Matia by Emily Tsokos Purtill

Author:Emily Tsokos Purtill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UWA Publishing

12

I Do Not Think That They Will Sing to Me

Athena, 27

Clermont-Ferrand, 2001

The cold French countryside blurred past Athena’s wet eyes in the early morning light. A dull orange and muddy green, dotted with little villages and train platforms, the motion of the train anaesthetising the passengers. Athena sat opposite a tracksuit-wearing older woman with a stripe of grey hair and a big black dog she called Fifi that cried like a broken whistle the entire journey. He stopped when she put him on her lap, but only for a few minutes. The woman’s companion, a middle-aged man, wore a faded olive-green shirt and quietly read Geo magazine, occasionally offering the lady and Fifi mutterings of support.

As the sun rose Athena saw blue and cloudy sky, church spires, smatterings of gravestones, the early autumnal forest. There were houses with slanted roofs, the occasional one painted a bright primary colour, and windows with square shutters like a child’s drawing.

She clutched her ticket, stamped Clermont-Ferrand.

Many years ago Athena had won a school prize to go to Europe on a student exchange program for one term. She’d chosen Clermont-Ferrand by closing her eyes and putting her finger on a map in the classroom. She’d wanted to get as far away from her family as possible, and a school exchange program seemed like a legitimate way to do so. Athena had lived with Madame Astier and her husband and son for a school term, speaking French that she had never forgotten.

‘I cannot believe you are leaving me to live with strangers,’ her mother had said, in tears at the airport. ‘Wear your máti. And ring me straight away. And don’t trust people.’

Athena looked at her wrist, where she had nothing but the edge of her black shirt over her veins. The gold bracelet with her máti on it was in her jewellery box in London. Maybe she should have worn it more. Maybe things had started going wrong when she stopped wearing it.

She had only called Madame Astier the day before, from Gare du Nord, after an uneventful Eurostar journey.

Athena had asked if she could come and stay for the weekend. She was living in London now. She apologised for the late notice. Of course, of course, Madame Astier said. She would meet her at the train station.

_____

Madame Astier smiled more than any other French person Athena had ever met. A mini, spritely middle-aged lady dressed in neutral tones with her matching Longchamp handbag (an apparently obligatory accessory for all French women over the age of forty). She was slightly smaller and frailer than the last time they had been at this platform.

‘Athena, how are you? We haven’t seen you in years,’ she said in French.

She leaned towards Athena and kissed her on her cheeks. Madame Astier was using the polite vous form to address Athena. She was conscious of responding in the same manner.

‘It was so lovely to hear from you. I had hoped you would come and visit us again sometime,’ she said, leading Athena to her car.

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