Jean-Philippe Blondel - The 6:41 to Paris

She wanted to dance.

She was wearing one of those black lace dresses that were in fashion. With a leopard skin scarf in her hair. Bold red lipstick. A come-hither sort of attitude. An ersatz Madonna let loose on the streets of London. One among thousands.

At one point she let out a graceless yawn, and I thought that was it, but she said it was just that she was tired, she’d had a rough week, she lived all the way on the edge of London, quite far away, there were no more trains or underground, the taxi would cost a fortune and in any case they would never agree to take her way out there at that hour of the night, was I staying at a hotel?

“Yes.”

“Can we go there?”

“There’s just one problem. I … actually, I’m sharing the room with my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, we came to London together.”

“Ah-hah.”

“But she shouldn’t be there anymore, she was supposed to leave for France this evening.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Right. Otherwise we can find a room in another hotel.”

“I’m not a whore.”

“I never said you were.”

“Either we sleep at your place, or it’s nyet. ”

“What, nyet ?”

“Well, come on then.”

I remember our walk through the London night. We didn’t talk. I didn’t even know her last name. And everything she had learned about me was untrue. Anyway, she was no fool. She felt like spending the night with me and, while we were at it, she’d have a place to sleep. I prefer to think it went in that order.

While we were walking, I wondered if I could stop it right there. If I could explain and say, “Actually, Cécile and me, you see … I don’t know what came over me. It’s not right. Can we meet again tomorrow or another day? Really, tonight’s no good, but I would really, truly, madly like to kiss your breasts.”

But the words didn’t come.

It took us half an hour to walk from the cathedraltemple of the night to Cartwright Gardens, and I found myself praying to the Holy Ghost that Cécile really had left in the end, and everything would be easy, we could make it up back in France, I would grovel before her with apologies, I would make promises, and she would never find out a thing about Kathleen No-Name. Or maybe the aforementioned Kathleen would remember a very important appointment at three o’clock in the morning, and she absolutely had to get back to her suburb, she would slip me her name and her phone number, and then she would say tomorrow, same time, and the next day at the same time I would be there, I would have dealt with the Cécile problem, Cécile would be gone, bag and baggage, bye now, air kisses on both cheeks, no hard feelings, right?

Sometimes, when you’re twenty, you don’t really know how to deal with certain situations.

Sometimes, when you’re forty-seven, you’re no better.

I am sitting next to Cécile, and I wish I could tell her I am sorry.

Even if it is no longer the least bit important now.

Even if what is important, now, is that I am on my way to see Mathieu, possibly for the last time.

And that all these years are rising up before me on this innocuous 6:41 train which has just gone past the huge shopping mall at Rosny 2. The Paris suburbs, spread out before me there just beyond the window: I could never live here.

And yet maybe my life would have been better, here.

I cannot stop the stream of images. And yet how I wish I could. I’m worn out. The weekend with my parents was worse than expected. It was the first time I’ve ever found them old, really old, not just older than me, but on the threshold of everything inevitable — physical decline, retirement home, dependency, everything I haven’t wanted to think about until now, everything I have avoided by choosing for a companion an independent man who has no family ties. He cannot imagine living anywhere but Paris, he needs the big city, the capital, the constant movement of crowds, the noise, distraction, anonymity.

And the same has been true for me, up to now.

I moved to Paris later than he did. But I was in the same frame of mind. I wanted to be swept up by the crowd, I wanted to choose the people I met and no longer just put up with them because I had no choice — because in the provinces choices are limited and lives are stunted.

Now I’m not so sure of myself.

Valentine has become a Parisian adolescent, selfconfident, aware of what is at stake, clued in about which friendships to avoid and which ones to nurture; she’s learned the social codes, she’s street-smart — and above all she’s savvy, really savvy. Compared to her, at the same age, I was a goose. A goose who got roasted in the oven and carved to pieces. I’m proud of Valentine. She won’t ever be duped the way I was. I watch her. In her love affairs, her friendships, she’s the one who’s in charge. And I was the one, rather than Luc, who wanted her to be like that.

My mother trembles.

She didn’t use to tremble. Her head trembles, when she’s fixing a meal, and serving the food, and she doesn’t realize, I would like to point it out, but I don’t dare. I wonder if she’s going to tremble more and more until her brain disintegrates. That’s what I dreamed last night. I woke up with a start: I had just seen my mother in bits all over the carpet in the living room, like a broken and bleeding robot.

That night, too, I woke up with a start.

I heard voices, two of them. His voice I recognized immediately. But the other one: female. English. Annoyed. Saying something about his sister. Philippe Leduc’s sister. I grasped the situation in instant. I sat up. I didn’t need to reach for the covers. I had fallen asleep with all my clothes on. He’d switched on only the bedside lamp. The girl was in the dark. All I could see was her nightclub getup: an exact replica of Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. I thought about certain movies, saw myself as Rosanna Arquette in After Hours : the scene was insane, and the time of night was the same, according to the alarm clock: it was 3:30. I didn’t need a diagram. I never thought he would stoop so low, but clearly with Philippe Leduc he could always go lower.

A few minutes.

It only lasted a few minutes.

I didn’t say a single word.

Today this surprises me. I could have told him off, ranted, humiliated him, foamed at the mouth — but all I felt was disgust. Yes, that’s what it was, disgust.

The disgust I felt when my grandfather, my father’s father, would hit my grandmother. I used to spend the weekend with them from time to time. He wasn’t even drunk. For him it was just normal behavior. When I told my mother about it, she refused to let me go back there. My father didn’t insist. And yet the harm was done. My grandmother, cowering, trying to protect herself while I ran out to the barn for refuge.

The disgust I felt when I heard the father of my best friend and neighbor, Claudie, yelling insanely at his wife, a poor creature who was afraid of everything. He called her a whore, a sailor’s slut, a chamber pot, there was no end to it. When I ran into Claudie, an hour later, we acted as if nothing had happened, but she knew that I knew, and she was filled with shame.

The disgust I felt toward that guy who was stalking me. I knew he had it in for me. At a party the previous month I had rejected his advances. I was at the lycée. The year before my final year. I was going down the avenue that led to the center of town. He was on a motorbike. He stopped the motor. The swishing of his tires on the asphalt. I was focusing on the sidewalk. I had been told you shouldn’t look back, because it drives them crazy. I could feel my chin trembling, but I wouldn’t cry, I would be strong. I had five hundred yards to go. His voice. My first name. The sound of the kickstand. He was running. He grabbed my arm. I wanted to shout, “What?” but the words stuck in my throat. He tried to kiss me. I hit him. He raised his hand. A man who was passing by shouted, “What’s going on? Do you want me to call the police?” The guy’s hand stayed where it was. He stepped back. He stumbled. The passerby waited by my side. The motorcycle started up. The man said, “You ought to report him.” As he rode by, the boy on the motorcycle spat and called me a whore.