"Anarchy on the Metro"
by Joel Bowman
“Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.”
- Horacio Oliveira, from Julio Cortázar’s "Hopscotch"
Paris, France - "Politics aside. Something a bit different for you this lazy Sunday, dear reader: A petite vignette from La Ville Lumière. Let’s call it, Anarchy on the Metro… Who are these people? Young. Old. Black. White. Ugly. Pretty. Prettier. And drunk too. Some of them are very drunk. Good for them…
Your editor is aboard the Metro, riding from Basilique de Saint-Denis back to the 5th, after dinner with some new friends. Paella and Beaujolais, in unequal portions. A warm night. The old carriage rattles along, screeching around corners and grinding to a halt at near-deserted platforms. We begin to drift off, lulled into reverie by the swaying of the train and the white noise around us.
Who are these people? What are their dreams, their stories? Are they celebrating…or commiserating? What do they want? Will they ever get it?
A man to the left, seated a few rows in front of us, reads from a tattered novel. Everybody reads on the metro in Paris, either from their smartphones or, like this gentleman, old school-style. Paper. Ink. Other people’s dog-ears. An unknown name scrawled on the flyleaf. More unknown names, people we’ll never meet but who the author wished to thank. Leaning over, we recognize the title: "La Peste". Camus, Albert. Probably every Frenchman has read it at least once. Must read that one again. Add it to the list. Along with Kierkegaard… and Kafka… and Musil...Every few stations the man looks up. When was the last time a dead existentialist caused him to miss his stop?
Body by body, the carriage fills up. Soon the man disappears, hidden behind the olive corduroy pants of another stranger and, occasionally, when the train veers right, by his wife’s dress. A maxi dress, they’re called. Perfect for concealing un étranger on any train. Arms shoot up to the bars as more people push inside. The distance between the stations and passengers grows smaller by the stop. Growing smaller. An oxymoron. Like being alone together, acting naturally, in deafening silence.
Several more languages board at La Fourche. Arabic, Maghrebi and Levantine, along with Turkish, Darija, and the sui generis French of les Pieds-Noirs. Our little train. Babelfish in tunnels. Must improve Spanish upon returning to Buenos Aires.
Place de Clichy. On hobbles a woman bent by years, pushing a stroller full of plastic bags and socks and tissues and newspapers (not today’s) and a shoe. A young fellow, who sat down before seeing her, yields his seat. The elderly woman, nodding gratefully, offers a newspaper in return. Not from the top of the pile, mind you, one hand selected from near the bottom. The young man smiles, then dives into events from around the world, as relayed by a journalist rushing to meet a deadline now long since expired.
Who are these people? It’s chaotic here. Voluntary exchanges, absurdist literature and editorial time travel. Anarchy…and on a public train.
Kisses. Two canoodling couples board at the same station. One couple pecking, sheepishly, hands gently touching. The other pair are old school-style. French. Passionate. Movies shot under soft lamplight on the Pont des Arts. The time-bent woman smiles at the old-schoolers, recalling the movies, silent in black and white. Chautard, Desprès and her favorite, the piquant Bordon. More people board at Saints Augustin and Philippe du Roule and at Miromesnil in between.
Where is that cafe in which Sartre wrote? And smoked. And wrote some more. Did he kiss de Beauvoir on the metro like this? Old school-style?
Mr. and Mrs. Corduroy alight at Champs Elysees Clemenceau. L’Étranger hasn’t (yet?) missed his stop. He and his dead existentialist sit in silence, positively engrossed in one and other. On hops a man with burns on his face and an accordion on his belly.
Sings Piaf: "Son homme est un artiste/C’est un drôle de petit gars/Un accordéoniste/Qui sait jouer la java…"
The passengers, tight-pressed in their hurtling carriage, listen and sway to the tunes filling the space between their tired bodies. A soundtrack for their stories, their embraces, their anachronistic opinion pages. For a sweet tune, the musician’s face appears full, healthy. Two or three give money. He thanks everyone just the same. “Merci. Merci beaucoup. Bon voyage.”
Silence falls. Two men with guns board at Invalides. Their feet clad in jackboots. Clenched jaws. Weapons belts. Instruments of torture and pain. No smiles. Just badges. Of a sudden our fellow passengers are all nerves and anxiety, finding excuses to avert their gaze written on each other’s shoes. The screeching of the train grows louder, violent. A gnashing of metal on metal. The Maghrebs are quiet. L’Étranger closes Camus and stares out the window, into the oily void. The music is gone from the space between us. The air, through which a bullet might fly, hangs heavy. Brute force, implied and real, mixed with fear.
We aren’t due to change (to the 10) until Duroc. Three stops. What if…? But at the very last moment, Saint Francis Xavier performs a miracle. Between stops Varenne and Duroc, his station platform shoulders our burden, delivering the gendarmes into the dark and bleary night..."
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