Scores of people hurried along the pavements carrying suitcases; children were stuffed into pushchairs alongside bags, ornaments, a pet cat or dog; plates, cups and saucers were piled into old carts along with anything else that could fit. One old man carried his wiry grey terrier in his arms and nothing else, as if the dog was the only thing in his life worth saving. Michel watched as small children staggered behind their parents, half dragging sheet-wrapped bundles. Fathers had coats stuffed under their armpits, their hands clasping heavy, bulging cases, their faces red and sweating, whilst their wives shuffled along, wearing as many dresses as they could, their abundant necklaces and jewelled earrings catching the sunlight.
The sun welcomed the growing crowds with its sultry arms, causing them to sweat and grumble. Michel felt as though he were melting inside his coat, and stopped to remove it and tie it around his waist. He wiped his forehead and face, disturbing the dust that covered it, which was being churned up by the cars in their getaway.
He and Bertrand fell in behind the slow-moving traffic, side by side, their arms touching. Michel could hear the late afternoon chorus of sparrows as they swirled around the berried bushes of a nearby park, whilst pigeons, fat and sullen, pecked on the ground at rubbish and rotten fruit bursting from its skin.
Suddenly the procession stopped, and everyone looked to the sky as the distant hum of artillery fire peppered the air. ‘It’s getting louder,’ Michel said.
‘It’s getting closer,’ Bertrand remarked, and lit a cigarette.
Michel looked past the Eiffel Tower, as if he would be able to see the soldiers fighting there.
‘It’s all right,’ Monsieur Bertrand said. ‘There’s time. We’ve time.’
They turned a corner and the boulevard was choked with cars, buses and trucks. Michel watched as an old woman was helped onto a milk truck, her bag thrown in behind her, whilst wealthier families packed their cars so full that their belongings obscured every window.
‘How much further?’ Michel asked.
‘Not far. Not far.’
At the next corner, Bertrand needed to stop. He opened his suitcase and took from it a silver flask, engraved with his initials. He drank deeply and offered it to Michel, who sniffed the thick burnt aroma of whisky and drank too whilst the clogged procession of vehicles moved past them. He handed the flask back to Bertrand and sat on a low stone wall, holding his small bag to his chest.
‘Have you seen what I packed for you?’ Bertrand asked.
‘I did.’
‘I made sure it was in there.’
‘I know. Thank you.’
‘Le Lotus Bleu. Such a delightful book. The adventurer Tintin and his travels to Shanghai. Why do you like it so much, Michel? I have given you so many books over the years, yet this is the one you love the most.’
‘It helped me,’ Michel said. ‘You know it did. My stutter. I couldn’t say words properly before this book, but I did as you told me and read it to the horses to practise; bit by bit, my voice became clearer.’
‘No. No.’ Bertrand drank once more from the flask and handed it to Michel. ‘What did it mean to you? What was it in this book that made you want to keep reading it over and over again?’
Michel drank again, welcoming the alcohol to ease his hangover from the night before, and watched as a mother and father walked past, their son and daughter following a few steps behind. The mother’s eyes were red and puffy, the father squinting at the road ahead, his jaw clenched, dark stubble visible on his cheeks and chin. The daughter was crying as she scurried after her parents, yet the little boy was skipping, dragging his wooden toy duck on a string behind him and trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement. He waved at Michel, who waved back and watched the boy move out of sight.
‘It felt like an adventure,’ Michel finally answered.
‘Adventures are good.’
‘You have had so many.’
‘I have had none,’ Bertrand said. ‘This is my first one.’
‘But you always said you had travelled far, seen the world?’
‘I did. With my wife. We read about it all in books. Every day, a book each. Then we would tell each other about it, as if we had visited those places – London with its Palace and Big Ben, or the mosques of Constantinople, or the deserts and tombs of Egypt. I saw it all with her. Then she died, and I was left in Paris. So there were no more adventures for me.’
Michel thought of all the trinkets, the rich rugs and paintings in Bertrand’s apartment that had seemed so exotic. ‘But the—’
‘From the markets. We made our adventures feel as real as we could. My marriage was my biggest one.’
‘Except this one.’
‘Yes. Except this one.’ Bertrand put the flask back into his case. ‘Allez! Let’s go.’ He stood.
They walked in companionable silence until they came to the Gare du Nord and stopped short of the doors. Hordes of people pushed and shoved against the entrance to the station. Michel saw a young girl drop her teddy bear and her mother not notice. She picked up the child and pushed through the crowds, ignoring the child’s cries for the bear which was now being trampled. Michel made to move towards the bear – he had to rescue it, had to give it back to the girl – but he felt a tug on his arm.
‘Come. We will try the Gare d’Austerlitz.’ Bertrand was already walking away, and Michel followed, every now and again checking behind him to see if anyone had saved the bear.
It seemed to Michel that others had turned from the station and were now following them. ‘Everyone is running away,’ he said.
‘And why not? No point in staying.’ Bertrand shrugged, as if he were simply out for a morning stroll to retrieve his newspaper and sip a morning café au lait at Odette’s.
‘Aren’t you sad to leave?’ Michel suddenly asked. ‘It was your home for so long.’
‘It is a building, a room. I used to think that walls were important. But then Amélie died, and our only child died at two years old, and I realised my home left with them. So, I carry a few bits with me; some sheet music, a photograph or two. Nothing that important. My violin and my few treasures. That is all I need.’
By early evening they came wearily to the Seine, which was ever more shrunken from the heat and flowed lethargically under the indigo sky. As they walked across the Pont d’Austerlitz, they found themselves again amongst a growing crowd of people, all walking towards the station. Michel looked at Bertrand, waiting to see if he would suggest they try somewhere else, but he did not and instead ushered Michel forward, falling in with the rest of the human traffic as the sun disappeared behind the glass terminus.
Inside, it was chaos. Masses of people stood, and sat, on every available surface. Michel turned to leave but found he couldn’t, as more people had now pushed him into the waiting crowd. A woman reprimanded her son for opening their luggage to look for his toys, whilst her husband shoved his way over to a blank timetable, studying it as if the train times would appear any second.
The air inside was thick with heat and the aroma of unwashed bodies. Michel needed air and felt the cloying nearness of the anxious crowds too much. He turned again for the exit, but Bertrand grabbed his sleeve and pulled him instead towards the platforms, where more people waited for invisible trains. Bertrand gently squeezed a path through, Michel noticing the chatter as he followed.