no? Now here he was, enroute to Paris – it would be his first visit there – and after that – who knows? He slapped the bag beside him. The world was his oyster!
Charles chuckled approvingly, but his expression was tempered with a sliver of sadness. Isobel was right; the bag was ridiculous – not to mention unwieldy beyond belief. It was a stark contrast to the smart designer packs they’d seen strapped to the backs of youngsters all over Europe, bright bulging testaments to a credo of mobility, spontaneity and self-sufficiency. For all his energy and enthusiasm, poor Lucien seemed doomed to carry a heavy burden as he strode off into his adventures. Nevertheless, Charles could not help envying the lad.
I should have done that. Instead, went straight into business. Married the boss’ daughter. Got filthy rich. And here I am … Charles looked anew at Lucien’s suitcase, and the sudden realization that he himself was carrying a far heavier burden cut through him like a saber.
“You’re a lucky man,” he said again, more sadly than before.
With a rush of noise, the compartment door slid open and Isobel stepped through. Charles hadn’t noted how long she’d been gone, but his practiced eye judged she’d had at least three martinis. She walked carefully to her seat in silence, and sat, arms folded, staring out the window.
“Did you find the bar, dear?” Charles ventured.
Isobel looked at him with contempt, then at Lucien. “I want to have a short rest before we get to Paris. I’d like to close the blinds. Do you mind? Perhaps you would like to go for a walk, or a drink or something, hmm?”
“You wish that I leave?”
“Just until we reach Paris. It’s not long. Charles will watch your things.”
Charles protested. “Isobel, really, I don’t think-”
She silenced him with a sharp glance, then smiled benevolently at Lucien. “I’m sure the young man doesn’t mind, do you? Hmmm?”
Lucien shrugged, rose, and nodded in a confused kind of way. “Thank you, young man,” Isobel said, already closing her eyes, “Charles, draw the curtains. And get me a blanket from the overhead. And a pillow.”
Charles watched as Lucien, looking plainly bewildered at the strange manners of the upper class, edged out into the corridor, closed the door and shuffled off down the hall. “I’ll be back in a moment,” Charles said, rising.
He slipped into the corridor and hurried after the boy. “Lucien, I apologize – she can be terribly rude.” he said, catching up to him.
Lucien dismissed the comment with an airy wave. “I wanted to have lunch anyway,” he said, “I did not eat, with all the excitement. I have always wanted to dine on a train.”
“Then let me treat you to lunch,” Charles said. He wrestled his wallet from a buttoned pocket inside his jacket, and slipped a 50 Euro note from it.
“M’sieur, this is not necessary -”
“Call it a graduation present.” Charles said, pressing the bill into the boy’s hand. “Go on. You cannot begin the adventure of a lifetime on an empty stomach, surely any Frenchman knows that! Go on, please. Bon appetit.”
Tentatively, Lucien took the bill and folded it. “Merci, Charles. You are very kind. You join me, no?”
Charles shook his head. “You just enjoy your meal. I mean it. And I’m sorry, for Isobel..”
“De rien.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Isobel asked in a distracted way, when he returned, admitting a blast of noise as the compartment door opened and closed. She was looking at herself in a small handheld mirror held at arm’s length, primping a silk scarf around her neck with her other hand. Charles recognized it as one she’d bought in Cannes. He’d paid over 200 Euros for it.
“That looks very nice on you, dear.”
Isobel gave a grimace. “It does not. It’s not my colour at all. I don’t know what you were thinking of. I suppose I can give it to Sandra when we get home. She likes this kind of thing.” Sandra was the woman who came in to clean their house four times a week. “I asked you where you went?” she repeated, her eyes still on her image in the mirror.
Charles set to drawing down the curtains on the inner windows. “I gave him money for a drink,” he said, in a confessional tone of voice.
“Oh Charles, for God’s sake. How much?”
“Five Euros.” He handed her a blanket and pillow.
“Why do you insist on doing such stupid things?” she asked, in a tone that suggested she was too exhausted to even begin to express the contempt she felt.
“I thought-”
She stopped him short with a gesture. “Charles, I am very tired. I just want to get to Paris and then maybe, maybe, I can begin to enjoy myself. Now would you please shut up and let me rest.” She pulled the blanket around her, and settled herself in the seat. The compartment was more or less quiet for a few moments before she said, “I’m warning you, though, if the hotel in Paris isn’t absolutely bloody fabulous, I’m walking straight out and finding something else, understand?”
“It’s the Ritz,” he protested, “The Ritz. The room is seven hundred -”
“I said shut up.”
He did, anger and rage and impotence boiling within him. He sat in the semi-darkness, jogging gently with the rolling of the speeding train, staring at the black, bulging bulk of the black suitcase on the opposite seat.
You are a lucky man …
The train had already slid under the edge of the vast glass and girder canopy of Gare de Lyon when Lucien arrived breathlessly back at the compartment. Inside, Charles sat alone, scanning a map of the Paris Metro system.
“I got lost, went the wrong way after the salle de manger.” Lucien explained.
“You’ve got lots of time,” Charles said. “This is the end of the line. How was your meal?”
“Delicieux. If this is the cuisine on her trains, what will Paris herself be like? Are you leaving too, no?”
Charles rolled his eyes, then flicked his head in the general direction of the washrooms. “Isobel is still preparing herself for arrival in Paris. Here, I’ll give you a hand with your bag.”
Together, they shunted the bulky black case off the train and onto the cold hard concrete of the platform. “Where’re you off to?” Charles asked.
“A hotel near Boul-Mich. A friend told me of it. Cheap and clean and close to everything. I have the Metro stop written.” He hefted the case, and exhaled heavily.
“You should try and get some wheels on this, or something.”
Lucien waved the suggestion away. “Merci, I manage.” He started up the platform towards the Metro connections. After a half-dozen arduous paces, he turned, and waved. Charles returned the gesture, watched his laborious progress for a few moments more, then stepped quickly back inside the train.
He unloaded all of their eight cases onto the platform before flagging a porter. The elderly Algerian looked at the pile of luggage askance, then at Charles, who shrugged helplessly. “Only two are mine – the rest I take to my wife. Pour la femme,” he repeated, in a tone he had quickly learned established an instant bond with a substantial number of French men his own age. Nodding in commiseration, the porter loaded his trolley and the two men set off up the platform.
Charles hadn’t completely figured out where and how to get rid of all the bags, but he was sure that he could discreetly dispose of most of them – and their contents – as he went.
He’d managed to cram his own essentials into a single medium sized case, which made room in the others for the boy’s bulky belongings. As soon as he’d jettisoned all the excess pieces, he’d get himself one of those lightweight, high tech backpacks, and ditch his own suitcase as well. And then-
“Where are you going, M’sieur?” the porter asked as they neared the concourse.
“I haven’t quite decided yet,” Charles said.