Queen of Babble

9

I’m pulling my wheelie bag down the aisles of the Paris Souillac train, and I’m trying not to cry.

Not because of the bag. Well, sort of because of the bag. I mean, the aisle is very narrow, and I have my carry-on bag over my shoulder, and I sort of have to walk sideways, like a crab, in order not to bang people in the head with it as I search-apparently fruitlessly-for a front-facing first-class seat in a nonsmoking car.

If I smoked and I didn’t mind facing backward, I’d be all set. Except that I don’t smoke, and I’m afraid if I ride facing backward, I might throw up. In fact, I am sure I will throw up, because I have felt like throwing up ever since I woke up in Paris-having conked out in my comfy seat on the train from London, like Grandma after too much cooking sherry-and realized what I’d done.

Which is, pretty much, set off by myself through Europe, with no idea whether I am actually going to find the place, much less the person, I’m looking for. Especially since Shari still isn’t answering her cell phone, much less calling me back.

Of course, part of the reason why I feel like throwing up might be that I am so incredibly hungry I can hardly see. All I’ve had to eat since breakfast is an apple I bought at Waterloo Station, since that was the only nutritious food I could find for sale there that didn’t have tomatoes on it. If I’d wanted a Cadbury bar or an egg and tomato sandwich, I’d have been all right.

But since I didn’t, I was out of luck.

I’m hoping there’ll be a dining car on this train. But before I can go look for it, I need to find a decent seat where I can dump my stuff.

And that’s proving difficult. My bag is so wide and awkward that it keeps bumping people in the knees as I go by them, and even though I’m apologizing like crazy-“Pardonnez-moi,” I say to them, when I’m not “Excusez-moi”-ing them-nobody seems to appreciate my apologies very much. Maybe because they’re all French and I’m American and no one here seems to like Americans. At least, judging by the way the kid next to me in the backward-facing smoking seat I found-but consequently had to abandon-had gone, “Etes-vous americaine?” in a disgusted voice when he overheard me leaving yet another message for Shari on my cell.

“Um,” I said, “oui?”

And he made a face and pulled out an iPod, inserted his earphones, and turned his face to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at me again.

Vamos a la playa, screamed the song I could plainly hear from his earphones. Vamos a la playa.

I know that song is going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Or night, I should say, since it’s already afternoon and my train won’t be arriving at the station in Souillac for six hours.

That’s another reason I’m going in search of a new seat. How am I supposed to spend six hours next to a snot-nosed seventeen-year old in an Eminem T-shirt who listens to Europop, hates Americans, and smokes?

Of course, now it’s looking like that seat was actually the last vacant one on this train.

Can I stand for six hours? Because if so, I’ll be golden. There’s plenty of space for me and my gargantuan bags in the spaces between the cars.

How can this be happening to me? It all seemed so simple when Jamal, back at the bookshop, explained what I’d have to do to get to France. He’d been so knowing and kind, it had sounded as if getting from London to where Shari is was going to be a snap.

He didn’t mention, of course, the fact that the minute you open your mouth to speak to anyone in this country and they realize from your accent that you’re American, they just answer you in English anyway.

And usually not very nicely, either.

But still. I was able to follow most of the signage at the Gare du Nord. Enough to get my ticket, anyway-which I’d reserved over the phone-out of the machines. Enough to find my train. Enough to stumble onto the first car I reached and plop down into the first available seat.

Too bad I didn’t notice the smoke-and the fact that I was facing the wrong way-until the train actually started moving.

It’s hard not to feel like this whole thing was a very bad idea. Not the moving-to-the-different-seat thing-I already know THAT was a bad idea. But the coming-to-France thing. I mean, what if I never get ahold of Shari? What if her cell phone fell into the toilet again, the way it did that time back in the dorm, and she can’t afford a new one or there’s no cell phone store nearby and she’s just going without one for the rest of her trip? How will I ever find her?

I suppose I could ask people, when I get to Souillac, if they know where Chateau Mirac is. But supposing they’ve never heard of Chateau Mirac? Shari didn’t say how far the chateau was from the train station. What if it’s really, really far?

And it’s not like I can call Shari’s parents and ask them if they know where she is and how I can get in touch with her. Because then they’ll want to know why I want to know, and if I tell them, they’ll tell my mom and dad, and then they’ll know things didn’t work out with Andrew-I mean, Andy-and tell my sisters.

And then I will never hear the end of it.

Oh God, how did I get myself into this? Maybe I should have just stayed at Andy’s. What’s the worst that would have happened? I could have gone to Jane Austen’s house by myself and just used Andy’s house as a sort of home base. I didn’t have to leave. I could have just been like, “Look, Andy, it’s not working out between us, because you’re not who I thought you were. I have a thesis to write, so let’s just agree to ignore each other the rest of the time I’m here and I’ll do my thing and you do yours.”

I could have just said that to him. Of course, it’s too late now. I can’t go back. Not after that note I left him when I took that taxi back to his house-best fifteen pounds I ever spent-to get my stuff. Thank GOD no one had been home…

…and thank God Andy had thought to give me my own key this morning before we’d left, which I’d dropped into the Marshalls’ mailbox on my way out.

Oh my God. A seat! An empty seat! Facing the right way! In a nonsmoking car! And it’s next to a window!

Okay, be calm. It might be taken and the person just got up to use the bathroom or whatever-oh jeez, I bonked that lady in the head with my bag-“Je suis desolee, madame,” I say. That means “I’m sorry,” right? Oh, who cares. A seat! A seat!

Oh my God. A seat next to a guy who looks to be about my age, with curly dark hair, big brown eyes, and a gray button-down shirt that is actually tucked into his faded-in-all-the-right-places Levi’s. That he is wearing with a mesh weave leather belt.

It is possible that I have died. That I have passed out in the aisles of the train-and died of hunger, dehydration, and heartache.

And that this is heaven.

“Pardonnez-moi,” I say to the totally hot guy. “Mais est-ce que…est-ce que-”

“Is that seat next to you taken?” is what I want to ask. Only in French, obviously. Only I can’t remember the word for seat. Or taken. In fact, I don’t think we ever covered this phrase in French 101 or 102. Or maybe we did but I was too busy daydreaming about Andrew-I mean, Andy-that I wasn’t paying attention that day.

Or maybe it’s just that this guy is so good-looking I can’t think of anything else.

“Do you want to sit here?”

That’s what the guy in the aisle seat asks, indicating the empty window seat beside him.

In perfect English. In perfect AMERICAN English.

“Oh my God!” I burst out. “Are you American? Is that seat really not taken? Can I sit there?”

“Yes,” the guy says with a smile that reveals perfect white teeth. Perfect white AMERICAN teeth. “To all three.”

And he gets up to let me into the window seat.

Not only that, but he actually leans over, grabs my gargantuan wheelie bag that has just popped a thousand French kneecaps during its long drag through several train cars, and says, “Let me help you with this.”

And, seemingly without effort, he lifts the bag and shoves it up onto the rack above our heads.

Okay. Now I’m crying.

Because this is not a hallucination. I am not dead. This is really happening. I know because I’ve just slung my carry-on bag down from my shoulder and put it under the seat in front of mine, and my entire right side has gone numb from the weight not being there anymore. If I were dead, would I feel numb?

No.

I sink down into the seat-the soft, cushiony seat-and just sit there, blinking at the buildings flashing by so unbelievably quickly, completely unable to believe my good fortune. How could my luck, which has been so totally rotten lately, have taken such an incredible turn for the better? This can’t be right. There has to be a catch. There just has to be.

“Water?” the guy next to me asks, holding out a plastic bottle of Evian.

I can barely see him through my tears. “You’re…you’re giving me your water?”

“Um,” he says, “no. They come with the seats. This is first class. Everyone gets one.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid (so what else is new?). I hadn’t noticed the water at my last seat. Probably that French kid had bogarted mine. He looked like the type who would steal someone else’s water.

I take the water from my new-and vastly improved-seatmate.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s been a long day.”

“I can see that,” he says. “Unless you always cry on trains.”

“I don’t,” I say, shaking my head and sniffling. “Really.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” he says. “I’ve heard of fear of flying, of course. But I’ve never heard of a fear of trains.”

“I’ve had the worst day,” I say, opening the water. “Really. You have no idea. It’s so nice to hear an American accent. I can’t believe how much everybody here hates us.”

“Oh,” the guy says with another flash of those perfect white teeth, “they aren’t so bad. If you saw how the typical American tourist acted, you’d probably feel the same way about us that the French do.”

I’ve chugged most of my water. I’m starting to feel a little better-not so much like death warmed over. Although I’m sure I probably look it. Which is great since now that I have an even closer view of him, I can see that my seatmate isn’t just handsome. His face is filled with kindness, intelligence, and good humor as well.

Unless that’s just the starvation talking.

“Well.” I reach up to dab at my eyes with my wrist. I wonder if my mascara is running down my cheeks in streaks. Did I wear the waterproof kind? I can’t even remember. “I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

“Your first time in France?” he asks sympathetically. Even his voice is nice. Sort of deep, and very understanding.

“My first time anywhere in Europe,” I say. “Well, except for London, where I was this morning.”

And then, like a dam bursting, I’m crying again.

I try not to do it loudly. You know, without sobbing or anything. I just can’t think about London-I never even got to go to Topshop!-without tearing up.

My seatmate nudges my elbow with his. When I open my streaming eyes, I see that he is holding a plastic bag in front of me.

“Honey-roasted peanuts?” he asks.

I am overwhelmed by hunger. Without a word, I dive my hand into the bag, grab a handful of nuts, and stuff them into my mouth. I don’t care if they’re honey-roasted and jam-packed with carbs. I’m starved.

“Do…do they come with the seats, too?” I ask between sniffles.

“No,” he says, “they’re mine. Help yourself to more, if you want some.”

I do. They are the best thing I have ever tasted. And not just because I haven’t had sugar in so long.

“Thanks,” I say. “I…I’m s-sorry.”

“For what?” my seatmate asks.

“For s-sitting here crying like this. I’m not usually like this. I swear.”

“Travel can be very stressful,” he says. “Especially in this day and age.”

“It’s true,” I say, taking some more nuts. “You can just never tell. I mean, you meet people and they seem perfectly nice. And then it turns out that all along they were just lying to you to get you to pay their matriculation fees because they lost all their money in a game of Texas Hold’em.”

“I was actually referring to terrorist alerts,” my seatmate says somewhat dryly. “But I guess what, er, you mentioned could be troubling as well.”

“Oh, it is,” I assure him through my tears. “You have no idea. I mean, he just outright lied to me-telling me that he loved me and all of that-when all along I think he was just using me. I mean, Andy-that’s the guy I left, back in London-he seemed so nice, you know? He was going to be a teacher. He said he was going to devote his life to teaching little children to read. Have you ever heard of anything that noble?”

“Um,” my seatmate says, “no?”

“No. Because who even does that in today’s day and age? People our age-how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five,” my seatmate says, a little smile on his lips.

“Right,” I say. I open my purse, fishing inside it for some tissue. “Well, haven’t you noticed that people our age…all they seem to think about is making money? Okay, not everyone. But a lot of them. No one wants to be a teacher anymore, or even a doctor…not with HMOs and all of that. There’s not enough money in it. Everyone wants to be an investment banker, or a corporate headhunter, or a lawyer…because that’s where the money is. They don’t care if they’re doing anything good for mankind. They just want to own a McMansion and a BMW. Seriously.”

“Or pay back their student loans,” says my seatmate.

“Right. But it’s like, you don’t have to go to the world’s most expensive college in order to get a good education.” I’ve managed to locate a wadded-up piece of tissue at the bottom of my purse. I use it to mop up some of my tears. “Education is what you make out of it.”

“I never actually thought of it that way,” says my seatmate. “But you could have a point.”

“I think I do,” I say. The buildings that had been whizzing past my window have turned to open fields. The sky is a golden red as the sun begins to slide down toward the western horizon. “I mean, I’ve been out there. I’ve seen it for myself. If you’re studying something like-I don’t know. History of fashion or something-people think you’re a freak. No one wants to pursue anything creative anymore, because that’s too risky. They may not get the kind of return on the financial investment they’ve made in their education that they think they should. So they all go into business or accounting or law or…or they look for stupid American girls to marry so they can live off them.”

“You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience,” my seatmate observes.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” I’m babbling. I know I’m babbling. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Any more than I can stop the tears that continue to flow down my cheeks. “I mean, what kind of person-you know, who wants to be a teacher-works as a waiter, and ALSO collects the dole?”

My seatmate seems to consider this. “A financially needy one?”

“You would think that,” I say, sniffling into the tissue. “But what if I told you that this was also a person who lost all his money playing Texas Hold’em, then asked his girlfriend to pay his matriculation fees, and then, as if that were not enough, also told his entire family that…she’s…I mean, I’m…a fatty?”

“You?” My seatmate sounds suitably stunned. “But you’re not. Fat, I mean.”

“Not now,” I say with a little sob. “But I was. When we met. But I lost thirty pounds since the last time I saw him. But even if I was fat-he shouldn’t go around telling people that! Not if he really loved me. Right? If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have noticed I was fat. Or he would have, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Not enough to tell his family.”

“That’s true,” my seatmate says.

“But he did. He told them I was fat!” New tears erupt. “And when I got there, they were all, ‘You’re not fat!’ Which is how I knew he’d said something about it. And then he goes and gambles away the money his parents-his hardworking parents-gave him for school! I mean, his mother-his poor mother! You should have seen her. She’s a social worker, and she made me a giant breakfast and everything. Even though I don’t like tomatoes, and every single thing she made had tomatoes in it. Which is another sign Andy never loved me at all-I specifically told him I don’t like tomatoes, and yet he didn’t pay any attention. It was like he didn’t even know me at all. I mean, he e-mailed me a picture of his naked butt. What would make a guy think a girl would WANT to see a picture of his naked butt? I mean, seriously? Why would he think that was an okay thing to do?”

“I really couldn’t say,” my seatmate says.

I blow my nose. “But see, that’s just typical cluelessness on Andy’s part. The scariest part is, I felt sorry for him. Seriously. I didn’t know about the welfare fraud or that he was going around calling me fat, or that he was using me just to pay his gambling debts. And the worst part is…Oh God, I can’t be the only one this has ever happened to, can I? I mean, haven’t you ever thought you loved someone and done things you regretted with that person? And then wished you could get them back, only you can’t? I mean, haven’t you?”

“What kind of things are we talking about?” my seatmate wants to know.

“Oh,” I say. It’s amazing, but I’m starting to feel a little bit better. Maybe it’s the comfortable seat, or the golden glow flooding the train car as well as the tranquil countryside we’re passing. Maybe it’s the fact that I finally got some liquids into me. Maybe it’s the sugar from the peanuts.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that saying all of this out loud is restoring my faith in myself. I mean, anyone might have been tricked by as smooth an operator as Andrew-I mean, Andy. ANYONE. Maybe not my seatmate, since he’s a guy. But any girl. ANY girl.

“You know the kinds of things I’m talking about,” I say. I look around to make sure no one is listening. All the other passengers appear to be dozing, listening to things through headphones, or too French to understand me anyway. Still, I lower my voice. Blow job, I mouth meaningfully.

“Oh,” my seatmate says, both of his dark eyebrows going up. “That kind of thing.”

The thing is, he’s American. And he’s my age. And he’s so nice. I feel totally comfortable talking about this with him, because I know he’s not going to make any judgments about me.

Besides, I’m never going to see him again.

“Seriously,” I say, “guys have no idea. Oh, wait, maybe you do. Are you gay?”

He nearly chokes on the water he is sipping. “No! Do I seem gay?”

“No,” I say. “But then my gaydar isn’t the best. My last relationship before Andy was with a guy who dumped me for his roommate. His MALE roommate.”

“Well, I’m not gay.”

“Oh. Well, the thing is, unless you’ve given one, you can’t know. It’s a major deal.”

“What is?”

“Blow job,” I whisper again.

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

“I mean, I know you guys all want them, but they’re not easy. And the thing is, did he so much as attempt to give me anything in return? No! Of course not! Not that I didn’t take care of, you know. Myself. But still. That’s just impolite. Especially since I only did it out of pity for him.”

“A…pity blow job?” My seatmate has the strangest expression on his face. Sort of like he’s trying not to laugh. Or that he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. Or maybe a combination of both.

Oh well. Now he’ll have a funny story to tell his family when he gets back home. If he is from the kind of family where it’s okay to talk about blow jobs. Which I am definitely not. Except with Grandma, maybe.

“Right,” I say. “I did it out of pity for him because he couldn’t come. But now I realize that the whole couldn’t-come thing was just a ruse. He was faking it! So I’d blow him! I feel so used. I’m telling you…I want it back.”

“The…blow job?” he asks.

“Exactly. If only there was a way I could take it back.”

“Well,” my seatmate says, “it sounds like you did. You left. If that’s not taking a blow job back, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not the same thing,” I say dejectedly.

“Billets.” I see someone in a uniform standing in the aisle. “Billets, s’il vous plait.”

“Do you have your ticket?” my seatmate asks me.

I nod, and open my purse. I manage to locate my ticket, and the guy next to me takes it. A second later the conductor moves on, and my seatmate says, “You’re going to Souillac, I see. Any particular reason? Do you know someone there?”

“My best friend, Shari,” I say. “She’s supposed to meet me there. At the station. If she gets my message. Which I don’t even know if she did, since she doesn’t seem to be picking up her phone. Which she’s probably dropped in the toilet again. Because she’s always doing things like that.”

“So…Shari doesn’t even know you’re coming?”

“No. I mean, she invited me. But I said no. Because back then I thought I could work things out with Andy. Only it turned out I couldn’t.”

“Well, not through any fault of your own.”

I look at him then. The sun, sliding into the car, has outlined his profile in gold. I notice that he has really long eyelashes. Sort of like a girl. Also that his lips are very full and squishy-looking. In a good way.

“You’re really nice,” I say to him. My tears have totally dried up now. It’s amazing how therapeutic telling all your problems to a total stranger can be. No wonder so many of my peers are in therapy. “Thanks for listening to me. Although I must sound completely psychotic to you. I bet you’re wondering what you did to deserve having such a total wack job sit down next to you.”

“I think you’ve just been through a rotten time,” my seatmate says with a smile. “And so you have every right to sound psychotic. But I don’t consider you a wack job. At least, not a total one.”

“Really?” He also has, in addition to the lovely eyelashes and lips, really nice-looking hands. Strong and clean-tanned, too-with just a light spatter of dark hair on the back of them. “I just don’t want you to think I go around giving blow jobs to all the guys I feel sorry for. I really don’t. That was my first one. Ever.”

“You don’t? That’s too bad. I was going to tell you about how I was raised in a Romanian orphanage.”

I stare at him. “You’re Romanian?”

“That was a joke,” he says. “To make you feel sorry for me. So you’ll-”

“I get it,” I say. “Funny.”

“Not really,” he says with a sigh. “I suck at jokes. I always have. Hey, listen. Are you hungry? Want to go to the dining car? It’s a long way to Souillac, and you’ve eaten all my nuts.”

I look down at the empty plastic bag in my lap.

“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m so sorry! I was starving-yes, let’s go to the dining car. I’ll buy you dinner. To make up for the nuts. And the crying. And the thing about the blow job. I’m really sorry about that.”

“I’ll take you to dinner,” he says gallantly. “To make up for your recent mistreatment at the hands of one of my gender. How’s that?”

“Um,” I say, “okay. But…I don’t even know your name. I’m Lizzie Nichols.”

“I’m Jean-Luc de Villiers,” he says, holding out his right hand. “And I think you should know, I’m an investment banker. But I don’t own a McMansion or a BMW. I swear.”

I automatically take his hand, but instead of shaking it, I just stare at him, momentarily flustered.

“Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sure not all investment bankers are bad-”

“It’s okay,” Jean-Luc says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Most of us are. Just not me. Now come on. Let’s go eat.”

His fingers are warm and just slightly rough. I gaze up at him, wondering if the rosy glow all around him is really just caused by the setting sun, or if he is, by some chance, an angel sent down from heaven to rescue me.

Hey. You never know. Even an investment banker could be an angel. God moves in mysterious ways.