The 6:41 to Paris by Jean-Philippe Blondel Read Free Book Online Page A

conductor.

It’s times like this that I realize how far I still have to go—and given my age, I’ll probably never get that far.
    Normally, a businesswoman like me, at the age of forty-seven, would be traveling first class and then, when the conductor came, she would discreetly and efficiently open her handbag and take out her ticket—which would be tucked away in a neat little compartment designed specificallyfor that purpose.
    But we’re dealing with me here, me and those character traits I haven’t managed to get rid of, and which I try to accommodate as best I can.
    I empty out practically my entire handbag onto the tray—I can see the conductor’s mocking smile and worse still, Philippe Leduc’s. I can imagine the typical comments going through their minds, about women’s handbags, and how we seem toneed to carry our entire lives around in such a little thing.
    I keep on looking.
    I try to maintain my dignity, to search methodically, with a detached and scornful manner. Above all without blushing or babbling. Without making up one excuse after the other, or telling stories. It’s an embarrassing moment. The conductor doesn’t want to rush me, so he pretends to be gazing around the railroadcar, as if some extremely important event were unfolding in the vicinity of the toilets. Philippe Leduc turns hishead to the right and acts absorbed in the monotonous landscape. We have just gone through Romilly-sur-Seine. And I wonder if he remembers the evening we spent there when we were together. I had friends who lived there, and they threw a party. We took the train. At one point we leftthe smoke-filled house and wandered through the deserted streets—along the endless wall that runs down the main street. I said, “One thing’s for sure, I’ll never live here.” He answered with a cliché, about how there was no way we could ever know what the future held in store. I rolled my eyes, and I remember that because of his remark all of a sudden he went down a notch in my esteem. Could dobetter. Must work on repartee. Try to shine in ways other than good looks alone. Make an effort. That was what I felt like saying. But of course nothing came out.
    At the same time, stereotypes die hard, and above all, they do contain an element of truth. How could we have foreseen that over a quarter of a century later we would go through that town again, sitting side by side, pretending notto know each other?
    In the meantime, the conductor is waiting.
    I take a deep breath.
    I will not allow myself to be intimidated. I’ve changed. I’m a woman who is in charge. Who is sure of herself and of her choices.
    And anyway, there it is, the ticket.

There are some habits you never lose. I think that if you’d mentioned Cécile Duffaut to me before this morning, the first thing that would have sprung to mind was the way she had to empty out her handbag every time she had to find something: a pack of chewing gum, cigarettes, a phone number, a checkbook. Or a train ticket. It’s reassuring. This loyalty to who you really are, in spite of everything.In spite of the elegant clothes which must have cost a fortune. In spite of her looks, far more attractive than in the old days.
    I wonder what defines me, now. What characteristics I had already ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago, and that I didn’t try to do anything about.
    Like separating the soft part of the bread from the crust and rolling it into tiny balls, while continuing to talk withsomeone, who would be transfixed, even concerned: he’s not going to go and eat those things, is he? Oh yes he is.
    Like making sure the alarm on the clock radio is set at the right time, checking four times in a row, otherwise I have to start all over. In another life, I must have had many obsessive-compulsive behaviors; in this life, that’s the only one I have.
    Staring at the ceiling wheneverI start feeling emo-tional; keeping my eyes glued to the paint, the color, the cracks.
    Scattering coins all