Just a stone’s throw away from Vincent and Jules, a clean-cut thirtysomething man wearing a dark suit stood at the edge of the platform, holding a briefcase in one hand and pressing the other against his lowered forehead. It looked like he was crying.
In all my years of riding the Paris Métro, I had seen some weird things: Street people peeing in the corners. Madmen ranting about government persecution. Bands of children offering to help tourists with their luggage and then taking off with it. But I had never seen a grown man cry in public.
The whoosh of air that precedes the train came gusting through the tunnel, and the man looked up. Calmly placing his briefcase on the ground, he crouched down, and using one hand to steady himself on the edge of the platform, he jumped down onto the tracks. “Oh my God!” I felt the words coming out of my mouth in a scream, and looked around frantically to see if anyone else had noticed.
Jules and Vincent turned my way, not even glancing at the man on the tracks, though I was wildly pointing at him with both hands. Without speaking, they nodded at each other before each moving rapidly in a different direction. Vincent approached me and, taking me by the shoulders, tried to turn me away from the track.
Fighting him, I whipped my head around to see Jules jump down off the platform onto the tracks and push the now sobbing man out of the way. With the oncoming train just feet away, he looked up at Vincent and, giving a slight nod, touched his index finger to his forehead in a casual salute.
The sound was terrible. There was the earsplitting screech of the train’s brakes, way too late to avoid the disaster, and then the loud thud of metal hitting flesh and bone. Vincent had prevented me from seeing the actual crash, but a snapshot of the penultimate second lodged in my mind: Jules’s calm face nodding to Vincent as the train rushed up behind him.
I felt my knees give way and slumped forward with only Vincent’s arms to hold me from falling. Screams came from all sides, and the sound of a man’s loud wailing drifted from the direction of the tracks. I felt someone lift me and begin to run. And then everything was as silent and black as a tomb.
Chapter Eight
I AWOKE TO THE SMELL OF STRONG COFFEE AND lifted my head from between my bent knees. I was outside, sitting on the sidewalk, with my back against the wall of a building. Vincent crouched in front of me, holding a tiny steaming cup of espresso a few inches away from my face, waving it around like smelling salts.
“Vincent,” I said, without thinking. His name felt natural coming from my mouth, like I had been saying it all my life.
“So you followed me,” he said, looking grim.
My head began to spin as a throbbing headache materialized just above the nape of my neck. “Ow,” I groaned, reaching back and massaging it with my hand.
“Drink this, then put your head back between your knees,” Vincent instructed. He placed the cup to my lips, and I threw it back in one gulp.
“That’s better. I’m just taking this cup back to the café next door. Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” he said as I closed my eyes.
I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. I couldn’t even feel my legs. What happened? How did I get here? And then the memory came back to me, crushing me with its horror.
“Do you feel strong enough to take a taxi?” Vincent was back, squatting down to bring his face level with mine. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
“But . . . your friend! Jules!” I said, incredulous.
“Yes, I know.” He furrowed his brows. “But we can’t do anything about that now. We need to get you away from here.” He stood up and signaled a taxi. Lifting me to my feet and supporting me with a strong arm across my shoulders, he picked up my bag and walked me to the waiting car.
Vincent helped me inside, and scooting in beside me, he gave the driver an address on a street not far from my own.
“Where are we going?” I asked, suddenly concerned. My rational mind tapped me on the shoulder to remind me that I was in a car with someone who had not only just watched his friend die in front of a speeding train, but looked as calm as if it happened every day.
“I could take you to your house, but I’d rather take you to mine until you calm down. It’s just a few streets away.”
I can probably “calm down” better at my own house than at yours. My thought was interrupted as the meaning of his words clicked in. “You know where I live?” I gasped.
“I’ve already confessed to following around our neighborhood’s new American imports. Remember?” He flashed me a disarming smile. “Besides, who followed who into the Métro today?”
I blushed as I wondered how many times he had seen me as I wandered, oblivious that I was being watched.