Free The Diplomat's Wife by Pam Jenoff Page B

Though I have read about subways, I have never actually taken one. But the conductor said it was too far to walk and he did not give me directions by bus. And it is four-twenty, just forty minutes until the embassy will likely close. I take the stairs two at a time, holding the railing so as not to fall. At the bottom, I pause to consult a map and identify a pink line that runs between the Gare l’Est and Madeline stations. Quickly, I buy a ticket from the kiosk, then follow the signs for the pink line to a crowded platform. A few minutes later, a train rumbles noisily into view. I board with the other passengers and find myself pressed uncomfortably into the center of the car between an old man and a group of schoolgirls. There is nowhere to sit, so I reach out and hold on to a nearby pole for balance.
    The doors close and the train begins to roll forward. A voice comes over the speaker, announcing the next stop in garbled French that I cannot comprehend. How will I know where to get off? My eyes dart to the route map over the door and I count four stops between Gare l’Est and Madeline. Faster, I think, digging my nails into my palms.
    What if I don’t make it on time? We reach the first stop and the doors open. A few passengers get off, but others board, making the train car more overcrowded than before. Just three more stops, I think, as the train begins to roll forward into the darkness of the tunnel. Suddenly, it halts again. The other passengers groan collectively, mumbling phrases I cannot understand. Why have we stopped? I catch a glimpse of a man’s wristwatch. Four-thirty-five. I am not going to make it. A cold sweat breaks out beneath my dress.
    The train starts to move again. We reach the second stop, then the third. As we leave the fourth stop, I inch my way through the crowd, trying to get closer to the door. The train creeps into Madeline station. As the doors open, I push through the crowd and race up the steps. At the top, I step onto the pavement and stop, gasping. I am standing at the biggest intersection I have ever seen. Buses, taxis and other cars, at least four deep, race in all directions along two wide boulevards, flanked by enormous buildings. The cities I have seen before, Kraków and Salzburg, in no way prepared me for this. I shiver, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all.
    But there is no time to wonder. A bell chimes once, jarring me from my thoughts. Four-forty-five, the clock on the front of a large stone church across the boulevard reads. The embassy will close in fifteen minutes. I look in both directions, trying to get my bearings. Rue Royale, the street sign at the corner says. I turn left, as the conductor instructed, and run to the next major intersection. In the distance across the boulevard, I see a massive gray building, flags flying atop. That must be the embassy! I step out into the street, then jump as car horns blare out noisily in protest. The traffic light is red, I realize, leaping back onto the curb. When the light turns green, I fly across the intersection and down the street. The distance between myself and the embassy closes, fifty meters, then twenty. At last I reach the front of the large columned building bearing a British flag on the roof.
    I rush to the guard booth at the front gate of the embassy. “Visa section, please,” I pant in English, still breathing heavily from the run.
    “The consulate is closed, ma’am.”
    My heart sinks. “But it’s not yet five…”
    He shakes his head. “They stop taking applicants at four-thirty.”
    “Please,” I plead, pulling my visa from the bag and holding it out to him. “It’s very urgent that I see someone today.”
    He does not look down at the papers. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
    “But tomorrow will be too late.”
    “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
    I step backward, feeling as though a rock has slammed into my chest. I am too late. The embassy is closed. Shoving the papers