Paris

 

One night in Paris

The plane landed at 3.00pm at Charles de Gaul airport. They had been estranged for two years. Unable to bear the loneliness she had contacted him again and this was to be a romantic reunion.

He was a violinist. She had been his pupil then his lover. They had made beautiful music together in bed and out.

At the airport after customs, they made their way through the airport through a maze of signs and escalators and lifts to the shuttle to take them to the trains. They thought that the youths who pushed and shoved were ill-mannered and rude.

‘Depechez-vous, depechez-vous,’ cried a voice they assumed to be that of the conductor of the shuttle.

They realised otherwise when they reached the station. They stood before the ticket office. He gasped. She looked at him. He was staring down at an empty bumbag. He was pale. He swayed. She thought he was about to faint. He rallied, ‘Gone, it’s all gone. Money, passport, cards everything.’

They stood staring at each other, both now speechless with shock.

‘Go to the Gendarmerie was the advice from the man in the ticket office. Get the number six bus and ask to be put off at the Gendarmerie.’

‘I need money,’ he said at last finding his voice.

‘I’ve got a card,’ she said.

He could speak no French.

She tried to remember what she had learned long ago at school and recently in her new French class.

‘Distributeur près d’ici?’ she asked a woman.

She went in the direction of the pointed finger, found a cash point and returned with 200 euros.

The colour returned to his cheeks.

They were both still in shock.

‘We need to think. Let’s buy drinks and sit down to think.’

The station was cold, draughty and dirty. They felt beaten up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The romantic reunion was turning into a nightmare.

‘OK,’ she said with determination. ‘We have to find the Gendarmerie to report your loss otherwise you won’t get your insurance.’

They caught the bus and alighted at the building. They circled it twice before finding the entrance. It was hot and they were carrying their luggage. They were tired.

In the reception they waited. They waited a long time but at least they were sitting, and it was cooler.

She thought, ‘Is this a sign. We shouldn’t be together.’

He thought, ‘Why did I come? I can’t even speak the language.’

The large clock on the wall ticked loudly in the otherwise silent waiting room. It was impossible to ignore the dragging passage of time each second was heard and felt. Somehow with her schoolgirl French and the Gendarme sparse English she told their story, and he gave them the important piece of paper they needed for the insurance.

Finally, they returned by bus to the station and caught the train to the Gard du Nord. It was five hours since the plane had landed and five hours since they had been to the lavatory. They followed the signs to the toilets and arrived just as an enormous Caribbean woman was exiting. The door clanged shut and she jangled a huge bunch of keys.

‘Please, please, let us in,’ they both beseeched her.

‘No, they are closed now. Sorry,’ she went to walk away.

‘We’ve had all our money stolen and everything. We’ve been to the Gendarmerie and --. Oh, please let us in.’

She thought, ‘Romantic reunion? I think not.’

He thought, ‘I’m going to pee myself. Can it get any worse?’

The Caribbean woman unlocked the door, all the time berating them like children.

‘It’s Paris. There are pickpockets everywhere. You should take care.’

‘You go in there,’ she said to him pushing him in to a cubicle. ‘You can both go in the ladies. I’ll wait.’

When they came out, she continued, ‘It’s Paris. Everybody knows. You,’ she said pointing to him. ‘Put your money in your shoe. Now. Do it now.’

‘You,’ she said pointing to her, ‘put yours in your knickers. Now let me see you do it now.’

When she was satisfied that they had both complied with her orders she turned and walked away still muttering, ‘It’s Paris, everybody knows. It’s Paris.’

They both thought, ‘Yes, it’s Paris. The City of Love. Not.’

Two trains later they were almost there. They loaded their luggage into a taxi and gave the driver the name of the hotel. The driver leapt out and unloaded their luggage saying, ‘You can walk. It is near.’

He didn’t know. The two hundred yards burdened with cases and feeling like string-less puppets in the now falling rain was like two hundred miles. Finally they made it and were shown into a bedroom.

They undressed without looking at each other and fell into bed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Has the romance gone completely she thought. This romance is dead he thought.

The nightmare wasn’t over. As their heads touched the pillows the mother and father of all thunderstorms broke. Lightening, thunder, lightening, thunder. Bang flash, bang flash. The rain hammered on the French windows so hard they thought some one was trying to get in. It lasted what seemed liked hours. Finally they slept.

When they woke the next morning it was over. The storm was over. She opened the French window and stood on the balcony. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

‘Come and look,’ she called to him. He came to stand beside her and slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him and kissed her cheek.

‘What is it?’

‘Look over there on the other side of the garden. It’s a sign. It’s a good sign isn’t it?’

‘I don’t believe it. It’s a mirage.” It was a violin. A flying violin.

‘ It’s for us isn’t it? It’s a good sign for us.’

He turned her round, encircled her in his arms then picked her up and carried her to the bed.

‘Let’s make beautiful music,’ he said.

‘Mm,’ she said.