It has been three years since I last set foot in a train station. I, the nomad, have taken root.
Naturally curious, I like to observe the characters who haunt certain public places. Now here, nothing has changed; although their faces are different, I find them all again.
*
Leaning against a wall, sitting on a huge bag, there is the student. He drones on, his eyes glued to a thick blue binder, and despite all the din reigning in this station, nothing at this moment can tear him away from his revision.
A little further, I catch sight of a family coming to pick up the grandmother. The father and mother are chatting together, glancing at the clock every five minutes. The children play, weaving between their legs, running around them, tagging each other yelling: “Tag!”, then bursting into laughter; they bring into this hall the fresh and colorful breeze of youth.
The father seems impatient, but I read a certain joy on his face; he seems to be holding back a smile. As for the mother, I can see resignation in her; I deduce, therefore—and don't think I'm mistaken—that they are waiting for the paternal grandmother.
I can already imagine the scene of Grandma’s arrival. The father and mother staring at every passenger on the escalator, and suddenly the father shouting: “Mom!”. The grandmother answering, all smiles, with a little wave of her hand. The father hugging her first, relieving her of her luggage. She, saying to him: “Are you doing well, my big boy?”, and he, father though he is, becoming once again the son he never stopped being, answering: “Very well, Mom.” Then comes the daughter-in-law’s turn, who, kissing her mother-in-law with the tips of her lips, tells her: “Did you have a good trip, Mom?”, all the while thinking: “My God, please let these two weeks pass quickly and don't let the old hag linger at our place.” Then it's the children's turn, forced to come kiss their grandmother; they comply as quickly as possible, pecking only one cheek out of two, before rushing back to their game of tag. The mother-in-law says: “My goodness, look how much they've grown... Ludovic, he's the spitting image of you when you were little, my dear.”
The anxious man, resuming his pacing, has just pulled me out of my meditation. He is a very common and distinctly recognizable species. He sits on a bench, taps his thigh with his fingers, whistles a tune, checks his watch, rummages through his bag, pulls out a magazine which he flips through at top speed, puts it back, closes his bag, gets up again, lights a cigarette, and starts the cycle all over again by pacing the hall.
In general, he is alone, because his demeanor has a way of exasperating his acquaintances. The only thing that calms him even a little bit is the train's arrival at the station. There, he gathers his belongings, follows the train until it comes to a stop, hinders passengers descending from the carriage in order to board as quickly as possible, and sits in three or four different spots before finding the perfect seat.
I shall refrain from continuing the study of this character any further, not wishing to stress you out for the rest of the day.
Then, there are the lovers, those facing their first separation. Not very difficult to spot them; they are almost always face to face, and usually at a very intimate distance from each other; as the time of separation approaches, this distance shrinks even more. They intertwine and whisper in each other's ear; the punctuation they use consists of kisses, sighs, and whispered words of love; as departure nears... the kisses grow longer. They awaken in all those watching them—and particularly in older people—emotions and memories they thought long forgotten.
There! The train is entering the station... They exchange one last kiss (Good Lord, those two have some stamina!), eyes closed, trying to engrave this moment as deeply as possible in their memory... Finally, she pulls away, whispering to him in a sad voice: “Go on, my love, it's time.” So, one last time, he holds her close, kisses her lips, and steps onto the train, breaking the contact, finger by finger.
Inside the train, he does everything he can to find a seat near one of the windows looking out onto the platform; then begins one of the most beautiful dialogues of silent carp-miming you could ever see. Everyone on either side of the glass follows this Italian-style conversation, and sometimes, it is even the other passengers who act as translators.
The train begins to move; she runs a little along the carriage; tears roll down her cheek; she wipes her eyes, then, helpless, stops, reaching out her hand toward him, who, pressed against the glass, keeps looking at her and waving his until they can no longer see each other. Then, she walks away, her step heavy and sad, stopping for a moment to sob into her hands until the friend who had accompanied her comes to join her, comfort her, and lead her away, her head resting on her shoulder.
As for him, on the train, behind a magazine he isn't reading, he hides his grief... and sometimes even his tears.
Something far more joyful than all of this is the return, and naturally, the longer the absence has dragged on, the more magnificent the return is; I personally admit that these moments are my favorite; it truly puts a balm on my heart to witness such happiness.
The waiting girlfriend is there, restless on the platform, chain-smoking; often she is not alone, but accompanied by one or several parents or close family members of the boy. Taking over from the anxious man, she in turn paces back and forth, laughs out loud, makes nervous little gestures of joy; she is the embodiment of happiness.
The train arrives, she stops talking, scrutinizes the passengers, then suddenly spots him... She doesn't notice that she's shouting across the whole station... The boyfriend, at the window, surrounded in the carriage, lights up and calls out her name as well, much to the chagrin of the other passengers... In this instant, the world no longer exists outside of them... Once again, she runs alongside the carriage until the train comes to a halt.
Finally, it's his turn to step down while she approaches, eyes filled with tears... He drops his luggage on the platform, takes her in his arms, kisses her, lifts her off the ground, and twirls her around.
He holds her by the waist, she rests her head on his shoulder, and they talk with the accompanying family, taking every opportunity to kiss.
Such happiness, even if it isn't yours, is so pleasant to watch that it reconciles you with life and humankind.
One also encounters, quite often in stations, the conscripts of the military service. Solitary (which is rather rare), the conscript goes almost unnoticed, often trying to make himself invisible, which isn't so easy when you have a shaved head and a heavy green or white duffel bag slung over your shoulder. In a group, no need to look for them—you can hear them, especially if they are on their final days before discharge and only at the first leg of their journey back. Indeed, later on, they quickly become hoarse, their vocal cords having been far too overused throughout the return trip.
In terms of gestures, they talk by touching each other, smoke like chimneys, and loudly tell crude jokes. Should a girl happen to walk by, she is immediately scanned from head to toe: measurements, notes, grades, and comments fly from all sides... Nothing escapes the eyes of these hungry young men.
Once on the train, after solving the seating arrangement by affinity and stowing away their bags, you will still hear them. If you like peace and quiet, do not despair: it will return when there is only one left, or when they have all gotten off.
You also cross paths with a few Foreign Legionnaires. White caps, black caps. Nothing to do with anything mentioned earlier. With them: order, discipline, and impeccably ironed uniforms. You don't hear a sound from them.
Another type you might catch sight of on occasion is the wild one, the old lone wolf. Although a misanthrope, he spends his time observing and studying his fellow human beings. His gaze is very sharp; he usually hides it behind tinted glasses, and if it happens to linger on you, you will be stripped bare, body and soul. You'll always spot him in somewhat secluded spots, but offering a full view of the station hall—a place where he can see without being seen.
He doesn't speak, and often pretends to read.
*
There, of course, are plenty of other characters, but my purpose here isn't to write a thesis, so I leave it to each of you to discover them and study them. As for me, I know them all well, and have affection for each one, because at different times in my life, I have been most of them...
“Track A, please stand back from the platform edge. Train 6511 arriving from Nice and bound for Marseille is entering the station... This train runs non-stop to Marseille Saint-Charles... Toulon!... Toulon!... Five-minute stop!”
I am sorry to leave you. My train is arriving, and I must go... See you soon.
THE END
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