Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  For the first few steps, this darkness consumes me, but I’m soon overcome by an even greater fear. Considering I’m only hauling up my own body weight, the act of climbing makes the burning in my legs and arms almost unbearable. Only my fear of falling back down into the black abyss keeps me going. It is a step-by-step, agonizingly slow climb; my arms and legs trembling with the effort. We squeeze past four more metal panels before we are through, and in the end, it’s only pure desperation that gets me up the last set of rungs.

  At long last, I’m forced to stop for an endless, horrifying moment before Rol, emitting a string of French expletives, grunts, and a wash of cold fresh air sweeps over me. There is a ringing clang as the metal cover crashes onto the pavement.

  Seconds later, I’m collapsed beside Rol and Rox, gasping on cobblestones that are wonderfully, mercifully above the ground. I feel like I could lie here in the grey daylight, with the gentle rain on my face, and drink in the sweet, sweet smell of city air forever. But according to my phone, there’s a shade over half an hour until my train departs from a station across town. I make it to my knees before Rol reaches over to give me a hand. After he helps me to my feet, he pauses before planting a gentle kiss first on one cheek, and then the other.

  “Merci, ma cata-amie,” he says tenderly.

  Rox rolls her eyes as she carefully replaces the manhole cover. “Those cataflics are no joke,” she says. “It was good you kept your head.”

  Since the last thing I want is to be arrested on my lone day in Paris, I can only nod in agreement, and then stagger along behind her on my still-wobbly legs. As promised, she leads us out of the dingy alleyway and across a busy intersection to the Metro station.

  Minutes later, Rox engages the station guard with a question long enough for Rol to tap me through the turnstile. Before I can do more than shout a word of thanks, my two mud-covered rescuers melt away into the commuter crowds. And I?

  Drenched and exhausted and stinking of mud, but astonishingly, deliciously alive, I step aboard the Metro. And somehow? This miracle of modern civic transportation rockets me back to the Gare du Nord in time to grab my suitcase and make my train.

  chapter nineteen

  IMAGE: Left Bank, Seine

  IG: Romy_K [Paris, France, March 27]

  #AuRevoirParis #CleanatLast #StrangerontheTrain

  85

  A guard on the station platform gives a piercing blast on his whistle as I hurl my suitcase up the steps of the train. The man swings up behind me, and tucking his whistle aside, kindly offers to help stow my suitcase as the train pulls out. I decline, since I need to find a change of clothes first, so he bustles off, without even giving my mud-caked appearance a second look.

  The train rocks back and forth, gathering momentum, as I flip open the lid of my case and pull out a pair of clean yoga pants, underwear, and an oversized sweatshirt. Even with these items removed, the case is so jammed, I have to sit on it to snap it closed again. I slink my mud-caked self into the train washroom, vowing to reassess my inventory. In any case, there’s no way I’ll be able to return the clothes I’m removing, filthy from the caverns beneath Paris, back into my luggage again. Instead, I roll them into a stinking, muddy ball to deal with later. As I use a scratchy paper towel to wipe the grime off my face, I think about how Fogg, as a gentleman of his time, preferred to see all the sights through the eyes of his servants. I feel a wave of tremendous gratitude wash over me for everything I have been lucky enough to see with my own eyes. And after that run through the Paris caves, I’m convinced that nothing can ever scare me again.

  It turns out my assigned seat is actually three cars up, so ten minutes later, freshly clad in clean clothes, with as much of the visible muck as possible washed away in the lavatory basin, I fall into my seat at last. My hair is no longer sticking up, and my heart finally settles into something resembling a normal pace. Closing my eyes, I take a deep, shaky breath. It’s all right, I tell myself. You’ve made it. You’ve made it.

  When an older gentleman from across the aisle tries to engage me in conversation, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

  What feels like seconds later, the conductor is standing over me.

  “Des billets,” he says. “Tickets.”

  By the time I’ve dug through my daypack for my wallet, found my ticket, and handed it over, the passenger across the aisle is chatting with a woman dressed in a little black suit that fits her like a glove. She is the human embodiment of chic, and the man never looks my way again.

  There’s no one in the window seat beside me for the moment, so I slide over, out of the view of the chatting couple, plug in my phone, and attempt to log on to the train Wi-Fi. Pronounced, according to Monsieur La Conductor, “Wee fee.” When the Wi-Fi signal proves to be surprisingly robust, I try FaceTiming Merv.

  Through some internet miracle, the line clicks right through.

  He is still in his pajamas, and is delighted to see me. The pj’s are a surprise. Unlike Tommy, who, given the chance, would swan around in his silk dressing gown all day, Merv is always up and dressed early.

  “Where are you?” he says in a stage whisper. Tommy must still be asleep. This proves to be correct, as Merv hurries into the kitchen, the image bouncing up and down across his pajamas, which are patterned in a selection of blue and green cats. For all his delight to see me, he still sounds worried.

  “I’m on the train, in France,” I say, hurriedly plugging my earphones in. As I recount the details of the journey so far—the good parts, anyway—a strange feeling of pride sweeps through me.

  “I can’t believe you’re really doing this thing,” he says as I finish. His beaming smile warms me right through the ether.

  I grin back at the screen of my phone. “You’re talking to a whole new Romy,” I tell him. “I’ll be crossing into Italy tonight. The third new country in my passport!”

  “I don’t think they actually stamp your passport when you cross borders in Europe these days,” Merv says doubtfully. “But I still can’t believe it. It feels so strange, speaking to you when you are on the other side of the world. This new Romy is freaking me out a little.”

  “I’ll be back home before you know it,” I mutter, using the same tone with him that I’ve had to take with myself so often, recently. “And when I get there, all our money troubles will be history.”

  He sighs at this. “I keep thinking about that Eat Pray Love book,” he mutters.

  “Have you been talking to Tommy?” I ask suspiciously. “This trip is nothing like that book. I’m not taking a journey to find myself. I’m doing this to prove I can plan an event for ExLibris. This is a chance to show my organizational skills, okay?”

  Merv shrugs. “Seems like a bit of an adventure for you too,” he says in a sensible tone.

  “It’s not the same thing at all,” I huff back at him.

  “Well, you never know. You might end up like she did and fall for some guy in Asia.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I insist. “For one thing, I won’t be stopping long enough to meet anyone.”

  “Well, I think you should keep an open mind,” he says, chuckling. “Even I would have trouble turning down Javier Bardem, is all I’m saying.”

  “Merv—that was the movie!” I say, horrified, but he winks and toasts me with his coffee cup.

  “Maybe when you come home you can patch things up with Luis?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why? He was a nice boy. I want you to be happy, Romy.”

  I try changing the subject, but things go from bad to worse when he asks about the visas I’ll need to cross into Egypt and India. Between avoiding everything that happened in Paris, old boyfriends I don’t want to talk about, and visas I haven’t yet received, the conversational ground has become altogether too rocky. I make an excuse about the train Wi-Fi, blow him a
kiss, and sign off.

  But as I tuck away my phone, my worries return. The robbery and the run through the tunnels beneath Paris pushed all of my ExLibris concerns aside, but now they come charging back. Not only do I not know what’s happening with the visas, I still don’t even have a credit card in my own name. I haven’t heard a word from Teresa Cipher. I flick open my phone and double-check all my folders in case I’ve missed something. Then I fire off an e-mail, copying both Teresa and her assistant, Powell, at ExLibris:

  I’m leaving France on a train to Italy, and have still not received the rest of my travel materials. Can you please clarify?

  After staring at my empty inbox for a further twenty minutes, my stomach squeezes painfully, and I decide that a trip to find the nearest washroom might be a good idea. Sliding my arms through the straps of my daypack, I head back to where I changed my clothes earlier. As I walk up, the “occupé” light flicks on.

  Stepping aside while I wait, I lean back against the carriage wall and think about my conversation with Merv. I’d never told anyone the real reason Luis broke up with me. Even Luis didn’t know the whole story, because I’d never come clean with him either.

  But things are different now. New Romy has made it at least a third of the way around the globe; run past Big Ben in London and through ancient crumbling tunnels under Paris. Maybe Merv is right. Maybe now I’ve broken through my whole fear-of-travel barrier, Luis and I can talk again. I decide to at least reach out to him when I get home.

  The pride I was feeling earlier during my conversation with Merv returns. I’ve conquered the Paris underworld, after all. There’s nothing I can’t handle.

  Behind me, the door between the cars slides open. Someone is trying to come through, but since I’ve been half leaning on it, I lurch backwards. The door hisses shut, catching my daypack. As I yank it free and spin around to apologize for blocking the way, a man in a black leather jacket steps through the open door from the neighboring car.

  My words die on my lips. It’s the Evil Nephew.

  The Evil Nephew is on my train.

  He opens his mouth to speak to me, but I’m so freaked at the very sight of him that I panic and bolt the way I came. When I reach my seat and gather the courage to turn around and look back, he’s gone.

  chapter twenty

  IMAGE: Train Tunnel

  IG: Romy_K [The Wilds of France, March 27]

  #TensionontheTrain #AlpineAdversity

  81

  It’s past dinner time, but instead of heading to the dining car, I’m curled up in my seat, freaking out. It was fantastic to talk with Merv, but now my homesickness has been replaced by something so much worse. What the hell is the Evil Nephew doing on my train? My brain starts doing that thing where it spins in sick circles, each problem magnifying the one before.

  And there’s no organized, quiet, public library to restore my calm.

  I try writing a Paris report for ExLibris, but it’s going to need more research. If I take out the robbery and the completely illegal race below the Catacombs, there’s not much left. In any case, the memory of the Evil Nephew’s face keeps floating across my keyboard. Just what in the name of all that’s rational is going on here? Coincidences this big don’t happen.

  Sometime later, when I have bitten one thumbnail right down to the quick and have just started on the other, the conductor returns to adjust my seat into what he calls a couchette. This is well named. He pronounces it coo-shette, but really, since it’s about half the size of a normal couch, couch-ette feels more accurate. And there are three others in this section of the car, so privacy? Not really a thing. The French couple never reappear after dinner, and are instead replaced by a pair of giggling teenage girls who ignore me and stream anime on their phones. I’m exhausted with worry, but sure I won’t be able to sleep at all, between the jerking stops of the train and the strains of Totoro wafting through the cabin. This proves to be wrong. Sometime later, pretzeled into this rocking, toddler-sized bunk, I’m jolted out of lonely and worried dreams by a sudden thought.

  What if the Evil Nephew has been following me the entire way?

  * * *

  —

  By the time a pale pink light gleams through the windows, I’m up and dressed, determined to hunt the Evil Nephew down and demand some answers. Being dressed turns out to be a good thing, as the conductor shows up almost immediately after I return from my morning washroom visit, to convert the beds back into seats. I leave him dealing with the groaning teenagers, and head out to search the train.

  My initial fear has been replaced by a new resolve. The old, easily intimidated Romy is gone. This new Romy isn’t afraid to leave home. She’s a world traveler. She’s conquered a stormy Atlantic and the bone-chilling caves beneath Paris. Dealing with an Evil Nephew should be a piece of gâteau for new Romy.

  Armed with fresh resolve, I march through the train from my seat all the way to the front, and then all the way back again. While the warm smell of dark espresso permeates the train, less than half of the sleeping cabins have been restored to regular seating. I head back to search the dining car, but the Evil Nephew is still nowhere to be found. There, the bouquets of toast and bacon join the coffee, and I decide to fuel up before continuing my search. I’m just brushing away the last delicate crumbs of a pain au chocolat when the train begins to slow.

  Peering out through the window, I see, to my surprise, that we are surrounded by a towering mountain range. The Alps! Until this moment, the tallest mountains I’ve ever seen are the Adirondacks in northern New York State, which I have to admit look like a handful of gently rolling hills by comparison.

  There’s a long announcement over the intercom in French, followed by the briefest of English explanations, of which I can still pick up only a few words. “We regret to inform . . . unscheduled stop . . . cinq minutes . . . desolé.”

  Once we stop, I can see the station sign through the window: Chamonix-Mont-Blanc. Outside, a picturesque village encircles the station. Grabbing my wallet and my phone, I jump outside for a breath of air. The platform is suddenly filled with smokers, some of them lighting up before they’ve even stepped off the train. So much for the breath of air, I think moodily, and stomp off further along the platform.

  Still, the view smacks me in the face with its raw beauty, and every trace of crankiness is immediately blown out of my head. In fact, the air is crisp and cold enough to leave me feeling a little breathless. I’m relieved to be wearing my heavy hoodie. The platform has no roof, and while the station is clear, I can see piles of snow crusted farther along the tracks.

  Near the front of the train, a little signpost indicates the names of some of the peaks surrounding us. The track follows a narrow valley, and apparently the white-cloaked monster towering above is Mont Blanc. The series of sharp-toothed peaks jostling for space across the valley include both the Dent du Caïman and Dent du Crocodile. Further along from these reptilian monsters is a mountain called the Aiguille du Midi, which, from this angle, looks higher than all of them. Behind the glacial white of the mountaintops, the sky is a crystalline blue.

  In the distance, near the top of one of the toothier peaks, there’s a sudden flurry of what look like miniature, brilliantly colored butterflies against the snow. It takes me a minute to realize these are actually paragliders. As I watch, a dozen more take to the skies, hurling themselves off the cliff face, and then swooping away on the mountain currents. I take a few shots with my phone, though the specks of color are far too tiny to be of any use for posting. They’ve lifted my heart a little, and after all the worry of the night before, that has to be enough.

  The crowd around the train is beginning to thin when I spot the back of a black leather jacket near a coffee kiosk. Fury surges back into my gut, and before I can even formulate a plan, my feet are racing down the platform.

  He turns as I arrive, out of breath and furiou
s, and as he catches sight of me, an expression I can’t read crosses his face. Before I can say a word, the conductor who reconfigured my seat this morning steps off the train.

  “Mademoiselle Keene,” he says. “Apologies for the delay. Pour vous.” He hands me an envelope, and then turns to the Evil Nephew, and gives him one too.

  My planned tirade is derailed for a moment while the two of them have a brief conversation in French. Instead, I glance inside my envelope, and see—to my relief—it contains papers from ExLibris. The missing visas and credit card from Teresa Cipher. Now I can e-mail home to reassure the uncles.

  “Merci, monsieur,” concludes my enemy politely, as the conductor clicks his heels at us before vanishing back onto the train.

  Stuffing the envelope into the pocket of my hoodie with my phone, I clutch the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Just what the hell is going on?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” He thrusts his hands into his pockets, his startlingly clear eyes boring into mine. I notice he’s tied his hair back neatly, but hasn’t shaved anytime recently.

  “No—no, nothing is obvious. What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  He gives an incredulous little laugh. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve had a ticket on this train since I left New York. You’re the one who jumped on at the last minute.”

  “How—how do you know that?” I say slowly.

  “I saw you. At the Gare du Nord.” He closes his mouth abruptly and takes a step backwards. He’s wearing faded jeans under his leather jacket, and is managing to look way more at home here than I feel.

  Behind him, the engine coughs, and then revs again.

  “Okay, so we’ve established you were at the Gare du Nord. The question is—why? Has your hideous uncle sent you to follow me?”

  His face creases in an expression of annoyed confusion. “What? No. I’m trying to qualify for a new job with a company called ExLibris. Which I have to assume you know about, seeing as you’re here too.”