The 6:41 to Paris by Jean-Philippe Blondel

Author:Jean-Philippe Blondel [Blondel, Jean-Philippe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: e9781939931313
Publisher: New Vessel Press
Published: 2015-11-10T08:00:00+00:00

I didn’t really follow Mathieu’s career; I kept up with the programs on television, but I don’t think I ever saw a single film or series he played in. The insipid nature of the article annoyed me. I was just about to put the magazine down when I noticed the mole he had just above his wrist. I don’t know why, but it affected me. I smiled. I smiled at the man in the photograph. That day, too, at the hairdresser’s, I remembered the sidewalk café opposite the train station.

We didn’t really know what to talk about. Mathieu Coché wasn’t very chatty. I was really surprised, too, when I found out he’d become an actor. The way I saw it, actors had to be extroverts, had to feel easy around people. Performers who were well-integrated and experienced in giving interviews.

I was seething with hatred that day. With no end in sight. It had overwhelmed me on the return journey. I had emerged from the sort of hazy state I’d been in most of the night. I was only vaguely aware of getting off the train in Dover, showing my passport, and boarding another train. But suddenly in Paris, when I left the Gare du Nord, there was a wolfhound in my body. If Leduc had been there in front of me, I would have torn him to shreds.

I felt just the same—nothing had changed—when I got off the train in Troyes. Then suddenly there was Mathieu Coché. The guy’s best friend. It was too much. But at the same time I knew I had no reason to blame Mathieu. Besides, he was being considerate. He asked me, awkwardly, had it not gone well. I just said, “You don’t want to know,” and he nodded. He let a few minutes go by. The waiters were bustling around us. With their black and gold striped waistcoats, they looked like wasps.

I saw wasps. All around me. Their mandibles slicing up pieces of my flesh with a precise cruelty. My arms. My cheeks. My tongue. My eyes.

I had a sudden abrupt reaction, and almost knocked over the table. Mathieu Coché was startled. He touched my hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I thought there was an insect.”

“If you want to talk, or have a drink, or simply see someone, you can call me. I’ll be here all summer.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him. What was he thinking, really? Was he trying to hit on me? Was this his thing, to console the ex-girlfriends of his pal the heartbreaker? Or was it nothing? Simply nothing? Politeness? Kindness in the presence of someone who’s in pain? I never found out. I never called him, either.

He raised his hand to ask for the check, and the watch he was wearing slipped an inch or so down his arm. That’s when I saw the mole, just above his wrist.

All of a sudden, I emerged from my hatred.

I caught a glimpse of what was hidden deep inside Mathieu Coché.

His eyes, shoulders, forearms, neck—everything was seeping with absence.

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