Together in Paris

9.

The deafening sound of the Orient Express on the European tracks caught him staring at his own reflection in the window of the compartment, a shiver ran through his spine.

There's no going back.

Chatter and joyous exclamations in French buzzed into his ears as women and men, finely dressed, gathered at the platform to get on and off the luxurious train that had left Constantinople just seven days before and had now finally reached Paris. La Gare de Paris Est was evidently chaotic, every single person seemed to have a role, even simple travellers did, and the screams of the controllers and the stationmaster stood over the whistle of the wheels on the tracks thanks to their whitish megaphones. The chaos beyond the sliding door of his compartment reflected the enthusiasm of nobles and aristocrats with whom he had shared the journey from Constantinople, who finally found themselves safe within the walls of Wester Europe, far from the intimidating gaze of Russia.

He stood up slowly, his father's gun was tremendously heavy into the right pocket of his coat.
Since Popov, Dmitry and Anya had jumped off the first train, the one that connected Leningrad with Constantinople, he hadn't been able to be at peace. He had continuously asked himself where they were, what they were doing.
How Anya was.
Although he was aware of his not being able to defend and protect her now, although he knew he couldn't get close to her until it would have been the right moment, he wanted to know if she were safe. He wanted to make sure she was fine, that she didn't need to ask for anything.
He shook his head, turning away from those thoughts, and slipped out of the Orient Express with his head bowed.

It was evening, and the Parisian lights sparkled all around him, so bright to almost blind him. Elegantly dressed women walked cheerfully and unaccompanied on their white heels, their ankles and much of their legs exposed, their curls compressed into hairstyles that left their shoulders and neck bare, some of them even had short hair, and thick furs covered their slender arms. And they smoked! They all smoked! Men in tails strolled through the station, their shiny black shoes glittered into the streetlight, their bangs were pulled backward, shining as if held by an unknown, sparkling substance.

And they smoked too!

Every person was dressed differently, all in different colors, smiles shone on their faces, everyone talked without fear, everyone behaved as they liked, and the chatter flowed cheerfully into the hall, the smoke of women's cigarettes flew toward the sky as the red little fire of men's cigars burned like bonfires into his confused black eyes.

What kind of place was that?!

Stunned by the multitude of colors and behaviour, Gleb slowly took off his hat and woollen scarf: it was barely spring, but, gosh, was it warm! He almost couldn't breathe! He had never experienced such warm weather back in Russia. He sighed heavily.
He no longer was in Russia, that was quite sure.
Pained by the long journey, the Deputy Commissioner marched among the stun crowd, his temples throbbing strongly as his stomach languished, famished. A man wrapped in a blue with golden details uniform stood before him, interrupting his walk towards the station exit. It was embarrassing for Gleb to find out that this man was shamefully taller than him and, intimidated, he looked up to meet the stranger's eyes.

"Papiers, s'il vous plaît." the man said, his icy gaze fixed on him. Gleb's eyes widened, puzzled.

"E-excuse m-me? I d-don't understand ... " he murmured blushing a bit, embarrassed. The controller, sensing his muffled words, raised an eyebrow.

"Russian?" he asked, his French accent stood out tremendously as he pronounced the word. The Deputy Commissioner nodded, amazed by his acknowledgement.