Free The 6:41 to Paris by Jean-Philippe Blondel Page B

least you passed your exams.
    At least you’ve got a steady job.
    At least you’ve had children.
    At least your ex-wife isn’t making a fuss about the alimony.
    At least your divorce hasn’t gone too badly. At least you’re notdead.
    I did almost die, once.
    Like everyone, I suppose.
    I was sailing on the lake, ten miles or so from my parents’ place. It was not long after Cécile Duffaut. A sudden storm. The wind picked up, formed a tornado. I was fascinated. I’d never seen one in my life. After that I don’t know exactly what happened. Something bashed me in the back of the head, probably the boom jibing. I passed outand fell overboard. The other sailors didn’t have time to notice me: their boats were in trouble, too. I opened my eyes: algae, bubbles, silt, but the terrifying noise of the storm was gone. It felt good, there. I felt good. I thought, game over, and I think I smiled, but is it possible to smile when you’re running out of air? I remember that my head hurt, and I may well have been bleeding.
    I didn’t want to die, but living wasn’t all that great an option, either. My relationships with girls were heading nowhere. My parents and I annoyed each other beyond belief. The years seemed to be frittering away, like the friendships I had thought would always endure. Anything could happen, why not death?
    But I rose to the surface. A moment of panic. Air. The need for air. But it was a closecall. I’ve never been out sailing since.
    Of course everything would be different now. I have responsibilities. I have my children.
    I can still hear that white noise distinctly—notunlike the crackling of a vinyl record once the music is over. The silence of afterward. Almost religious. And mocking, too.
    I have my children.
    The verb “to have.” It’s a troublesome one. It’s not a verb I’m familiarwith. The more time goes by, the more I lose. The more I lose, the freer I am. The freer I am the more I wish I weren’t so free. What am I supposed to do with all this freedom?
    Make Cécile an offer, for example.
    I’ll turn to face her and I’ll explain myself. I’ll tell her about Mathieu. About me, my children, Christine, about how life takes sudden strange turns.
    I’ll apologize for London.
    Because of course I remember.
    We’ll go back over all that, get things off our chests, I’ll manage to cheer her up, she’ll forget that she’s a busy married woman, a mother, I’ll throw down the gauntlet, Cécile, let’s go back to London, right now, I’ll make you forget that trip we took together, have you ever been back to London, Cécile? It’s a great city, you know. No, don’t tell me I ruined itfor you. I did? No! Really? Then we have to fix that, whaddya say, right away, let’s drop everything—work, spouse, kids—and disappear for forty-eight hours to England, or more, if we get along.
    Are you up for it?
    You’re on.
    Right now.
    Well, two or three minutes from now.
    However long it takes for me to get used to the idea of such a sudden departure, together.

No, I had something to do with it, too.
    I shouldn’t be disingenuous. I wasn’t the type of girl who had men turning around as I walked by. And I didn’t do anything to encourage them. I preferred wearing baggy clothes and shapeless sweatshirts; guys must’ve thought I spent my weekends sprawled in front of the television. And so they were often pleasantly surprised when I took my clothes off. Anddiscovered that I actually had a figure.
    Plus shyness.
    No, that’s not it, either. I’ve never thought of myself as shy. It was just I didn’t feel like struggling for hours to impose my taste or my point of view, to defend a particular film or rock band or politician. It all seemed useless. I would look at them, all those strutting peacocks, puffing out their chests and crowing louder than anyone.And sometimes there in the barnyard a few hens would cackle as they pecked around the cocks, and the peahens would spread their feathers,