A Southbound Journey

Friday 12th June

The exam went well. The same warm weather as yesterday has been present today. Fortunately, the sun did not watch us taking the exam, she chose to hide behind the few clouds above the city. Luckily I finished packing my things on Wednesday; Monsieur le Professeur would not let us out until the clock struck twelve. We had all finished but no; an old and grumpy man cannot bear to see joy in others.

I barely caught the Le Mistral at half-past twelve, and because of my late arrival to the station I could not have my pick of seat, as I usually do. I did find an empty pair, and of course chose to be facing away from my destination. I had settled in with my only leisure read, for I am sure to be subjected to only study reading once I arrive; Frankenstein. When the train was to depart; a minute remained, a young man, presentable but rushed, entered as if he owned the train, not like a man who had almost missed it. And of all places, he just had to sit opposite me. He smiled politely; I’ll give him that, and thankfully didn’t seem inclined to conversation. He, too, had his own entertainment. Thank God. I could not read the title, only that it was an orange Penguin classic.

He seemed handsome enough, clean-shaven with gelled back dark hair, strong facial structure and a sly smile; perfect for Fleur to drool over, especially if he turns out to be English or American, like the subject of her never-ending infatuation: James Dean. He could be him reincarnated, how happy she will be if he is bound to Cap-Ferrat as well.

His grey jacket gave him away: two buttons. This disheveled one should never be seen; rumpled jacket, loose tie, without a hat, and mis-buttoned shirt.

Until lunch his gaze seemed restless, he could not keep it on his pages and far too often let it wander upwards; towards myself. How disturbing it was. I could not enjoy my reading because of him; my only time to do as I please, and not what Father expects; and this young man went ahead and ruined it for me.

I thanked God when the head-waiter walked by announcing the first lunch service, and I was quick to stand up and straighten my skirt. Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived. How irritably forward it was of the young man to follow me to the dining car, he did ask if he might escort me but made no attempt to allow me to answer. I had hoped to be rid of him for my hour of dining, and the additional one it would take him. Again, he robbed me of my peace of mind.

As always, I ordered the cold leek and potato soup. In broken French, the young man requested the same. His smile irritated me to all means. He said his name was John, and that he had come from England; unfortunately, he, too, is headed to Cap-Ferrat to stay with his uncle. For most of the lunch, he droned on about his life and/or accomplishments; I did not care to listen; with the occasional flirtatious comment, his flirtatious smile permanently present on his lips, and in his eyes. Through them he looked at me like a rogue.

Note: Do not let Fleur near him; he is much too bold and crude, I will never hear the end of it, a daft and boring aristocrat is a better choice.

The few things I did collect from his conversation is that he was sent to America for university, but did not fancy the strict routine of it. How pathetic. Rambunctious is the best description, I think. He saw more of cabarets than lecture halls, more women than co-students, and more sleepless nights of fun than days of education. Never have I met a more recalcitrant man in my life.

The lunch hour passed much too slowly. Unfortunately, I could not escape, as we sat opposite each other. My prayer was not answered; he wished to converse once we got back to our seats, and worse, he practically demanded I contribute to the conversation. How rude. I thought that if I were to endure such torment for the entirety of our 10-hour train ride, I was sure to perish from boredom.

Past Dijon we rushed, and still he talked; with each hour, his flirtatious comments and advances escalated; both in quantities and boldness. At last, after the tea service, he seemed to quiet down. He at least had the decency to let one rest before dinner. Thankfully, he did not disturb me from my doze until dinner, and again insisted to escort me; what a gentleman.

Redolent murmur of the dinner-car, dimmed lights, and the near invisible window view, all of what I have quietly enjoyed every summer before. Still the circumstances were the same; but the quiet joy gone, stolen by a young Englishman. What don’t they steal? For dinner I had my Filet de bœuf Chasseur. John again copied me, yet ordered the wrong wine. I suppose I can’t blame him, he is English after all; Château La Nerthe blanc. Out of politeness I couldn't say a thing and drank it, though little, but how horrible it tasted, how he didn’t realise it I do not understand.

Where he got the audacity to toast, I will never understand, his smile has never been more irritating as it did in that moment. A confident smile accompanied with flirtatious eyes who thought they could look into one’s soul. If that English rival of Father’s is anything like him I very well understand Father’s hatred.

Again the meal was drowned in mindless chatter, nothing of interest I heard nor had to say, but to see; a remarkable ring he had, John, I didn’t notice before. Gold with a red stone, ruby perhaps, or a garnet that stretched upwards but bound with prongs that reminded me of a flower. I don’t think one can acquire a piece like that in America. It must have been a family ring, but that would suggest he is of good birth, and I will not accept that.

After dinner my prayer was answered, John slept for the rest of the journey. I can’t imagine how travel fatigue affects one who has travelled from America. And to my enjoyment I could focus on my reading. Rushing past, Toulon, Cannes, and Antibes in the dark I did not register them, so engulfed I was in the story. Right before the eleventh hour of the journey we arrived in Nice, and somehow I barely had the heart to wake John, fortunately the decision wasn’t mine; the stopping motion of the train was enough to wake him.

Somehow not disoriented, he stood and took down both mine and his luggage. At the station he thanked me for the accompaniment and kissed my hand before he disappeared into a silver car, presumably a chauffeur. All too quickly the train de la Côte d’Azur arrived, I had only waited about fifteen minutes, though I could have waited for hours and wouldn't have noticed. Peaceful it was, the slight breeze in the summer night, no pressure from exams, nor to study. Just simple existence, I didn’t dare waste it in a book. The ten minute ride I spent in my book instead, how many times can one look out of the same window and see the same sights.

Hercule waited for me at Beaulieu station, his bored expression set on his face as if carved from stone, he could well be among the Greek statues, sempiternal. Not a word we exchanged during the drive out the peninsula, I know better than to start a conversation with him; always best to let him lead. Now the car window view is one I hope I never get tired of, still three seconds between road lamps, flash of the ocean, the faint hum of Monaco’s nightlife replaced by the resonance of the ocean.

Across the narrow bridge we drove, and familiar structures came to view, the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild and other gated estates, blocked from view by olive trees. I must have dozed off, for when I opened my eyes, Hercule had parked, almost by the water-level, the moon shone like silver in the water, my last moment of peace. And Hercule unloaded my luggage. How rude.

Like a lighthouse the villa up the slope is, what kind of people are up at this hour? Father’s dislike of the owner was well present on his face when I entered. No need was for formalities, no “Hello” or “How was the journey?”, the world of business is much too “to-the-point”. Straight to bed I was sent after presenting my grades, maybe he will be in a conversational mood tomorrow.