Jon Reskind - The abducted bride

It was shining beautifully. She could see its warming rays streaming over her head and touching the compartment wall, flooding the tiny cubicle with a lovely radiance that made her forget her problems momentarily. She was famished and brushed her teeth and dressed rapidly. She wanted to make the first breakfast call so she would have time to do some thinking before arriving in Marseille. The train wasn't due for another two hours or so and it wouldn't hurt to try and organize herself mentally. She still had to worry about a hotel when she arrived there. She had not wanted to let anyone at the hotel in Paris make reservations for her as Kevin may have bought the information from them and she would not have the time she needed to come to grips with herself.

Jean settled herself back in the chair in the clean white dining car. She had ordered fried eggs and bacon, which had surprised her when she had seen them on the French menu.

"Ah, une dejeuner, Americain," the waiter had said smilingly.

"Oui, dejeuner, Americain," Jean had repeated, smiling back. She was glad she had at least remembered some of the words from her college French course. She supposed that any French waiter would know the word for breakfast, but it was nice to be able to say some things in the language of the country in which you were traveling.

"It was a beautiful day," she thought, as she watched the green rolling French countryside roll by. Quaint small sharp roofed farm houses could be seen in the distance adding to the beauty of the setting.

If only things had not happened the way they had in Paris, she might have been enjoying this with Kevin.

She was almost beginning to regret her hasty decision to leave before he returned when her thoughts were interrupted by a feminine French voice speaking excellent English.

"Excuse me, you are American, aren't you?" a stately, well-groomed woman asked, smiling pleasantly.

"Why, yes I am," Jean answered, surprised by the sudden intrusion upon her thoughts.

"May I join you? I haven't the chance to speak English so often anymore, it would be nice while we are having breakfast," she said nodding at the empty chair across from Jean.

"Yes, please do," Jean replied, a bit perplexed at having her solace interrupted so unexpectedly.

The annoyance only lasted a moment, however, as she turned out to be one of the most pleasant women she had talked with in a long time. Perhaps it was good to talk to someone else and get this thing off her mind for awhile, she rationalized to herself.

Madame DuBois had immediately monopolized the conversation, but in a pleasant manner. She was from the south of France and told Jean many little stories and anecdotes about the area they were passing through that brightened her spirits perceptibly. She seemed to be an amazing woman. She was married to a wealthy art dealer in Paris and was going to Marseille to look at some paintings for him that one of his underground contacts had discovered in an old shop. She was certain she could pick several Renoirs for almost nothing. The shop owner thought they were copies and Madame DuBois was going down to discreetly check before they bought them.

Jean felt herself extremely fortunate to have met her. She solved her hotel problem. Madame DuBois said she usually stayed at one of the more chic places in Marseille, but did not want any of the other art dealers to know she was in town. It was a dirty business and if it was known she was there, one of them was certain to have her followed to see what she was up to. Therefore, she was staying in a small third class hotel in the lower part of town where she would not be seen or reported to be in town. She had assured Jean it was clean and had all the facilities of the more grandiose but just a little more French.

Jean was happy with this. She was afraid Kevin might call the police and they would send out an alert to the hotels. It would take no time at all to find her, as they were very efficient about this, but with a small hotel it would be almost impossible. This was luck and her spirits rose immediately.

Breakfast finished, Jean had rushed back to the compartment and put her things together. Marseille was coming up. They had talked so long together that both had forgotten about it being so near.

It was also nice to have an interpreter. Madame DuBois handled all the baggage and porters and got them into a taxi without the usual difficulties a tourist to such a place has. Jean was certain her high school French would not have done her much good here.

The ride to the hotel was pleasant. Monique, they were on a first name basis now, had made the driver go along the waterfront drive so Jean could get a good view of the city. The blue of the Mediterranean looked so inviting that she could have jumped into it that very moment. She almost wished now she had taken a beach-side hotel outside the city, but still it would be nice to have Monique around for company and perhaps she could help her with some advice. She seemed so much more worldly wise than herself.

Jean would have been happy with any solution now and perhaps she would confide in Monique later this evening when they had gotten to know each other just a little better. She was certain the older woman would understand the problem. She knew she would go back with Kevin, but the only problem was how to do it with honor, and more important, how to erase away the horrible memory of night before last.

The taxi turned off from the waterfront drive into the old sector of the city and the streets became more narrow and crowded. Open markets selling everything imaginable lined the narrow alleyways the driver was picking his way through. It was obviously the sailor quarter for the port as Jean could see every nationality of seaman imaginable, and even at this hour of the day, vulgar, gaudy, looking women were parading the sidewalks plying their age-old trade.

Jean became a bit apprehensive when the car stopped in front of a dirty doorway marked, Le Pensione Afrique.

"Is this it, Monique?" she asked, obvious concern reflecting in her voice.

"Yes, it is, dear," she answered, an assuring smile on her lips, "but don't worry, the outside means nothing. You Americans are all the same; you expect the Hotel Ritz everywhere you go. Now come on in and stop worrying."

She paid the driver and signaled to a boy standing in front of the door to take their bags.

Monique led her down a darkened hallway to the stairway and up to the second floor where the desk was located. She checked them in with the desk clerk, who was obviously pleased to see her. Jean didn't like his looks. He was Algerian with a short clipped mustache and looked as though he belonged behind a bar rather than working as a desk clerk.

"Jean, this is Shalla," Monique said, introducing the clerk. "He speaks English very well and takes care of all of my needs when I stay here. You'll find him useful."

"How do you do Madame," the clerk bowed toward her with the natural Arab obsequiousness.

She nodded back to him apprehensively. She didn't like the looks of this place at all but perhaps Monique was right, Americans did expect a lot. Anyway it was quiet and the neighborhood quaint, it may be just the place to reflect on her problems for a few days.

Shalla led them up to the third floor and gave them adjoining rooms. There was a connecting door which made Jean feel a little better. The lock for it was on her side so if she needed anything in a hurry she could always get into Monique's room. She didn't like the way the Arab desk clerk was looking at her. She knew they were an extremely polite people and overly solicitous at times but still made her nervous the way he looked her up and down lustfully with his sharp penetrating eyes.

"Well, here we are, my dear," Monique said as the clerk placed Jean's baggage next to the wrought iron double bed. Jean had thought these beds had gone out with the horse and buggy. She surveyed the rest of the room and it looked as though it hadn't been renovated since that time either. A single uncovered light bulb hung down from the center of the ceiling and was the only light source in the room. There were no lamps on the table. The cheaply painted plaster was cracked along the walls and small blotches had fallen out of the ceiling, leaving irregular shaped holes that showed through to the lathe work beneath.