Together in Paris

9.

"You speak my language?"

"A bit." replied the controller as coldly as he could.

"Papers, please."

Gleb slipped a hand into the left pocket of his coat, fumbled in it for a while, his fingers finally grabbed the bundle of papers he needed. He pulled it out and handed it to the controller. The man took the papers in his hands, opened the envelope, his eyes scrutinized every single detail so well to make Gleb uncomfortable. Why did it take so long? Was something wrong? The color was right, the name was too ..

"Monsieur Gleb Sergeevič Vaganov?" the Frenchman asked. He nodded quickly.

"Yes, it's me."
The controller smiled.

"Welcome to Paris, monsieur. Outside you find the taxis that will take you to your hotel." he then said "Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you." Gleb muttered grasping his visa before of moving away, thoughtful.

He left the station, the fresh and humid air of Paris blew in his face, the familiarity of that feeling mentally brought him back to his Petersburg, where the silent Neva certainly had begun to flow again. It was the end of March, and now the snow was beginning to melt. He looked around, the scene he had witnessed inside the station was on the crowded streets too, the extreme chaos of cars with petrol engines made everything even more difficult to assimilate for a man used to the calm and silent Leningrad like him. Thousands of people around him were moving fast and snappy towards bluish cars, others called the names of their relatives, friend or acquaintances waving their arms, the shimmering lights of the surrounding buildings were reflected on the windows of the cars on the bright jewels worn by women. Still dumbfounded by so much luxury and so much joy, Gleb descended slowly and hesitantly down the marble staircase.

He wasn't sure he was going to regret his choice as he thought he would have. Nonetheless, Paris didn't seem that bad.
Oh, come on, what was he saying?
Paris was amazing! It was true, Russia was not the world, and for Anya, he would have done this and more.
But still, Paris was no place for a good and loyal Russian.

And for Russia, he said to himself, sighing, this and more.

It didn't sound so true, though.

What could he do now?
He had arrived in Paris, but there were no traces of those three wanted people he needed to find. Sure, he couldn't expect them to magically jump out saying hey, Gleb, we're here for you so that you can bring us all back to Russia!, but he also couldn't inspect the whole city block by block!

Paris was huge!

Without thinking, he opened the door of one of those bluish cars and entered, sitting on the back seats. His back cried out as he found himself again in that position, he bit his lip to stifle the pain.

"Pour où, monsieur (to where, sir)?"

The confused sound of the French tongue reached his ears and he looked up to place his gaze on the plump figure of a man with thick blond mustache sitting in the driver's seat, who watched him insistently, waiting. The Deputy Commissioner was paralyzed, blocked by his complete ignorance of French: was the man perhaps asking him where to go? The controller had talked about taxis. Gleb shrugged and, trembling and embarrassed, eventually opened his mouth.

"Hotel." he said, hoping to make himself understood. The driver burst into a roar of laughter.

"Étranger, euh (foreign, uh)?" the man spoke "Vous ne comprenez pas a mot, n'est-ce pas (you don't understand a word, do you)?"
Was he making fun of him? Trembling with nervousness, Gleb remained silent, hardly accepting the giggles of the driver, who, after long moments, decided to start the bluish mill and, crackling, he got on the main road, driving recklessly. Attempting to relax, the Deputy Commissioner leaned against the door with an elbow, his gaze resting on the road beyond the window, a deep sigh escaped his lips.