The Train to Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

the uniform white.
    Seeing the ocean so close made me yearn for a swim, if only to wash away the musty smell that had been clinging to me since Madrid and my last shower. I thought about how it would be to swim with Élodie. I could see her figure cutting through the water, her legs moving in tandem and her arms spreading out gracefully. In my imagination her body became one with the water. I would paddle and splash, but she would swim as though she were dancing.
    We reached the end of the street. The boats were swaying on the bay. Élodie was smirking for some reason. It began to irritate me.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ she replied. ‘You just happen to be very amusing. Come, let’s leave this horrid town. There must be a taxi by now.’
    The walk back to the station did not feel as long. And there were two taxis waiting. One was a Renault, the other a Mercedes. Élodie chose the Mercedes.
    â€˜I have to ask,’ she said, once we were next to each other in the taxi. ‘Why did you choose to take the train? Was there no despicable low-cost flight from Madrid to Paris?’
    â€˜I prefer to take the train. There is something grand about it. And I like being able to see the land.’
    The road wound around a bluff and out of the town, following the seaside. The landscape remained beautiful—green and stately, but also wild—and the ochre rocks on the coastline were arranged in strata. I preferred this untended nature to the Parisian sculptural aesthetic. The parks there were designed pedantically along lines of symmetry, asserting dominance over growth. They made the city more stunted and static than it already was.
    â€˜Is she pretty?’ Élodie asked. She must have been staring at me for all of this time.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Your girlfriend, or whatever she is.’
    â€˜Why are you so obsessed with her?’
    â€˜Why are you so protective of her? Surely there is nothing to be ashamed of.’
    â€˜There isn’t. Pretty is the wrong word, though.’
    â€˜Why? Do you think I’m pretty?’
    I took Élodie in, from her pointed toe to her almost masculine jaw.
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘Pretty is the wrong word for you.’
    â€˜Good. I ask because I cannot imagine her being preoccupied with her appearance.’
    â€˜Aren’t most women?’
    â€˜Christ. Clearly you haven’t met many of them. But she is not a radiant beauty, is she?’
    â€˜That depends on the definition. You want me to tell you how radiantly beautiful you are, don’t you?’
    â€˜I don’t need to be told that, least of all from a nervous young art history student.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t find it reassuring?’
    â€˜Not in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the girl has to be pretty. Otherwise you would not be wasting your time.’
    I wished she would stop talking about Sophie. It felt wrong to be talking about her to a stranger—let alone one who criticised her so openly.
    â€˜In that case,’ I said, ‘why do you want to know about her? You’re not jealous, are you?’
    She cast a look of dead seriousness at me. It was and still is a horrific stencil on my mind. The car became quiet. I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks again and begged it to go away.
    â€˜I am afraid to ask,’ she said. ‘But have you any other clothes?’
    â€˜Not many.’
    â€˜I can see them already. We must find you something in Biarritz, or they will not let us in the hotel.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    The distance between us had grown. She curled her body up against the door, and when she turned to survey me it was with reproof. She opened her mouth, showing those sharp teeth, and spent a while judging me in silence.
    â€˜The jacket will do,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’
    â€˜In Paris, at the Galeries Lafayette.’ I said this with a shade of pride,