On the plane, she’d slept no more than an hour, max. She had trouble sleeping sitting up, so she’d spent most of the flight worrying about Noah and watching bad action movies to distract herself while finishing the slide presentation and queuingup emails, all of which she sent the moment they arrived, using the Paris airport’s free Wi-Fi. Done!
They found the pick-up point and spotted a run-down “Voyages Celeste” minibus. It was covered in rust, and where a window should have been, there was duct-taped sheet plastic.
“That’s not the way it looked on the website,” said Sabine.
In the driver’s seat, tilted way back, was a handsome but rumpled, unshaven guy, early forties maybe, snoring. One bare foot stuck out of the driver’s window, jammed against the cracked sideview mirror. His right arm was splayed on the passenger seat next to worn boots, dirty socks, and several empty coffee cups. He, apparently, had no trouble sleeping sitting up.
Marlow took in his faded T-shirt. His old work pants, covered in paint, cinched in by a cracked leather belt. His very tanned arms and wiry biceps. His dirty blonde hair, long overdue for a cut—but locks you’d see on a model in a fashion magazine.
“Bonjour Monsieur,”she ventured. Nothing. “Monsieur?”she said louder.
He kept snoring.
Marlow whacked the minibus’s side. No response. “Maybe we should find some other mode of transportation.”
“But I paid in full,” said Sabine.
“Have I taught you nothing?”
“Who’s the one who bought anentire housein another country online!”
“Fair,” said Marlow, walking around to the driver’s side, reaching over the guy’s hairy leg, and pressing on the horn. It blared. He awoke with a jolt.
“Merde!”That was the desired response.“Pas cool, ça!”
“I’ll tell you what’spas cool,” said Marlow. “Flying for seven and a half hours, being jet-lagged, and not getting to our destination because someone’s sleeping on the job.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Mum, I don’t think he speaks English. Let me.Monsieur, j’ai acheté deux tickets pour aller à Mirabelle-les-Roches.”She’d bought two tickets to Mirabelle.
“Ah.”He reached for his socks.“Y avait aucune raison de klaxonner.”
Yes, there clearly was reason to honk the horn.“Nous avons essayé de te reveiller,”added Marlow, explaining that they had tried in vain to wake him up.
“Madame, nous ne nous connaissons pas. Vous devriez me vousvoyer.”
He was right. In France, you had to usevouswith anyone you didn’t know until they gave you permission totutoisthem—even the unwashed masses.
He got out, observed Marlow, and chuckled, shaking his head.
“Eh oui, vous les anglos, vous aimez les leggings, non?”
Marlow looked down at her leggings. They were perfectly fine. What a jerk.
He opened the passenger door, waved them in, grabbed their bags, threw them in the back, and got into the driver’s seat. He had to turn the ignition key three times to start the engine. The smell of oil permeated the vehicle. Hopefully they wouldn’t die on this ride.
“Je m’appelle Luc,”he said, letting the minibus warm up.
“Et nous, Marlow et Sabine Linden,”said Sabine.
He explained, in rapid-fire French, that the minibus belonged to his cousin, Pierre, and Pierre’s travel company, Voyages Celeste. Luc did occasional work for Pierre, but reluctantly, because he didn’t like tourists. North Americans travelled with too much stuff because they were focused on things, not life. But then Marlow and Sabine had shown up with only carry-on, so maybe there was hope for them yet.
Marlow was about to retort when Luc suddenly pulled into traffic. A tiny Citroën that looked like more of a toy than a vehicle cut him off. He slammed on the brakes.
“Mais branleur, tu fais quoi?!”Luc screamed to the Citroën driver, who swerved around the minibus, almost colliding with another car passing in the far lane.
“Bâtard!”screamed the guy in the Citroën.
