Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  “We’ll leave out the more interesting details.”

  “That’s up to you. I’m not the one with the girlfriend.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “You still don't get it do you?”

  “No, I think I do. I get it that because I'm with her on this trip - or at least, I was, and I suppose will be again when we get to Barcelona,” I say looking at her, hoping she might make another suggestion. She doesn't so I, disappointedly, go on. “And that because I'm with her, it would be incredibly rude for me to be carrying on an affair with another woman who also happens to be on the trip. I get it. And, yes, I'm guilty. I admit it. And for that I suppose I am the ultimate cad, contemptible and all. But, there are extenuating circumstances too.”

  “You were hijacked by me.”

  “Gee, I hadn't thought of it that way, but, yes, that would be one,” I say pondering the idea. “Come to think of it, that's exactly what happened. In fact,” as I think this through, “I'm the innocent party here. The victim actually.”

  “A victim of circumstance?”

  “Yes, a victim of circumstance - circumstances beyond my control,” I say, my enthusiasm rising, “After all, it wasn't my fault, I didn't make the flight.”

  “And it wasn't your fault you found me either.”

  “Right. It wasn't. It was Nanette who pushed me to hook up with you and Ebba herself who told me where to find you.” Though I failed to mention that Ebba said to stay away from ‘that woman.’

  “So, who could possibly argue you're not the victim in all this?”

  “Right. I am the victim here,” I say.

  “And you're an excellent victim too. I think in the end everyone will agree,” she says.

  “The end?”

  “When everyone's able to see the whole picture.”

  “Yes, then,” I agree, initially, but upon further consideration, “Though, I'm not so sure Ebba will see it that way. Not at first at least. You know how women can be.”

  “Boy, do I. No, she'll know for sure you've been fooling around on her. She may not be able to prove it but believe me; she'll know.”

  “So, you're saying no matter what, I'm cooked?”

  “Through and through.”

  “But, she's not my girlfriend?”

  “Doesn't matter. You're supposed to be with her, remember?”

  “Maybe, but it's not the same.”

  “She's a woman. She can point all she wants. Fairness has nothing to do with things like this. You're thinking like a man. You need to think like a woman.”

  “Yeah, right. So, how do I think like a woman?

  “You can't. You're a man.”

  “Right.”

  ***

  So we make our way back to Gare de Toulouse-Matabiau where I locate a public phone and attempt, unsuccessfully, to charge a call to my credit card.

  “I couldn’t make it work. All the directions were in French and I got totally lost. I got ahold of the operator but had language difficulties so I gave up. Let’s check out the schedules and see what we have to do for the second leg of this trip and I’ll try again along the way.”

  “Okay, but it would be best to give her the story over the phone and let her get used to the idea before we get there.”

  “I agree. I’ll figure a way to get a call through.”

  We found the platform for the train to Carcassonne but the ticket booth was vacant so we decided we’d board the next train and buy tickets from the conductor on board, get to the next station and try for a private compartment from there. While that seemed like a fine and practical idea, the conductor thought otherwise.

  As it turned out the conductor was a girl who looked to be about eighteen years old. She didn’t speak a lick of English and when she realized that we didn’t already have tickets, she went ballistic. You’d have thought we were hobos and she was the train cop who’d caught us hiding in the back of the boxcar. She went nuts screaming bloody murder in French.

  We were both stunned at the behavior acting out before us and if it hadn’t been for a nearby passenger, fluent in English and French, and who explained to her that we were unable to purchase a ticket to Carcassonne because of the absent ticket agent, I think she would have drawn her ticket punch on us and arrested us on the spot. This girl was seriously unstable. She would only sell us passage to Carcassonne where, an hour later, we were happy to be stepping off the train with our lives.

  When the train departed I swear I think I saw her standing on the platform of the last car flipping me a bird.

  ten

  09:33 Hours, Monday, 1 September.

  Arrival Carcassonne.

  “I’m famished,” Monica says.

  “I am too but maybe we should first find a ticket agent.

  “Tell you what. I’ll take care of the tickets. I'll meet you over there at the Brasserie de la Gare,” she says pointing to a sign over the main doors to the station.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. Get a table and order a coffee and ham and cheese sandwich with fries for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As she heads for the ticket counter I exit the station for the cafe next door. The place is empty, except for one fellow behind the counter who greets me with a big smile.

  “Bon jour.”

  “Bon jour.”

  “You speak English?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I'd like to order two coffees, two ham and cheese sandwiches and two fries, please. Someone will be joining me in a few moments.”

  He writes the order then looks over his shoulder and yells it out in French to the short-order cook back in the kitchen.

  “Okay,” comes the response. Some French.

  It turns out the fellow is the owner of the cafe and apparently bored enough to strike up a conversation. I gave him an abbreviated version of our story and how I’d run into a language problem with the French telephone system and couldn't complete a call. He offered up his phone and even to make the call for me.

  I considered having him tell Ebba that I’d been kidnapped by Catalan separatists and was being held somewhere in the Pyrenees for a ransom of a couple of million just to see what she’d do, but decided against it. Then I thought about having this guy tell Ebba that he and I met and we fell in love and to go on without me. But I didn’t know the guy and wasn’t sure he’d see the humor.

  So instead I gave him the name of the hotel, Fira Palace. He called information for the number, then rang the hotel and handed the receiver to me. The hotel operator connected me to Ebba's room and though I was praying she wouldn’t answer, and I’d leave a message, she answered with a sleepy, “hello.”

  “Hey, believe it or not, it’s me.”

  “Oh, Tucker. Where are you?”

  “We’re in Carcassonne France.”

  “We, who’s we?”

  “Me, and Terry’s friend, Monica. She got bumped from the flight too.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, we couldn’t get on the Air France flight, so we caught a midnight flight to London.”

  “London?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s crazy, but we flew to London then took the Eurostar to Paris and from there, we caught a train to Toulouse. We’ve been traveling all night trying to get to Barcelona and so far we’ve gotten as far as Carcassonne. I tried to call you a couple of times along the way, but I couldn’t make a phone charge to my credit card. Anyhow, it’s a long story, and we’re really dead tired, and we’re at this cafe where the owner was good enough to make the call for us, so here I am, finally calling you,” I say with as much exasperation as I could muster.

  “I can’t believe it. We were both worried sick not knowing where either one of you were,” she say.

  “We thought you might be, but we couldn’t get a call through whenever we got a chance to try, and we’ve been on a train the whole time, and it’s been impossible. I’m telling you we're dead tired. We had no id
ea it would take this long. This has been the trip from hell so far, but at least we’re within reach now. The next train doesn’t come through for another couple of hours, but we should be in Barcelona around seven o’clock tonight.”

  “Well, don’t come that far. I’ll get a rental car and meet you at one of your stops and drive you back. What are your stops?”

  I hesitate. This, I would have never anticipated.

  “Well, okay. But, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. We’ll be there this evening.” I’m not really happy with the turn of events here. I’d rather have more time to see if I can’t ring a bell with Monica.

  “I want to, so what are your stops?”

  “Well, okay. I think the best place to meet us would be at the Portbou train station. That’s just over the border for us. But, you have to be careful that you go to Portbou Spain and not Portbou France. There are two Portbous apparently. We’re scheduled to arrive there at, wait a minute I have to check the schedule, 2:15. Monica’s getting tickets now.”

  “Okay. Portbou on the Spanish side,” she repeated.

  “Right, 2:15. At least, that’s the arrival time listed on the schedule.”

  “You two wait there.”

  “Okay.”

  “God, I’m so glad you made it. I can’t believe it,” she says excitedly.

  “Me too,” not so excitedly. “See you in a few hours.”

  Monica walks into the restaurant, as I’m hanging up, and our food is being set on the counter.

  “Did you get through?”

  “Yes, thanks to this fine gentleman here (I nod to the cafe owner, and he nods to Monica) who made the call for me.”

  “So, what’s up? What did she say?”

  “She wants us to get off at Portbou and wait for them.”

  “What?”

  “I know. She’s renting a car, and she and Terry are driving to Portbou to pick us up,” I say with some exasperation, “stupid huh? I told her we’d be in Barcelona around seven tonight, but she insisted on meeting us in Portbou.”

  “That figures.”

  “What figures?” I ask, lost.

  “She’s checking for herself that we really are training through France.”

  “You think so?

  “Of course. It’s the only sure way to verify your story.”

  What Monica says sinks in. “Well, that seems like a lot of trouble to go through.”

  “Maybe, but it’s the best way to know whether or not you’re telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, but she could've shown up at the Barcelona station and see if we get off the train.”

  “The station's probably too big and too busy. She’d be chancing that she’d miss us. Portbou is small. There’s no chance she’d miss us there.”

  “Jesus Christ! How could she, and you, for that matter, think all this through that quickly?” I say astonished.

  “We’re women. We're smarter than you men.”

  “You’re sneakier.”

  “That too.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Thing is, she probably does believe you, now that you've told her we’d be in Portbou. At least, she believes we’ll be on the train. Whether or not she believes we’ve been playing chaperone for each other is another story.”

  “Suppose so. Oh, well, at least we still have three hours or so before we’re in Portbou. May as well make the most of it,” I enthuse.

  “And how exactly do you propose we do that? We’re on the train the whole time, remember?”

  “We’ve been on the train the whole time, up until now, and that didn’t stop us,” I say with total confidence that where there's a will there's a way.

  “Yeah, but it was nighttime, and we had the cover of darkness and most everyone was asleep. We don’t have that now.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “But, what we do have is this.” And she holds up two tickets.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read ‘em and weep.”

  “Oh, no, tickets to Barcelona? We can’t use them now that we’re going only as far as Portbou. We’ll have to get a refund and re-book for Portbou.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a deal and they’re not refundable.”

  “You’re kidding. What’s the deal?”

  “Like I said. Read ‘em and weep.”

  I inspect the tickets closer.

  When I read “Compartiment privé lit” it hit me. Oh, no.

  “Tell me that this word, 'privé' means toilet,” I say pointing out the word on the ticket but already knowing the answer.

  “It means private.”

  “A private compartment.”

  “Yep, bummer huh?”

  “More than you know.”

  eleven

  11:41 Hours, Monday, 1 September.

  Departure Gare de Carcassonne.

  Had it not been that I'd already promised to meet her at Portbou in two and a half hours, we might’ve stayed over in Carcassonne for a night to explore what many claim to be the best castle in Europe but that chance had been lost now that I'd outed us with that phone call to Ebba.

  Stupid.

  And now I’m regretting it even more after being escorted by a steward to our private compartment in “Gran Clase” and handed a key that would guarantee our privacy. At least, that's what we were told. Not even the stewards were supposed to be able to enter without this magical key.

  Regret is quickly giving way to anger - anger at Ebba for butting in and ruining the best part of the trip now that we're finally traveling without having to worry about conductors standing behind us or student passengers in front of us. Most of all I’m angry at myself for calling her in the first place, much less agreeing to meet her in Portbou, which is now my Port Boo-Boo.

  Should’ve just gone about our business and shown up in Barcelona whenever, and then gone on to the hotel and surprised them. Would've been a whole lot less hassle and wouldn't have made any difference as far as Terry and Ebba were concerned. Better yet, we should’ve never called and instead found another hotel in Barcelona and not hook up with ‘em at all.

  Oh, well. Maybe we can still get to the purpose of this crazy detour in the next two and a half hours now that we’ve finally gotten a little privacy.

  The compartment's nice. Two high-backed upholstered seats against a rear paneled wall that folds down when the bed is pulled from the wall, Murphy-like, and a fairly large window with a nice view of the French countryside that can also be curtained off with the heavy drapes. There's even a private bathroom with toilet, basin, and shower - the infamous privy (not privé).

  After getting the general rundown of the cabin and the various amenities reserved for Gran Clase passengers, I slip the steward a tip and lock the cabin door on his way out.

  “I'm going to take care of a few things then shower, and if you don't mind, I'd like for you to wash my back for me. I'll gladly do the same for you,” Monica says matter-of-factly.

  Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.

  “I'll gladly, even enthusiastically, provide that service for you Madame,” I say happily surprised.

  “I thought you would. I'll let you know when I'm ready,” tossing me her bad girl smile.

  “I'll be right here on standby,” I say smiling as eager as a puppy dog.

  Finally, lady luck is smiling down on me.

  Moments later, the door cracks open, and an arm flings out a pair of shoes. The door closes again, then opens and out comes a red dress. Next, a red bra and matching red thong comes sailing overhead, the bra landing squarely on my head.

  A quick fitting and admiring my new figure reflecting in the compartment window, and I pick the rest from the floor and place them on top of her carryon.

  Water from the basin signals it’s time to begin preparations, so I step to the window and pull the drapes together throwing the cabin into nearly pitch dark. I feel my way around to locate the switch panel the steward pointed
out earlier and flip on the ambient lighting. Niiice. Next I locate the panel for the piped-in music and select a smooth jazz channel from which emanates the sexy voice of Diana Krall singing, Peel Me A Grape.

  The water’s now shifted from the washbasin to the shower. Show time nears, so I begin doing a little peeling myself, right down to my bare-ass-self standing at full attention and waiting for my curtain call. My eyes are going hypnotic following the fingers of steam twisting out from beneath the privy door. And my mind is sweating in nervous anticipation of this grand event that's been eluding me like a frustrating tease over these last two days and nights.

  It's been twenty minutes since the train departed the station at Carcassonne, and already it's decelerating for the next stop at Narbonne when the privy door peeks open a crack, and a blast of warm steam shoots out followed by a soapy, wet arm; it's hand beckoning me like a siren to the shoals.

  It’s everything I can do not to dive through that steamy curtain, but I step across and leaving the door ajar, there she is, a vision through the gauzy steam, standing under a full spray of water in all her glory, her fiery red mop flattened, wet and shiny, against her head.

  She turns sideways, and my eyes lock onto the breasts of a goddess, water streaming off her nipples like a fountain, and I’m suddenly as thirsty as a lost goat wandering the Mojave.

  “Well, now aren’t you a fine-looking specimen in waiting,” she says to me, her kryptonite greens smiling a hundred-thirty-five degrees southward.

  I'm speechless. Dumbfounded might be more like it.

  She holds out a soapy washcloth, “you mind?”

  Silly question. “With pleasure Madame.”

  The train continues decelerating and she asks, “Are we pulling into another station?”

  “Narbonne, but don't concern yourself; we have a private compartment, remember? No one’s going to bother us. Now, up against the wall lady and spread 'em,” I order, and she quickly assumes the position.