Charmaine - Rebecca Strauss (comments welcome!)

Charmaine

She lit her long cigarette with the grace and efficiency of an old pro. A tiny woman, she took up little room on the bench next to me. Her dyed blonde hair looked airy and soft like yellow cotton candy. It was cut in a chic bob that didn’t move an inch although the breeze was blowing warm and strong. Only the crow’s feet around her clear blue eyes gave away her advanced age.

From the corner of my eye I could see her close those eyes with each long drag and settle as far down into the metal bench as was possible. She held her Marlboro casually in the first two fingers of her left hand, flung out to her side. Her scarf, French in design, was wrapped tightly around her small throat and she clutched her wool pea-coat around her skinny frame. Each long sigh that escaped her body seemed to rattle in her chest. Her two suitcases that leaned against her dark slacks were quite small, and the design and olive green color looked vintage. I tried to read the name on the tags, but the tight cursive letters escaped me. Instead, my eyes were caught by the flash of jewelry. Her fingers were bedecked with several rings; gold bands provided bases for stones so dark and rich they couldn’t possibly be real. Finally, after catching me sneaking a peek, she addressed me in a smoke rasped, British soprano.

“Young lady, you don’t mind me smoking do you?” She was hesitant, searching my face rather bluntly, and I was initially taken aback. But her eyes weren’t accusatory or hostile; instead they held a look of slight amusement.

“No, no, not at all,” I answered, taking delight for the first time in the friendly, mellow of my American accent. “I mean, we’re in France. I should be used to smoking by now, right?”

“Quite right, quite right. I don’t like all this anti-smoking nonsense anyway. Nonsense is what it is,” she was leaning into me now, like two old friends sharing a secret. I smiled inwardly. “I’ll have you know that most of my good friends, who are older than I, smoke all they want. Not a one has cancer or a speck of lung trouble. Sheer nonsense, I tell you.”

I had no idea how to comment on such a statement so I simply nodded my agreement.

We sat in silence for a while on that airport bench in southern France, just waiting for the train station shuttle bus, the navette, to arrive. We had missed the first one by a mere two minutes and the next was not set to arrive for another twenty.

The bench was by no means comfortable, but I had been up and traveling for many hours by late morning and my body relaxed on its own. I was on one of the week and a half vacations given to exchange students. I hadn’t wanted to bother the other members of my program or intrude on their plans so I had planned a trip on my own. It was my second solo jaunt. The first had been a rather forgettable trip to Belgium. Belgium with company can be boring. Belgium by oneself is just a riot. This time, as my classmates were jetting off to sunny Greece, or rich Rome, or debauched Amsterdam, I was going to tour the parts of France I had yet to visit. My university was based in the south, near Marseille. I had chosen it over Paris largely because it sounded exotic and sexy. Perhaps I hoped it would rub off on me. The advisors at the program office had asked me about my travel plans once. They asked who I would be traveling with. When I answered that I would be alone they called me dear and said, “But won’t you be lonely?” I told them what I had tried to convince myself; if I traveled alone I could plan only the things that I wanted to do.

I made my way to the Atlantic, tried the seafood and watched the French people splashing about in the surf. My bathing suit wasn’t very fashionable, but at least it was black. Black is a good color in France. I spent a long day lying out, equipped with a towel, a wide brimmed hat, a good book, and Edith Piaf. I was too distracted to read though. I watched as lithe, gorgeous, bronzed bodies floated by while I did my best to keep from getting caught gaping at the topless sunbathers. There they were, young and old, large and thin, breasts to the world, nipples saluting the sun, mocking the leering men, all with looks of peaceful nonchalance permanently etched on their faces. In a moment of boldness, I decided to take my top off too, only to be greeted by a dirty old man that had migrated my way. He was so close when he surprised me with, “bon soir,” that when I jerked my head up my eyes first alighted on the bulge of his bright blue Speedo. I had recoiled instantly and whipped my head back so fast I heard my neck crack. Then, doing my best snake impression, sinking my torso as far into my towel as possible, and wriggling on my stomach, I frantically tried to re-tie the strings that kept evading my grasp. When I finally succeeded, I jumped up, gave the man my best glare, and scampered off. I could hear him chuckling after me. It was then that I had wanted to share the story and laugh with a companion. I called my mom long distance when I arrived back at my hotel, but she was out and didn’t answer. It wasn’t a story that would sit well on an answering machine.

I took the train next to the Loire Valley to visit the famous chateaux. I stayed in little inns where I hoped to meet other world travelers with exciting tales. Instead, the inn was filled with French couples and families who lost interest in me after a few sentences revealed my ineptitude at the language. In one village, after I was “castled” out, I rented a bicycle in an effort to explore on my own, away from the suffocating closeness of tour groups. I quickly realized what a bad decision I had made. The many hills winded me, the compact Peugeots and Citroens zipped by honking, and I cried due to frustration more than once. I returned to the inn sweaty, red faced, and scared. The innkeeper took pity on me and sent some coffee and a pain au chocolat up to my room.

I made it to Normandy next, and visited the beaches like I had promised my father. But it was grey day near the channel, and taking photos made me sad.

My next stop, Strasbourg, was just as uneventful as I had feared. I made several attempts to take pictures by myself, precariously perching my camera on a ledge and running into place after pressing the timer button. A young French couple watched my efforts for a few minutes before offering to take a photo for me. Their eyes were laughing at me as I fidgeted into place, and it suddenly felt far too intimate to smile at them. I decided to end my trip early and found the fastest way back to Marseille, a 7 am flight. I remember feeling relaxed as the plane took off, but on landing, my least favorite part of any flight, I was struck by that favorite question of mine: What now?

Now, I was sharing a bench with an eccentric old British woman. Our conversation was the longest continual human contact that I’d had in days. As the minutes whittled down waiting for our bus, she shared with me her many insights, most of them about the French, and none too flattering.

“Now the English, the English know how to run things.” She shot a look at my face and added, “Oh, perhaps the Americans too,” for my benefit.

“Germans too,” I added.

“Is that so? I’ve never visited.”

“Oh yes, everything in Germany runs remarkably well.”

“Well, that seems about right. We did have to rebuild them after all.”

Then, just before one more politically incorrect statement could escape her scarlet painted lips, the shuttle arrived. We held our place in line, two proud English speakers against the world; or in this case, a rather unfriendly French bus driver. As I held out my ten euros and a smile he shook his head disapprovingly and pointed past my shoulder to the shack with the sign, “Billets” (tickets) written on the top. He then explained to me the correct process of purchasing a bus ticket and rolled his eyes in exasperation at my halting French. As I turned from the line my companion clutched my arm.

“What did he say? Something about the tickets? Humph! What an incredibly rude man!”

I felt a sort of protectiveness for this little lady next to me. Perhaps it was her age, or her small size, but she seemed pleased to have my help, and I felt a kind of purpose in helping her. I spoke for her, got our tickets, apologized to the grumpy driver and settled the two of us into a window near the front. Bumps in the road are more jolting in the back.

When I ride on buses or trains, I like to sit by the window, gazing out at nothing and everything at once. That day, the sun was high that day and the landscape of greater Marseille was illuminated in the yellow-orange glow that is southern France. The etangs glittered through their layers of dirt, winking and smiling at me. The entire world beckoned me out; I felt like I was in a movie. I pointed out a bird to my companion and she nodded. It was clear that staring out the window did not hold the same magic for her. I asked her a question about herself and she was more than happy to oblige.

She had grown up in a small town just outside of London and her accent had that subtle, posh sound of the south. She had spent summers as a girl by the sea she said. She smiled as she told me how long her hair had been, so blonde it reflected the sun. As she spoke her small, sun tanned and spotted hands waved about. Her nails were immaculate; I hid my own ragged ones in my palms.

She told me with a strange kind of pride that she had been married three times: twice divorced and recently widowed.

“Oh, of course I loved that last one. Though I must admit, I partly married him out of boredom;” her tone was completely unapologetic, “We never even lived in England together. I’ve been traveling these last five years. He’s the one that left me the house in southern France. It’s just about an hour from Marseille.”

I smiled as I was suddenly struck with the idea of spending holidays in France at the behest of my wealthy, British benefactress. I would arrive in a rush of hellos and she would whisk me away to my room, a big airy square with tall windows adorned by sheer white curtains that blew backwards from the azure sea, creating a path for me out to a flower strewn balcony. There, I could be her companion, read to her in the garden, wear big white hats and strappy espadrilles as we sipped cold limonade in some seaside café and…

"My dear…have you ever been there?”

“Sorry, excuse me, umm, where?”

“Where my house is. It’s a very lovely place, very charming.” My overzealous imagination awaited the invitation, but instead I just shook my head “no” with a sorry little shrug.

“No matter,” she said, and carried on with her story.

She had five children, all with her first husband, the true love of her life.

“Like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton we were. Desperately in love, but not meant to be. The bastard’s six feet under now though…”

She talked of each of her children with due pride. Thomas was a small business owner in Bristol, Susan a homemaker in the southern suburbs of London, and Bridget was an accountant in Manchester. She was especially proud of her eldest two sons, George and Matthew who were both doctors in London.

“The noblest of professions in my opinion,” she said, “They’re the ones keeping me going like this, and they never bug me about the smoking. I don’t think it’s right for children to start acting like parents.”

I suddenly thought of my own mother back home. She had encouraged me to study abroad and here I was five months later. I didn’t know if I wanted to go home, I didn’t really know what I was doing abroad. I guess I told myself it was for a new experience, new perspective. Was it some dream of becoming like this lady next to me?

“So, how long have you been living in France?”

“About two years I think. After my third husband died I’d come to visit, but the weather in England has caused me to live here sixth months of the year.”

I wasn’t an expert but her French seemed greatly underdeveloped for someone living in France for so long.

“Have you taken any French courses since you’ve been here?”

“Oh, God no,” she laughed with derision; “I’m old enough and set enough in my ways. The staff at the house and the people in the village understand me well enough. No, no, this old dog isn’t learning any new tricks.”

“But it really is such a beautiful language.”

I hoped I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. She gave me a polite smile and shrugged as if to say “perhaps”.

“Learning languages is for you young kids. It’s so nice to see young people being able to travel like you.”

In those few words, she affirmed every reason I had for being abroad. I felt myself becoming easy in her company. I started to become more animated as I shared stories from my travels. She even laughed at my story of the topless sunbathing and said something especially rude about French men. Our chat ended rather abruptly however as the bus pulled up to the Marseille train station. We all filed off and shuffled straight into the mess of midday traffic.

I was expecting to part ways with my new friend when we arrived, but to my great pleasure, my companion took hold of my arm and made it clear we were sticking together. We must have made quite the pair, a tiny seventy-year old British lady and her awkward, eager, American escort.

The Marseille train station had the high ceiling openness of an airport hanger. It was open to the fresh air on one side and the air was chilly and uncomfortable. There was an obvious lack of chairs or benches in an attempt to ward off hobos and keep all regular passengers anxious and cranky. But, in all that bright openness, the ticket line was squashed into a small, closed off ticket office. With her encouragement, I went off in search of food and beverage as my tiny companion held our spots in line. Upon my return my fumbling attempt to regain my spot brought a few glares, but our closest neighbors were groups of stoic north African women, already far too used to such behavior to flinch a facial muscle.

My companion seemed oblivious to every own in line. She spoke to me in loud English, asking questions about her ticket and complaining about the line.
Another thing the French like to do in ticket lines is to short staff at exactly the worst possible moment. As we waited patiently together, the ticket attendants went from five to four to three, until there were only two employees to serve the now much enlarged queue. We marched up to the young, female attendant together and my companion looked up at me expectantly. I began to translate her questions and the young woman answered back clear and strong in English. She smiled at my embarrassment, but we were soon holding tickets and walking towards the platform. My companion had only an hour to wait while I had three and I felt the pinch of the clock. I wanted this last hour to be meaningful in some way. My swift melancholy was cut short by her strong voice.

“France does have quite a large problem with the Africans doesn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, just look around; you can’t throw a stone without hitting some Moroccan or Muslim.”

“Umm, I suppose that’s true. People are making immigration an issue everywhere,” I answered, trying my hardest to balance her blatant racism with my need to have a pleasant last hour.

“Even in England, it’s getting bad. We have so many Indians now, barely anyone speaks English anymore.”

“Well, India was an English colony until fairly recently.”

“That’s true,” she said nodding. “But still, immigration policies really need to be enacted and enforced. These foreigners are plugging up our works, and costing all kinds of money. I don’t see why they don’t do more to make sure everyone enters legally.”

I held my tongue as I thought of her status as a foreigner in France. I was surprised by her attitude towards immigration, it sounded so, well, American.
It was then that she lit up another cigarette though we were several meters from the designated smoking area. She had an easy arrogance that I knew would keep her from being scolded. She blew out with a long sigh and checked her watch. She smiled at me and

“You know,” I said, “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

She gave me a queer look, shrugged, took another long drag and replied out of the side of her mouth, “I never gave it.”

Then, she must have seen the dejected look on my face and simply replied, “Charmaine. My name is Charmaine.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before. How did your parents choose it?”

“It’s a character from a book that my mother loved.”

“I think names are so interesting,” I replied, though the voice didn’t sound like mine. I didn’t know if I meant what I was saying, but it seemed right. “I think it says a lot about a person, a lot about their parents too.”

She shrugged, took another long inhale, “I don’t know if people even need to exchange names.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I think you can have a pleasant enough time with someone without going too far into getting to know them. Don’t you?”

I backpedaled desperately.

“Yeah, I can see that…I just really like names and the stories behind them.”

“And I think we’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

I nodded.

“Sometimes you meet people and you’ll never see them again, so why go through all the mess of forming a bond?”

The image of my balcony room overlooking the sea vanished like paper in acid. I knew Charmaine wasn’t trying to hurt my feelings, but I tried all the same to hide the surprised hurt from my eyes.

Just as quickly as she shot me down, Charmaine effortlessly moved us on to another subject, and I was grateful. It was trite and flippant, but it took us all the way to the arrival of her train. She was going in a different direction than I and I envied her shorter ride. She looked hard at her ticket.

“I’m in car eight. Where do you think that is?”

I dutifully looked over the ticket, shouldered one of her bags and walked the side of the train scanning the compartment numbers.

“It’s here,” I called and waited as she scampered up. I could tell she was excited to continue on her journey. She handed her luggage over to the train officer, gave me a last look and said, “Thank you so much for your help. I had a lovely time.”

“Me too, I had a lovely time as well.”

“Alright, good bye now,” she said and turned into the train. She didn’t ask my name.
I sat back down on the little bench beside the TGV and watched her through the window. I lifted my hand in a kind of half wave, but as the train started to pull away she was facing straight ahead, her thoughts no longer with me.