Пэм Дженофф – The Diplomat's Wife (страница 12)

The conductor turns back, annoyed. “Ja?”

I hesitate. “Why have we stopped?”

“The tracks are broken ahead and we had no word of it when we were sent this way.” I struggle to understand his thickly accented German. “We’ll be backing up to the nearest junction shortly and heading for Paris.”

Panic rips through me. “But, sir, my ferry leaves from Calais at six tonight. I have to get there.”

“You’re not the only one with a boat to catch, miss,” he replies tersely. “There’s nothing to be done about it. You can take a train from Paris to Calais tomorrow. There will be other boats.” He turns and continues down the corridor.

I let the carriage door close and sink into the nearest seat. My visa expires tonight. I’ll never make it in time. A rock forms in the pit of my stomach. What am I going to do? I doubt the money that Dava gave me is enough for a return ticket to Salzburg. If I cannot get to England, I will be stranded with nowhere to go.

Desperately, I reach in my satchel and pull out the visa, scanning the document and trying to understand the foreign words. My eyes go to the seal at the top of the page. There must be a British embassy in Paris. Perhaps if I go there and explain, I can get an extension. I hesitate, considering the idea. Do I really dare walk into the embassy with a visa that isn’t even really mine? It is my only hope. Still clutching the papers, I lean back and pray for a miracle as the train begins to roll slowly backward.

I stand by the door, satchel in hand, as the train pulls into Gare l’Est. I open the door and leap to the platform as we slow, not waiting to come to a complete stop. It has been more than seven hours since we stopped in the countryside and began our slow, painstaking detour to Paris. As the train crawled through the seemingly endless countryside, I fought the urge to scream. Instead I hounded the harried conductor for directions to the British embassy, practiced over and over again what I would say when I arrived.

I race down the platform, then pause, staring helplessly at the unintelligible French signs. The massive train station is awash with travelers—commuters mingle with groups of soldiers and families seeming to carry all of their possessions in large bags. To the right, I see a sign with a large M on it. The conductor told me the quickest route to the embassy was to take the Métro to the Madeline station.

Weaving my way through the crowds, I run to the entrance of the Métro, then hesitate, staring down the steps into the black hole. The smell of urine wafts upward. Can this possibly be right? Though I have read about subways, I have never actually taken one. But the conductor said it was too far to walk and he did not give me directions by bus. And it is four-twenty, just forty minutes until the embassy will likely close. I take the stairs two at a time, holding the railing so as not to fall. At the bottom, I pause to consult a map and identify a pink line that runs between the Gare l’Est and Madeline stations. Quickly, I buy a ticket from the kiosk, then follow the signs for the pink line to a crowded platform. A few minutes later, a train rumbles noisily into view. I board with the other passengers and find myself pressed uncomfortably into the center of the car between an old man and a group of schoolgirls. There is nowhere to sit, so I reach out and hold on to a nearby pole for balance.

The doors close and the train begins to roll forward. A voice comes over the speaker, announcing the next stop in garbled French that I cannot comprehend. How will I know where to get off? My eyes dart to the route map over the door and I count four stops between Gare l’Est and Madeline. Faster, I think, digging my nails into my palms. What if I don’t make it on time? We reach the first stop and the doors open. A few passengers get off, but others board, making the train car more overcrowded than before. Just three more stops, I think, as the train begins to roll forward into the darkness of the tunnel. Suddenly, it halts again. The other passengers groan collectively, mumbling phrases I cannot understand. Why have we stopped? I catch a glimpse of a man’s wristwatch. Four-thirty-five. I am not going to make it. A cold sweat breaks out beneath my dress.

The train starts to move again. We reach the second stop, then the third. As we leave the fourth stop, I inch my way through the crowd, trying to get closer to the door. The train creeps into Madeline station. As the doors open, I push through the crowd and race up the steps. At the top, I step onto the pavement and stop, gasping. I am standing at the biggest intersection I have ever seen. Buses, taxis and other cars, at least four deep, race in all directions along two wide boulevards, flanked by enormous buildings. The cities I have seen before, Kraków and Salzburg, in no way prepared me for this. I shiver, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all.

But there is no time to wonder. A bell chimes once, jarring me from my thoughts. Four-forty-five, the clock on the front of a large stone church across the boulevard reads. The embassy will close in fifteen minutes. I look in both directions, trying to get my bearings. Rue Royale, the street sign at the corner says. I turn left, as the conductor instructed, and run to the next major intersection. In the distance across the boulevard, I see a massive gray building, flags flying atop. That must be the embassy! I step out into the street, then jump as car horns blare out noisily in protest. The traffic light is red, I realize, leaping back onto the curb. When the light turns green, I fly across the intersection and down the street. The distance between myself and the embassy closes, fifty meters, then twenty. At last I reach the front of the large columned building bearing a British flag on the roof.

I rush to the guard booth at the front gate of the embassy. “Visa section, please,” I pant in English, still breathing heavily from the run.

“The consulate is closed, ma’am.”

My heart sinks. “But it’s not yet five …”

He shakes his head. “They stop taking applicants at four-thirty.”

“Please,” I plead, pulling my visa from the bag and holding it out to him. “It’s very urgent that I see someone today.”

He does not look down at the papers. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow will be too late.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

I step backward, feeling as though a rock has slammed into my chest. I am too late. The embassy is closed. Shoving the papers back into my bag, I stumble away from the gate. The boulevard is crowded now with men in suits on their way home from work, small clusters of young colleagues going for drinks. People living their normal lives. People who belong here. My eyes begin to sting. I brush my hand across them impatiently. Crying isn’t going to help. I have to figure out what to do.

Across the street from the embassy, I notice a small park. I cross the street and make my way down one of the tree-lined paths. Slats of sunlight shine through the leaves. The benches along either side of the path are filled with Parisians enjoying the summer evening. A woman knits silently on one of the benches, a large shepherd at her feet. Farther along, two old men play chess, surrounded by a small group of onlookers. There are people sprawled in the grass as well, smoking cigarettes and reading.

I walk toward the fountain that sits in the middle of the park, finding an empty spot on one of the peeling green benches that surround it. On the other end of the bench a man reads Le Monde, the newspaper spread wide in his lap. He does not look up as I sit.

On a bench across from me, I notice two young women with prams in front of them. They are speaking in a Slavic language, and though I do not recognize which, I understand enough to gather that one is describing a night out with a man, perhaps a boyfriend. They rock the carriages with a disinterest that suggests the babies inside are not theirs.

A cool wind blows through the park. Looking up at the dark clouds that have eclipsed the sun, I cross my arms, wishing I had a coat. It will be evening soon. I need to think about where I will stay tonight, and about food. I pull the last of Dava’s sandwiches from my bag and unwrap it. I sniff the sandwich, remembering from prison how to judge how far bad it has gone, whether or not it is safe. The meat has a slightly sour smell, still edible but not for much longer. Breathing shallowly, I take a bite. I cannot afford to waste any food now. As I eat, I think longingly of the hot dinners prepared by the Red Cross in the palace kitchen. The Red Cross! Perhaps they help refugees here, too. I hesitate, looking at the au pairs, then stand and make my way across the path. “Przepraszam,” I say, excusing myself in Polish. Hopefully their language is close enough so that they will understand. The women stop speaking and look up at me, squinting. I touch my chest. “Refugee.” Then I point at them. “You, too?”

The women start to stand up, their expressions turning to fear. “Non,” the younger-looking woman, hair dyed an unnatural red, says quickly in French.