One of them talked to a woman and when he showed her a photo, I felt my heart beating—really beating right out of my chest.
I turned left then right in a panic, but there was nowhere to go without being seen. ‘Excuse me!’ I said, pushing my way through the crowd. ‘Sorry, sorry…’ And I jumped the couplings between two railcars, pulling my dress up to my thighs to clear it, and to my surprise, on a country road without any people, I saw a bald man tying a wooden crate to the rear bumper of a beat-up Renault Vivastella.
I ran over, trying not to alert others still looking for a ride, smoothing my hair and catching my panicked breath. The planes had flown off, and I tried to act calm though my neck was sweating.
‘Hallo?’ I adjusted my beret. ‘Monsieur? Hallo.’ A burning cigar protruded from his mouth and oily stains decorated his simple white shirt. His wife—I assumed she was his wife—stood next to him, watching him mess with the rope, trying her best to fold her arms over her bulging, flabby breasts. In the back seat, the shadowy outline of their only passenger sat with the door held wide open by the heel of their shoe. Must be who the crate belongs to, I thought.
‘Do you have room for one more?’ Grey and black exhaust spewed from the tailpipe between us. ‘I’m going to Lyon.’ I pulled several francs from my pocketbook and flipped through the notes.
He used his knee to hold the crate in place while tying his knots. ‘No room.’
I shook the francs in front of him to take. ‘Notre Dame de la Compassion.’ I thought that if he knew I was going to the convent he’d think I was worthy of becoming a nun, and that might change his mind if the francs didn’t. I smiled big.
He dropped his foot from the rear bumper, tightening the rope with one swift pull. A bead of sweat dribbled from his brow to his cheek as he plucked the cigar from his mouth.
‘Convent?’
I nodded, fanning the francs out with a licked finger. ‘I won’t take up much room.’ I peeked into the back of the car, catching a glimpse of their passenger fanning themselves with their hand. ‘What’s one more passenger?’
He took a hard look at his wife, her face changing from pink to red, arms compressing around her chest, pushing her breasts into her fatty neck. Neither of them said a word—their eyes fighting it out. When she moved her hands to her hips, he shouted at the both of us.
‘Fine!’
The wife gently pulled the francs from my hands. ‘Get in before he changes his mind.’
I flung open the door and hopped inside, getting comfortable on the cracked leather seat. Victory, I thought. Then I saw the other passenger: that woman who’d taken the vacant seat on the train. She had been looking at her book and was unaware I had just negotiated a ride with the driver.
‘You?’ I said.
‘You!’ she said back.
Her eyebrows rose into her forehead, and I could tell she was more shocked than upset by my sudden appearance in the seat next to her. She defiantly swiped her hand over the seat to separate our dresses so they wouldn’t touch.
The driver got into the car, followed by his wife, who’d rolled up the francs and pushed them deep into the slit between her breasts. They’d barely closed their doors before the woman reminded them that she had paid for a private transport. ‘Looks like you know each other,’ the wife said.
We answered at the same time, stopped to allow the other to finish, and then talked over each other again, saying the same words.
‘No—’
‘We met on the train—’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘We didn’t exactly meet.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you.’
We sat in silence, the warm air inside the cramped car rising like a blazing furnace, sweat trickling down my back. Then the engine revved from a heavy foot lying on the accelerator, and we lurched into a sudden drive with rocks spitting out from the tyres. Once the dust had settled both of them rolled down their windows and hot air raged into the back seat.
I held my hand out. ‘Adèle.’ Strands of hair blew across my face, tickling my nose as I waited for her to take my hand and shake it.