Henri sneaks a glance toward the woman sitting across from him. She is staring out the window, a somewhat steely expression on her countenance. Ever since her arrival he has felt himself placed at a distance. He suspects he knows the reason for this coldness, but it makes the moment no less difficult to endure, particularly after everything that has passed between them. “I was thinking of visiting the dining car,” he says, beginning to stand. He wasn’t, not really, but he is desperate to be outside the staleness of their compartment, trapped within his own thoughts. “Would you care to join me?” His words sound unbearably formal, even to his own ears, but he tells himself to follow her lead, though he wants only to lean forward, to take her hand and begin, “Louise—”
Louise looks surprised by the abruptness of the request, but still she nods and stands.
“To the back of the train,” Henri instructs, as they exit their compartment. He indicates to the right, the corridor deserted. The train has a strange feel, he muses, as though they were walking in a museum, in something that had been preserved. She was right, it seemed, when she had earlier observed that train travel was no longer fashionable. The corridor seems to match the state of the cabin—the carpet trodden upon by hundreds of passengers showing its age, the lampshades stained and torn, their fabric edging toward a relic in need of retirement.
She—Louise, he reminds himself, the name new on his tongue—walks ahead of him, swaying slightly with the rhythm of the train. He watches as the sun glints off the windows in the corridor, catching her hair. He had thought her a blonde, but now, in this light, he can see traces of different hues, evidence of red, even.
The train jerks and she places her gloved hands to either side in order to steady herself. His own have gone toward her waist. It’s a reflex, and, embarrassed, he removes them. For her part, she says nothing, does not even glance over her shoulder, only continues down the corridor. He can still feel where his hand touched her waist—can still feel her flinch.
They pass through two more vestibules—maybe three, he is distracted, after all—before arriving at the dining car. Henri places both hands deep into his pockets and says to the waiter, “Two, please.”
The dining car is no great affair. There is more of an effort at upkeep here, perhaps because of its popularity among the guests, but there is the same feeling of disrepair. The waiter seats them in the back, away from the only other couple in the car.
“Istanbul is a long way to go by train,” he says, once they are settled, starched napkins arranged in their laps. He wonders if she finds it all as unbearable as he does.
“Only a day or so,” she responds. “And besides, I find travel to be relaxing.”
She doesn’t look relaxed, he thinks. She looks ready to bolt, to disappear at the slightest provocation. “I think most people would probably disagree with you,” he says, more to be argumentative than anything else. He’s injured, he admits, by this distance she has placed between them, wishes she would stop using vous instead of tu whenever the conversation veers to French, wishes she would stop behaving as if they were complete strangers. He feels an ache begin somewhere behind his eyes. “It’s always such an ordeal. The packing, the moving of luggage from one place to another, porter or not. And the hours spent actually getting somewhere.”
“I love those hours,” she counters. “I find them incredibly soothing. It’s a moment where nothing is required of you—there is nowhere to go, as you’re already on your way, and there’s nothing to do. You need only sit back and watch the scenery go by.”
“Plenty of time to think—to worry,” he says, throwing in the latter, just to see her response.
She meets his gaze. “Only if you have something to worry about.”
“Vraiment.” He adjusts his napkin. “Still, such travel can be dull.”
“Only if you have the misfortune of being placed with dull companions, or if you yourself are dull.” She leans back into her chair, smiles. “You don’t seem dull.”
He doesn’t know how to respond, and says in place of silence, “You’re young to be traveling alone.”
She shakes her head, as if disappointed. “Not so young.” She pulls the packet of Gitanes from her coat, lights another cigarette. “I didn’t ask before, but would you like one?”
He shakes his head. “Still. A woman, on your own. It’s unusual.”
“Oh, I don’t know. That seems rather old-fashioned.” She exhales. “And what about you? You’re traveling alone.”
“Yes.”
“No wife?” She smiles. “No fiancée?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Not ever?” she teases.
“Once,” he concedes, reaching for the pack of cigarettes she has laid on the table. He needs something to do with his hands, especially if they are going to speak to each other like this. He lights one, exhales. It’s been ages since he’s smoked, longer still since he’s had a French brand.
Yes, there had been someone, once, but that had been ages ago. Marianne. It had been years since he had last seen her, at the port of Oran, on her way to university in France. It had been the conclusion of her first trip back to Algeria—for the holiday break—and they knew already that it wouldn’t work. That she had been changed by her time abroad—at home, she had said, though, like him, she had never been to France, at least not until she left for university. She had been dismayed at his reluctance to join her there, at his insistence in attending the Université d’Alger, and then resentful, a bit angry, even. Eventually, it all disappeared—what they had in common, that spark of anger at her decision to leave. Until at last it was only the past they held between them. It was the last time she returned to Algeria. Her family had followed her to the continent a few years later.
“What was her name?” Louise asks.
“Marianne.”
She appears to be studying him. “You look like you’re thinking of her now.”
“Yes, it just reminded me.” It’s difficult to explain, he thinks, the way that Marianne is bound up in his memories—of his home, of his parents, of his youth. That when he thinks of her, he is simply thinking of the past. He doesn’t know, out of all these remembrances, which he misses the most.
“It must be nice to have someone to remember,” she says, her tone somber. “I’ve never had that.”
He wonders if she is telling the truth—about it sounding nice, about her never having anyone. It seems strange, hard to believe, that this young woman in front of him has never had a sweetheart. She is attractive, though he admits that it’s a beauty that might be overlooked. Hers is a face that requires more than a passing glance—that demands it, he thinks. Still, surely someone else must have noticed it over the years. He cannot be the only one.
“We’re rather maudlin, aren’t we?” she says, shifting her tone. It sounds forced, unnatural, even. “Besides, I don’t suppose we should be talking about past affairs, not when we’re strangers.”
He hears the challenge in her voice, is unsure whether he should meet it, has been uncertain ever since she first stepped foot into the compartment earlier. The waiter appears just then, pulling a notebook from his pocket and saving him from having to make such a decision. They listen to the specials, to the prix fixe menu. She orders the sole meunière, he orders the confit de canard, with pommes de terre dauphinoise. They order a bottle of Burgundy.
When the waiter returns with their bottle of wine, Henri fills both of their glasses to the top. “What shall we toast to, Louise?”
“I told you, you can call me Lou.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” She frowns.
“It’s a horrible name. I hear Lou and I think of some old man, short and bald.”
She betrays the beginning of a smile. “With a cigar hanging from his mouth.”
“Yes. He’s got a nasty temper.”
“That’s why his wife left him ages ago.” She laughs then, reaching for her wine. “All right. You can call me Louise.”
“And you can call me Henri.”
“Henry,” she says, with an English accent.
“Henry and Louise, then,” he concedes.
She nods. “Henry and Louise.”
Their food arrives and they eat in silence. Or rather, he eats. Louise only pushes the food around on her plate, her eyes occasionally darting to him, to somewhere just over his shoulder. He is about to ask, when she drops her fork, leans over, and whispers, “I haven’t wanted to say anything, but I can’t ignore it any longer.”
For a moment, he holds his breath, wondering what it is that she is about to say, wondering if she is about to make a confession. He finds himself both delighted and frightened at the idea. “What is it?” he prompts.
“It’s just that I have the strangest feeling that the man sitting in the front of the dining car is watching us.”
Henri curses under his breath. He knows this already, but he had been hoping to hide it from her for at least a little bit longer. That the man following them is now sitting in the same car, openly watching, can mean only one thing. He curses again.
Time is running out.