Chapter Text
Franche-Comté , May 31, 1911
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Of all the places in all the countries in all the goddamn world, Jean reckons that Paris is the most romanticized of them all; he also thinks it’s the least deserving of that infatuation. The city with the world wrapped around its little finger: ‘The City of Lights,’ ‘The City of Love.” That’s a hoot, Jean thinks bitterly, sinking further into his seat. That place is a poison. There’s a damn good reason I’ve stayed away for so long, and it isn’t the smell.
That baby from three rows back starts crying again, and Jean grimaces and crosses his arms. Speaking of smells, he grouses.
The train car rattles and shakes with every second it moves, taking its passengers with it at every lurch. Jean made the comparison to sardines when they first started moving—trapped and packed uncomfortably close together in a tin can—but now the thought only makes his stomach flip unpleasantly.
I couldn’t even eat a rare steak right now. The man with the gristly beard sneezes directly onto Jean’s shoulder. He grits his teeth. I’d be better off with those pigs in Romania. The only thing that could make this worse is fleas. A quick look at his present company, and Jean gulps, pulling his newsy cap further down his forehead nervously. Mary, Mother of God, please not fleas again.
“God, son, you gonna upchuck?”
Jean is startled out of his thoughts by the all-too-familiar sound of French rasped out a wizened mouth at his right, the lilting language almost sounding like a parody of itself. How long has it been since I’ve heard this?
Looking to his right, Jean’s eyes shift to the right, landing on the woman sitting there, next to the window—a wizened old broad with a brown cotton dress and a burgundy bonnet concealing what is obviously a distinct lack of hair all piled on top of a skeletal form and beady, staring eyes—and he blinked dumbly. “Wh-What?”
The word surprises Jean, even coming from his own mouth. Had he just spoken… French?
It has to have been more than… ten years? It shouldn’t feel so easy, should it?
The old woman, however, is less than impressed by his intelligent response. “Are you going to be sick. You’re so green I nearly mistook your skin for that dreadful hat of yours! Dear Lord, child, stop looking at me so dumbly! What are you, American?”
Welcome back to France, Jean Kirschtein, he snarks sourly, the sound of that old bird’s reprimands still ringing in his ears. Did you miss it? Because it sure as hell hasn’t missed you.