The Train to Paris

by Sebastian Hampson

  ‘No, really, I don’t think I will,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Lawrence,’ Élodie said in drunken exasperation. ‘You can’t dismiss it without trying it at least once. You don’t inhale these, so they are healthier, if that really worries you.’

  I had decided to stay. I would smoke the cigar, to discover how it felt. I took the brown finger. It had the texture of flaky skin. I pretended to know what I was doing with the cutter, and I took too much off. I tried to think of the times I’d seen this elaborate process in films, and I puffed heavily as Selvin held up the lighter. I felt the thin first wave in my mouth.

  ‘I’ll regret this tomorrow,’ Élodie said. ‘It always feels as though a family of gypsies has paraded through my mouth.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Selvin said. ‘This taste is as good as they get. It’s sex in the mouth.’

  I tried to keep my coughs and splutters under control as I breathed in the smoke and it clouded and swirled.

  ‘What do you think, Lawrence?’ Élodie asked.

  ‘Not bad.’ My voice sounded nothing like its old self. It had aged several years. ‘Rather strong.’

  ‘Twenty years I’ve been smoking these,’ Selvin said, ‘and I’ve never heard anyone describe it like that before. Either you love it or you hate it. Nobody has ever held such a bland view of a Montecristo.’

  ‘Well, I’m the first at something for once.’

  Élodie must have seen how much distress I was in. I wanted to throw first the cigar and then myself over the parapet.

  ‘You don’t need any more than that,’ she said. ‘Put it out if you don’t like it.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not having that,’ Selvin said. ‘Men finish their cigars. Learn to enjoy it.’

  I sought relief from my daiquirí. Somehow it had become the more attractive option. My head felt light. I was even more desperately in need of water. I took another puff.

  ‘Give it here,’ Élodie said. She left it to smoulder in the ashtray. ‘You did well for a first time. It gets easier with each experience.’

  ‘Some people never experience these sorts of things.’

  ‘And good riddance to them.’

  It amazed me that Élodie could be so intimate one minute and so cold the next. She was everywhere and she was nowhere. I wanted to feel as though we were the two most important people in the world again, as we had been in the restaurant, discussing her favourite wine and pouring it for each other. If only there could be one Élodie, the one that I imagined lying beside me on the beach, her hair wet and salty, her eyes alive with longing. Now I could not see her eyes because they were directed at Selvin.

  Music started to come through the outdoor speakers. It was a mid-tempo bossa nova with a wispy saxophone.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Élodie said. ‘How do they do that? They somehow guessed that I was in the mood for a dance right about now.’

  ‘This is what we pay them for,’ Selvin said. ‘I’ll sit this one out, though.’

  ‘Too bad. What about you, Lawrence? You could give me a preview of your moves.’

  ‘A preview?’

  ‘Do I really have to explain everything? Come and dance with me.’

  She had asked Ed first. That was enough to make me resist the temptation.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m a terrible dancer.’

  ‘Very well, gentlemen. I will give you both a demonstration.’

  She moved to the centre of the terrace, backlit by the restaurant and the swirling blue hue of the swimming pool. They cast her into a silhouette. She moved in time with the music, and gave her whole body over to it. Her figure became an extension of the sound.

  I was mesmerised. Her hips drew in and out, her limbs became liquid. She flowed along her own channel, and she closed her eyes as she spun around with her arms out wide. It was an act of abandon, yet somehow she kept her dignity.

  Selvin applauded once the song had ended, as did a few others who had gathered on the other side of the swimming pool to watch her. I did not. Time had slowed. I could feel the day’s decaying warmth waiting to be swept off by an Atlantic breeze. Élodie took an exaggerated bow to the audience in her self-made theatre.

  ‘It really is exhausting,’ she said, returning to us.

  ‘Where in the hell did you learn how to dance like that?’ Selvin asked.

  ‘Copacabana. You know, that old cliché. Don’t you remember? I lived there for a while.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ He grinned at her in a knowing way. ‘Back when it was the place to be, right?’

  Their discussion was of little interest to me. Élodie’s vitality now filled her to the brim. I was in awe of her. There was something particularly beautiful about the way that she smoked her cigar. She craned her neck in a swanlike arc, allowing the smoke to stream out of her mouth, neither too fast nor too slow. There was a surreal quality to her performance. I could have watched it forever.

  9

  Selvin excused himself, saying he was going to check on Vanessa. Perhaps she really was ill. Élodie watched him stride away.

  ‘Why don’t you dance, Lawrence?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t come naturally to me. You were extraordinary, by the way.’

  ‘Don’t feign enthusiasm. It always fails to impress me.’

  ‘I wasn’t feigning anything.’

  ‘Oh darling, you don’t have to be earnest about absolutely everything.’

  I finished my drink, in a weak effort to wash away the remnants of smoke hanging on my breath.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. I swayed my head from side to side as if to say, so-so. She bent in closer. We were sitting at one of the tables by the parapet, facing towards the hotel, which loomed above. I could see our suite and the terrace with the light streaming out through the open doors.

  The stars were already coming out. The stars never came out in Paris. The last time I had seen them they had been hanging over an open field in New Zealand. It felt healthy to be able to see them now.

  ‘Shall we abandon Ed?’ Élodie continued. ‘I get the feeling that he won’t be coming back.’

  ‘That depends. Am I still your lovelorn puppy?’

  Her face remained an unopened envelope.

  ‘I thought that you might have been listening. Bear in mind that what I say to Ed is not necessarily how I feel.’

  Once again I felt a violent urge to walk away. Why had I spent my afternoon and evening with her?

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘It really is all about appearances with you, isn’t it? Are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘Not particularly. I just think that you need more work. We’ve done well so far, though.’

  ‘And what is the truth? Am I supposed to guess how you feel about me?’

  Élodie ignored the question. She disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘We don’t have to take things too fast,’ she said without warning.

  ‘No?’

  She grew flustered. ‘Well, it’s true that we already have,’ she said. ‘Point taken. But you shouldn’t feel any obligation.’

  ‘I don’t. I would hate to take any of this too seriously.’

  ‘Oh good. You are learning.’

  Our chairs had moved closer together somehow. She reached around my middle, feeling my abdominals as though she was trying to reach beneath my skin and exhume them.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Very interesting.’

  I could not have resisted her grip, even if I had tried. She moved up to my chest and rubbed it. I could feel her trying to get beneath the buttons of my new shirt. She burrowed her head into the curve of my neck, and I smelt her hair, which was thick with the scents of smoke and lavender.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, trying not to gasp. I had no way of responding to her touch.

  ‘I’m unwinding you, I hope. Relax and let it happen.’

  ‘No.’ I pulled away. Her face was half-lit, which made it hard to tell if she was displeased.

&nb
sp; ‘I wanted to see how you would react,’ she said. ‘You were mine for a while there.’

  Suddenly I saw that this really was no more than a joke. That moment was meant to have happened with Sophie. Why had we never touched each other in that way? Why had we sat so far apart on the café terrace in Madrid and discussed the meaning of love from such an intellectual perspective? Why had I talked about Goya’s La Maja Desnuda without once mentioning the shape of her breasts or the hint of her pubic hair? I had a sudden sense of how I had let Sophie down, what a stitched-up creature I was with her. That was where I needed to return. I needed to save myself for Sophie.

  ‘I’m going up to the suite,’ I said. ‘I need to sleep. I need to figure out what I’m going to do with myself tomorrow.’

  I headed for the steps leading to the hotel, stumbling on the tiles. The terrace was empty, although there were some patrons in the poolside restaurant.

  Before I could reach the steps, she called out. ‘If you don’t come back, Lawrence, then I will throw myself in the water and probably drown. Do you want that?’

  She sounded as serious as a drunkard could. I didn’t know how to react. The answer to her question was obvious. But it was her problem, and she wasn’t my responsibility.

  ‘Whatever, Élodie.’

  It was too late and I was too tired. I returned to my path, passing into the light and starting up the canopied steps. The splash did not come until I had reached the top. I turned around to see a purple satin dress billowing out in the water, consuming her tiny figure.

  This time I did know how to react. I ran down the steps to the water’s edge, peeling off the navy jacket and shirt before I dived in after her.

  The water was surprisingly warm, almost leisurely. Surely I should have been rescuing my beloved from the bottom of an ice-cold lake? She offered no resistance, and this hardly surprised me. After all, I had given in to her desires.

  I began to pull her to the surface when I felt her fingernails tighten around my wrist as she tried to claw me down with her. I opened my eyes and saw her face right before mine. Her mouth would have been grinning, I felt sure, if it had not been filled with water. She could have pulled me to the bottom of the pool, drowning us there together, sharing our last breaths in panic. But I released myself, and tugged her to the surface.

  A crowd had gathered on the terrace, mostly staff from the restaurant. One of them helped us out. Élodie rolled on the tiles beside me and laughed unrestrainedly. I did my best to explain to the waiter that she had drunk too much. This made Élodie laugh harder.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, taking her by the arm. ‘We need to go up to the room.’

  I apologised to the waiters, gladly taking a towel and my clothes from one of them. It all felt too strange to be true. The onlookers were mesmerised. Élodie’s dress was ruined. It had drawn in around her, revealing how thin she truly was.

  I tried not to let too much water inside the building. Heads turned as we went past: one bare-chested young man and one drenched older women. It must have been something of a spectacle. Despite the absurdity I joined in Élodie’s laughter. We ran up the grand staircase, past an American couple and their children. They shielded the little girl’s eyes.

  The champagne and foie gras lay waiting on a tray. Feeling the adrenaline, I popped the cork enthusiastically. It hit the ceiling, and I fell onto the bed, sharing in Élodie’s high spirits, and drank from the bottle. She kicked off her shoes and undid her dress, which fell to the floor in a lumpy heap.

  ‘Remember to be gentle,’ Élodie whispered in my ear as she laid herself over me. Her breath was warm and heavy. ‘Don’t get too excited.’

  This was useless advice. I wasn’t at all sure what to do so I followed my instincts, even though they had not served me well up until that point.

  ‘Start with a touch,’ she said. I laid my hand tentatively on her thigh. The skin was as smooth as I had imagined it. But Élodie took my hand and dragged it to her breast.

  ‘Up here. I want it here.’

  Beneath her guiding hand I could feel the point of her nipple, the firm skin that bound her breasts, and the hint of her ribs. Her grip was as strong as it had been in the swimming pool, her nails digging into my skin.

  Then she rolled on her side and directed my hand down between her thighs. I could feel the scar and the moles on her back beneath my fingers and I ran my hands over and over them as I surged, feeling my own strength for the first time. It went on that way for a long time. Our mouths were close, and I could feel the warmth of her panting. She writhed beneath me, tossing and turning as I raced ahead.

  ‘Let’s try that again,’ she said, once we had both caught our breath. I was still inside her. ‘More carefully this time.’

  We lost ourselves for what felt like hours. She showed me how to touch her, when to slow down and when to hurry. When I came back into contact with a steady stream of thought, I felt a new sensation coursing through my blood, a combination of terror and euphoria. Part of me wanted to collapse laughing while the other wanted to burst into tears. She lay beside me. We were both exhausted.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Not bad at all. We certainly have material to work with.’

  She got up and put on a silk kimono, which she’d found in her suitcase. Then she reached over to the tray and poured two glasses of champagne.

  ‘I really should scold you for drinking from the bottle,’ she said. ‘But I rather liked it. Very caveman of you.’

  We clinked glasses. I was elated. I had shared her body in such a spectacular way. It was a momentous achievement, and yet it was also shocking. Nobody must ever find out about this, I told myself. It was to be my wonderful secret, my dirty dream.

  ‘How was that for a first time?’ I asked.

  She drew out her bottom lip, as though the answer required some thought.

  ‘You are the only virgin I have slept with, so I can’t make an informed comparison. A bit like your cigar smoking, it needs improvement. But it is promising.’

  ‘Were you really trying to drown yourself?’ It sounded silly even as I said it. But rather than mocking me she looked up at the ceiling, as though some detail in the patterned plaster had caught her attention.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘The thing is, I would try anything once to see what happens. Perhaps you know what I mean by that now.’

  Élodie excused herself to have a shower. This left me to my disoriented self and a glass of champagne. Something had come over me, and the reality was becoming clear. It had been a febrile madness. I had injected myself with Élodie Lavelle and she had left an infection. Her life was saved and I was her saviour.

  Standing before the mirror, I tried to make sense of what happened. I could hear the shower running. She was humming, and this sound made me stare more intently at my naked self with his pointed shoulders and his patchy chest hair. Who are you? I asked my reflection.

  ‘You should come and join me, darling,’ she called.

  I ignored her and put on a dressing-gown. In the main room I reclined on the sofa and ran a hand through my wet hair. Sophie was on my mind again, even as I told myself not to think of her until the morning. None of this would have happened if I had done what she wanted in Madrid. Now I was forever tainted, and I would not see her again for months. What was I going to tell her? Could I tell her anything? It felt as though I had betrayed her twice.

  Élodie had left her handbag on the sofa. I wondered if it would be wrong to give in to my curiosity. The handbag was, I knew, any woman’s nerve centre. But I felt the allure of it. She must have left it there deliberately. Perhaps it would shed some light on her true self. Or perhaps this was wishful thinking. The shower was still running, so I opened the bag.

  A white leather wallet contained cash, Marcel’s card, and a few business cards. One was for a limousine service in Paris. Another was for a restaurant in the Fourth that I had never heard of. Somebody had scrawled a telephone number on it. Perhaps because of a s
imple possessive desire, or perhaps for no good reason at all, I copied the number onto a scrap of paper and pocketed it. The rest was bottles of perfume, make-up, mirrors, and cigarettes. It shed no light whatsoever.

  I returned the bag to the sofa. It did not pay to pry, and I had succumbed to yet another temptation. One of many that day. And there was one left. I wrote Lawrence Williams and my number on a different scrap of paper and slipped this into her handbag.

  My vision was beginning to blur. I tried to walk in a straight line out to the terrace. The air was heavy, but when the wind came in I felt the sea on my cheeks. I tried to remember how we had stood in this very place a few hours ago. It was already a distant memory, when everything had been so much simpler.

  ‘What are you doing out there?’ Élodie said from the main room. She was wearing that beautiful dressing-gown, with a sash pulled tight beneath her breasts. I went over to her and wrapped my arms around her waist. She drew in close to me. I could smell her just-washed hair.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. But it was not my voice. She drew back.

  ‘Oh Lawrence. Get yourself to bed. I’ll join you in a few minutes.’

  I clambered into bed and tried to remember the morning. I had woken at six and not stopped moving. Sophie and I had breakfasted before taking a taxi together to the north station in Madrid. We had waited around on the platform, wondering how to say goodbye—whether to kiss or hug or wave. In the end I had bent over awkwardly to hug her, and she had cried. I had forgotten about the crying. And I had forgotten that she had walked away without replying to my goodbye.

  I drew the sheets up around my head. Élodie was in the next room. I heard the clasp of her handbag, and another snap that could have been her pocket mirror. I rolled over and tried not to think about what the next day would hold.

  My vision grew dim. I had to sleep, even though I wanted to wait for her. I could smell her in the linen, her clean and understated perfume, along with something that smelt of lavender. Even as I pushed my nose into her pillow I could sense the sweet odours were fading.