by Trevanian
He chewed the ends of his new moustache in frustration while the incompetent fools in front of him bumbled their way through their trivial (but interminable) business, collected their tickets, examined each leaf of them to be absolutely sure there were no mistakes, then waddled off to take the elevator down to the line of black fiacres waiting in front of the building, their horses fidgeting and snorting jets of steam into the night air while the drivers huddled on their high seats, collars turned up against the first snowfall of the year.
He had timed his arrival at the ticket office so as to allow himself enough time (none to spare, it's true, but enough, enough!) to get him and his sister to Austerlitz station and settled into their sleeping car before the train pulled out. Who could possibly have anticipated this clogging wad of last-minute travelers? Oh. He had, come to think of it. That's why he had ordered his tickets in advance. Well then... who could possibly have known that the company wouldn't have a separate line for those prescient enough to order their tickets in advance?
Rocking from his toes to his heels to burn off some of his anxiety, he suddenly realized that the minute hand of the clock above the desk had not moved for at least—then it made a click-thunk as the hand lurched forward to the next minute. Oh, that kind of mechanism, was it? He might have known! And he might have known that the booking company would have only one clerk on duty. Typical!
After several aeons, he advanced to become third in line, but when the elderly couple at the desk turned back to ask the clerk to clarify some muddled, complicated matter, our hero sighed so loudly that the old man, embarrassed and flustered by making someone behind him so impatient, lost track of his question and began at the beginning again. A glance at the clock told the suffering Basque that there remained only a quarter of an hour for the fiacre that awaited him below to make it across the river to Austerlitz station—barely enough time, assuming they were not delayed by some fool in an automobile tooting his klaxon and frightening the horses.
The worst of it was that he could see his name on an envelope on the clerk's desk. There were his tickets, only a meter away! And his money was in his hand! His bones fairly twisted within his body from impatience.
The clock lurched to the next minute, and the young man cleared his throat to speak to the large man ahead of him, a professional person, judging from his expensive black broadcloth coat and the stiff dignity of his manner. "Excuse me, monsieur. I am traveling on a mission of the utmost importance, so I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I just handed over my money and snatched up my tickets. It wouldn't take a second, and I would be eternally—"
"My business, monsieur, is also of great importance," the blond-bearded giant said, turning to him. "So I'm afraid you will just have to wait your turn."
"But, monsieur, my business is a matter of life and death!"
"And mine, monsieur, is a matter of honor."
"Next?" the clerk said in a small voice, not wanting to get involved in what was beginning to sound nasty.
"If your business was so damned pressing," the young Basque said, his black eyes darting dangerous fire up into the pale blue eyes of this recalcitrant stranger, "then you should have made your reservations in advance by the telephone. If you'd had an ounce of foresight, monsieur, we'd both be out of here by now!"
The clock click-thunk'd one of their precious minutes into eternity, and the clerk risked another timid, "Next?"
"I don't believe in the 'phone," Blond-beard informed his tormentor. "It is my professional opinion as a doctor that excessive use of this invention might lead to deafness."
"And it is my opinion, as a man of common sense, that your view is mindless quackery."
"Quackery, monsieur?"
"Mindless quackery."
"If I were not in a great hurry, I would treat you to the thrashing you deserve!"
"You thrash me? You, a fat northern slug, thrash me, a pure-blooded Basque of the race that kicked Roland's behind for him? Ridiculous."
"I will remind you that I am considerably bigger than you, monsieur."
"Larger, yes. Bigger, never!"
"Next?"
"Monsieur, I don't mind telling you that— But no. I can't waste more time listening to your infantile Gascon rodomontade." And the doctor turned to the desk and began arranging for tickets to Biarritz.
"Gascon?" the young man muttered, stunned that anyone could mistake a Basque for a Gascon. "Gascon? I'll teach you to call me—" But he smothered his outrage (albeit with Herculean effort) because he owed it to his family's honor to get home to Cambo-les-Bains as quickly as possible. And arguing with this uncivil, stubborn, mound-of-meat of an opinionated, thick-headed northern quack would only delay him and— Ah, at last!
The blond doctor brushed past him on his way out to the elevator, and the young man stepped up to the flinching clerk, slapped his money on the counter, snatched up the envelope containing his tickets, and ran out of the office.
"Wait!" he shouted.
But the doctor pushed the button for the ground floor, and the elevator slid down through its ornate wrought-iron cage into the darkness below, its occupant smiling in nasty victory.
"Bastard!" the young man muttered. He threw his overcoat over his shoulder and rushed down the marble staircase that spiraled around the cage within which the elevator descended so slowly that he beat it to the floor below, where he pushed the call button, then continued his flying descent.
There! Now Dr. Blondbeard de la Sassymouth would have to open the inner accordion door and the outer wrought-iron door, then close them again and push his 'ground floor' button again to continue his descent. Our Basque knew this routine well because there was a newly installed Otis 'safety' elevator in the newspaper office where he occasionally sold scraps of drama criticism, and the journalists could never resist playing childish elevator tricks on one another.
As he continued his spiral dream, two old gentlemen flattened themselves against the wall to make room. On the next floor, he again pushed the elevator button in passing—ha!—and he plunged on down, his feet a blur, his overcoat flying behind him. Halfway down the last flight, a scrubwoman heard his clattering approach and fled downward, and he nearly came to grief over the bucket and brush she left behind, as he heel-slipped down half a dozen wet stairs, barely managing to keep his balance. As he charged into the entrance foyer, his brains a-reel, he heard the scrubwoman say something most unladylike, but he slammed the front doors open and broke out onto the pavement, where footsteps of passersby were revealed in an inch of fresh snow.
Oh, no! The cab wasn't where he had left it. Damn the perfidious cabby who had promised to wait until he—
Oh... there it is.
It had moved down towards the head of the rank, which had shortened to just two cabs with the departure of the infuriating slowpokes who had been ahead of him in the queue. He ran through the whirling snowflakes towards the glow of the cab's side lamp. "Cabby!" Then he reduced his voice to a hoarse croak, so as not to disturb his sister, who had finally fallen asleep in the cab after a terrible night of worry about the foolhardy actions of their irresponsible brother back home in Cambo-les-Bains. "I'll double the fare if you get me to the station in time for the seven-twenty."
He jumped in as the driver took a long swig from his flask, applied the whip to the dozing horse, and they lurched off. The young man carefully spread his overcoat over the curled-up form of his sister on the far side of the cab; then he twisted around to catch a last glimpse of the Lafitte-Caillard travel office through the isinglass rear window, and he was gratified to see the doctor burst out through the double doors, stumbling and skidding, and rush towards the last remaining cab in the rank.
Serves him right!
The cabby threaded through the snarled and snarling traffic at breakneck speed, exchanging with offended drivers those dire threats that satisfy the Frenchman's yearning to be manfully aggressive without actually risking physical confrontation. Fearful that the jolting and pitching of the
cab might rob his sister of her much-needed rest, the young man reached into the darkness, put his arm around her, and drew her firmly against his side. She murmured a vague, drowsy, nestling sound, then her eyes fluttered open and she looked up—
They both screamed.... Although he managed to lower the end of his scream into a more manly baritone.
"Get out of this cab!" she commanded, recoiling into the farthest corner.
"But, mademoiselle—"
"Get out immediately! Out. Out! Out!"
"But we're in the middle of traffic."
"Get out or I'll scream."
"You are screaming."
"If you think that was screaming, wait until you hear this!" She opened her mouth, threw back her head, and drew a deep breath.
But she didn't scream, so baffled was she by his question: "What happened to my sister?"
"...Your what?"
"My sister! I thought you were my sister, but you're not."
"Thank God."
The cab lurched around a corner made treacherous by slush, and the two passengers were thrown against one another.
"Oh no you don't," she warned. "None of that."
"I assure you, mademoiselle, that I had no intention of—"
"Stop this cab."
"I can't."
"You can't?"
"Won't, then."
"Oh, you won't, won't you? We'll see about that!" She reached up to rap against the roof and attract the driver's attention, but he forced her back into her seat and firmly held her there by her wrists.
"Release me, you... brigand! You... you... white slaver!"
"I assure you, mademoiselle, that I—"
"Stop assuring me of things and let me out of this cab!"
"I will not! This cab will continue at full speed to the Gare d'Austerlitz. It's a matter of life and death!"
She suddenly stopped struggling and stared at him in deepest suspicion. "The Gare d'Austerlitz? But... but I'm going to the Gare d'Austerlitz."
"Yes, and there's nothing you can do about it, so you might as well accept it. But as soon as we arrive I'll jump out, and the cabby can bring you wherever you want to go."
"Let go of me."
"What?"
"You're holding my hands."
"Wha—? Oh yes, of course. Sorry."
"How did you know I was going to the Gare d'Austerlitz?"
"I didn't know." He pressed his palm to his head. "This is turning into the worse night of my life."
Giving him an oblique glance that searched for signs of insanity, she was silent for a moment before asking, "What made you choose me as your kidnap victim?"
"Kidnap vic—? Oh, for the love of— Listen. I thought you were my sister. What I mean is, I thought this was my cab. They all look alike, after all. And if it had been my cab, then you'd have been my sister. It isn't and you aren't, but that's not my fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's the fault of that ill-mannered oaf."
"...I see. Ah... what ill-mannered oaf was that?" she asked, keeping her tone light and conversational, because she thought it would be best to humor him until she could find an opportunity to get away.
"The ill-mannered, stubborn, pompous oaf in front of me in the queue! If he'd had the common decency to let me pick up my tickets, I wouldn't have been late, and I wouldn't have had to rush, and I wouldn't have jumped into the wrong cab, and I wouldn't be explaining all this to you now."
"I... see..."
"If only he'd ordered his tickets in advance, like I did. But no. No, no, no. The superstitious boob doesn't realize that we're on the eve of the Twentieth Century. Do you know what he told me?"
"Ah... no. No, I don't. What did he tell you?"
"He said that using the 'phone would make you deaf. And he calls himself a doctor."
"My brother!"
"What?"
"That was my brother! He's a doctor."
"He's also an ill-mannered, stubborn, pompous—"
"I was waiting for him while he went to get our tickets."
"My sister was waiting for me."
"I must have dropped off. I've been so worried that I haven't slept properly for two nights."
"Neither has my—"
"Now I see what happened. You've made a terrible mistake."
"I told you it was a mistake, but you wouldn't listen."
"Why should I listen to a self-avowed brute and brigand?"
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, no, it's too late to beg my pardon. We have to decide calmly and intelligently what to—"
"Oh, my god! My sister is in the clutches of that pompous, stubborn, imbecile of a—"
"My brother may be stubborn—even pompous upon occasion—but at least your sister won't be obliged to defend herself against unwanted advances."
"Advances?"
"When I woke up, you were holding me in your arms. Do you deny it?"
"I was merely protecting you."
"From what? Brutish brigands?"
"The cab was lurching through the traffic. I didn't want your sleep to be disturbed."
"So you protected me by making sure that when I woke, I'd find myself in the arms of a strange man? A very strange man."
"Look, I am sorry if I upset you, but I haven't got time to chant my apologies all evening long. Listen, mademoiselle. Your brother is following us. I saw him jump into what I now realize was my cab, and no doubt he— Ohmygod, he's got my sister! And they're sure to arrive at the station too late to catch the train! I'm going to make it only by the closest of shaves, if at all. My sister's going to be furious. But at least your brother will be able to take care of you. All you have to do is wait at the cab rank for him."
"Where will you be?"
"On the train, of course. I absolutely must get to Cambo-les-Bains by noon tomorrow to stop my poor dunderhead of a brother from falling into the clutches of a calculating temptress. A dreadful error that would destroy his future, leave him heartbroken and— But there's no time to explain. When you see my sister, tell her what happened, and tell her to return to my flat and await news from me. She'll be all alone there, I'm afraid. She knows no one in Paris. But that can't be helped. Will you do me that favor?"
"In return for all the favors you've lavished on me? Like kidnapping me, for instance? And stealing my brother's cab? And crushing my hands in your brutish grasp?"
"I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me. I'm much too strong for that."
"Then what's all this about crushing you in my brutish grasp?"
"Just a—a sort of metaphor."
"Metaphor? That wasn't a metaphor; it was a barefaced lie."
"Well, maybe it— So what? Who are you to decide what is a metaphor and what is not? Do you think you're the only one who has to save someone from making a dreadful mistake that will ruin her future?"
"Wh—? Surely that's a non sequitur."
"And I suppose that's even worse than a metaphor? Don't you realize that my brother and I were going to Cambo-les-Bains, too?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm telling you that the 'calculating temptress' you're intending to save your brother from is my poor love-sick sister! And the heartless cad who's trying to trick my sister into a foolish marriage is your guileful, brutish brigand of a brother. It would appear that brutish brigandry runs in your family!"
"My brother is no brigand."
"And my sister is certainly no temptress."
"Well, I intend to make sure she doesn't get her 'poor love-sick' hooks into my brother!"
"And I mean to save her from the clutches of your 'poor dunderhead' of a brother!"
"Good!"
"Very good indeed!"
They withdrew into their separate comers and stared furiously out their respective windows. She absentmindedly drew his coat over her knees against the cold draughts that flowed in through the rattling window; then, suddenly realizing what she was wrapping around herself,
she pushed the despised rag from her and let it slide onto the floor.
Snow melting from the top of the cab rippled over the panes, causing soft slabs of buttery gaslight from shop windows to alternate with harsh rectangles of cold, white, electric light from the newly installed street lamps. The young man took mental note of this lighting effect. He might use it in his directions to a set designer some day. He pulled out his watch, fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a matchbox, struck a light, and groaned. "I'll never make it!" he muttered miserably.
"Serves you right," she said.
He despised the mean-minded sort of people who say, 'Serves you right'. By the light of the match, he saw her face for the first time, and her intelligent, somewhat haughty eyes returned his frank examination, but their color was a fascinating— Ouch! He dropped the match onto his coat, which he then snatched up and slapped until he was sure it was not burning.
"I see you take your frustration out on inanimate things as well," she said.
He lit another match, and now he could see the terrible danger facing his brother. If the sister also had that creamy complexion and those violet-blue eyes... his poor brother!
The match went out, and they experienced a moment of blindness until their eyes dilated again to the darkness of the cab, which swayed and jolted around a corner onto the Pont Sully that crossed the river at the upstream tip of the Ile St. Louis. The harsh glare of the bridge's new electric street lamps played over them in rhythmic succession, then, with a lurching turn to the left, they were following the Left Bank quay towards the Gare d'Austerlitz.
As the driver was making a daring pass, the fiacre's wheel got caught in the track of the horse-drawn omnibus line, jouncing the passengers into one another's arms. They immediately recoiled into their corners, whence they regarded one another with ruffled indignation and no small amount of suspicion.
After a brooding silence, she spoke, her voice flat with icy determination. "I've decided to go with you."
"What?"
"I don't trust you to prevent this preposterous marriage. My sister is a child. Barely eighteen."
"My brother's only two years older."
"That's evidently old enough to lure an innocent girl into marriage in the hope of getting at her dowry."