Entirely reconstructed after the attack, the Bir-Hakeim Métro station drew all eyes with its black-and-gray neoclassical lines. Clarissa was held up for a while, as she had to buy a ticket at a self-service terminal, since her Métro pass was on her phone. She set off to the Gare Montparnasse, only a few stops away.
Once she got there, she checked departing trains on the display panel. She blessed the fact night trains had become operational again, facilitating travelers working to reduce their carbon footprint, encouraging them not to depend solely on planes, cars, or buses. That particular mode of transport had been on a roll for the past couple of years; derelict lines had even been reopened. She acquired a sleeping berth on the train she wanted, and got agitated when she had to pay, another thing she was used to doing with her phone. Thankfully, one could still use a credit card. The train was leaving in less than two hours, and due to arrive at 6:27 tomorrow morning. There were several stops en route.
She had time to grab a bite to eat. She entered a shop to buy a snack and something to read. She chose a paperback by one of her author friends, a kindhearted man she’d often met up with some years ago, until he won a prestigious literary prize and became bigheaded. He was younger than Clarissa, his smile beaming out from the book cover. Clarissa had never been jealous of other authors’ success. She had come late to writing and to publication, already in her fifties. She admired authors who began to write when they were children, such as Virginia Woolf and Romain Gary.
The ambitious renovation work planned for the Gare Montparnasse, expected to be completed five years ago, was still not finished. In the past decade, the attack had initiated an overall freeze of most Parisian construction sites. Enormous delays had built up. The Gare Montparnasse was still as drab, gloomy, and grimy as ever; penetrated by drafts in wintertime, and suffocating in summer. Clarissa found a place to sit down and eat her sandwich. She caught herself looking for her phone yet again, this time to listen to music.
In her mind’s eye, she could see her father in his modern hospital, a décor from a futuristic movie. When she was on her way out, he had exclaimed, “Now, now, darling, no more glum faces; don’t forget to smile!” Classic. Where did that tenacious buoyancy come from? She had never heard her father complain, lament, or regret anything. She longed to call him, or send him a message.
It was time to board. Clarissa had picked a “Ladies Only” sleeper compartment. Four berths per cabin. The train was a recent model, with a sober design. She greeted her sister travelers for the night, who responded with a nod or a smile. They were all absorbed by their mobiles. Later, their tickets were verified. One of the women was getting off at the same stop as Clarissa. The train was going all the way to the border.
She hadn’t told anyone about this trip. She’d written the address in her notebook so she wouldn’t forget it: 70 Chemin du Port. Apartment 28. 6th floor, right.
At sundown, the night-lights switched on. The travelers lay on their bunks. The train thrust into the darkness.
Sleep eluded Clarissa. Her thoughts kept wandering to her father, to Jordan’s hurtful words, to Andy.
Had her absence been noticed? Her guess was that Jordan hadn’t yet found out, and probably thought her upset mother was not answering her phone because of their conversation at the tearoom.
For a long while, Clarissa read. The book was entertaining, well written, penned with spirited ruthlessness; the story of a woman falling in love with her new son-in-law. She ended up dropping off, rocked by the train’s motion.
Someone grazed her arm. It was one of the women traveling with her.
“We’re arriving soon. I think you’re headed here, as well? You were sleeping so soundly.”
Clarissa thanked the considerate lady. She barely had time to braid her hair, wash her hands, and straighten her clothes before the train halted. She followed other passengers up to the main exit. She asked one of them where Chemin du Port was. A couple of minutes away, she was told. But she hadn’t expected the walk up to be so steep. She soon found herself out of breath. She reached a bridge crossing the railway tracks. In front of her was a small building with a signpost reading SURF SCHOOL in French, and on her left, a hotel and row of plane trees.
The weather was sunny, the spot charming and peaceful. Red-and-white half-timbered houses looked out upon the ocean’s immensity. The air smelled of salty sea spray; above her head, gulls circled and cried.
It was still early—too early to go there yet. She decided to stop at the nearby hotel terrace for a cup of tea. A few cars drove by; an occasional pedestrian passed along. She knew from Andy that the traffic here, in the heat of summer, was dreadful.
She was served tea and a croissant. Had it been the right thing to do, come all the way here? There didn’t seem to be any other place. No other person she wanted to be with.
François’s letter was still in her bag. The moment had come. She opened it. Several pages covered with his regular handwriting. Not many words had been crossed out.
Clarissa,
You’re not answering anything. Anything at all. So I thought I’d write this the old-fashioned way. Good old pen to paper. Envelope and stamp. Like when we were young. When letters still meant something. When we knew what handwriting looked like. When we waited for the postman and when we knew how to wait. I know it’s too late. I know I’ve lost you. I know you are never coming back. I’m writing this in our apartment, the one we bought together, the one you chose. Sometimes I
