BY MAUREEN SIMONS

—

I woke with a shock and my head snapped up. Had I missed the stop for Geneva? I blinked rapidly and scanned my train car. Where was my backpack? My passport was in my backpack. My stomach clenched. After a year of riding in third class train compartments I knew better. How could I fall asleep with all my belongings left unprotected?

My head whipped back and forth as I searched the overhead racks and vinyl bench seats. Nothing. There was only one other passenger in the car, a tiny old woman with gray skin and a crocheted flower hat. She was oblivious, snoring noisily as her chin bumped on her chest. I glared at the empty luggage rack and willed my backpack to appear. Nothing. I grabbed the overhead rack to steady myself and sidestepped to the door to find a conductor. The train jolted, and my foot landed on a coil of fabric. I looked down. My eyes followed a corrugated blue strap to my backpack, stashed safely under the seat.

I slumped into the corner of the car, drained from the flush of adrenaline. A mechanized voice announced “La gare a Genève, dix minutes.” I exhaled shakily and pressed my thumb to the racing pulse of my wrist. Ten minutes to my destination and all was well, I told myself. The old woman opened her milky eyes, gazed at me and grinned. She was missing most of her front teeth.

 

I pressed my cheek to the window as the train drew into Geneva. The glass was refreshingly cool. Too cool, I thought, and touched the back of my hand to my forehead. It felt hot, but I shook off the suggestion of a fever. I propped my chin on my fist, impatient to reach the city.

The approach to the rail yard was slow and tedious, the view through my window lifeless and drained of color. Long stretches of grimy steel rails and dull sepia platforms blurred together. As the train bumped hypnotically down the track, my eyes closed and my head began to nod. Anxiety yielded to exhaustion.

As an exchange student at the Université de Grenoble, I had spent the previous three months cramming for finals and writing agonizingly long papers in French. My classes had been yearlong, and grades for the academic year rested almost entirely on a single summary exam or research paper. So much had been at stake – my entire year’s work, the huge sacrifices my family had made to send me abroad. My scholarship. French students knew this system well, but foreign students like me often wildly underestimated the year end workload. For weeks, I had subsisted on minimal sleep, continuous infusions of inky black espresso and meager dinners of ramen noodles boiled on a forbidden camp stove in my bathroom.

Two days before, I learned I had passed my classes – one just barely – and hurriedly shipped a few things home. I had scrimped together enough money to travel for about ten days before my Eurail pass expired. But by the time I boarded the train, I was stupid from intense pressure, poor nutrition and relentless fatigue.

 

At the train station in Geneva, I ran my finger down the lodgings list, searching for the lowest cost youth hostel. ‘Home St. André’, for women only, was surprisingly inexpensive and advertised private rooms. This was a rarity in hostels, so I knew I had to arrive early to claim a spot. I gulped an espresso, dragged my backpack onto my shoulder and set off into the long shadows of afternoon sun.

 

My mood lifted when I arrived at Place St. André and recognized the cathedral. I stopped at the foot of the broad limestone stairs and gazed at the mismatched towers and pillars flanking the church. On my first weekend in Grenoble I had taken the train to Geneva with two other exchange students, and we had stumbled on Cathédral St. André at dusk. Although the church had closed for the day we had crept in through an unlocked side door, drawn by the faint strains of organ music. We tiptoed into the last pew of the empty church and listened as the organist moved around in the loft above us, adjusting the stops and slides on the organ. We decided it was only being tuned and were about to slip out when the first notes of Bach’s Toccata & Fugue in D minor thundered across the church. We flattened ourselves against the back of the rigid wooden pew, mesmerized by the music but fearful that even the slightest movement would betray us. Now, ten months later when I stood in front of the cathedral the incident seemed like a mad dream – three girls held captive by crashing chords of organ music, all because of an unlocked door and a momentary impulse.

A flock of ash gray pigeons rose into the air and startled me back to my task. I scanned the plaza until I spied a blue and white metal sign for Home St. André under a stone archway. I hurried to the entrance, tugged open the heavy wooden door and crossed the foyer to an antique elevator. I pressed the button and began my ascent. Moments later, the elevator juddered to a stop and the inside door slid open, revealing an accordion-style metal gate. It was stiff and unyielding, and I had to yank it several times before it finally opened. I fell into the room.

I had expected a modest lobby with a tattooed receptionist languidly inspecting newcomers. And I had anticipated the usual trappings – loud voices and adolescent laughter, the sound of someone tuning a guitar, and the typical smells of youth hostels – tobacco, overripe cheese and the dank odor of unwashed clothing.

Instead I found myself in an elegantly decrepit chamber with a high ceiling and a black and white marble floor. The room was completely still, as if all the oxygen had been drawn from it. No furniture, no people, just a strange sensation that despite its emptiness, the room was in fact inhabited. And instead of the aroma of cigarettes and spoiled food, this place smelled vaguely of rubbing alcohol.

Puzzled, I dug into my pocket and reread my scrawled directions to the hostel. Home St. André, across from Cathédral St. André. Premier étage. Thirty francs/three nights. I turned back to the elevator, frustrated, thinking to retrace my steps. Suddenly I heard a sharp creak and felt a rush of air at my back. I spun around. A hinged panel had swung open, and a backlit figure stood watching me. A woman stepped towards me, her angular face cocked to one side.

“Voulez-vous une chambre Mademoiselle?” Her eyes went from me to my backpack. “Ah, oui, Americaine? “You would like a room?”

My voice faltered, and I cleared my throat. “Bonjour. This is Home St. André?  You have single rooms?”

“Today, just the one. Thirty Swiss francs, three nights. You take dinner with us tonight, yes? We serve the dinner at 19 hours. 7 o’clock. Three more francs only. You pay in advance, oui?”

I tried to read her face as my eyes adjusted to the light. She stared directly at me as she opened a leather-bound register and held out a pen.

“Mademoiselle?”

I looked away and considered muttering an excuse and leaving. All I wanted was a safe place to rest, and after only three minutes here beads of sweat were already forming on my upper lip. I clamped my teeth together and told myself it was just my overtired brain at work, and that any other hostel was probably full. I pulled francs from the pink money belt under my sweater and handed them to her. She tucked the bills into a pocket and smiled tightly as I signed the register.

“Non-remboursable, Mademoiselle. Three days in la belle Genève, non? This way, please.”

I took a deep breath as she turned and strode toward the opening in the wall. Down the rabbit hole, I thought. The elevator behind me rattled as its cables hummed to life and it retreated. Several feet through the opening, I came to an office with a locked window and pass-through linoleum counter. I glanced inside at the glass paned cabinets and jerked to a stop. A flickering fluorescent light illuminated rows of prescription drugs. Orderly little collections of dark orange drug bottles, with neat white labels beneath each group.  Mlle. F. Bertrand, Mlle. M. Gauthier, Mlle. J. Martin.

“You are coming, Mademoiselle?” a voice at the end of the hallway called.

I froze and gaped at what appeared to be a medical dispensary. What was this place? I swallowed hard when I recalled her words “Non-remboursable.” No refunds on my precious 33 francs. I had no choice but to stay here, whatever here turned out to be. I trailed after her clicking heels, turning left and right through so many passages I lost all sense of direction.

The mellifluous notes of a solitary violin reverberated off unseen walls and stopped abruptly when we arrived at a dark blue door. The proprietress’ long hand reached around the doorframe and switched on the light.

“Voila, Mademoiselle.”

 

The room was tiny, with a single bed that crowded most of the windowless space. But it was spotless, and the bed was covered with a thick white comforter. There was a narrow gap running along the side of the room to a small wash basin and mirror. I set my backpack down at the end of the bed.

“Merci, Madam.” I rubbed my shoulder and glanced in the mirror, expecting to see the proprietress standing in the entrance. But rather than her face, I saw the reflection of a young girl. I spun around. A girl, maybe fourteen years old, stood in the doorway. She had choppy short brown hair that looked like it had been cut with nail scissors.

“Bienvenue, Mademoiselle, I am called Orianne,” she said. “You will stay with us tonight? How do you call yourself? You are from where? You are a tourist, or a student perhaps?”

I blinked at her hands, gripped to her chest in a white knuckled ball.

“Ah, bonjour,” I said, looking down the passageway for the woman. No one. I coughed a raspy, nervous cough. Orianne nodded.

“I’m Anne. Yes, I’m staying here tonight. I’m a student,” I said. “Or I was, at the Université in Grenoble. In France.”

She waited.

“But I’m finished now, taking time off, resting. I’m from California.” I was confused why such a young girl would stay at a youth hostel. Was she the proprietress’ daughter?

“Californie!” She turned and called down the hallway. “Elle est de la Californie!” I heard other girls’ voices, chattering in French, calling out questions. “You will tell us about California, please? We can practice our English?”

“Well in a while perhaps,” I said. “But not now, I’m exhausted.” She stood motionless and studied me with intense blues eyes.

“Later, please,” I said sharply, and her brow shot up in surprise. I pressed my lips together and softened my voice. “I need to rest now.” She grinned and loped away.

I heard the girls’ voices start up again then grow muffled when a door slammed. I moved to close the door and caught my breath. Not only was there no lock on it, there was a hole the size of a doorknob drilled through it, perfect for a peering eye. I raked my hands through my hair and sank down on the bed. I leaned back and let the cloudlike comforter envelop me. Despite my uneasiness I fell asleep. I dreamt I was in a concert hall, savoring the work of a master violinist.

 

I woke suddenly to a sharp knock at my door.

“Mademoiselle, le diner!” the proprietress’ voice called. I heard music again as I struggled to orient myself. Was I still dreaming? I patted my warm cheeks. No, that sounded like a Bach violin concerto, and it was as clear and expert as a live performance. The music ended as I pulled on my shoes and sweater. I opened the door and found Orianne. I followed her through the maze of hallways to dinner.

 

The dining hall held about thirty teenage girls, sitting at long oilcloth-draped tables. I gripped the door frame as I struggled to comprehend the scene. A woman dressed in a white uniform and rubber soled shoes was walking around, leaning over each girl and handing out tiny white paper cups. Orianne took my elbow and led me to a table.

“I will bring the dinner,” she said.

The girl seated across the table from me raised her little white cup, a slight tremor causing the capsules inside it to rattle. She regarded me for a long moment, tipped her chin back and swallowed the pills. She carefully lowered her head and pushed blonde bangs from her plump face. A smile emerged through her glassy stare.

“Et voila.” She crushed the little white cup in her hand.

Orianne appeared and set down plates with sausage, lentils and steamed carrots. I gripped my hands under the table and my pulse pounded in my ears. Where was I? How had I ended up in a facility where dinner included a pharmaceutical appetizer? I had been seeking a respite after the grueling mental battle of the last few months of school. How had this happened?

Orianne passed me a basket filled with slices of baguette. I took a piece as she poured me some water. I tore off some bread and tried to chew it, but it was like sawdust in my mouth. “Merci,” I choked out. I grasped the glass of water and drank it down.

“Vous etês fatigué? You are tired, yes? You do not like the food?” Orianne considered me. Her blue eyes narrowed.

I pushed the lentils around my plate with a piece of bread. “I’m okay, yes, but no, yes, the food is fine. Yes, it’s good.”

“You do not like Home St. André?” She cut into her sausage. “Ah, I was the same when I arrived. But now it is better. How do you say? I am taking time off.” She paused. “Resting.”

I lowered my voice. “Orianne, what is Home St. André? This isn’t a youth hostel. Is it a school? Or is it a…” My face flushed.

Orianne gently rested the tines of her fork on the edge of her plate. “It’s a ‘home,’ Mademoiselle. Home, not hostel. It is a home for girls who need some rest. Not so very different from you, no?” I fixed a smile on my face.

 

The proprietress entered the room and clapped her hands. “Girls, we have one guest tonight, all the way from California. Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Anne.” All eyes turned towards me, half curious, half wary. Over the next hour, girls surrounded our table and asked me questions about California. I was doing my best to discuss earthquakes and the probability of movie star sightings when Orianne put a hand on my arm.

“C’est assez. Enough. Elle est fatigué. She will be here for three days. C’est ca, Anne?” I hesitated, and she nodded slowly.

I returned my tray to the kitchen and retraced my steps to my room. I shut the door firmly behind me and pressed my hands to my face. My head throbbed.

Almost immediately there was a knock.

“C’est moi.”

I sighed and opened the door to Orianne, who held a violin in one hand and a bow in the other. “You would like some music?”

I was stunned. Orianne was the source of the virtuoso violin music?

“Since I think you will leave tomorrow, perhaps tonight some music?”

I reddened. “I paid for three nights.”

She tilted her head. “I think tonight you sleep and tomorrow you decide. But first, some Bach. My gift.”

She squeezed into the room. I leaned against the wall beside the bed and pulled the covers around me. Orianne drew the bow across the strings and turned a couple of pegs on the bridge. She did this repeatedly until she was satisfied. She beamed at me and raised the bow and adjusted the violin between her chin and shoulder. I closed my eyes as she stroked the first notes. It was some of the loveliest, and unquestionably the kindest, music I had ever heard.

 

I slept deeply and woke the next morning and found a sheet of music paper on my backpack. “Bon voyage et bon courage, Anne” was written at the top. I studied it for several minutes then tore off the bottom half of the paper. I drew a treble clef across the lines of a musical staff and scribbled a quote from Hans Christian Andersen. “Où les mots echouent, la musique parle. Merci beaucoup, Orianne.” Where words fail, music speaks. I laid it on the center of the bed.

When I heard the first stirrings of people moving around, and the sound of Orianne tuning her violin, I hoisted my backpack and ducked quietly through the hallways. I forfeited my next two nights’ fees and slipped out of Home St. André.

 

I hurried across the plaza and slowed when I reached the steps of the cathedral where a group of children darted in and out of streams of sunlight. At the edge of the square, I turned and peered at Home St. André and the narrow-slotted windows marking its facade. As I sensed it would be, Orianne’s face was pressed against a pane of glass. Our eyes met, and I waved hesitantly. She stared at me, raised her hand in a mute salute and disappeared.

I stood for a long time watching the window, wondering what forces or fortune kept Orianne inside those walls while I walked away. So I did what I knew I could do. I put one foot in front of the other and walked without stopping until I reached the railway station. I dozed on the train to Zurich, and several trains more, clutching my backpack, shifting from dream to dream, and eventually, to wakefulness.

—

Maureen Simons is a writer from Santa Rosa, California. While not being herded by her overactive Australian Shepherd puppy, she writes narrative nonfiction and short stories. She has won two prizes in the Palo Alto Weekly short story contest and has had an essay accepted for publication in a food writing anthology. She attended two juried writer’s conferences – “Lit Camp” in the Bay Area and the Yale Writers Workshop. She is working on a book about the redemptive power of love and caramel sticky buns.