Claire Trevien is a PhD student at the University of Warwick. She has been actively involved in her local
writing community for several years as an editor and writer for small presses. Last year she helped organize
PENCILfest, a festival dedicated to student's new writing. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in
Avocado, Fuselit, Pomegranate, Roundtable Review, and in anthologies by Cinnamon Press, Leaf Books and
Heaventree Press. http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/trevienc
writing community for several years as an editor and writer for small presses. Last year she helped organize
PENCILfest, a festival dedicated to student's new writing. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in
Avocado, Fuselit, Pomegranate, Roundtable Review, and in anthologies by Cinnamon Press, Leaf Books and
Heaventree Press. http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/trevienc
The Chameleon
Rafael
I
At first, Montparnasse station looked to Rafael like a large ant's nest. Carrying large boulders and children with them, the
humming crowds climbed, descended and surfed the moving staircases unto different open levels. He felt part of a large
monkey's cage in which window panels threw shards of sun into his eyes. He took shade by the closest flight of stairs, and
let his eyes and ears grow accustomed to his setting. He'd never entered a station without a pressing purpose before, yet
here he was, without ticket or suitcase, able to breathe in its unique atmosphere. When the initial colour faded, Rafael closed
his eyes and felt the accent overwhelming all others. It smelled oddly familiar yet foreign. He could taste in its palate flour
and apples gelled together by salty butter. When his eyes opened, the sound escaped him.
Hot on the trail, Rafael pushed the doors of the station eatery open. Here again were suitcases, each chained to a chair like a
faithful dog. The sound sang overhead. Rafael sat at a table meant for two. Next to him was a mother and her baby, further
on sat two elderly couples, all separated by a hip's length gap between the tables. The mother was looking for a waiter,
agitating a Tupperware box full of baby food waiting to be heated. It seemed the woman belonging to the closest couple had
already engaged in conversation with the mother, and was now offering her babysitting skills:
"... Leave him to me, it'll be much easier for you to find someone if you wander off than staying here! I know my way with
kids; I have a grandson just like you! Don't I, cutsie? Oh yes I do! I do!" she chuckled at the baby at this point.
After a cursory look at the couple, the woman decided it was best to trust them and quickly left the table in search for a
waiter. The baby started crying. In response to this, the woman offered it reassurances the child could not possibly
understand:
"She'll be back in just a second. She just needs to heat up your yummy, yummy food! You want your yum-yum food don't
you?"
The doors to the eatery swung open again, and four harassed uniformed men entered two by two. Rafael heard the
babysitter call them "cheminots" with a trace of disdain in her voice. Rafael leant forwards:
"Excuse me madam, but are these the train conductors?"
The old lady jumped, and quickly looked at the child to check the voice had not emanated from its small body. She seemed
reassured when she saw Rafael's face.
"Why of course, they are the cheminots, though goodness knows why they are here, making trains late again I suppose."
"I can't quite place your accent," Rafael ventured.
"Oh it's Quimperois of course! But aren't you going to Brittany? We always joke with Joel," she said indicating her husband,
"that this area of Paris should just be called a Breton colony. Just walk down any street! Have you walked down any nearby?
Well. Well. If you did, you would see every other house is a Breton crêperie and the rest Breton houses and clubs and bars."
"How wonderful," Rafael said "I had no idea at all, I'm just visiting the station myself."
The lady looked at the back of his chair for signs of a suitcase.
II
Pascale had left behind: her clothes, some drying on racks, a still moist toothbrush, the keys to her car, her mobile phone
(now out of battery), her eyeless teddy bear, her make-up scattered on the sink, a battered copy of a bible she didn't believe
in, the empty Evian bottle she used to fill up to save the world and a Christmas present she'd bought early and hid behind
the laundry.
Rafael couldn't remember when he'd first met Pascale. She'd entered and disappeared from his life in an inexplicable manner.
One day she was there in the crook of his arm, her hair covering his face, bathing in his sweat. She was there, and that was
that.
Each morning, he watched her dress alone and then craved the feel of her fingers on his buttons as he shrugged on his shirt.
Pascale offered to make coffee sometimes but would then fix her imploring eyes on Rafael's face till he volunteered to make
it. It took him weeks to find out she feared the whistle of the kettle.
"But darling, it's just a machine!" he'd teased.
Pascale shuddered and told him he couldn't understand, using that hard edge in her voice -- the edge that made Rafael's
forehead go cold and his palms moist. Rafael never brought up the subject again.
Several weeks after Pascale's disappearance her objects were still scattered around the house, the drying rack threatening to
become a shrine. The day before he left, Rafael gathered all the props and bolted them into a cupboard. He added the kettle.
III
Rafael didn't decide to stay in Montparnasse, but the days added up and he felt no inclination to leave. He bought a suitcase
to reassure other travellers and took to sleeping on it in the waiting room. Rafael formed brief acquaintances with whom he'd
complain about the lateness of trains. After following these passengers to the platform, he would venture briefly into a
wagon, only to come back out and discreetly return to the main hub. His voice had Breton inflations now. He re-wrote his
story based on the person he'd met previously: sometimes he was a Bigouden, sometimes from the Morbihan. He came from
a large town, the country, his father was a fisherman, a pharmacist. He was on holiday, visiting his grandparents, returning
from a business trip, about to get married, a musician. His name was Edouard Gichahoua, Kevin Le Cossec, Benjamin
Toussaint, Herve Coatalen.
The storytelling was addictive with strangers, but he tried to limit it around what he perceived as Montparnasse's real
inhabitants. To Bernard, the man in the kiosque, he was always Rafael. With Bernard there had never been a need for
explanation and this is perhaps why they became friends. He was also known to, but not familiar with, the waitresses of the
eatery, would say hello to the chemist, and made small talk to the security guards, but Bernard was the only one with whom
he was Rafael and not just 'him'.
By now he'd seen more sightings of cheminots, the train drivers, but Rafael had never found an occasion to speak with
them. He asked Bernard:
"Do you know any of these cheminots chaps?"
"Well, Branson is all right. Some of the others though I can't stand, always stirring up trouble, always playing the underdog.
But Branson's all right. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious about them. I've never met a cheminot in my life."
"And why would you want to? They're always striking! Always a bloody nuisance, these damn cheminots. Branson's all right,
though."
"Can I meet him?"
"Shouldn't wonder you can, he's all right you see. Always hangs out at La Gouttière across the road when he has spare time.
They always drink, these cheminots, you see".
A woman brushed past Rafael, asking to buy a pack of twenty Camels. Bernard always made jokes when this happened
about needing a wife in exchange. It never seemed to work, and Rafael felt this would be no exception. He left with a wave of
his hand before hearing it.
IV
When Rafael realized Pascale was missing, his first thought was to find an alibi. He knew he was not responsible, but the
glare he projected on himself of public opinion was capable of making him self-doubt.
Two days after Pascale's disappearance, Rafael joined the search party, but without real hope. He looked up at the trees
wondering if she'd flown out.
On the third day, the search party found Pascale's motorbike. The police sketched scenarios, and then erased half of these
when the tank turned out to be full. "Does she have a lover?" they asked. Rafael shrugged and said that if she did, he'd be
the last person to know.
Ten days after Pascale's disappearance, Rafael cried for the first time. A girl walked past him wearing Ô de Lancôme and that
was that. He followed her like a snivelling dog all afternoon. She disappeared into a house and he looked up at the swinging
baskets of pale geraniums, feeling foolish. He knew he was acting irrationally, but he just couldn't find a reason to stop.
Ten weeks after Pascale's disappearance the post tumbled through the bronze flap. The thud jerked Rafael awake. He
stretched himself to a standing position and shuffled to the door. He refused to sleep in a bedroom, so had constructed for
himself a nest in the living room. When Pascale's beloved motorbike was found on the side of a road leading out of Pissos he
knew there was no hope. Yet, there was still hope that this was a deliberate attempt on Pascale's part to create the illusion
of no hope. Neither comforted.
His neighbour, Mme Dreuzy, did his shopping now. He couldn't bear the inquisitive sternness of the town's old ladies, the
way they'd stop and stare as he ambled down the cereal aisle. It made Rafael anxious as to what countenance it would be
proper for him to assume: he couldn't choose between acting brave or inconsolable. The question of what a broken man is
allowed to buy haunted him too: should he stick to frozen foods to demonstrate his derelict state? would eating meat be the
sign of an unwelcomingly active libido? How do vegetables fit into the equation?
In the safety of his house however, he could sing, he could laugh, he could be. He could even pretend he didn't care. The
previous night he wore Pascale's favourite red dress and when the zip caught, instead of fiddling with it he ripped the dress
off with a feeling of elation.
Rafael picked up the post, adverts mainly, a few bills. He dropped the bills and poured over the adverts, wondering whether,
like his grandmother Yolande, he would take to collecting coupons. Rafael felt tenser than usual, his mother had threatened
to visit. It would upset the careful balance he'd created for himself: his mother would insist he sell the house and move in
with her. He would have to keep his voice inside his body, no more howling, no more three way conversations with dead
personalities. It felt unimaginable. His eyes stuck to the picture of a train, unable to move.
V
Rafael found it surprisingly easy to spot the cheminots once he entered La Gouttière. The group grunted a hello to him and
let him join their group with an easiness that surprised him. Goutard, the oldest, was keen to impart on Rafael a sense of
history:
"... And it was a Breton what created the Parisian metro, a Bienvenue, Fulgence Bienvenue. What a name, I tell you! But this
station is the third Montparnasse! Third one. This one you know only came about in the thirties -- 1934 I think".
Rafael noticed none of them were drinking alcohol and pointed out the stereotype he'd heard. Goutard gave a short laugh
then said:
"Those are just nasty rumours. It's those drunken civil servants who spread them to try and turn the eye away from them.
Just the other week, one of those took me out for a drink. He had a beer, I had a coke, and he asked for a receipt! You see,
he gets it back. And there he was, talking to me about money, about how I was expensive, but he didn't think to mention
me his salary, now did he?"
A man named Louis piped up. "Now they complain that we're always on strike. But frankly, if employees are always on strike,
it's not the employees who are bad, it's their boss, surely? The whole system needs to be changed. Radically!"
"They're just jealous," slurred Goutard. "They call us cheminots in an attempt to insult us, but at least we're moving, and
progressing, and going somewhere. All they can do is stand still. I bet they've only done the same few rail strips in their life.
Whereas we folks, we've connected all over France, even Europe".
Rafael didn't see Branson, the man his friend Bernard had mentioned and asked for his whereabouts.
"Branson? He married high society, didn't he Louis?" said Goutard.
Louis hit the table with his hand with a short laugh.
"High society? Married prostitution more like. Branson's just a sylph, he is, and someone caught him and put him in a jar.
Shame on him for getting caught, that's what I say".
They wouldn't tell Rafael any more than that, but it seemed Branson saw an opportunity to leave and took it.
VI
Rafael had forgotten the reasons for his constant sense of hiatus. Perhaps there had been none to begin with. He was
simply waiting -- waiting for Pascale to return and justify his being. Until then he felt condemned to haunt his house,
disturbing it with the childishness of a poltergeist. When the house began to turn on him, Rafael decided to disappear as
inexplicably as Pascale. He left with the clothes on his back and a wallet, drove out of Pissos, left his car where her motorbike
had been found and walked to the train station. He had left his front door unlocked and the curtains open, keen to sign his
disappearance with a large question mark. He wrote a farewell note then threw it in the bin, where he knew it would be found.
It said:
Rafael,
Take any decision except mine. Stop answering: be a question. And finally, ignore all of the above.
He signed it with the messiest P he'd ever made, but no amendment could rectify it. It seemed to have developed a child: a
pregnant P, a B, in fact.
Rafael boarded the first train that left and so, found himself on the streets of Paris.
VII
The Ô de Lancôme episode Rafael had in Pissos became a common activity in Montparnasse. In the first few days, Rafael felt
like a dog on a trail. He'd catch a mane of brown hair bobbing down a platform and would follow it to the door of the
carriage. There he would wait. For what, he wasn't sure -- the train's departure perhaps, or for Pascale's face to emerge,
beaming, from its doors. Sometimes he'd go as far as venturing into the carriage, but once he saw the girl's face the illusion
would be broken and he would return to the waiting room.
Sometimes, a certain scent in the kiosque would do it. He'd roam the shop, trying to discreetly locate the scent. Bernard
would watch him non-plussed:
"What are you doing there, mongrel?"
Mongrel had become Bernard's pet name for Rafael.
"About to sneeze," he'd answer, before rushing out of the shop.
Every face would have a trace of her. Sometimes he grew to hate these faces for having perhaps passed hers in the street
and imbibed some of her essence.
In the fuzzy shop reflections, Rafael failed to recognize his own face. Between the brands he could locate a face that smiled
when he did, shook when he did, but to him was entirely foreign. Hair was growing where it hadn't before, the rings under
his eyes were as dark as shades, but it was the eyes themselves that he couldn't recognize. Watching them, Rafael found
himself wondering who this man was, where he was going, who he knew and he suppressed a stab of envy when looking at
the assured gaze.
"Hey Mongrel!" Bernard shouted one day. "Did you ever meet Branson, then?"
Rafael shook his head.
"Well there he is, heading for platform 8. Go and catch him -- he's all right"
Rafael searched platform 8, and as he did, the familiar hunting instinct awoke within him. Yet there was no mane and no
perfume to justify it. He set off for the platform with purpose in his stride.
Branson
I
When Branson was a child, her mother used to drop her off at her grandfather's every Wednesday afternoon. Branson
would play at the foot of her grandfather's armchair. Her grandfather never joined in, he said the floor was too low. So
Branson would play on her own at dominos, the four seasons, cluedo and other games. When three o'clock rang, her
grandfather would always exclaim:
"Here comes the weather forecast!"
Sure enough, Marie-Paule, the maid, would enter the house carrying all the weathers with her.
"Oh I can't tell you!" she'd exclaim, brushing dusty rain off her hat, "the weather outside is unspeakable! It really is! Have
you ever seen such quick changes from summer to autumn in a single day? Well, well, well."
Jasper the Labrador always greeted her a little enthusiastically, resulting in Marie-Paule almost toppling over under his weight.
This he did on this occasion too. She brushed him off with a tinkling laugh, and shook her umbrella out.
"Oh Jasper, get off me, you buffoon! The drains! Oh, I can't mention the state of my drains! Stiff with leaves... and not just
any leaves, not flimsy leaves! These are incredibly stiff. It took my husband two hours to clear them all out from the gutter
this morning. My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid he'd fall, or that the leaves would grow fists and wrestle him to the
ground... "
As Marie-Paule talked and Grandpa listened, Branson found her opportunity to disappear into the dining room.
"... We could sail to la Rochelle on those leave shells!" said Marie-Paule.
Branson's mother had always told her what a war hero Grandpa had been in the Royal Navy and that without him, ships
wouldn't have been given the all clear to fight. If her mother visited with Branson, she always took great care to explain that
Grandpa's medals were very precious and shouldn't be played with.
All Branson knew about her other grandparents was that they'd been in the Resistance and a neighbour had eaten their
Persian cat because he was so hungry. They'd never been able to have another pet since. Branson tried to imagine eating
Jasper sometimes, but worried that the dog would try and topple her over whilst in her belly. She'd never be able to walk
properly again if that were the case, unless she simply rolled herself like the cage of a hamster.
The medals were a bit too high for Branson, but the small khaki binoculars weren't, so she took them off their hook and sat
back on the floor. Her mother had also warned her not to touch these, but then, her mother wasn't here.
As her eyes connected to the holes, Branson felt overwhelmed by the greenness of the garden: even the drops slithering
down branches seemed to have absorbed that colour. The rain made the colour pop to the extent that Branson felt she was
in a tropical forest. As the binoculars focused, so did she, she found the clusters, the magpie hiding in the foliage, the damp
molehills, the pair of snails crossing the path. The neighbour's cat sprang into her vision so sharply that she jumped.
She imagined herself in the décor and imagined the décor differently. First she was a pirate freshly landed on the coast; next,
she was the sylph mummy had mentioned who lured people into the woods on their wedding day and then died so tragically.
Next again, an Indian princess held prisoner by devilish conquerors, an angry cat taking its revenge on the dog next door.
As the stories formed, they escaped her imagination and took a physical shape, Branson let the binoculars drop and started
acting, the chair became a tree trunk, a slave, a mast, or a bear.
II
Facts about Branson
Fact #1
Branson wasn't always called Branson. Her boyfriend called her pixie, sweetheart, honey and buttercup, but her passport
found Beatrice more appropriate.
III
Fact #2
Beatrice first visited England when she was nineteen. She went to a national drama festival in Scarborough. "I'm not
national," she told her family, but they assured her she was, so she went.
IV
Beatrice knew this would happen. Well, she didn't know this precise thing would happen, but she'd had a tinkling ever since
she boarded the plane that she would do something very stupid indeed. The staff had warned her not to use this lift. "We're
not insured anymore," they'd said. "If it got stuck there's little we could do, might be a day before you're freed owing to
policies and all that." It sounded so ludicrous that she refused to believe it, but there she was, stuck between two floors in
an old industrial lift in Scarborough's spa complex.
She pushed the set of doors back so that they coiled like an accordion. A thin strip of light from below indicated she was not
far from the ground floor. She'd pressed the alarm button a few times but she knew it was pointless: everyone was at the
awards ceremony in the theatre.
She remembered extracts of plays she'd seen to pass the time:
Ralf: What I like the most about you is that you smell of tea.
Jen: Not of biscuits?
Ralf: Not biscuits, no.
pause
Jen: What kind of tea?
Ralf: Earl grey.
Jen: I never drink earl grey.
Ralf (with feeling): You know what I mean, yes, you smell of breakfast tea. Normal tea, yes. Fair-trade tea. With a splinter
of sugar and a dollop of milk, yes. It's a compliment!
Beatrice thought that if only Ralf had just told Jen she smelled of cappuccinos or coca cola, or an alcoholic source of caffeine
their relationship would have fared better. She thought of the mundanity of tea with its limp cloud of milk and the softening
sugar. She thought of the smoke escaping cups like a wisp of air, and started feeling claustrophobic.
V
For as long as Beatrice had lived, her mother had been alone. Alone and British, which is something to be proud of, even in
Brittany. Or so her mother said. She had heard the story many times now that her father lived in America. She'd get
postcards sometimes and was assured it was her father writing despite the signature altering every time.
"How many fathers do I have?" She'd ask.
Her mother would say:
"As many as you want, but I'm your only mother".
VI
The lift started working of its own accord two hours and thirty seven minutes after it decided to stay put. Beatrice struggled
to her feet and found herself strolling out of the lift without a fuss. The lack of dramatics disconcerted her. No one was
waiting for her. The lift itself looked resolutely mundane. Not a soul was in sight and not a soul would believe her story.
In the entrance hall, a few helpers were tidying the bar and staircase. She was given a look by a red-headed girl.
"Why aren't you at the party?" she asked. "You're all supposed to be there. And where did you come from? That's staff
access only over there."
Feeling self-conscious of her accent, Beatrice replied "I was stuck in the lift."
"The lift! But you're not allowed in there! It's not insured!"
She gave Beatrice a look.
"You're foreign aren't you?"
"Yes." this time Beatrice made no attempt to soften her accent.
"Did you not understand? The lift is not insured," the red head enounced slowly.
Beatrice acquiesced, then made her way out of the building as quickly as possible. The feeling of claustrophobia that had
started in the lift was clutching at her throat.
VII
There was a sharp intake of breath. Branson's grandfather picked the binoculars up from where she'd dropped them and
replaced them carefully on their hook. Marie-Paule was standing in the doorway, her face like ashen clouds.
"What a terrible thing to do!" she said in French.
Her grandfather looked through her.
"I am sure your mother has warned you in the past not to touch these, hasn't she?" he asked her in English.
Branson looked at the floor.
"Look at me, young lady. Did you not understand? You must never touch them," enounced her grandfather slowly.
When Branson's mother came to pick her up, Branson hid in the car as her grandfather reported the happenings. Branson's
mother apologized, but when she entered the car she was smiling.
"You monkey. What did you take those binoculars for?"
"I was bored."
"I'd rather have a monkey for a daughter than a sloth, but try not to get caught next time, okay?" She winked in the mirror.
VIII
Beatrice met Branson at the party. She was tidying her hair in the reflection of a window when she looked through and found
him staring from the other side, smiling.
Rafael
VIII
The day before Pascale's disappearance, nothing of note happened. They were both at work during the day. Rafael hit the
snooze button twice, which is once more than usual. They had breakfast together, in silence, but not a heavy one. Pascale
poured him his orange juice and he let his hand gently rest on her buttocks as she did so. When she was done, he gave her
navel a peck. After work, they fitted into the sofa like forks in the kitchen drawer, their bare feet framing the television set.
In between two halves of a film, Pascale brought up the topic of children's names for the first time.
"What names do you like?" she asked.
"But pixie, you know we can't... "
"I'm still asking you," she replied. Her scarf made her eyes luminous.
"I haven't really given it much thought, pixie. Though I always rather liked Gabriel"
"What about for a girl? Have you got a name you like?"
"Why don't you tell me what names you like, pixie?"
"I like Beatrice. I really do"
"Well then, so do I, even if it is rather BCBG," he smiled.
He had kissed her forehead, and then she'd snuggled her head under his with a contented sigh.
"I'm going to make some tea," he finally said, and left for the kitchen.
He didn't ask Pascale if she'd wanted any. He made two cups automatically and brought them back to the living room.
If he'd paid closer attention, Rafael might have noticed a change in Pascale as her hands wrapped around the mug, but his
thoughts were on an advert for Pampers.
IX
There weren't any uniformed men on the platform, but Rafael wasn't using his eyes anymore. He felt his way through the
crowd, tripping against suitcases as he went, the weight of his own luggage digging into his palm. Eventually, Rafael let his
suitcase fall to the ground and carried on walking. He stretched his arm out through the crowd and caught Branson's sleeve.
He turned her around. Rafael took in her rounded belly, her cropped hair. For the first time in weeks he thought he saw his
own reflection as he looked at her.
Somewhere, sometime later, Rafael's suitcase was pulverised by security guards.
Rafael
I
At first, Montparnasse station looked to Rafael like a large ant's nest. Carrying large boulders and children with them, the
humming crowds climbed, descended and surfed the moving staircases unto different open levels. He felt part of a large
monkey's cage in which window panels threw shards of sun into his eyes. He took shade by the closest flight of stairs, and
let his eyes and ears grow accustomed to his setting. He'd never entered a station without a pressing purpose before, yet
here he was, without ticket or suitcase, able to breathe in its unique atmosphere. When the initial colour faded, Rafael closed
his eyes and felt the accent overwhelming all others. It smelled oddly familiar yet foreign. He could taste in its palate flour
and apples gelled together by salty butter. When his eyes opened, the sound escaped him.
Hot on the trail, Rafael pushed the doors of the station eatery open. Here again were suitcases, each chained to a chair like a
faithful dog. The sound sang overhead. Rafael sat at a table meant for two. Next to him was a mother and her baby, further
on sat two elderly couples, all separated by a hip's length gap between the tables. The mother was looking for a waiter,
agitating a Tupperware box full of baby food waiting to be heated. It seemed the woman belonging to the closest couple had
already engaged in conversation with the mother, and was now offering her babysitting skills:
"... Leave him to me, it'll be much easier for you to find someone if you wander off than staying here! I know my way with
kids; I have a grandson just like you! Don't I, cutsie? Oh yes I do! I do!" she chuckled at the baby at this point.
After a cursory look at the couple, the woman decided it was best to trust them and quickly left the table in search for a
waiter. The baby started crying. In response to this, the woman offered it reassurances the child could not possibly
understand:
"She'll be back in just a second. She just needs to heat up your yummy, yummy food! You want your yum-yum food don't
you?"
The doors to the eatery swung open again, and four harassed uniformed men entered two by two. Rafael heard the
babysitter call them "cheminots" with a trace of disdain in her voice. Rafael leant forwards:
"Excuse me madam, but are these the train conductors?"
The old lady jumped, and quickly looked at the child to check the voice had not emanated from its small body. She seemed
reassured when she saw Rafael's face.
"Why of course, they are the cheminots, though goodness knows why they are here, making trains late again I suppose."
"I can't quite place your accent," Rafael ventured.
"Oh it's Quimperois of course! But aren't you going to Brittany? We always joke with Joel," she said indicating her husband,
"that this area of Paris should just be called a Breton colony. Just walk down any street! Have you walked down any nearby?
Well. Well. If you did, you would see every other house is a Breton crêperie and the rest Breton houses and clubs and bars."
"How wonderful," Rafael said "I had no idea at all, I'm just visiting the station myself."
The lady looked at the back of his chair for signs of a suitcase.
II
Pascale had left behind: her clothes, some drying on racks, a still moist toothbrush, the keys to her car, her mobile phone
(now out of battery), her eyeless teddy bear, her make-up scattered on the sink, a battered copy of a bible she didn't believe
in, the empty Evian bottle she used to fill up to save the world and a Christmas present she'd bought early and hid behind
the laundry.
Rafael couldn't remember when he'd first met Pascale. She'd entered and disappeared from his life in an inexplicable manner.
One day she was there in the crook of his arm, her hair covering his face, bathing in his sweat. She was there, and that was
that.
Each morning, he watched her dress alone and then craved the feel of her fingers on his buttons as he shrugged on his shirt.
Pascale offered to make coffee sometimes but would then fix her imploring eyes on Rafael's face till he volunteered to make
it. It took him weeks to find out she feared the whistle of the kettle.
"But darling, it's just a machine!" he'd teased.
Pascale shuddered and told him he couldn't understand, using that hard edge in her voice -- the edge that made Rafael's
forehead go cold and his palms moist. Rafael never brought up the subject again.
Several weeks after Pascale's disappearance her objects were still scattered around the house, the drying rack threatening to
become a shrine. The day before he left, Rafael gathered all the props and bolted them into a cupboard. He added the kettle.
III
Rafael didn't decide to stay in Montparnasse, but the days added up and he felt no inclination to leave. He bought a suitcase
to reassure other travellers and took to sleeping on it in the waiting room. Rafael formed brief acquaintances with whom he'd
complain about the lateness of trains. After following these passengers to the platform, he would venture briefly into a
wagon, only to come back out and discreetly return to the main hub. His voice had Breton inflations now. He re-wrote his
story based on the person he'd met previously: sometimes he was a Bigouden, sometimes from the Morbihan. He came from
a large town, the country, his father was a fisherman, a pharmacist. He was on holiday, visiting his grandparents, returning
from a business trip, about to get married, a musician. His name was Edouard Gichahoua, Kevin Le Cossec, Benjamin
Toussaint, Herve Coatalen.
The storytelling was addictive with strangers, but he tried to limit it around what he perceived as Montparnasse's real
inhabitants. To Bernard, the man in the kiosque, he was always Rafael. With Bernard there had never been a need for
explanation and this is perhaps why they became friends. He was also known to, but not familiar with, the waitresses of the
eatery, would say hello to the chemist, and made small talk to the security guards, but Bernard was the only one with whom
he was Rafael and not just 'him'.
By now he'd seen more sightings of cheminots, the train drivers, but Rafael had never found an occasion to speak with
them. He asked Bernard:
"Do you know any of these cheminots chaps?"
"Well, Branson is all right. Some of the others though I can't stand, always stirring up trouble, always playing the underdog.
But Branson's all right. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious about them. I've never met a cheminot in my life."
"And why would you want to? They're always striking! Always a bloody nuisance, these damn cheminots. Branson's all right,
though."
"Can I meet him?"
"Shouldn't wonder you can, he's all right you see. Always hangs out at La Gouttière across the road when he has spare time.
They always drink, these cheminots, you see".
A woman brushed past Rafael, asking to buy a pack of twenty Camels. Bernard always made jokes when this happened
about needing a wife in exchange. It never seemed to work, and Rafael felt this would be no exception. He left with a wave of
his hand before hearing it.
IV
When Rafael realized Pascale was missing, his first thought was to find an alibi. He knew he was not responsible, but the
glare he projected on himself of public opinion was capable of making him self-doubt.
Two days after Pascale's disappearance, Rafael joined the search party, but without real hope. He looked up at the trees
wondering if she'd flown out.
On the third day, the search party found Pascale's motorbike. The police sketched scenarios, and then erased half of these
when the tank turned out to be full. "Does she have a lover?" they asked. Rafael shrugged and said that if she did, he'd be
the last person to know.
Ten days after Pascale's disappearance, Rafael cried for the first time. A girl walked past him wearing Ô de Lancôme and that
was that. He followed her like a snivelling dog all afternoon. She disappeared into a house and he looked up at the swinging
baskets of pale geraniums, feeling foolish. He knew he was acting irrationally, but he just couldn't find a reason to stop.
Ten weeks after Pascale's disappearance the post tumbled through the bronze flap. The thud jerked Rafael awake. He
stretched himself to a standing position and shuffled to the door. He refused to sleep in a bedroom, so had constructed for
himself a nest in the living room. When Pascale's beloved motorbike was found on the side of a road leading out of Pissos he
knew there was no hope. Yet, there was still hope that this was a deliberate attempt on Pascale's part to create the illusion
of no hope. Neither comforted.
His neighbour, Mme Dreuzy, did his shopping now. He couldn't bear the inquisitive sternness of the town's old ladies, the
way they'd stop and stare as he ambled down the cereal aisle. It made Rafael anxious as to what countenance it would be
proper for him to assume: he couldn't choose between acting brave or inconsolable. The question of what a broken man is
allowed to buy haunted him too: should he stick to frozen foods to demonstrate his derelict state? would eating meat be the
sign of an unwelcomingly active libido? How do vegetables fit into the equation?
In the safety of his house however, he could sing, he could laugh, he could be. He could even pretend he didn't care. The
previous night he wore Pascale's favourite red dress and when the zip caught, instead of fiddling with it he ripped the dress
off with a feeling of elation.
Rafael picked up the post, adverts mainly, a few bills. He dropped the bills and poured over the adverts, wondering whether,
like his grandmother Yolande, he would take to collecting coupons. Rafael felt tenser than usual, his mother had threatened
to visit. It would upset the careful balance he'd created for himself: his mother would insist he sell the house and move in
with her. He would have to keep his voice inside his body, no more howling, no more three way conversations with dead
personalities. It felt unimaginable. His eyes stuck to the picture of a train, unable to move.
V
Rafael found it surprisingly easy to spot the cheminots once he entered La Gouttière. The group grunted a hello to him and
let him join their group with an easiness that surprised him. Goutard, the oldest, was keen to impart on Rafael a sense of
history:
"... And it was a Breton what created the Parisian metro, a Bienvenue, Fulgence Bienvenue. What a name, I tell you! But this
station is the third Montparnasse! Third one. This one you know only came about in the thirties -- 1934 I think".
Rafael noticed none of them were drinking alcohol and pointed out the stereotype he'd heard. Goutard gave a short laugh
then said:
"Those are just nasty rumours. It's those drunken civil servants who spread them to try and turn the eye away from them.
Just the other week, one of those took me out for a drink. He had a beer, I had a coke, and he asked for a receipt! You see,
he gets it back. And there he was, talking to me about money, about how I was expensive, but he didn't think to mention
me his salary, now did he?"
A man named Louis piped up. "Now they complain that we're always on strike. But frankly, if employees are always on strike,
it's not the employees who are bad, it's their boss, surely? The whole system needs to be changed. Radically!"
"They're just jealous," slurred Goutard. "They call us cheminots in an attempt to insult us, but at least we're moving, and
progressing, and going somewhere. All they can do is stand still. I bet they've only done the same few rail strips in their life.
Whereas we folks, we've connected all over France, even Europe".
Rafael didn't see Branson, the man his friend Bernard had mentioned and asked for his whereabouts.
"Branson? He married high society, didn't he Louis?" said Goutard.
Louis hit the table with his hand with a short laugh.
"High society? Married prostitution more like. Branson's just a sylph, he is, and someone caught him and put him in a jar.
Shame on him for getting caught, that's what I say".
They wouldn't tell Rafael any more than that, but it seemed Branson saw an opportunity to leave and took it.
VI
Rafael had forgotten the reasons for his constant sense of hiatus. Perhaps there had been none to begin with. He was
simply waiting -- waiting for Pascale to return and justify his being. Until then he felt condemned to haunt his house,
disturbing it with the childishness of a poltergeist. When the house began to turn on him, Rafael decided to disappear as
inexplicably as Pascale. He left with the clothes on his back and a wallet, drove out of Pissos, left his car where her motorbike
had been found and walked to the train station. He had left his front door unlocked and the curtains open, keen to sign his
disappearance with a large question mark. He wrote a farewell note then threw it in the bin, where he knew it would be found.
It said:
Rafael,
Take any decision except mine. Stop answering: be a question. And finally, ignore all of the above.
He signed it with the messiest P he'd ever made, but no amendment could rectify it. It seemed to have developed a child: a
pregnant P, a B, in fact.
Rafael boarded the first train that left and so, found himself on the streets of Paris.
VII
The Ô de Lancôme episode Rafael had in Pissos became a common activity in Montparnasse. In the first few days, Rafael felt
like a dog on a trail. He'd catch a mane of brown hair bobbing down a platform and would follow it to the door of the
carriage. There he would wait. For what, he wasn't sure -- the train's departure perhaps, or for Pascale's face to emerge,
beaming, from its doors. Sometimes he'd go as far as venturing into the carriage, but once he saw the girl's face the illusion
would be broken and he would return to the waiting room.
Sometimes, a certain scent in the kiosque would do it. He'd roam the shop, trying to discreetly locate the scent. Bernard
would watch him non-plussed:
"What are you doing there, mongrel?"
Mongrel had become Bernard's pet name for Rafael.
"About to sneeze," he'd answer, before rushing out of the shop.
Every face would have a trace of her. Sometimes he grew to hate these faces for having perhaps passed hers in the street
and imbibed some of her essence.
In the fuzzy shop reflections, Rafael failed to recognize his own face. Between the brands he could locate a face that smiled
when he did, shook when he did, but to him was entirely foreign. Hair was growing where it hadn't before, the rings under
his eyes were as dark as shades, but it was the eyes themselves that he couldn't recognize. Watching them, Rafael found
himself wondering who this man was, where he was going, who he knew and he suppressed a stab of envy when looking at
the assured gaze.
"Hey Mongrel!" Bernard shouted one day. "Did you ever meet Branson, then?"
Rafael shook his head.
"Well there he is, heading for platform 8. Go and catch him -- he's all right"
Rafael searched platform 8, and as he did, the familiar hunting instinct awoke within him. Yet there was no mane and no
perfume to justify it. He set off for the platform with purpose in his stride.
Branson
I
When Branson was a child, her mother used to drop her off at her grandfather's every Wednesday afternoon. Branson
would play at the foot of her grandfather's armchair. Her grandfather never joined in, he said the floor was too low. So
Branson would play on her own at dominos, the four seasons, cluedo and other games. When three o'clock rang, her
grandfather would always exclaim:
"Here comes the weather forecast!"
Sure enough, Marie-Paule, the maid, would enter the house carrying all the weathers with her.
"Oh I can't tell you!" she'd exclaim, brushing dusty rain off her hat, "the weather outside is unspeakable! It really is! Have
you ever seen such quick changes from summer to autumn in a single day? Well, well, well."
Jasper the Labrador always greeted her a little enthusiastically, resulting in Marie-Paule almost toppling over under his weight.
This he did on this occasion too. She brushed him off with a tinkling laugh, and shook her umbrella out.
"Oh Jasper, get off me, you buffoon! The drains! Oh, I can't mention the state of my drains! Stiff with leaves... and not just
any leaves, not flimsy leaves! These are incredibly stiff. It took my husband two hours to clear them all out from the gutter
this morning. My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid he'd fall, or that the leaves would grow fists and wrestle him to the
ground... "
As Marie-Paule talked and Grandpa listened, Branson found her opportunity to disappear into the dining room.
"... We could sail to la Rochelle on those leave shells!" said Marie-Paule.
Branson's mother had always told her what a war hero Grandpa had been in the Royal Navy and that without him, ships
wouldn't have been given the all clear to fight. If her mother visited with Branson, she always took great care to explain that
Grandpa's medals were very precious and shouldn't be played with.
All Branson knew about her other grandparents was that they'd been in the Resistance and a neighbour had eaten their
Persian cat because he was so hungry. They'd never been able to have another pet since. Branson tried to imagine eating
Jasper sometimes, but worried that the dog would try and topple her over whilst in her belly. She'd never be able to walk
properly again if that were the case, unless she simply rolled herself like the cage of a hamster.
The medals were a bit too high for Branson, but the small khaki binoculars weren't, so she took them off their hook and sat
back on the floor. Her mother had also warned her not to touch these, but then, her mother wasn't here.
As her eyes connected to the holes, Branson felt overwhelmed by the greenness of the garden: even the drops slithering
down branches seemed to have absorbed that colour. The rain made the colour pop to the extent that Branson felt she was
in a tropical forest. As the binoculars focused, so did she, she found the clusters, the magpie hiding in the foliage, the damp
molehills, the pair of snails crossing the path. The neighbour's cat sprang into her vision so sharply that she jumped.
She imagined herself in the décor and imagined the décor differently. First she was a pirate freshly landed on the coast; next,
she was the sylph mummy had mentioned who lured people into the woods on their wedding day and then died so tragically.
Next again, an Indian princess held prisoner by devilish conquerors, an angry cat taking its revenge on the dog next door.
As the stories formed, they escaped her imagination and took a physical shape, Branson let the binoculars drop and started
acting, the chair became a tree trunk, a slave, a mast, or a bear.
II
Facts about Branson
Fact #1
Branson wasn't always called Branson. Her boyfriend called her pixie, sweetheart, honey and buttercup, but her passport
found Beatrice more appropriate.
III
Fact #2
Beatrice first visited England when she was nineteen. She went to a national drama festival in Scarborough. "I'm not
national," she told her family, but they assured her she was, so she went.
IV
Beatrice knew this would happen. Well, she didn't know this precise thing would happen, but she'd had a tinkling ever since
she boarded the plane that she would do something very stupid indeed. The staff had warned her not to use this lift. "We're
not insured anymore," they'd said. "If it got stuck there's little we could do, might be a day before you're freed owing to
policies and all that." It sounded so ludicrous that she refused to believe it, but there she was, stuck between two floors in
an old industrial lift in Scarborough's spa complex.
She pushed the set of doors back so that they coiled like an accordion. A thin strip of light from below indicated she was not
far from the ground floor. She'd pressed the alarm button a few times but she knew it was pointless: everyone was at the
awards ceremony in the theatre.
She remembered extracts of plays she'd seen to pass the time:
Ralf: What I like the most about you is that you smell of tea.
Jen: Not of biscuits?
Ralf: Not biscuits, no.
pause
Jen: What kind of tea?
Ralf: Earl grey.
Jen: I never drink earl grey.
Ralf (with feeling): You know what I mean, yes, you smell of breakfast tea. Normal tea, yes. Fair-trade tea. With a splinter
of sugar and a dollop of milk, yes. It's a compliment!
Beatrice thought that if only Ralf had just told Jen she smelled of cappuccinos or coca cola, or an alcoholic source of caffeine
their relationship would have fared better. She thought of the mundanity of tea with its limp cloud of milk and the softening
sugar. She thought of the smoke escaping cups like a wisp of air, and started feeling claustrophobic.
V
For as long as Beatrice had lived, her mother had been alone. Alone and British, which is something to be proud of, even in
Brittany. Or so her mother said. She had heard the story many times now that her father lived in America. She'd get
postcards sometimes and was assured it was her father writing despite the signature altering every time.
"How many fathers do I have?" She'd ask.
Her mother would say:
"As many as you want, but I'm your only mother".
VI
The lift started working of its own accord two hours and thirty seven minutes after it decided to stay put. Beatrice struggled
to her feet and found herself strolling out of the lift without a fuss. The lack of dramatics disconcerted her. No one was
waiting for her. The lift itself looked resolutely mundane. Not a soul was in sight and not a soul would believe her story.
In the entrance hall, a few helpers were tidying the bar and staircase. She was given a look by a red-headed girl.
"Why aren't you at the party?" she asked. "You're all supposed to be there. And where did you come from? That's staff
access only over there."
Feeling self-conscious of her accent, Beatrice replied "I was stuck in the lift."
"The lift! But you're not allowed in there! It's not insured!"
She gave Beatrice a look.
"You're foreign aren't you?"
"Yes." this time Beatrice made no attempt to soften her accent.
"Did you not understand? The lift is not insured," the red head enounced slowly.
Beatrice acquiesced, then made her way out of the building as quickly as possible. The feeling of claustrophobia that had
started in the lift was clutching at her throat.
VII
There was a sharp intake of breath. Branson's grandfather picked the binoculars up from where she'd dropped them and
replaced them carefully on their hook. Marie-Paule was standing in the doorway, her face like ashen clouds.
"What a terrible thing to do!" she said in French.
Her grandfather looked through her.
"I am sure your mother has warned you in the past not to touch these, hasn't she?" he asked her in English.
Branson looked at the floor.
"Look at me, young lady. Did you not understand? You must never touch them," enounced her grandfather slowly.
When Branson's mother came to pick her up, Branson hid in the car as her grandfather reported the happenings. Branson's
mother apologized, but when she entered the car she was smiling.
"You monkey. What did you take those binoculars for?"
"I was bored."
"I'd rather have a monkey for a daughter than a sloth, but try not to get caught next time, okay?" She winked in the mirror.
VIII
Beatrice met Branson at the party. She was tidying her hair in the reflection of a window when she looked through and found
him staring from the other side, smiling.
Rafael
VIII
The day before Pascale's disappearance, nothing of note happened. They were both at work during the day. Rafael hit the
snooze button twice, which is once more than usual. They had breakfast together, in silence, but not a heavy one. Pascale
poured him his orange juice and he let his hand gently rest on her buttocks as she did so. When she was done, he gave her
navel a peck. After work, they fitted into the sofa like forks in the kitchen drawer, their bare feet framing the television set.
In between two halves of a film, Pascale brought up the topic of children's names for the first time.
"What names do you like?" she asked.
"But pixie, you know we can't... "
"I'm still asking you," she replied. Her scarf made her eyes luminous.
"I haven't really given it much thought, pixie. Though I always rather liked Gabriel"
"What about for a girl? Have you got a name you like?"
"Why don't you tell me what names you like, pixie?"
"I like Beatrice. I really do"
"Well then, so do I, even if it is rather BCBG," he smiled.
He had kissed her forehead, and then she'd snuggled her head under his with a contented sigh.
"I'm going to make some tea," he finally said, and left for the kitchen.
He didn't ask Pascale if she'd wanted any. He made two cups automatically and brought them back to the living room.
If he'd paid closer attention, Rafael might have noticed a change in Pascale as her hands wrapped around the mug, but his
thoughts were on an advert for Pampers.
IX
There weren't any uniformed men on the platform, but Rafael wasn't using his eyes anymore. He felt his way through the
crowd, tripping against suitcases as he went, the weight of his own luggage digging into his palm. Eventually, Rafael let his
suitcase fall to the ground and carried on walking. He stretched his arm out through the crowd and caught Branson's sleeve.
He turned her around. Rafael took in her rounded belly, her cropped hair. For the first time in weeks he thought he saw his
own reflection as he looked at her.
Somewhere, sometime later, Rafael's suitcase was pulverised by security guards.
Claire Trevien
