Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  The woman who opened the door was in her late forties, Ana guessed, tall and thin with greying hair cut short in a bob. She wore a well-cut grey skirt, beige boots and a marled grey jumper, high at the neck. The overall impression was one of utter neutrality; she barely smiled to see her father, and her response to the presence of a stranger was only the coolest of glances, followed by a laconic, questioning, ‘Papa?’ She seemed an unlikely daughter for such a father. Ana had been expecting a version of his friendliness – and wilted in its absence.

  She stood uneasily whilst the old man rattled out his explanation. She caught the word pauvre and heard him mention Paris. The woman shrugged and shook her head dubiously, murmuring something Ana could not understand. Embarrassed now, Ana tapped Pierre Jaquet on the shoulder and said, ‘Please, this is not convenient – I will go now. I will go to the station.’

  ‘No, Madame, please come in,’ said the woman, in a flat voice, as if politeness had overcome her instincts by a hair’s breadth.

  ‘Come, come,’ the old man repeated, impervious to his daughter’s tone, turning to bustle Ana into the hall.

  The floor was so highly polished Ana froze on the threshold, and instinctively looked down at her feet. Her boots were dirty, she knew that, and felt ashamed. She was dazzled by the gleam of things: the pale green onyx top of the hall table, trimmed with gilt, the mirror above it, framed in gold and black, the chair with curved rosewood back and green velvet seat. The daughter had disappeared ahead of them; old Pierre turned to make sure Ana was following and led the way through into the sitting room. All the promise of the hall was fulfilled in this room. Nothing gilt or velvet had been spared in the furnishings; the floor was covered with a pale grey carpet patterned with swirls of pink and green. In the middle of the oblong, tiled coffee table was placed a single onyx ashtray which looked as though it had never been used for its proper purpose. Above the elaborate gas fire was a framed colour reproduction of a Turneresque version of the Swiss Alps; it was as if a hole had been cut neatly in the wall to reveal, instead of the real world, an airbrushed image of how it might be, two steps away from reality.

  Ana had never seen such opulence. It was how she always imagined homes in the West – and she was overawed. She noticed the old man glancing at her curiously, and realized that her mouth was slack as she stared. With an effort, she controlled herself, and sat down as he indicated, attempting nonchalance. She felt as though she had ‘I am a Romanian refugee’ branded on her forehead. No British woman, she guessed, would be amazed by a house like this – she must be careful.

  ‘My daughter will make coffee. She is very glad I brought you here.’

  Not true, Ana thought, wondering if the old man had even noticed his daughter’s coolness, or if, like many old people, he extracted what he required from the world and lived for the most part in a comforting past which could transform the present.

  ‘And … Dijon?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rubbing his hands briskly, ‘I was correct, Madame; her husband goes today. I think we are lucky, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she smiled, folding her arms around herself in a surreptitious hug.

  The daughter returned with a small tray, which she placed carefully on the table. All her movements were angular and precise. Ana, who was hungry, as always, longed for the coffee and biscuits but dreaded picking up a cup in case she should spill it; she felt grubby and clumsy and unwelcome.

  ‘My father did not make the introduction – I am Natalie Perrin.’

  ‘My name is Ana … Edwards. I am grateful to you for speaking English, Madame.’

  ‘You are on holiday?’

  Ana nodded.

  ‘My father says you have to get to Paris, but …’ She raised her eyebrows slightly, and Ana saw her glance at her clothes, politeness at war with curiosity when it came to discussing money.

  ‘Yes, I … I was unlucky. My money was stolen, you see.’

  ‘Mon dieu – where?’ exclaimed Pierre.

  ‘In Geneva.’

  For the first time the daughter looked animated. ‘That is very unusual, Madame. In Paris, yes, but in Geneva we have not many criminals. Perhaps it was near the station?’

  ‘Yes … yes, it was.’

  The woman sniffed and folded her arms. ‘That is an explanation. There are many … foreign … people at the station, always. They stand there; they are dirty … The police do not do enough.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Ana, meekly. Natalie Perrin nodded. Seeing Ana as a victim of immigrants enabled her to relax. She handed the cup, offered the biscuits. Hungry, Ana refused.

  ‘So you must go to Paris?’

  ‘My friend is there. She has come from … from … Holland, to meet me. She will worry if I do not arrive; and the trains are too expensive …’

  ‘You have no cheques? No cartes… credit?’

  At that the old man intervened, and muttered to her in French that she must not ask so many questions, it was obvious that this was not a rich woman, and she must not embarrass her in this way. Then turning to Ana he said, ‘Terrible, terrible! Once nobody needed such things, and now everybody owes money to everybody. They live by the plastic! They are plastic people! Now when Natalie was small, she always saved her money. Her mother said that she would be a banker in Zurich when she grew up, she was so careful. We had not much money of course, but enough, you know, to teach her its value. No credit then! She had a little box with a key, and every week …’

  ‘Papa – please!’

  There was the sound of footsteps overhead. ‘My husband is getting ready for his journey,’ said Natalie Perrin, glancing up at the ceiling. There was a silence. The floorboards creaked.

  ‘I will go and tell Antoine about you – and persuade him to take you right to the station in Dijon!’ said the old man, smiling at Ana, and leaving her alone with his daughter.

  Ana sipped her coffee. The other woman regarded her in silence, eyes sliding once again over her clothes, then returning to rest on her face. She crossed her legs. Ana heard the slither of her tights.

  ‘It is very good coffee, Madame,’ she said.

  ‘You live in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where? My daughter lives in London.’

  ‘Yes, your father told me. Does she like London?’

  ‘She says there is too much traffic.’

  ‘That’s very true. It is very bad.’

  ‘So … your home is where?’

  Ana thought quickly, then replied, ‘Piccadilly.’

  Natalie Perrin raised her eyebrows. ‘Piccadilly? You live in the centre?’ This time her glance at Ana’s clothes was pointed.

  Ana realized she had made a mistake. ‘It is near there. Not very far. A small flat.’

  ‘Ah. And the traffic is bad?’

  ‘Very bad.’

  Ana cursed the unnecessary lie which had led to this. Had she told the old man she was a Romanian it would have made no difference to him. Even this woman might have shown curiosity, if not sympathy. But it was too late now, and if she confessed they would think she had something to hide …

  At that moment Pierre Jaquet returned, his son-in-law behind him. Tall and thin, even more angular than his wife, Antoine Perrin was dressed in a grey suit so dark and conservatively cut it gave him the sober air of a bearer at a funeral, an impression intensified by the silvery metal spectacles he pushed up his nose in a gesture that was clearly nervous and habitual. His sandy-grey hair receded at the temples, and his skin was pale. Only the man’s mouth, broad and pink and mobile was at odds with the rest of his features: a living thing in a dead landscape. The hand which held Ana’s briefly was cool and limp. ‘Bonjour, Madame.’

  ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘We can speak English … My wife’s father tells me you have a little problem. Well, please don’t worry, Madame. I will be able to take you as far as Dijon, if that is a help to you.’

  He spoke with careful formality, withou
t smiling, but Ana no longer expected warmth. She could not stop herself; she brought her hands together with a tiny clapping noise, and said, ‘Oh, you are very, very kind!’

  Pierre Jaquet smiled back at her, delighted at the success of his plan. The couple regarded her curiously, and she knew her delight and gratitude had correctly been interpreted as a sign of desperation – which puzzled them. She must be careful … or perhaps she would explain to the man in the car, once they were on the way …

  Antoine Perrin looked at his watch, and smiled at last. It had an odd effect, splitting his face uncomfortably – teeth showing like the inner rings of a tree when the axe has struck. ‘I am afraid we must leave now, Madame … er …?’

  ‘Edwards. Yes, yes – of course.’

  ‘You have finished your coffee?’

  She nodded, impatient at the politeness, every nerve longing to leave that house and be on the road, travelling towards Ion. In her imagination she pushed out the walls of that silent, neat house, flying through the gap towards the unreal, gilded mountains and floating over them, freely, effortlessly, towards her destination.

  ‘I am ready – thank you, Monsieur,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You see? Sometimes it is a good thing to talk to people, Madame! You saw me and you thought, what does that old man want? But you see! It was a lucky meeting …’

  The old man chattered on, head on one side, as they walked back along the hall. Ana’s cheeks ached from smiling at him; guiltily, she wished he would be quiet. But at least Pierre Jaquet breathed benevolence in her direction; at least his pleased babble was evidence of warmth, of life. The Perrins, in contrast, did not touch, let alone kiss, when they said goodbye.

  On an impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the old man on both cheeks, saying thank you.

  ‘Dépêchez-vous!’ he called mischievously, as she got into the car.

  When Ana turned her head to wave to him, Natalie Perrin had closed the door on her father and herself, even before the silver Peugeot had left its parking space.

  Thirty-Six

  Antoine Perrin drove in silence for a while. The road wound up out of Divonne, wooded on each side. Soon there was snow among the trees; Ana could not control a sudden shiver.

  Immediately he was solicitous. ‘You are cold? Soon the heater will warm the car.’ He reached out to turn a switch, and glanced sideways at her, giving that odd, swift smile, like a grimace. ‘We will stop in St Claude, perhaps, for some coffee.’

  Ana, who thought he was in a hurry, was surprised, but said nothing. She was reassured by his sudden friendliness, and leaned back in her seat, relaxing despite herself. Things were out of her control now, and she knew she must accept it. That Ion was somewhere in Paris was an unreal thought; for the moment the only reality was the sense of being driven, of being taken care of, of human kindness. Warmth around her feet. The promise of coffee. Someone else’s hands on the wheel… She closed her eyes, and gave thanks.

  He put the radio on, filling the car with pop music. ‘You like this music? It is too loud perhaps.’ He pushed a button, and found quiet, orchestral dance music. ‘Ah, that is better – you like this? Good. Er … Madame, I am sorry to say I forget your name.’

  ‘Ana – Ana Edwards.’

  ‘Anna? I can call you Anna?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Antoine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or maybe you prefer to say Anthony?’ He laughed, as if he had made a joke.

  ‘Er … no.’ After a couple of seconds she laughed too, a small sound, high-pitched and false.

  They passed through Gex, and then the road began to wind steeply up into the mountains, so that Perrin was forced to slow down considerably on the hairpin bends. Ana glimpsed farms in the distance with curved roofs, sombre pine forests and, closer now, the snowfields. Sometimes the land would fall away sickeningly from the side of the road, into deep gorges clad with low, dark trees. At one point he slowed and pointed to the right. Suddenly the landscape opened and Ana saw Lake Leman like a silver smear on the horizon, and the Jet d’Eau waving like a tiny white feather.

  ‘How far are we – from Switzerland, now?’

  ‘From the frontier … oh, twenty-five kilometres.’

  Ana felt safe. She wondered what this man would say if she told him the truth. ‘How long will it take us to reach Dijon?’

  ‘About two hours and thirty minutes. But we will stop – to eat something – so perhaps three hours. Look …’

  At that moment, negotiating another sharp bend, he pointed quickly to a sign by the side of the road. It said, DIJON 170 PARIS 480.

  Ana turned her head, looking back at it as they passed until it was out of sight. The figure 480 danced around her brain. Suddenly she felt depressed and lost at this high point of a cold and lonely world.

  ‘We are at the top of Le Col now – La Couronne, the top of the pass. It is beautiful, is it not?’

  Blinking hard, Ana pretended to gaze with fixed interest out of the window. The pale sky was flecked with small white clouds, like fish scales; the shadows on the snow were purple-black; the road ribboned ahead of them, silver-grey, disappearing into the deep shadows of a hill. Everything was quiet, so that even the tiniest footfall on a pine forest floor would have, she fancied, crunched loud in that secret stillness.

  ‘Will you take a train from Dijon to Paris tonight?’

  ‘Yes, yes I must.’

  ‘Perhaps you might stay the night in Dijon, and travel tomorrow?’

  ‘No, there is no time. I have no time!’

  Something in her tone made him glance at her curiously, so that she looked down at her lap, embarrassed, then vaguely at a point on the dashboard. She noticed his hands on the steering wheel; pale freckled skin with long fingers, the knuckles white where they gripped, as if he too was tense. ‘Of course,’ he said politely, ‘I will take you to the station in Dijon. The trains are frequent, I believe.’

  Ana thought of her money, and began to panic. She had the Swiss francs, and still some dollars … Already she forgot what she had spent: the journey to Frankfurt, the train to Kronberg, the buses down to the border. She had, miraculously, spent nothing in Geneva except the bus fare to Divonne – but what would happen if train fares in France were expensive? They were bound to be. She wondered if this man might look after her, take her to a bus station instead because buses were always cheaper … She should tell him her story, she decided, and then he would understand. Maybe he would give her money, and if he did she would accept it. There was no room for pride.

  She did not allow herself to think what she would do once she reached Paris. She had no idea how big it was, and – if she allowed the thought at all – imagined exploring an area only about the size of Bucharest’s centre, with perhaps one or two Indian restaurants where she would find Ion. That had been her consolation – desperate and necessary – as she lay in bed in the Tamils’ apartment in Geneva. That had been the only way she had been able to get up, get dressed, and follow John Nayagam to the bus station, as if this were a normal journey to meet a friend and everything was possible – with faith. Now, driving through this high, wild landscape with a stranger, nothing seemed possible, and Ana felt her faith slipping over the abyss.

  After another thirty minutes they reached Saint-Claude. Ana was relieved to see the sprawl of buildings, loomed over by the gaunt Cathedral – reminding her of normality continuing all around, in a world she passed through but would never know. She wanted to see people; she craved respite from the curious, silent intimacy of the car. So when Antoine Perrin suggested they stop for coffee and something to eat she nodded quickly. Glancing at the man beside her she felt an urge to confide in him.

  The café was small, furnished with black Formica tables, its lurid pink walls decorated with film posters and blown-up pictures of hamburgers. Ana had expected something else; her imagination was filled with images from library books – of waiters with white aprons, etched glass, art nouveau lamps:
the mythology of France. The waitress here wore a short leather skirt, and was clearly popular with the group of youths who lounged at three tables, smoking and drinking beer, and shouting to each other, and to her, in hoarse, guttural voices.

  Antoine Perrin rubbed his hands together, making a faint rasping sound. ‘I’m hungry – I’ll have a hamburger and salad, I think. Would you like the same?’

  Ana stared at him, not knowing what to say. A hamburger! She glanced up at the vividly coloured pictures, then back at him. A hamburger! Her clichéd images of chic cafés were dispelled in an instant by the word, carrying with it an aura of infinite desirability, of Western glamour she had not, until that instant, known she craved. A hamburger! She nodded weakly.

  ‘Some wine?’

  Tempted, she still shook her head.

  When the food came, she stared for a minute or two at her plate. The hamburger was thick and juicy; strands of onions trailed over its edge between the halves of the bun; a pile of crisp french fries curved round it, like a halo. The salad came in a separate bowl: a pile of lettuce and endive, shiny with oil. Ana was paralysed. It was possible, she realized, to want something so much you were incapable of action – like Hamlet. To eat or not to eat…

  She did not know what to do – whether to tackle the thing with her knife and fork, or pick it up in her hands to bite. She did not want to make a mistake. Without taking his eyes from her face, Antoine Perrin was sipping his wine.

  Ana smiled weakly, and speared a chip with her fork. It tasted so delicious she could not stop herself; she put down the fork, picked up the hamburger gingerly, and bit into it.

  The meat slipped sideways from the bun and fell with a splat, scattering the french fries. ‘Hoop-la!’ said Perrin, grinning at her.

  Ana flushed, and silently reassembled the hamburger with trembling fingers. Her obvious embarrassment was out of proportion to the error. The man pushed his glasses up his nose, smile fading, and regarded her with curiosity.