The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Online Free Page B

Estação de Santa Apolónia.”

French/Spanish Border. May 11, 1940.
    T he Sud Express rolled through the countryside, steel wheels stroking a rhythm against the track. Her second endless day on the train, Claire dozed as the sun sank behind the dense shadowed forest outside her window, her case gripped against her stomach.
    “Vive la France,” the man across from her muttered. She opened her eyes to a view of the darkening Atlantic. The train slowed as they descended into a small harbor town. Hendaye. A change of trains at this French border town, then Paris by morning.
    She pressed her hands against the glass, letting the evening chill seep into her palms as she gazed out. A mass of people crowded the platform and surged toward the train as it rolled into the station. A man in a dusty suit shouted and shoved at a French policeman who struggled to hold him back. Claire’s skin prickled as she exited the train and followed the line of passengers crossing over to the platform to the next waiting train.
    An official sat behind a table at the head of the line, his jacket unbuttoned, shirt collar loose. “Passport.” He stamped it without a glance. “Visa.” He paled as shouts grew behind her. He scribbled her name on the form, took her fingerprint, smudged, too fast, then waved her on. “Allez, Madame, allez!”
    Claire hurried onboard. She found a window seat in a crowded compartment and watched, mesmerized, as the police pushed the frantic crowd off the platform. The train jerked forward and accelerated away from the station. Shivering, Claire pulled her case close and flipped open the latch. Her fingers slid over a soft silk bundle to the cool celluloid of a photograph. She held the image up to the moonlight pouring through her window.
    A marble statue of a woman stood in razor-sharp focus. Covered in a patina of centuries, her serene stone face looked down at the threads of ivy that swathed her legs. An unseen sun traced sparkling patterns of light through heavy branches onto her stone skin and danced on the grass at her feet. Trellised roses tumbled down a stone wall behind her. The roses captured in film were light shades of grey but, but in her mind, Claire painted them palest pink. The curved arm of a stone bench in the edge of the photo invited rest.
    Claire felt the tightness flow out of her. The scene felt so familiar and yet so different from her life. The garden’s beauty filled up a person. It added something that wasn’t there before. She flipped the photo over, ran her fingers over Laurent’s address, written in curving print across the back. Clouds obscured the moon and the compartment faded to darkness. When you wake, you’ll be in Paris, Claire told herself, slipping the photo inside the case. She closed her eyes and let her body sag against the cushions.
     
     
    I t was pitch dark when the train lurched into a station, wheels grinding to a stop. Claire woke confused, her arms asleep. The sign read Biarritz . The conductor hurried down the passageway shouting into each compartment. A man across from Claire protested toward the conductor’s disappearing back.
    “What is it?” Claire said.
    The man scowled and reached for his suitcase. “ La guerre. War. We stop here.”
    The passengers around Claire grumbled, voices fearful, as they pulled their bags together and filed out of the compartment. Her body tensed as she joined the line emptying out onto an already full platform. The train pulled away, smoke boiling. She turned at the sound of a thud. A heavy wooden frame slammed shut over the ticket seller’s window.
    A gruff English voice shouted over the din. A white-haired man clambered up the steps to the platform, his stomach straining against the wood buttons on his rumpled white linen suit. He waved a ticket over his head. “Dear God, was that the Lisbon train?”
    “No. We were going to Paris,” Claire said.
    “I started in Paris two days ago. Got as far as Bayonne on the Sud Express.