Eurotour

Chapter 1

Bernard

He's standing on the side of the road, his hand outstretched, his thumb pointing up, looking somewhat out of place against the postcard-perfect backdrop of green fields and blue skies. I only notice his blond hair, his backpack and the sign in his hand, reading 'Paris' before I hit the brakes.

Surprised by my own reaction, I still pull over. The asphalt ends, and gravel crunches under the wheels before the car comes to a halt. I sit in silence with my hands on the wheel, wondering what the hell I'm doing. I don't normally pick up hitchhikers. I barely even see them anymore. The practice seems to have all but disappeared.

In the rearview mirror, I see him pick up his backpack and start running in my direction. As his reflection grows, so does my uneasiness. It's not that he looks threatening—just a young man, probably in his early twenties, with longish wavy hair, dressed in jeans and a hoodie too hot for a summer day.

He stops by the passenger's side, bends, and looks at me through the glass. He pulls at the door handle, but it's locked. He catches my eye, smiles, and gestures for me to open the window.

I do nothing. I just sit there, studying his young, clean-shaven, open face. Nobody's so stupid as to get into a car with a stranger nowadays. This could be a ploy to make me open the door. Then maybe his friends will jump out of somewhere and rob me or kill me or steal the car that's not even mine to begin with.

On the other hand, do I even care?

I press the button and the window rolls down, letting in the pleasant smell of grass mixed with the less pleasant one of manure, reminding me just why I always drive through the country with my windows closed. Emily used to nag about it at first, bringing up all kinds of rubbish about wanting to feel the wind in her hair, but eventually she got used to it. Nowadays, an attempt to open the window would only get her complaining about possibly catching cold.

She's not here now, so the window goes down and the guy with the backpack looks inside. He smiles at me, a wide white smile straight from a toothpaste advert. He has brown eyes and a straight nose; his hair, as I can see now, is far from blond. Its ends are still yellow, but the dark roots have taken over long ago, and he only needs to cut off a few inches to revert to the dark brown color he clearly started with.

"I don't pick up hitchhikers," I say. "I'm sorry."

"You stopped," he says, still smiling.

"Only to tell you..." I trail off, suddenly catching up on the fact that he answered me in fluent English, which is something my week's stay in France taught me not to expect. "You speak English?"

"Apparently so, and so do you!" His grin gets wider, and he offers his hand for a handshake. "A fellow tourist, huh? My name is Ari."

I stare at his hand, taken aback by his pushiness.

"I only stopped to let you know that you're on the wrong side of the road," I say, choosing to ignore the hand, hoping he'll pick up on my cool tone. "Paris is in the opposite direction. Also, I don't think it's legal to hitchhike on motorways."

"It's not a motorway," he says. "Just a small road."

"Still, you should do this at a petrol station or a restaurant car park, if at all. I won't even start on the safety issues of it."

"Well, do you see any gas stations around here? I won't even start on restaurants." He gestures at the fields. "So, you're not going to Paris?"

"No. I'm going in the opposite direction, as I have just told you."

"Hm," he says. "Don't you feel like you're missing out, visiting France and not seeing Paris?"

"I've been to Paris," I explain with patience I'm surprised I still have. "That's where I started. Now I'm going south. Visiting castles, mostly."

"Castles are cool." His eyes return to me. "You'll go back to Paris in the end though, right? To catch the flight back to wherever you come from?"

"Eventually, yes."

His grin returns, as if my answer has solved everything.

"Well, that's perfect! I could join you now, and then come back to Paris with you. Surely you'd like a travel companion?"

I stare at him blankly, struggling to catch up.

"I don't—and I can't stress that enough—need a travel companion." Certainly not a shady young guy who's probably on drugs or looking for a way to rob me––there can't be any other explanation for his behavior.

His face crumples in disappointment. "Why not?"

A loud sound of a honking car makes me jump. A blue Citroën drives past us, cheering and whistling sounds spilling out of its open windows, clearly directed at us. The sounds die off as it speeds away.

I suddenly realize that, to passersby, I probably look like a man negotiating a price with a roadside prostitute. I have seen a few on my way. Mostly hidden by my car, the young man with his long hair must look like one of them.

In fact, how do I know that he's not?

I look at him, and he smiles again—this time, it seems to me, a little suggestively.

"Step away from the car," I say. "Please."

He doesn't move, as if knowing that the moment his elbows leave the window, I'll drive away.

"Come on, man," he says. "I'm kind of stuck here. Could you at least give me a lift to some civilized place? Where are you heading, anyway?"

"Perpignan," I say, quite aware I'm probably making two or three mistakes in the pronunciation, but also quite sure this guy wouldn't know any better.

"Sounds great. Always wanted to go there."

"I'm fairly convinced you've never heard of it."

"Nope," he admits easily. "A castle, I assume? Come on, just take me there, and I'll leave you alone. Unless..." He tilts his head and bats his eyelashes at me in a half humorous, half flirtatious manner. "Unless you'll want me to stay."

I watch his young face, a coy expression lingering just beneath his smile, deepening my suspicions. Is he really a tourist? What is he doing in the middle of nowhere, ready to go with a stranger to the first place offered? Could he really be a male prostitute with an unusual approach to finding clientele?

Then, with a feeling of mild disbelief, I notice my finger reaching for the button that unlocks the doors.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If you enjoy the story, please vote or comment! It will really make my day!