The Woman on the Train (4 page)

Hilda didn’t laugh. She looked like a woman under strain. Gone was the blustery woman who had come to my dressing room two years before; here was a thinner, older-looking woman in a drab, blue-grey cardigan, her hair scraped back, her eyes dulled.

‘I went to see your lawyer. He told me the story, well, the outline of it. What happened, Mademoiselle?’

She gazed beyond me to the world outside.

‘So, that’s how you got me through that day – you were one of them.’

She nodded, still unable to look at me.

‘You were one of them,’ I repeated for effect.

This time, she reacted, looking straight at me. ‘Yes, I was one of them, as you say,’ she snapped, leaning forward. ‘But I saved you, didn’t I? That’s the point. I’m painted as this terrible person, as evil personified. And yes, I did some things I’m not proud of. But life isn’t always black and white, is it? This is why you must help me now, Maestro. You have to help me.’

‘I don’t know if it’ll make any difference but yes, I told your lawyer, I will speak on your behalf. But you must tell me… something that has puzzled me these last 26 years – why did you help me? I was nothing to you, so why?’

The owner of the café appeared before us, asking whether we wanted a refill of coffee. We both gladly accepted. We waited while he poured fresh, steaming coffee into our mugs and brought us a little jug of hot milk. We thanked him and as he returned to his counter, the café door opened and a young couple holding hands came in, hovered at the door, and backed out. I saw the searing look of disappointment on the owner’s face.

‘Very well then,’ she said eventually. ‘I will tell you, then you can judge whether I am as bad as they make out. That day I met you on the train, I was on leave. About the only leave I got while I worked at that place.’

‘Drancy?’

She nodded. With her eyes still focused elsewhere, she told me her story. ‘I was on my way to visit an old friend of mine in Saint-Romain. You came into that carriage and started reading that sheet music of yours. You were humming the tune aloud – I don’t even think you were aware of it. I was impressed. I thought it’s so rare to see a youngster practicing such noble pursuits. I thought how proud your parents must be of you. And then, of course, the Germans came in wanting to see our papers. I saw straightaway that you had something to hide – it was written all over your face. Normally, I wouldn’t have intervened. I was a collaborator; I freely admit that. It was wrong of me, I know, but at the time I felt I was doing the right thing. You, on the other hand, were clearly working for the resistance.’

‘I was only delivering a message.’

‘Nonetheless. You were still very young – you hadn’t learnt the art of disguising your body language. I felt sorry for you. Perhaps, deep down, I knew that if they searched you and then arrested you, we would have risked losing one of our finest musicians. I knew, instinctively somehow, that you deserved a second chance. So, it was simple, I showed the guards my Drancy card that stated my job and told them you were with me.’

‘As simple as that?’

Now, finally, she looked at me. ‘As simple as that. I told them you were a trainee, and again, when they caught you in the street.’

‘A
trainee
? In that place?’

‘It saved you.’

‘I was only a messenger.’

‘Maybe, but I wasn’t to know that. Still, they would have asked you for names, and I’m sure you know what that would have meant.’

‘Yes.’ I thought of the boy who did my job before me. Deported to a work camp somewhere in Germany. He never came back. Worked to death at the age of twenty-one.

‘Remembering how you were, I don’t think you would have withstood it very well.’

‘You’re right. I doubt I would today.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What happened after the war? What did you do?’

‘It wasn’t difficult.’ She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. ‘There was so much confusion. Accusations and claims and counter-claims, collaborators who pretended to have been in the resistance. I put on some old clothes, made myself look like a peasant woman, and made my way to Saint-Romain, and stayed with my friend there. We became close. She vouched for me and together we invented a new history for myself.’

‘And your papers?’

‘I told them they’d all been destroyed in the war.’

‘Perfectly feasible, I suppose.’

‘Oh yes. Lots of people did it.’

‘So how were you found out?’

She sighed at the regrettable memory. ‘I was recognised. I’ve been living in Paris a number of years now. I knew there was always the risk and sure enough, one day, I was shopping in a big department store in the centre of town when someone, a horrible little man, a Jew, of course, came up to me and said “Hello, Madame d'Urville”, that was my name then, not that I was married. Never have been. Like you on the train, I was unable to hide my reaction. I should have been on my guard. I tried to back away but I knew there was no escape. He yelled the place down. The store manager came down and forcibly took me to his office and from there he called the police. The silly thing is, had I’d been arrested at the time, after the war, I would have been one of many. But now, by myself, I’m exposed. But you know, I am no more than a scapegoat for a country still too ashamed of its wartime guilt to look at itself in the mirror.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘Of course. Yes, we are now a country full of resisters but we all know it’s not true. Especially at the beginning – had it been put to the vote, ninety per cent of us would have voted for the collaborationist government. At least I’m being honest. I worked for them; I regret it, of course, but I don’t see why I should play the part of the sacrificial lamb.’ I tried not to laugh – a scapegoat and a sacrificial lamb. I wondered how many other farmyard animals she could conjure up. 

‘And I saved you. Can I be that bad?’

‘I don’t know, Hilda, you tell me. What happened in that place?’

‘In Drancy?’ She looked away, scanning the café with its empty chairs and unoccupied tables. Behind the counter, the owner polished a glass, a cigarette stuck to his lip. ‘We had to maintain discipline. It was war.’

‘Discipline?’

‘It was not a holiday camp.’

‘But what do you mean – discipline?’

‘So many questions. Am I on trial already?’

‘No, Hilda, but you soon will be.’

It’d been a difficult summer. Rehearsals for the Berlioz symphony were arduous and took every ounce of my energy. I would return home at night exhausted and bad-tempered, hoping for some sympathy from my wife, but finding none. At her insistence, Michèle and I had begun sleeping in separate beds proving, for once and for all, that our holiday in Morocco had been a false dawn. One evening, she told me to my face – she was fond of me, she said, but she didn’t love me, she never had, she never would. She apologised. I politely accepted her apology. It was, under the circumstances, the most cordial
of exchanges, as if we’d agreed to disagree on what film to go see. It felt so final. I had failed her; failed to make her love me. I bowed, left the room, retired to bed and sobbed.

The riots had finished – the workers returned to work and the students went back to college. President de Gaulle won convincingly at the June elections but, in light of the May riots, promised reform. A letter from Monsieur d'Espérey confirmed that Hilda had indeed pleaded not guilty to the charges against her. A second letter, the following month, asked me to appear in court on the twenty-first of October.

One Friday evening, we finished early. Rehearsals had gone well and I was pleased with how hard everyone had worked and allowed them home early to start the weekend. For me, however, work was never finished. I wrapped up some business and grabbed a bite to eat from the theatre restaurant.

An hour or so later, I decided to disappear to a local bar; less chance, I thought, of being disturbed. Although it was still only four o’clock,
Le Bar Rocco
, as it was called, was already quite busy, small groups of people chatting, elsewhere a couple held hands over the table top. The place was big with a large central area encircled by a number of booths. Gentle jazz and soft amber lighting added to the relaxed atmosphere. The staff were all young and good looking. I wondered how many of them had taken to the streets four months earlier.  I sat down in a booth tucked away in a quieter corner and, having spread out my papers, ordered a beer. The issue that was taxing me at this point was the availability of a studio engineer I particularly valued. He was much in demand and my American bosses had seen fit to assign him to work on another, to my mind, minor project. I composed a letter, decided it wasn’t persuasive enough, screwed it up and started again. I was nearing the end of my third attempt when a familiar voice said hello to me. Looking up, I was surprised to see Isabelle standing at the end of my table. I was taken aback by how delighted I was to see her. ‘I won’t disturb you,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re busy. I just thought I’d say hello.’

‘It’s very nice of you. Are you here with… I’m sorry, I forget your boyfriend’s name.’ The image of Jesus flashed across my mind.

‘Jacques. No, he’s at college revising. He’s got a big exam coming up. I’m here with my girlfriends,’ she said, motioning behind with her head. Near the bar was a group of four fashionably-dressed girls of Isabelle’s age, leaning in towards each other, all talking at the same time in high-pitched voices.

‘So I see.’

‘They’re a bit loud, aren’t they? I’ll ask them to keep it down a bit.’

‘No, don’t do that. They’re perfectly entitled to be as loud as they want. If I wanted peace and quiet, I would have gone to a library.’

She laughed. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Yes, of course. Have a lovely evening.’

I ordered a second beer and tried to focus on my letter but instead I kept glancing up at the girls. How I envied them – to be young, in the capital and living in such prosperous times. When I was their age, we were still an occupied country, our lives restricted by the lack of opportunity and blighted by boredom. They were all attractive in their own way, attractive by the mere dint of being young.  I eyed Isabelle, seeing her outside the orchestral environment for the first time, being herself. She was a person who spoke with her hands, gesticulating wildly, emphasising her point. I knew then how attracted I was to her. I had been from the moment I first saw her at the interview but then I was still a man who yearned for the love of his wife. I realised then, in that bar, with Isabelle and her friends nearby, that I felt lonely. I had a wife, so many friends, and was adored by the multitudes, and yet… I had no one. Being a conductor is, ultimately, a lonely job – you are the boss and the musicians treat you as such; polite, respectful but always at a distance. I knew too that I had somehow been weakened, unwittingly, by Hilda. She existed in my mind as two people – the woman I’d met twenty years ago and the person I knew today. I felt, somehow, sullied by my association with her younger self while, at the same time, deeply sorry for the woman she was now. Her downfall had left me feeling vulnerable. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for myself.

An hour passed.

‘Maestro, you look like you have the world on your shoulders.’

‘My word.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

‘It’s fine. What happened to your friends?’

‘They had to go. I was about to leave but I thought…’

‘Well, join me.’

‘I wouldn’t want–’

‘No, do. I’m bored of being on my own.’

She glanced behind her, as if ensuring her friends had left, then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, slid onto the bench beside me.

‘I’ll get you a glass of wine.’

‘I shouldn’t; I’ve had too many already.’

‘Come now, one more won’t hurt.’

And so we talked for two, maybe three hours. The bar became steadily busier and louder, and after a while we had to raise our voices to hear each other. A group of drinkers asked if they could share our table which, for me, seemed like a good time to call it a day. Isabelle escorted me as I returned to my office in the theatre from where I phoned through for a car.

Sliding open the glass partition, I ordered the driver to take me home via Isabelle’s. We sat in the back, Isabelle grinning and stroking the leather seats. ‘I’m not used to such luxury,’ she purred.

‘Let’s call it a perk of the job.’

We talked some more as the car meandered its way through the streets of Paris and out into the suburbs. The car smelt of leather and Isabelle’s perfume. I enjoyed her company and, for the first time in an age, found myself laughing.

‘We’re here already,’ said Isabelle as the car slowed down. ‘That was quick. It’s just at the end of this road.’

I told the driver where to stop.

‘Well, thank you, Maestro,’ she said, buttoning up her coat. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’ I couldn’t see her expression in the dark but her tone sounded sincere.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we must do it again some time.’

‘Maestro, would you like, I mean, if you have time; what I want to say is…’

‘Are you inviting me in for a cup of coffee?’

‘I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn.’

I leant over and kissed her hard, taking her, and myself, by surprise.

‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, biting my fist. ‘I don’t know what… I’m really sorry–’

She took my hand from my mouth, stroking it. ‘Shush now, it’s fine, it’s OK. Come and have a coffee.’

‘Won’t your boyfriend be in?’

‘We don’t live together.’

‘I’ll tell the driver to wait.’

A street lamp illuminated her eyes. Hesitantly, she said, ‘Send him home.’ She smiled.

The car came to a halt. I saw the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Leaving the engine on, he darted out and opened the door for her. I followed her out, telling myself that I mustn’t give in, that I had to resist. But she doesn’t love you, I told myself, never had, never will. I felt the anger rise within me, a tightening in my chest. So why the hell did she marry me, then? Why the pretence all these years? I gave the driver a few francs as a tip. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You can call it a day now.’

Involuntarily, he shot a look at Isabelle who had wandered off to wait from a discreet distance. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

‘Come,’ she said, as the car drove off, an intense look in her eyes. ‘Let’s go up.’ She took my hand. After just a few steps, I stopped and glanced back to see the tail lights of the car recede into the distance. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’

She lived in a small apartment on the fourth floor of a fine Art Nouveau block with ironwork balconies. She unlocked the door and pulled me in. Slamming the door shut behind me, she pushed me against it and kissed me with an urgency I’d never experienced before, her cold hands pulling my shirt free of my trousers. Ripping off our coats, she led me to her bedroom, her lips never leaving mine. By the time we got to her bed we were already half undressed, a trail of discarded clothes and shoes, hers and mine, littering the floor. She threw me onto her bed and reached over and switched on her bedside lamp. Straddling me, grinning in anticipation, she removed her bra.

*

Afterwards, I lay on my back, catching my breath, and felt a deep sense of contentment. She lay on her front, nestling into my neck; her arm drooped across my chest. ‘Well, Maestro, that was quite something.’ I felt the warmth of her breath against my skin. ‘I bet you sleep with all your female musicians.’

‘No, not at all!’

‘Ha! I don’t believe you.’

‘No, really. You’re the first.’

‘Anyway, I don’t mind. You’re very good for an older man.’

I laughed at another backhanded compliment. ‘If you could just pass me my walking stick?’

She thumped me playfully on my chest. ‘What about your wife? Won’t she be missing you?’

‘You know I’m married?’

‘Of course. You wear a ring.’

I held up my hand, inspecting my wedding ring and sighed. ‘No, she won’t miss me at all.’ If she did, I thought, I wouldn’t now be in this situation.

She fell asleep lying next to me while I took in my surroundings – its high ceiling, stripped blue wallpaper, a large dresser adorned with make-up and jewellery boxes, a framed Picasso print and, in the corner, a cello case. It was, I felt, a room full of love and warmth, perfectly reflecting my pretty young cellist. Resting my hand on her back, feeling the defined outline of her ribcage, I looked down at her, this delicate little thing, the wisps of hair covering her face, her arched, finely-plucked eyebrows, her flawless skin, this vulnerable, beautiful girl, and felt quite overcome with emotion.

*

We awoke the following morning, a Saturday, and made love again with the autumnal sunshine streaming through her curtains, the constant hum of city traffic from below.

‘What are your plans today?’ I asked, as finally, having showered and dressed, we ate a breakfast of boiled eggs and toast and strong coffee in her living room. The radio played English pop music in the background.

‘Jacques and I are going to the new Kandinsk
y
exhibition at the Louvre.’ I tried not to wince on hearing the name of her boyfriend.

‘Is he one of those painters that produces mishmashes of shapes and colour?’

‘It’s lovely, so vibrant.’

‘Yes.’ I thought it best, at this point, not to reveal what I thought of this type of art, that is, if one can call it art.

‘And you, Maestro; what are your plans?’

‘Huh, I’ll do what I do every Saturday – I shall lock myself away in my study and work.’

‘All you do is work,’ she said, dipping a piece of toast into her egg. ‘You must give yourself a day off sometime.’

‘I know, you’re right.’ Yet, I thought, working was the only way to keep out of Michèle’s way.

A large fireplace dominated the room, candleholders on the mantelpiece, a gold-framed octagonal mirror above it; in the centre of the room a low oval table piled high with fashion magazines and, to the side, a copy of
Le Monde
.

‘What’s this song?’ I asked on hearing something on the radio I hadn’t heard before.

‘Oh, it’s good this, isn’t it? It’s
All or Nothing
by a band called The Small Faces,’ she said, pronouncing the names in an exaggerated English accent.

‘Very good, Isabelle, you’d make a good English disc jockey.’

She laughed. ‘Thank you kindly, Monsieur Conductor.’ A sudden movement of her hands knocked over the saltcellar. ‘Silly me,’ she said.

‘I didn’t know there was a new Kandinsk
y
exhibition.’

‘Yes, it’s got of a good review in
Le Monde
,’ she said, pointing to the newspaper. ‘Did you read the paper yesterday?’

‘No, I never get the time,’ I said, scraping out the last of the egg.

‘So you wouldn’t have read about this case coming up with that woman from the war?’ she asked, wiping crumbs from her fingers.

I stirred in an extra spoonful of sugar into my coffee. ‘What woman?’

‘She’s only just been found. She was a guard at Drancy, you know?’

I spluttered on my coffee.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, thumping my chest. ‘Drancy, the concentration camp?’