At The Train Station

It’s been three years since I last set foot in a train station. I, the nomad, have taken root.

Naturally curious, I enjoy studying the characters that inhabit certain public places. Yet here, nothing has really changed: though the faces are different, I recognize them all..

* * *

Sitting on a large duffel bag, leaning against a wall—there’s the student. He mutters to himself, eyes fixed on a thick blue binder, and despite all the noise filling the station, nothing could tear him away at this hour from his studies.

A little further off, I spot a family waiting to greet one of their relatives. The father and mother chat together, glancing every five minutes at the clock. The children play, dart between their legs, circle around them, tap each other shouting, “Tag!” then burst into laughter; they bring into this hall the fresh, colorful breeze of youth.

The father looks impatient, but on his face I can read a certain joy; he seems to be holding back a smile. As for the mother, however, I detect a hint of resignation in her; I deduce—probably correctly—that they’re waiting for the paternal grandmother.

I can already picture the scene of Mother-in-law’s arrival. The father and mother scrutinizing every traveler carried up by the escalator, then suddenly the father shouting, “Mom!”, the grandmother replying with a small smile and a wave; the father being the first to kiss her, taking her bags from her; she saying, “How are you, my boy?”—and he, father that he is, will once again become the son he never stopped being.

Then will come the daughter-in-law’s turn, who, kissing her mother-in-law lightly on the lips, will say, “Did you have a pleasant trip, Mother?” while thinking, “Dear God, let these two weeks go by quickly, and may the old goat not overstay her visit.” Then will come the children’s turn, who will be forced to kiss their grandmother; they will do so as fast as possible, kissing only one cheek before hurrying back to their game of tag. The grandmother will say, “My goodness, how they’ve grown… Ludovic, he’s the spitting image of you when you were little, my dear!”

The anxious one, resuming his pacing, just pulled me from my meditation. He’s a very common and easily recognizable species. He sits on a bench, drums his fingers on his thigh, whistles a tune, checks his watch, rummages in his bag, pulls out a magazine, leafs through it at lightning speed, puts it back, closes his bag, stands up, lights a cigarette, and starts the whole cycle over again, prowling through the hall.

In general, he is alone, for his behavior has a knack for exasperating his acquaintances. The only thing that calms him even a little is the arrival of his train. Then he gathers his belongings, follows the train as it rolls in, gets in the way of passengers disembarking in order to board as quickly as possible, and finally, after trying three or four different seats, finds the right one.

I won’t continue the character study further—I wouldn’t want to stress you out for the rest of the day.

And then there are the lovers—those facing their first separation. They’re not hard to recognize; they’re almost always standing face to face, often at a very intimate distance from one another. The closer the time of departure comes, the smaller that distance becomes. They hold each other and whisper in each other’s ears; the punctuation they use consists of kisses, sighs, and murmured words of love. The closer the departure, the longer the kisses last. They awaken in onlookers—especially in the elderly—emotions and memories they thought long forgotten.

There! The train is arriving… They kiss one last time (Good Lord, these two have lungs!), eyes closed, trying to etch this moment as deeply as possible into their memories… Then she pulls away and whispers sadly, “Go on, my love… You have to go.” One last time, he holds her tight, kisses her lips, and climbs into the train, breaking contact finger by finger.

Inside the train, he does everything he can to find a seat by a window overlooking the platform. Then begins one of the most touching pantomimes possible to witness. Everyone on both sides of the glass follows their silent Italian-style dialogue—and sometimes even other passengers step in as translators.

The train starts to move; she runs a little along the carriage. Tears roll down her cheek; she wipes her eyes and then, powerless, stops, stretching out her hand toward him. He, pressed against the window, keeps looking at her, waving until they can no longer see each other. Then she walks away, her steps heavy and sad, stops for a moment to sob into her hands until the friend who accompanied her joins her, comforting her and leading her away, her head resting on her friend’s shoulder.

As for him, in the train, he hides behind a magazine he doesn’t read—his grief, and sometimes even his tears.

Something far happier than all this is the return—and, of course, the longer the absence, the more beautiful the return. I confess, personally, that these are my favorite moments; seeing such happiness truly soothes the heart.

The lover waits there, nervous on the platform, chain-smoking. Often she’s not alone but accompanied by one or more relatives or members of the young man’s family. Taking over from the anxious one, she now paces back and forth, bursts into laughter, and makes little gestures that clearly betray her overflowing joy; she is the embodiment of happiness.

The train arrives; she stops talking, scans the passengers, and suddenly she sees him. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying out his name loud enough for the whole station to hear. The lover, visible through the window, surrounded in the carriage, lights up with joy and shouts her name too, to the great annoyance of the other passengers. In that instant, the world ceases to exist beyond the two of them. Once again, she runs alongside the train until it stops.

Finally, it’s his turn to disembark. She rushes to him, eyes full of tears; he drops his bags onto the platform, takes her in his arms, kisses her, lifts her off the ground, spins her around.

He holds her by the waist, she rests her head on his shoulder, and they talk with their companions—never forgetting, whenever they can, to kiss each other again.

Such happiness, even if it isn’t yours, is so wonderful to witness that it reconciles you with life and with humankind.

You also often come across conscripts in train stations. Alone—which is quite rare—the conscript passes almost unnoticed, often trying to make himself invisible, which isn’t so easy when you have a shaved head and a big green or white army duffel bag on your back. In groups, you don’t need to look for them; you can hear them coming—especially if they’re merry and early in their journey home. Later on, they quickly become hoarse, their vocal cords having been too much in use throughout the trip back home.

In their gestures, they speak while constantly touching one another, smoke like chimneys, and shout bawdy jokes. Let a girl pass by, and she will at once be scanned from head to toe—measurements, remarks, scores, and comments flying from all directions. Nothing escapes the eyes of these hungry young men.

Once on the train, after they’ve settled the matter of preferred seats and the stowing of their bags, you’ll still hear them. If you cherish peace and quiet, don’t despair—tranquility returns once only one remains, or when they’ve all gotten off.

You also sometimes come across legionnaires—white kepis, black kepis.They have nothing in common with the others.With them: order, discipline, and impeccably pressed uniforms. You don’t hear a word from them.

Another type you might occasionally spot is the loner—the old wolf, a solitary creature.Despite his misanthropy, he spends his time observing and studying his kind. His gaze is sharp, which he hides most of the time behind tinted glasses; and if that gaze lingers on you, you’ll feel exposed, body and soul. You’ll always see him in a spot slightly apart, but one that gives him a full view of the station hall—a place from which he can see everything without being seen himself.

He doesn’t speak and often pretends to read.

* * *

There are, of course, many other characters, but since my purpose here isn’t to write a thesis, I’ll leave it to each of you to discover and study them for yourselves. As for me, I know them all well and feel affection for each of them, because, at different times in my life, I’ve been most of them…

Track A, please stand clear of the platform edge. Train 6511, arriving from Nice and bound for Marseille, is now entering the station. This train runs non-stop to Marseille Saint-Charles… Toulon!… Toulon!… Five-minute stop!…

Sorry to leave you, my train has arrived, and I must go… See you soon!"