car and old women chatted over their cigarettes. I slipped off my shoes and rested my feet on the vacant seat in front of me, eyes closing, thinking that would help calm my nerves, only to be barked at seconds later by a woman standing over me in the aisle.
‘Excusez-moi!’ she said.
I shot up in my seat, trying to piece together the last fading moments before putting my feet up.
‘My seat!’ She pointed. ‘Your feet are on my seat.’
‘Oh…’ I gave her some room, swiftly putting my shoes back on as she sat down in a huff. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, as she fit her bottom into the seat cushion, getting comfortable, smoothing her beige skirt over her lap. ‘The seat was empty when we left Vichy.’
She glared, setting a book she’d brought with her on her lap. ‘It’s taken now.’ Her gaze turned out the window, looking at the lavender fields as we travelled through the country, a light smile meant only for herself replacing the scowl. I found it incredibly hard not to stare. A businessman in a suit bumped my elbow on his way back from the lavatory, apologizing with a flick of his newspaper, and I sat up a little straighter, but still watching her.
Her voice had seemed deeper than a woman’s ought to be, and her nails were natural, not a fleck of paint anywhere on them. And her jewellery—she didn’t wear a necklace, a bracelet, or a ring. In fact, aside from her long hair and the dreadfully plain dress she had on, there wasn’t anything feminine about her.
She must have felt my gaze rolling over her body because she flashed me a condescending smile. ‘Is there something else?’ She traced an invisible circle on top of her book, over and over again, on her lap.
‘No,’ I said, fluttering my fingers into a wave. ‘Nothing else. Sorry for bothering you.’ I reached for a cigarette, digging around in my pocketbook looking for my case, mumbling to myself about how I didn’t know the seat was taken. I sat back in my seat when I found it, and then sank down low when I felt Mama’s cloisonné lighter. She’d never shared her lighter with me before, keeping it in her apron pocket for as long as I could remember, but I was glad she had. The silver was dull—a nice patina from years in Mama’s hand.
I struck the flint wheel and the woman immediately gasped, squeezing the spine of her book, getting as close to the window as she could as I puffed my cigarette to life. A throaty cough followed her shifting eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ I finally asked.
She flicked a finger at the ashtray. ‘I have an affliction to cigarettes, if you must know,’ she said. ‘It’s the smoke.’
It was then that I noticed a blotchy rash bubbling up her neck. As painful as it looked, it was the colour that concerned me—pink as a fresh slap on white skin. I sat straight up. ‘Sorry,’ I said, immediately smashing what was left of my cigarette into a pile of ashes.
Two old ladies across the aisle had just lit up and blew plumes of smoke from their mouths. It wasn’t hard to notice they were smoking Nationales, much thicker and cheaper than the slim I used; much more smoke spewed from those cigarettes than from mine. ‘Maybe you’d be more comfortable in third class, where you can open a window.’
‘No seats available,’ she said, closing her eyes briefly. ‘Now, if you please, I want to be left alone. You’ve caused me enough problems today.’
‘I was only trying to help.’
She opened her book, and I turned away.
I tried to relax again, putting the woman out of my head long enough to think about the convent, but then someone yelled that the train was making an emergency stop. The train shimmied with a loud squeal, metal on metal, slowing to a crawl, and people popped out of their seats to move into the aisle. The woman gripped her book tightly, eyes strained, and then oddly relaxed like a lumpy blanket just as the French police burst through the doors at the end of the train car.
I bolted to a stand, clutching my chest, first from the sound and then from the looks on their faces as they ran down the aisle toward the other end, boots thumping with rifles slung over their shoulders.