—29—
When we reach the Gare de Reims, most of us leave the TGV, which after a short wait rushes on towards the east. A cold, wet breeze makes me shudder in my black trenchcoat. People mill around me, heading for the exit or their correspondences.
I check the information boards and find the platform number for the regional train to Sedan. It’ll stop only twice; in Rethel and then in Charleville-Mézières.
Charleville-Mézières… The name rings a bell. Wasn’t this the birthplace of Arthur Rimbaud, enfant terrible and poet extraordinaire?
While I’m shivering on the platform, waiting for my train, I try to remember the lines of Rimbaud’s most famous poem. Our French teacher forced us to learn the whole thing by heart, and to be honest, I didn’t understand it back then. But now, I’m reciting it in my head—I haven’t forgotten a word—and realise that it finally starts to mean something, revealing a subtle subtext I wouldn’t have suspected. Every word seems so clear and precise I wonder how I haven’t seen the significance before.
“And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;
Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!”
A dreaming drowned man… That sounds eerily familiar.
Rimbaud fled to Paris at the age of seventeen, I remember. He brought his demons with him, however.
I don’t know about demons. But I know I couldn’t even think of a place to flee to.
—28—
Last night I had a strange dream. For once, the scenes didn’t fade when I woke up but stayed in my mind, still vivid and colourful.
I was drifting through Paris. The surroundings, featureless and impersonal, didn’t really look like Paris, but I knew where I was, with that certainty only dreams can impress.
The streets were empty, the shops and cafés and bistros and offices, too. I could feel a thousand, a million eyes staring at me, however, following every step I made, studying my face, my body, passing on my current whereabouts to I don’t know whom.
It was as if I could hear voices whispering, “He’s reaching the Avenue de Flandre.”—“He’s turning into the Rue de Joinville.”—“He’s getting closer.” Like in a spy movie of old, I could almost hear the peep-peep-peeps of digital signals being broadcast from behind one window to the next.
Drifting over the sidewalks, I knew somehow that I was being chased, but each time I turned my head, the city was still as deserted as before. And somehow, strangely, I knew I wasn’t trying to escape, either, but trying to reach someone. Trying to reach him.
Once again, I knew who he was. A young and lean man with melancholic eyes, fair skin, dark, short hair. The mere thought of him made my heart beat faster. I even knew how stupid this was.
The daftness of bitter rednesses.
I didn’t need to run to know I would never reach him, too.
Everything gleamed with the shine of new things: the parked cars, the façades, glass and metal and bricks and asphalt; as if no one had ever used them.
And still, everything seemed brittle, on the verge of collapsing, just waiting for me to pass before crumbling down and becoming dust.
Suddenly I was standing in the ground-floor hall of my apartment building. I was staring at the post boxes, still sure that I was all by myself, still sure that I was being observed. A rat thrown into a maze, with scientists analysing where I would go, what I would do.
I knew I would find the young, lean man with melancholic eyes, fair skin, and dark, short hair upstairs, in my apartment, sad and aching.
I climbed the stairs. Second floor. Third floor. Fourth floor. Not recognising anything, neither the landings nor the closed doors nor the doormats nor the walls. Someone had walled up the windows; it was muggy and dark, and still I could see it all.
I knew I had to reach my floor, my apartment to be safe. I knew I would find him there, waiting for me, an unhappy smile on his lips as if I would always be too late.
The building was so high, so impossibly high, and I climbed and climbed and climbed, despair growing in my chest, my feet feeling heavier and heavier, and he was waiting, growing a beard maybe, getting old and older, becoming disappointed and bitter.
I needed to reach him, and I never would.
—27—
Rimbaud had understood it all. Here I was, all alone on a raft, and around me the churning seas, flotsam and drowned sailors and drunken boats, deliriums, and the bitter rednesses of love.
Who needs that shit?
Safes can be broken, vows can be broken, hearts can be broken.
Maybe I’m slowly going mad.
—26—
Sometimes when there’s too much happening on the inside, it’s easier to focus on the outside. That’s still true and the reason why I’m looking outside again. We’re rolling though the south of the Ardennes, a wide land with gently undulating hills. Fields sown with rape seed spread all around, a bright, yellow carpet that screams with life. The sky, heavy and grey, seems high and majestic here, increasing the impression of endlessness and emptiness outside. At one moment, the clouds open up, and an unexpected ray of sunlight sets fire to the bumblebee-coloured fields that are swaying in the soft spring breeze. A flock of crows rises in a swift movement and circles above the yellow sea, soaring through the air, elegant black dots writing indecipherable messages into the sky.
I lean my head against the window. The vastness feels soothing. No villages, no houses or farms as far as the eye can see.
When I turn away from the view, I notice a woman at the other end of the compartment. She must be in her forties, has dirty-blonde, half-long hair, and a bland face. She eyes me briefly before looking down at her book again. But her gaze was piercing, as if she wanted to check I was still there, as if she wanted to make sure I was the person she thought I was.
I stare at her for at least ten minutes, but she doesn’t lift her eyes from her book again.
We reach Charleville-Mézières. The train stops for five minutes.
Five minutes that allow me to take a decision. Maybe it’s silly, maybe I’m just making up things in my head, but I need to get out of here.
When a bored voice announces that the doors will be closing, I grab my travel bag and trenchcoat, dash to the exit, and jump off the train at the very last minute.
—25—
I was supposed to reach Sedan in twenty-one minutes, walk over to the car rental agency where I reserved a car, do the necessary paperwork, then drive to Limes. And here I am, stranded in this little provincial town, standing on the platform of a half-deserted railway station, travel bag and trenchcoat in hand. My heart is racing, and after a second I notice I’m holding my breath.
I have no idea where I really am. Charleville-Mézières, all right, but I have no idea where to go or what to do right now.
My mobile vibrates with an incoming message.
Nasty boy.
Don’t do that.
Ever.
Again.
Unknown number.
I delete the message, colder now than before, switch off my mobile, and put it in my pocket.
Then I enter the station. A few people are walking around, others are buying tickets at the vending machines, others still are checking the information board above our heads. No one turns their head to look at me. Maybe I lost whoever was following me. The bland, blonde-haired woman, probably.
To the left, there’s a Relay. A good starting point. I walk over and enter the shop. In one corner, almost hidden between
newspapers, magazines, and books, there’s a rack with roadmaps. I choose one of the Département des Ardennes. Somehow, my mobile and its apps don’t feel safe.
Then I check out the book section. I don’t know for how long I’ll stay with my aunt, so I might want to have something to read. I select the local Petit Futé4 and a collection of poems written by Rimbaud. When I go over to the counter to pay, I ask the young girl if she knows whether there’s a car rental agency nearby.
She mulls over my question for a second while scanning the barcodes of my purchases. “To the right of the place de la gare, there’s a Hertz agency, I think,” she says. Then she shrugs. “But I’m not sure. Sorry, I have my own car. You know, in this region, you’re dead without a car.”
“It’s all right,” I answer with a smile. “Thanks anyway.”
I pay and leave the shop unhurriedly.
—24—
The square in front of the railway station is large and laid out generously, with low buildings around it. Surprisingly, it’s not the usual drab and run-down neighbourhood I expected. In the centre is a park with tall and handsome trees. The station itself with its three two-storey, steep-roofed pavilions connected by low galleries looks like your typical end-of-the-19th-century railway station. The light-coloured stone buildings shine in the late morning light. The gaps between the clouds have widened, revealing a large portion of deep blue sky, the sunlight painting the clouds a whiter shade of grey.
From where I stand, the town has a friendly, welcoming feel to it. I could be mistaken, of course, but there’s nothing to indicate why Rimbaud loathed it so virulently that he had to flee it at seventeen.
Anyway, he didn’t escape his destiny. No one ever does. Dead at thirty-seven, brought back here, and buried in the cemetery of the very town he had hated so much. I guess he would find that ironic.
I head to the right. Indeed, there’s the Hertz agency the girl has mentioned. Again, the buildings look almost too friendly to be true.
It takes me only ten minutes to rent a car. Five more minutes to look at the roadmap while sitting behind the wheel, engine idling.
Then I sweat my way out of Charleville-Mézières, clammy hands clutching the steering wheel. I don’t like driving, especially in towns, which is why I hardly ever do it. But the locals turn out to be much better-behaved drivers than the Parisians; what they say about civilization increasing the farther north you venture seems to be true. When I reach the A34 motorway, I sigh with relief, though. After the comparatively narrow streets, the three lanes with cars heading in the same direction have something restful.
I leave the town behind. Little by little the traffic becomes less dense. I focus on the cars ahead. When I glance into the rear-view mirror to check if someone is following me, I notice a white Mercedes sticking to my rear bumper. Through the tinted windscreen I can’t make out the driver, but I almost sense his or her purpose, their dogged determination to stay behind me.
Yet the driver overtakes me shortly after I’ve crossed the river Meuse and races off.
The next car I focus on is a red Volvo, a woman of indeterminate age at its wheel. She stays behind me for a while but swerves to the right at the exit to Donchery. Another false alert.
The motorway turns into a trunk road somewhere south of Sedan. I cross the river Meuse again, then drive on due north. I pass two villages, each quite a distance from the other. The land is hilly, the smooth valley covered with fields, the low ridges with forbidden-looking forests. I don’t see a living soul anywhere. This feels like an abandoned, green and fertile fairyland where trolls, elves, dwarves, witches, and unicorns could be hiding behind each tree, noting my passing with genuine disinterest, waiting for me to disappear.
The French-Belgian border turns out to be anti-climactic. Just a sign on the roadside welcoming me to Belgium followed by another with a red, prancing cock, the European stars, and the inscription “Wallonie Terre d’accueil.” Wallonia, land of welcome.
—23—
I don’t know for how long I’m driving through the forest. It feels like hours. Trees, trees, trees wherever I look, as if the world had ceased to exist or had been swallowed by the sudden growth of pines, firs, larches, beeches, oaks, and spruces. This forgotten, forsaken part of Europe can’t have changed much since Charlemagne’s times, when most of these regions were nothing but endless swathes of woodland, a hostile sea of green and shadows. The trees rise to both sides of the straight road like guardians of a legendary past. I’ve lowered the windowpanes and breathe in a mixture of moss, musky undergrowth, early mushrooms, rotting leaves, and a wild, undefinable scent that smells of ancient things. I think I hear whispers all around me, ominous, swishing sounds that maybe carry a secret message, maybe not. My car is the only sign of modernity, and the trees sway and nod their heads menacingly as if barely tolerating my presence for the fleeting moment it takes me to pass them.
Then the forest ends, and I drive through a small, nondescript town. Merely three minutes later the road enters another dense forest. Again, trees, trees, trees. In the middle of this woody nowhere, I pass a rustic-looking restaurant; a road sign beckons me to turn left and visit an old abbey I’ve never heard of before.
I drive on. The map informs me that some metres to my right runs the French-Belgian border, almost perfectly parallel to the road. If I were to swerve, I would be back in France in a second, surrounded by the same trees. A tell-tale story about the futility of national borders.
The address I’ve looked up on my laptop lies at the outskirts of Limes. I almost miss the path leading to my aunt’s house and have to backtrack in reverse gear before driving down a narrow path. The tires crunch over gravel when I stop in front of a big, old mansion made of yellow stones that frequent rain has turned a dull and weary grey. The forest surrounds it, casting dark, forbidding shadows over the property.
When I alight from the car, I see the lace curtains of the window next to the massive-looking front door move. Only ten seconds later, the door is opened, and a stern, tall, gaunt woman with short, white hair steps over the threshold. She must be in her late sixties, is wearing black slacks, a black blouse, dark slippers, and has draped a black cardigan over her shoulders. I don’t know what I expected, but she doesn’t look like Father at all.
Shivering, she glares at me with squinting eyes. “May I help you?” Her voice is strong but gravelly, as if she wasn’t used to talking; she has that Belgian accent I’ve always found endearing.
I walk up to the door and hold out my hand. “You must be Aunt Juliette.”
“Oh. Marc.” She doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t sound thrilled either. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she turns on her heels and says, “Come in.”
I follow her, wiping my shoes on the doormat and closing the door behind me.
Aunt Juliette has already disappeared through a door to the left. I hear her call out, “Take off your shoes.”
I do as I’m told, then walk through the dim hall and step into the room she has entered. It’s a small living room, sparsely furnished, with only a sofa, two armchairs, a low, wooden coffee table, two pedestal tables holding little photos, and a stand with a half-withered plant on it. The lace-curtained window behind the sofa lets in some faint light. The room could be cosy if it weren’t so gloomy. It’s rather cold in here, too.
My aunt is standing behind one of the armchairs. “Sit down,” she says and points at the sofa.
Once again, I simply obey.
She picks up a pair of glasses, dons them, then looks me up and down. “At least, you know how to choose your clothes,” she mutters as if she were picking up a discussion we started earlier. “Not like your father. God knows how he did it, but everything he wore always looked cheap on him. Even though his suits must have cost a fortune.” She snorts contemptuously and crosses hers arms before her chest.
We don’t speak for a few seconds,
looking at each other. Strange to sit across an aunt I’ve never seen before. It’s eerily silent in this house; no clock ticking, no electronic device buzzing. Even the whispering trees outside cease to make any sound, as if they were leaning closer to eavesdrop on our quiet breathing.
“I expected you earlier,” my aunt finally states while still scrutinizing me. I can’t read her expression, but I guess she isn’t impressed with what she sees.
“You expected me?” I ask, taken aback by her opening line.
She huffs. “Of course. Ever since those two clowns showed up this morning and told me you’d come today.”
“Two clowns?”
“Do you have some vocabulary of your own, or do you only parrot other people’s words?” She glowers at me.
“Er, sorry. It’s just… I don’t know what to say. It’s a bit much to take in,” I admit. “You know, discovering that you, er, exist. Driving up here. Finding out you expected me. And then you say someone… someone came here and told you I’d visit you today? Who was it?”
“How am I supposed to know? Two bulky clowns in expensive suits. The guy who talked to me had a nasty accent, so I guess he’s from Eastern Europe. Looked the part, too. Like a Russian villain, ugly scar included. The other guy, the one who didn’t say a word, was certainly American.”
“How would you know if he didn’t talk?”
Again, she huffs. “Please! With that attitude of his that said, ‘I don’t know shit about anything, but I own the world?’ Those teeth? Too many, too white, too regular. American, I tell you.”
I’m almost shocked by the scornful tone and the swear word. Of course, I don’t know her at all.
“And they only stopped by to let you know I’d visit you?” I ask.
She shakes her head disbelievingly. “My God, you are naïve. Of course not. They left a telephone number and told me in rather threatening terms to call them as soon as you showed up. Said they had some questions for you.”
Ordinary Whore Page 19
