She has sat down on the floor, against a wall. At the gare du Nord, she had seen them sprawled out like that in some out-of-the-way corner. They would settle down on the filthy floor amid streams of spilt liquids and pieces of crushed chewing gum, exposed to the freezing, dusty draughts, in the middle of the frenetic bustle of a crowd intoxicated by the thought of departure. They’d stretch out under the reproving stares of the busy people to show they had no strength left, not even to go a few yards further along to find a bench or the cushioned seat of a drinks stand. She’d assumed they were homeless or broke, waiting to sneak onto a train without a ticket. Now she is in the same position, no higher than a man’s knee, like a dog. An ethereal female voice starts talking above their heads. She can’t follow the words but knows that the voice is announcing the next train, the time, the number, the departure or arrival platform. An English woman is sitting behind a microphone and performing the same task she does in Paris. Later on, she will leave her office and might walk past her, she with her ass glued to the floor, and glance at her briefly, wondering what that woman with a sports bag can possibly be doing there by herself. And then, all of sudden, a silhouette, a familiar gait, the fleeting certainty that. But no, her hope collapses like a botched cake and she sinks back into her hole at the sight of the atrociously unfamiliar face. And so it continues, as she lets herself fall into the trap, tortured by the thought of his presence trying to incarnate itself in one of the bodies around her, a body that is never the right one. In the end, she becomes hypnotized by the parade of passing shoes. She would like a hand to touch her on the shoulder, for it to be his, and for that to be the end of the matter. The episode would become a little story they could spend the rest of their stay looking back on with laughter. But nothing of the sort happens. No one recognizes her, and she recognizes no one. She is in an unfamiliar city, and there is no place in it for her except with him.
Trains are leaving in the other direction, their noses pointed straight at Paris. There is nothing to stop her from taking one. Her bank account would go into the red, but in three hours she’d be back at the starting gate, where her old habits would be waiting for her. She would push open the door of her apartment and use up the last of her strength pretending nothing had happened. But going back is worse than staying put. She lacks the courage to make the trip, and when she returns, to confront the deluge of too many questions, the necessity of acting on what she discovers, whether he is in Paris or not. By staying, she will be able to pretend that their trip was not a total failure, she can give herself a small breather before being forced to swallow the truth in one gulp.
Every thirty minutes she has stood up, patrolled the station on her stiff legs, searching for the slightest clue, then returned to sit down in the same spot again, this corner of wall and floor. After seven hours of surveillance rounds, she leaves the station, slightly dazed, hunger in her belly. The night is pierced by the glow of headlights and streetlamps, not very different from the ones in Paris. In front of her is a stretch of pavement, a succession of roads and a staircase leading down to a grim-looking underpass that she feels incapable of going into. A black vehicle in the shape of an estate car with the word Taxi lit up on its roof. She signals to the driver, who pulls over on the other side of the street. The traffic doesn’t slow down. After several attempts, she manages to cross at a run. She climbs into the taxi, which strikes her as over-spacious, more suited to bearing coffins than upright living people. Far in front of her, the driver has said something. She can only see the back of his head. Hotel. She articulates the word clearly, hoping to compensate for her lack of a British accent. An incomprehensible question from the driver, who turns round with a not very friendly look on his face. She wants to tell him that she’s had a hard day, that he could at least be polite, but all she has at her disposal is the word hotel and whatever patience she has left. Eventually, the driver takes off with a comment that ends in a sigh.
The bridge they take stretches across a wide river. Along its banks, lights from buildings of every kind, glass towers, domes, stone façades, historical moments set in the dominant materials of their days. She has never seen such a jumble of heights and styles. She never would have guessed that London looked like this. After the bridge, she closed her eyes. She doesn’t know where this man is taking her; she has entrusted herself to him, has given him the task of deciding what her next stop will be. If he pulls over and orders her to get out, she’ll do it because she will have nothing to say to him, no recourse to language to defend herself. She can gesticulate and utter sounds, but she will never convince him of anything by the precision and sharpness of her words. She hasn’t felt so vulnerable in a long time.
The taxi has pulled up outside a building with a white façade, its front entrance flanked by two columns. On a small metal plaque on one of them she reads Beaumont House. She is ready to get out when the driver cuts her short. He says only one word, money. She understands, but she realizes to her horror that she has no money on her, at least not the right sort. Nevertheless, she takes her purse from her bag and from her purse a 20-euro banknote, which she holds out to the driver as innocently as she can. He shakes his head. She pretends not to understand. Pounds, not euros, pounds, not euros, the man says, hammering out his words, completely exasperated. Her head is going to explode. She so wishes he were with her; he could explain the problem to this idiot. She would like to sleep and forget everything. Her eyes close, her body topples sideways, and she feels the cold leather of the seat pressing against her cheek. To stay there, stretched out for ever, rocked by the motion of the taxi taking her through London for all eternity. The door by her head has been flung open, a chill draught tickles the roots of her hair. The driver bombards her with words, demented, meaningless words, and drags her out of the car. She is standing on the pavement, her sports bag and handbag at her feet. The taxi has disappeared.