ONEHENRI
“Pardon me, but I think you’re in my seat.”
Henri looks up at the other passenger, a young woman of twenty-five or so, a single leather satchel held between her hands and an expression of something like suspicion on her face. She has spoken in English, and for a moment he cannot think of the correct response, the words vanishing before they have an opportunity to arrive. It’s a ridiculous reaction, he speaks the language as well as his own. Still, he is taken aback, unprepared. He wishes, suddenly, that it were still early morning, that he were back in the Hotel Metropol, that he had more time.
Henri takes out his own ticket, pretends to study it.
“You see, you’re supposed to be in the one just there,” the young woman says, pointing with a gloved hand to the seat opposite him. She is smartly dressed in black trousers and a blouse. Her thin frame is partially obscured by her wool coat, on which hang several large gold buttons that clang together as she leans forward. He has yet to grow accustomed to the sight of women in trousers, but he thinks it suits her, somehow.
“Of course,” he responds, conscious that he has yet to reply. “My apologies.”
“Oh good,” she says, sounding relieved. “You speak English.” Her smile is small and tight, and he notices her left eyetooth is turned, curved in a way that no doubt drove some parent mad when she was a child. This, too, suits her.
He stands, indicates to her leather satchel. “May I?”
“No, thank you, I think I’ll keep it close for now.” Her hand, he is certain, imperceptibly tightens.
He nods. “Bien sûr.”
They sit, then, one across from the other. The air in the compartment is stale. He thinks, watching as she sets her satchel onto the seat beside her, that he can detect the odor of those who came before them. For while standards on such trains had once been revered, all crisp napkins and polished brass, now he can see smudges on the light fixtures, slight tears in the fabric seats. He wonders when the windows were last washed.
Another passenger approaches their compartment, looks in, and turns away.
“I wonder whether we’ll have it all to ourselves,” she says, watching the stranger disappear down the corridor.
He thinks she sounds hopeful. “If so, I might reclaim my previous seat,” he replies, then hurries to explain, stumbling over the translated words as he does so. “Sitting backward on a train makes me feel strange—not like myself.”
“Unwell, do you mean?” she suggests, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s a saying about that, I think. Something about not dwelling in the past, but looking toward the future.”
“An English saying?” he asks. When she only shrugs in response, he presses, “But you are from England, n’est-ce pas?”
She nods. “London. South of the Thames.” She pauses, lets her gaze linger. “France, I presume?”
“French,” he confirms, then after a brief hesitation, he adds, “Algeria.”
He sees something then, reflected in her face. He wonders if he is only imagining it, tells himself he must be, for how much can this young woman know about the country he was born in and its internal strife, about Algeria and its fight for independence. She murmurs an affirmation—but no, he realizes he has misunderstood, that she has said something else entirely—Oran. His childhood home, whispered on her lips. He thinks back to a moment, nearly two weeks past.
She must read something on his face then, for she smiles tightly and says, “Lucky guess.” Turning to the window, her breath causing the glass to fog, she continues, “Someone told me once that I should visit.”
He finds his voice. “Vraiment?”
For a moment—longer than that—he is uncertain whether she will say anything further. There is no indication that she intends to, and he is prepared to sit back and turn away—in disappointment, he thinks—when she looks to him and says: “Yes. There’s a particular view, I’m told, from an arched window in the north wall of the Santa Cruz Fort, the best in the entire city. I would have to rent a motorcar—I couldn’t take the people mover, I can’t bear the thought of heights. But I should like to see it, one day. That vast, never-ending blue.” She pauses, takes a breath. “Afterward, I would drive the motorcar out of town, find a café that overlooks the mountains and the sea, and order creponne.”
He can taste it—the sharpness of the lemon, the sweetness of the sugar. It is the taste of his childhood, the smell that still haunts him, even in exile.
She turns to him. “It sounds almost too good to be true, n’est-ce pas?”
He is slow to answer. “Oui. Particularly in this weather.” They both turn to the window, where the sun is lost behind the fog and cold of the early morning.
“I’m Louise, by the way. Louise Barnard.” She leans across the aisle, closing the distance between them, and holds out her hand. “You can call me Lou—everyone does.”
“Do they?” he asks, thinking it doesn’t suit her.
She holds his gaze. “Yes.”
“Henri,” he responds, mirroring her lean, accepting her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
A moment passes, and eventually they release their grip.
“Do you mind?” she asks, indicating the closed window. From her coat pocket, she withdraws a packet of Gitanes. He thinks her hands are trembling, just slightly.
“No, of course not. Allow me.” He stands, opens the window, notices she still has not removed her coat. “Were you long in Belgrade?” he asks, sitting down again.
She tilts her head back, blowing the smoke from her cigarette into the air above them.
“Only a night or two.”
The train conductor interrupts them then. Henri retrieves his ticket and passport from his coat pocket. The conductor looks it over, nods. He turns to the young woman, who in turn opens her small leather satchel, retrieves her ticket and passport, and hands them over. The conductor looks from the passport to the woman, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Hvala vam,” he says and closes the door to the compartment.
They sit back into their seats. The engines rumble and a blast of steam fills the air with its whistle. Neither of them turns to the window, toward the platform, nor do they glance toward the hallway, toward the occasional traveler and passing attendant, luggage in tow.
Instead, they sit and stare at each other.
In the silence that follows, as they wait for the train to depart, Henri does not bring up the last fortnight, does not mention Granada or Paris and the moments they shared there, however small. In turn, she does not speak about what happened in Belgrade. There seems to be an understanding, an unspoken agreement between them, in which they will pretend—at least for now—that the past does not exist. That this particular moment, here, on this particular train, is their first encounter. He does, however, think, as he settles back into his seat, feeling the initial lurch of the train beneath him, that it is a pity—a damn shame, really—that everything about her is a lie.
Copyright © 2023 by Christine Mangan
