Eurail Crème Brûlée
Mia uncomfortably tugged at the too-tight waistband of her jeans as she scanned the selection of food available at the Gard Du Nord cafe. She’d been in Europe for less than a week and voila! Love handle central. She had hoped that her rapid departure from England – on the wonderful National Express bus service, overnight London-Paris (wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry) – would reverse the kilos that had magically appeared as soon as she stepped off the plane in London. She had been sorely disappointed. Now in Paris, the home of croissant, baguette, fromage and a whole heap of people who dressed well and didn’t seem to ever put on weight, she was rapidly increasing the size of her arse, decreasing the size of her bank account and not managing to forget the things she longed to.
On a whim, she’d booked an overnight train to Berlin. She knew, realistically, that her money wasn’t going to stretch too much further and she’d have to go back to London soon. She just couldn’t face it yet; not at the moment. She assumed Ana and Willow were both still there, the brief phone call with Ana the only contact she’d had with them since the breakfast disaster. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the memories. Even thinking about that morning made her furious. Some friends they were.
She gazed wistfully at the pastry selection in front of her, forcing herself to settle on a sad looking fruit cup containing pale melon and slightly browning apple, for the grand total of…
“Eight Euro!”
“Excusez-moi?” The lady behind the counter ambled over.
“Er…nothing…I mean, nada, I mean…” How the hell did you say ‘nothing’ in French?
Mia ran her eyes over the prices of everything else. Why was the sweet, buttery stuff always the cheapest?
She sighed. “Crème brûlée.”
Screw the weight loss. Soon she wouldn’t be able to afford any food at all and then the kilos would just fall off her, no problem. Her stomach grumbled in protest as she shoved the pudding in her backpack. Should save it for later when she was really starving.
***
Mia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, thinking poisonous thoughts about all those people who could afford a bed in the sleeping car. The air was stifling in the carriage, thick with stale sweat and perfume. She felt nauseous, wishing the windows opened. She rested her head against the cool glass and peered into the dark countryside, the landscape rushing past in a blur, illuminated by a bright moon. The man next to her was snoring loudly and had somehow managed to take the entirety of his own seat and about two thirds of hers. She gently nudged his leg but he was out cold.
The train shuddered. The landscape gradually came into focus as the train slowed, eventually coming to a complete standstill. She looked around the carriage, wondering why they had stopped. Everyone else seemed too busy sleeping to notice. Very carefully, she stepped over the man next to her. Shoving her phone in her pocket and picking up the package containing her not-so-healthy dinner, she walked quietly through the carriage full of sleeping people.
At the end of the carriage, one of the doors was ajar. The train had stopped next to a tiny station – it wasn’t even as long as the train. She peered outside and saw a man standing on the edge of the platform, his back to her. The orange glow from a lighter illuminated the air around him as he lit a cigarette. A wooden bench and a dilapidated ticket booth were the only other things on the platform.
Mia glanced around. There didn’t seem to be anyone to stop her, so she squeezed through the door and onto the platform, grateful for the fresh air. The man turned at the noise. She’d seen him earlier – in Paris – as they were boarding. He was about her age, dressed in a scruffy denim jacket and dark jeans. He had a scarf knotted casually around his throat and his hair was cut in the latest fashion. Over his shoulder was slung a canvas bag.
“Bonjour.”
Mia nodded in greeting. “Hello. Bonjour.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly. “English? American?”
“Australian.”
His eyes flicked up and down Mia’s body and he nodded in what seemed like approval. He took his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to her, shrugging when she declined.
“Jean-Pierre,” he said.
“Mia.”
He took another drag of his cigarette.
“Do you know why we’ve stopped?” Mia said.
“Cows.”
“Cows?”
“Escaped from a pasture. They’re blocking the track up ahead. We’ll be here for a few hours at least.” He spoke almost perfect English, with a lovely, lilting French accent.
“Are we supposed to get off the train?” Mia said, looking around anxiously.
He shrugged. “Why not.”
“Well…maybe we’re not allowed to…?” Mia’s voice trailed off.
“Do you always do what you are told?” Jean-Pierre said.
Yes, thought Mia. Usually. “No.”
Jean-Pierre glanced around. “Come with me,” he said.
He went to the back edge of the platform and jumped down, stretching out his hand towards Mia. She hesitated then lowered herself down. There was an overgrown road leading away from the station but she couldn’t see anything else except flat countryside for miles.
“We’ve got ages,” he said, smiling at her concerned expression and opening his canvas bag. Out of it he pulled a full bottle of whiskey, a plastic cup and a small tin.
“Shouldn’t we wait on the platform” Mia said. “What if the train leaves without us?”
He gave her a withering look. “Relax. We will hear when the train gets ready to move.” He shoved the bottle of whiskey towards Mia, saying “pour,” as he opened the tin and started to roll a joint.
Mia sighed and poured a cup of whiskey. When in France…
***
Half the bottle later, Mia stood up. “I need to pee,” she said, wavering on her feet.
“I won’t look,” Jean-Pierre said, pretending to cover his face.
“Very funny,” Mia laughed. “Come on, we should get back on the train now.”
Jean-Pierre rolled his eyes, but reluctantly stood up. They clambered back onto the station, the whiskey making them giggle like school girls.
Mia looked at the train tracks in front of them. Sobriety rushed through her. “Jean-Pierre, wasn’t there a train here not long ago?”
Jean-Pierre’s mouth dropped open as he looked up and down the empty tracks.
“Merde!”
***
“There’s no phone reception,” she said, groaning and putting her head in her hands. She was dangerously close to tears. Everything she owned was on that train, including the rest of her money which she’d stupidly left in a bag next to her seat.
Jean-Pierre didn’t seem to be listening. He pointed to the paper bag that Mia was still holding. “What’s in there?”
Mia had forgotten all about the Crème brûlée. “I guess it’s our dinner,” she said, immensely grateful that she had at least bought that off the train. They wouldn’t starve. She split the dessert and put half in the lid, handing it to Jean-Pierre. He took a bite and promptly spat it out.
“What is this…offense to French cuisine!”
Mia bristled. “Crème brûlée. I got it from the station.”
“No, no, no,” Jean-Pierre said, taking the container from her and throwing it as far away as he could.
“Wait! That’s all I’ve had to eat since breakfast!”
“You would rather starve that eat that,” he said with certainty.
“For your information,” Mia said through clenched teeth, “I would NOT rather starve than…”
He cut her off, handing her the whiskey bottle again. “Drink.”
Mia was about to object, but decided against it. “Oh, Fuck it.” She lifted the bottle to her lips and downed a huge gulp, her eyes burning and her throat scorched by the alcohol. She coughed.
Jean-Pierre nodded satisfactorily and sat down, patting the ground next to him. “When my grandmother makes it she uses fresh eggs and real vanilla,” he said. “And she serves it immediately, not from some paper bag. The caramel is crispy and hot. Not like that rubbish.”
“Please don’t talk about food,” Mia said, her stomach grumbling loudly.
“Suit yourself,” he said. He took the bottle from Mia and had a sip. “What about sex?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, we should be close together,” Jean-Pierre said. “For warmth.” He took off his jacket and wrapped his arms around Mia, pulling her close. She could smell whiskey and pot on his breath.
“Touch me again and I’ll fucking kill you,” Mia growled, shoving him away.
Jean-Pierre grinned and shrugged. “What is it you say? Can’t hurt for trying?”
He rolled up his jacket to use as a headrest and promptly fell asleep.
***
At some point in the very long, cold night, Mia must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes it was daylight and there was an old man standing over her. He removed his cap and scratched his head, looking very confused.
She shoved Jean-Pierre who woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes.
“He will give us a lift to the town,” Jean-Pierre said, after they’d exchanged a few, fast words in French. “But we have to ride with the chickens.” He pointed towards an old truck, the back stacked with chicken coops.
Mia groaned. Seriously, could this day get any more ridiculous?
As they bumped along the uneven road, Mia could feel her hangover growing worse by the second. Somehow, Jean-Pierre had managed to fall asleep – again – propped up on one of the cages à poules. Opposite, a chicken turned its head quizzically to the side, and stared at her.
“What are you looking at?” she muttered.
The chicken let out a squawk but didn’t look away.
She could feel something vibrating in her pocket. Her phone! She had reception! We must be nearing civilisation, she thought happily, pulling it out of her pocket.
It was Ana again.
She hesitated, but decided to answer. Being stuck in the countryside with a narcoleptic French man, a bottle of whiskey and a some chickens had a tendency of putting things in perspective. Maybe it was time to forgive her friend.
“Hi Ana.”
There was a pause at the other end of the phone and then a man’s voice spoke. “We are trying to find a family member of Ana.”
Mia’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m her sister,” she said, not exactly sure why felt the compulsion to lie.
“This is Detective Gomez.” A sigh. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
***