Thicker Than Water

[Hope]

            The taxi driver from the Gare de Lyon was like one of those cheap rides for toddlers outside a supermarket which, for only a small coin, kept going long after the fun had worn off. Eve deposited her monosyllables into the conversation and the man spoke for minutes at a time, French that only made its way to Eve’s understanding in sly bursts, like mice creeping into a house in autumn. After a few minutes, she realized that he was a person who would talk with or without encouragement and was relieved to give up the chore of understanding him.

            Paris went by in a startling mix of the mundane and the spectacular. There were rows of rubbish bins and traffic and then suddenly the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower; a group of neon-splashed teens and then a long avenue of pleached trees with a monument at the end. Eve wondered if it were a sort of psychological test. Would taking your rubbish to the curb be ennobled by a view of the Arc de Triomphe or would the Arc de Triumph be cheapened by your rubbish? They drove through a canyon of pale gray houses, then a deeper canyon of uglier modern buildings and then a searing flash of green and they were out of the city and suburbs, and zipping through countryside that was a little too well-organized to be beautiful.

            Eve’s eyes lost focus in a blur of greens. She tried to feel the significance of her presence here, but felt only a wary sort of exhaustion. After a while, the trees seemed older, less orderly. There was a billboard by a river advertising Duran Duran at le Palace two years ago. It had red letters stamped over it saying Annulé.

Canceled.

            Eve shifted in her seat. She felt a bit sorry for this place and bit insulted on its behalf. She prodded her loyalty to the village as if it were a bruise. How big was it? How deep did it go?