Read Online Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself by Alan Alda - Free Book Online Page B

est parti.
”
    I had spent my junior year of college in Paris, and unfortunately, I had no trouble understanding him.
    “The train couldn’t have left,” I told him in impeccably accented hysteria. “My daughter and I have tickets for that train.”
    “No, no,” he said, using two
no
’s where one would have been superfluous, if not offensive. “They left three hours early. They notified all their customers.”
    “They didn’t notify me.”
    “Possibly you bought your ticket in America.”
    “I did.”
    “Perhaps it’s that.” This was followed by a shrug described either as Gallic or sadistic, depending on how much you’re willing to forgive the French in exchange for Château Lafite.
    “No, no, no,” I said, seeing his two
no
’s and raising him one. “It is necessary that we get on that train. This is a very important trip for my daughter. It is absolutely necessary that we get on that train.”
    “Mais, le train est parti.”
    I was in no mood for French logic. “My daughter will be desolated. This is not possible.”
    “Well, you might try getting on the
Blue Train,
which hasn’t left yet. It runs much faster than the
Orient Express.
If you get off in Dijon, you can flag down the
Orient Express
when it passes through.”
    Flag down the
Orient Express.
How was I supposed to do that?
    “Just go to the stationmaster and tell him you have to stop the
Orient Express.
”
    It was
absolument
absurd that a stationmaster in Dijon would stop a train just because I told him to, but I thought of Elizabeth, waiting beside the bags.
    “All right, but I want you to put that in writing. ‘To the stationmaster of Dijon: I authorize you to stop the
Orient Express
.’ And sign it ‘the Stationmaster of Paris.’”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    “It is absolutely necessary.”
    “If you don’t leave now, you’re going to miss the
Blue Train.
”
    “Not without written authorization.”
    “I have nothing to write on.”
    He was driving me crazy. A stationmaster without a letterhead. How could the man exist in Paris without official paper?
    “Here, write on this.” From the top of a filing cabinet, I grabbed a brown paper bag with a couple of grease stains on it from his lunch. He took the bag from me with an expression that was a precisely calculated mix of disdain and pity and wrote what I dictated in a nice, florid hand. I insisted he sign it “the Paris Stationmaster.” I thanked him and left.
    I grabbed up Elizabeth and the bags, and we ran for
le Train Bleu.
There were no seats left, and we stood all the way to Dijon while a group of young sailors blew smoke at us that they sucked from their Gauloises.
    Finally, at two in the morning, we were the only people to get off the train in Dijon. The place was deserted, and as the
Blue Train
pulled away into the black night, we saw a tiny shack at the end of the platform with a dim light burning in the window. I walked down to it and knocked on the door. It opened just a crack.
    “Oui?”
    “Good evening. It will be necessary to stop the
Orient Express.
”
    “No. The
Orient Express
does not stop in Dijon.”
    “Tonight, it is necessary that it stop. We have tickets.”
    “I cannot stop the
Orient Express.
”
    “Really?” I pulled out the brown paper bag. “Read this!”
    He looked as if I had offered him a rodent. “What’s that?”
    “That is official authorization from the Paris stationmaster. The
Paris
stationmaster. We must stop that train.”
    He took the bag from me and read it carefully. “You got this from the Paris stationmaster?”
    “That’s right. In Paris.” I felt I couldn’t say the word
Paris
too many times.
    Silently, he nodded. “All right, I’ll stop it.”
    A few minutes later, the
Orient Express
pulled to a halt and some disgruntled train workers got off, wanting to know what the problem was. I showed them our tickets and told them we wanted to be taken to our compartments. Well, they said, the compartments have