The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [56]
Phoebe gazed at the earth beside her, tufts of grass poking up from a rain-beaten hillside. She grabbed a tuft and pulled. The dry, powdery soil released it easily. Phoebe tossed the grass in the road and pushed off against the embankment, walking quickly downhill. Her stomach tightened with the faint beginnings of fear. Trees, road, stone houses with their shutters closed; all of them filled her with dread.
She walked mechanically. The possibility of panic hovered very near, like a cat brushing her shins. Phoebe kept her eyes on the pavement. The rhythm of her steps seemed the articulation of a single question: What am I doing here? What am I doing here? I could be anywhere.
Still, she kept the panic at bay. It would all be revealed, she told herself, when she found a way to push herself hard enough.
Dear Mom, Barry and Phoebe, Wolf and I are back together again THANK GOD!! In Belgium they speak French, did you know that? Everyday we eat a new pastry. The people have simple good lives and we watch the women go shopping with their string bags. But it is a flaw in me that sometimes I get bored. Love, Faith
At last, Phoebe reached Dinant. Too tired to attempt the ride back to Namur, she waited for the train. It was nearly dusk, the air luminous blue. She stood alone on the platform. When the train came, the conductor helped her with the bike, a courtesy that overwhelmed Phoebe with gratitude. She collapsed into a seat, wishing the ride would continue forever. Sheer transit seemed preferable to actually being anywhere. In spite of herself she began nodding off, head bobbing back and forth, knocking against the window as Nico’s had, in Amsterdam. Afraid she would miss her stop, Phoebe forced herself to stand for the remainder of the ride.
Finally, after a week in Namur, Phoebe packed her bag and said good-bye to Guy, the youth hostel’s director. He kissed her as he did all his guests, left, right, left, but there was a coldness in his eyes, Phoebe thought, as if already he’d forgotten her.
She arrived at the Reims train station at six-thirty. The light was thick with dust. A man rode past on a bicycle, a long, droopy baguette tied to the rear. France, Phoebe thought. I’m in France.
Feeling like Quasimodo under her backpack, she followed her map to a group of beige high-rises outside the center of town. Between them lay large stretches of pavement dotted with benches and skinny trees, suggestive of a park but lacking the density to be one. The youth hostel was inside one of these high-rises, though Phoebe had an eerie sense of being the first and only “youth” ever to utilize it. Everyone in the crowded lobby spoke French and seemed to live here.
On the twelfth floor she followed a strip of aquamarine carpeting between cinderblock walls to room 1203. It looked like a tiny hotel room, cot, Formica desk and night table, flat indoor-outdoor carpeting. Phoebe felt a wave of unease. The place was all wrong. She opened the window to look down at a group of girls jumping rope on the pavement far below. The sound of their rope slapping the concrete ricocheted among the buildings. The children were singing a song Phoebe recognized, though she couldn’t remember the words. She closed the window, then opened it again, listening to the song. At the small sink she splashed water on her face and dried it with a rough white towel. She changed clothes quickly and left.
By now the shops had closed. French people were settling down to dinner at outdoor restaurant tables—candles, half-filled glasses of wine, silver crossed haphazardly over plates. They leaned forward, gesturing with their cigarettes. The picturesque scene heartened Phoebe. This is it! she thought fleetingly, and decided to treat herself to a fancy dinner.
She chose a restaurant set