Dream Paris (15 page)

“Seriously, Anna. We’re in a strange environment. Sit back and tune in with your surroundings. Get the feel of the place.”

This from a man whose backpack was unspooling some sort of Dream wire back to England.

Across the aisle, the woman said something to her father in French. He looked at me for a moment and then nodded his head gravely in reply.

“What’s that?” I demanded. “What did you say?”

“Anna!” hissed Francis.

“(14)I said,” said the woman, her English accent impeccable, “that there is a spy(14) sitting opposite.”

Even speaking in English she managed to convey our relative worth.
(14)I
, she’d said, putting herself 14 rungs higher than me.

“A spy? I’m not a spy.”

The woman’s lips creased into a superior smile.

“Young lady(14), do you honestly think you(14) are the first person that Dream London has sent this way? You’re(14) going to tell (14)me that you’re(14) just another young lady, looking for her(14) parents. That’s right, isn’t it?”

I hesitated. It was that way of speaking.
You(14).
She was putting me in my place.

“Well… yes, but you see, I am. I’ve got a…”

“My father(2) and (14)I travel this line quite frequently. (14)I’ve lost count of the number of young men and women like you(14) that (14)I’ve encountered. Each of you(14) looking so earnest, so determined. Take (14)my advice, young lady(14), and turn around now. Get off at the next station and take the train back to Dream Calais and England.”

I was shaken by the woman’s words. Who wouldn’t be? Especially when carrying papers that confirmed the accusation. Still, I rallied somehow.

“I’m sorry,
madame
. But I’m not a spy. I don’t know about these other people that you’ve seen, but I can assure you that the only reason I’m here is to find my parents.”

“Of course. And what then? Then you(14) will return home and tell the people of Dream London everything that you(14) have seen. You(14) may be an unwitting spy, but you’re(14) a spy nonetheless. You(14) have the stench of it about you(14).”

And at that she sniffed the air. Her father did the same. And now other people were sniffing, too. The occupants of the carriage were all turning to look in our direction. Looking between the seat backs, kneeling on the chairs or standing up to get a better look at us. Even the dog was doing it, sniffing the air, the nostrils on its brown rubbery nose flaring as it smelled my spy-ness.

I was seized by the unfairness of it all.

“I’m not a spy! How
dare
you judge me?” Francis touched my hand again and I shook it away. Horrible creepy hand. I felt myself turning red, my voice shaking.

“All of you, judging me! This is just like Dream London, back when I was marching with the band. I saw people like you sitting around, getting drunk or stuffing their fat faces with chicken while I was marching. How dare you judge me!”

Those words struck home. The woman opposite seemed genuinely shocked. Well, good, I thought, she should be. But I’d misjudged her reaction.

“You(14) marched with a band?” she said. “Tell (14)me, what sort of band? Speak up, girl(14)!”

“A brass band.”

The woman addressed the carriage in rapid French, too fast for me to follow, and immediately there was a chorus of tutting, a massed shaking of heads.

“What’s the matter now?” I said. “What’s the matter with brass bands?”

“The Germans have brass bands. And look what they lead to…”

You could tell by her expression that she thought me terribly naive. Silly little girl, only just old enough to bleed, no idea about the big wide world, travelling to find a mother who’d told her not to come looking for her.

“What are you talking about? What do bands lead to?”

The woman in fuchsia couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice.

“Why, to war, of course!”

ERICH

T
HE TRAIN STOPPED
at the prettiest little station I’ve ever seen. Yellow stone buildings, swept platforms, shiny milk churns, a little red cart stacked with suitcases. You could see a little square just behind the station, a little French town with a
boulangerie
, a
boucherie
, a
marchand de légumes
, and, best of all, a little café. Little tables spread with checked table cloths, set out in the dappled shade of the tall trees. A few customers were already seated, enjoying a glass of wine, sharing bread. It was so perfectly French, it was so delightful, it was so inviting…

“It’s
so
a trap,” said Francis.

“What?”

“That village, it’s a trap. It’s trying to lure us off the train.”

“How do you know?” I said, suspiciously.

“Instinct.”

The engine whistled and, as we began to move, I felt a real tug of regret to be leaving the little town behind. Like I was making a huge mistake in staying on the train. And then, just like that, the spell was broken. It was just another little town.

“You’re(14) stronger than you(14) look,” said the woman in fuchsia, approvingly. She reached out a hand. “(14)Mme Courbois. Please to meet you(14).”

I took her hand and wrestled with it for a moment, trying to shake it, before I realised what was expected of me. I leaned forward and kissed it. Francis did the same, only with more style. Mme Courbois nodded approvingly.

“This is (14)my father(2), M Dollé(2). You(14) will have heard of him, of course?”

“Of course,” said Francis smoothly, ladies’ man and born liar.

“Excellent. Now, would you(14) like to share a bottle of wine?”

Mme Courbois saw the way I was looking at Francis.

“(14)I’m not trying to poison you(14),” she said drily. “(14)I shall order a bottle of the
Belle Epoque
’89. (14)I think the perspective would do you(14) good.”

The bottle was brought, brown and dusty and with a fading yellow label. Across the way the dog was served a plate of raw steak and a small bowl of pasta. It sniffed the meal carefully and then began to eat, first a mouthful of steak, and then a long strand of spaghetti.

“I didn’t know dogs could suck,” said Francis, watching as a long strand disappeared into its mouth.

“There’s a dog who knows how to behave in polite company,” observed Mme Courbois. I had the impression this was an instruction to follow suit. The waiter poured a little wine into her glass. Liquid the colour of pale straw, the scent of flowers and summer filling the cabin. She tasted it and nodded. The waiter filled our glasses.

“
Santé
!”

We chinked glasses. I noticed how Mme Courbois watched me as I sipped. The wine tasted of summer, of hot ground baking under the sun, of the heat stored up by fields of wheat, of the shade under trees…

I felt myself slipping away, slipping away like when I’d drunk the cider the night before.

“What’s happening to me? What did you do?”

“(14)I’ve done nothing. What you(14) are experiencing is
terroir
: the combination of soil, climate and environment that gives a wine its distinctive character…”

“I feel is if I’m not properly here…”

“Drink this wine and you(14) get drunk on the spirit of the region in which it was produced. That’s why everything feels so alien. You(14) don’t belong here, do you(14)? You’re(14) not part of the
terroir
. You’re(14) not loyal to this land.”

I was barely there, I was lost in a half world of sunshine, lost in the middle of the vast continent of Dream France, where the Dream sun beat down on a land that had lain there for millennia. But I was also in the train carriage and I could see the other people in the carriage smiling at me. Hard smiles, unsympathetic smiles, the smiles of those who had caught me out.

Across from me, Francis was shaking his head.

“You tricked us,” he said.

“(14)I offered you(14) a little wine. It seems to (14)me that neither of you(14) can take your(14) drink.”

Francis took my arm, he pulled me from my seat.

“You’re(14) leaving? Don’t be silly. Sit down.”

“No way. Come on, Anna. Let’s go.”

His pack was propped up against his seat, straps hanging wide. How had it got there? I didn’t know. He took hold of the pack in one hand, pushed me off down the aisle with the other.

“Everything here will try to tempt you(14)!” called Mme Courbert. “The food, the wine, even the railway stations! Everything will try and make you(14) its own, young woman(14)!”

F
RANCIS AND
I staggered down the train. I felt myself both swaying and unmoving, part travelling on the train, part the land itself. I dragged my pack along, feeling sick and disoriented, until finally Francis found us a space in third class. The people here were far more down at heel, their picnics far more organic, cold chitterlings and brawn, boiled potatoes and dishes of salt.

Francis bundled me into a seat and I sat there, looking out at the unrolling countryside. We rolled past towns of unspeakably loveliness, each one a perfect place to live.

Gradually the effect of the wine passed away.

“How long does this journey take?” I wondered.

“It depends on which line has connected,” said a voice, “but I’d(5) say a good day and a half, usually.”

I looked around to see who had spoken.

“Down here!”

There was a cage pushed between the backs of two seats. A fully grown man was squashed inside, his knees tucked uncomfortably up by his ears. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Er, hello…?”

The man pulled a well sharpened knife from his pocket and used it to cut a piece of sausage. He held it out to me, offering.

“No, thank you. But, a day and a half? It’s not that far to Paris from Calais.”

“It is at the moment. I(5) remember a time when you could walk between the two towns in an hour or so, but that was when the war with Portugal was on. (5)You’d remember that, of course?”

The last was directed at Francis.

“No. I’m sorry, I wasn’t part of that war.”

“Oh! (5)You surprise me(5). A soldier like (5)you. Don’t deny it. (5)You
are
a soldier, aren’t (5)you?”

(5)You
. The man was putting Francis in charge.

“I am.”

“I(5) knew it! I(5) was too, once. But what’s a soldier doing accompanying a spy, that’s what I(5) want to know?”

“I’m not a spy!”

“Of course (5)you’re not! Are (5)you sure (5)you don’t want some of this sausage? It’s vegetarian, (5)you know. Very good. Made of mushrooms.”

“I’m okay, thank you. Listen, can you speak without the emphasis? I find it very confusing.”

“Okay,” said the man, humbly. I gazed down at him, wondering if I should ask the obvious question. Francis beat me to it. He had much less tact than I.

“What are you doing in that cage?”

The man laughed, ruefully. He lifted himself a little, stretching as best as could in the confined space.

“Ah! The cage! Have you heard of Milanese Spaghetti Hounds?”

“No,” I said, thoughtfully, “but I rather think I might have seen one…”

“In the dining car? Yes? That would be Uther. I bought him from a woman in Nantes. She said that Milanese Spaghetti Hounds made great pets, but that they were very strong-willed. She said I would have to be firm, that I would have to show him who was boss.”

He smiled ruefully.

“I rather think that I failed in that regard.”

“Oh.”

“Now I(5) am (14)Uther’s pet.” That emphasis. He couldn’t help it. “He has my house, my property and my family. He gets to eat steak and spaghetti in the restaurant car, and I’m left to travel in this cage.”

“Can’t you do anything about it?” asked Francis.

“Not really. It was a fair contract, I walked into it with my eyes open. Still, I can’t help but wonder how many times Mme Lombard has done this. I imagine she’s making quite a killing, selling Milanese Spaghetti Hounds to unsuspecting people. Let the dog take over everything and then she takes her cut. She must own a fair few properties in Dream Paris now. She wants to be careful. Own too many, and the Committee for Public Safety will start to take an interest in her…”

“So you come from Dream Paris?” said Francis.

“Oh, yes! I had a lovely flat overlooking the Seine. Just out of range of the Liopleurodons, one could sit on the balcony without risk of being snatched off for a morning snack. I used to have an important job, too, working for the
Banca di Primavera
.”

He looked regretful for a moment.

“Still, look on the bright side. No more worries for me, no responsibilities. I get fed twice a day, I’m allowed plenty of exercise. There’s even talk about putting me up for stud.”

Francis perked up at that, funnily enough.

“How nice,” I said, drily.

The man blushed, looked at Francis.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking that way in front of your young lady.”

“I’m not his young lady!”

“… what’s (5)your name, anyway? My(5) name is Erich.”

“Pleased to meet you(2), Erich,” said Francis. He was trying. He almost got the intonation right. Almost.

T
HE DAY ROLLED
on. Passengers got on and passengers got off, and the whizzing of the wire from Francis’s backpack – now stowed in the luggage rack – counted out the miles between here and home.