Martin & Celia
A writing exercise assigned to flex your creative muscles on writing foreign landscapes.
Martin Prevot stood under the sign of the Syndicat d’Initiative in the Monaco train station while reading a brochure about the splendid Rock of Monaco. The boulder in question was a monolith long coveted through the years by bickering tribes. First it belonged to the Greeks and eventually to the Grimaldis. Now it was where tourists collided to see the changing of the palace guards. Prevot knew all this, but still he read the brochure, holding it close to his face as if he were afraid words would escape.
At 1 P.M. exactly, the Cote d’Azur train pummeled the tracks and shot into the station. Prevot tossed the brochure on the ground and immediately boarded it. He found a solitary car, sat with his back toward the front of the train and stared out the window. The train station in Monaco gave way to the brilliant gem-toned surface of the Cote d’Azur. It was April, and the weather was already filled with the promise of a hot summer and the packed tourist crowds that would surely come. While the train car clicked over every track, Prevot leaned his head against the false wooden panel of the car wall. He let the sway of the train rock his skull back and forth until he began to get dizzy. He switched sides so he was facing the correct way and breathed deeply into his heavy sweater until the fogginess in his head cleared.
The journey to Nice was only 20 km, so Prevot didn’t have to wait long for a breath of sea air. He exited his car and stood on the platform, looking up at the high arched ceilings of the station. It always made Prevot think of a spider with its spindly legs. This spider had over a hundred limbs instead of just eight. At the end of the tunnel, the sun pulsed hotly. It made Prevot squint, and he had to refocus his eyes on the soft glow of a soda vending machine next to a bench.
He walked outside and crossed the street to the bus terminal island. Behind him, the ornate iron balconies and grand clock of the Nice train station burned in the afternoon heat like a sunbather. The station and bus terminal were not busy, but a young couple with bright colored rolling suitcases stood looking up at the schedule sign. The spoke in broken French, and Prevot recognized their accents as American—they talked as if they were holding marbles in their mouths. When the woman, a pale-haired blonde with a mole under her chin tried to catch his eye, he looked up at the massive timepiece on the station. He felt as if its dark hands looked more like an askew mustache. He tried to concentrate on its ticking, if it ticked at all, but instead all he heard was the rumble of the trains and cars as they rocketed off to their destinations. When the couple moved back toward the station and the outdoor Syndicat d’Initiative, he relaxed and turned back to face the street.
Prevot took the bus then walked the rest of the way to the rue Alsace Lorraine where he found the five story Hotel d’Orsay. Even though the building was white, the sun didn’t hit it at all. The rising afternoon sun slanted in such a way that it missed the rue Alsace Lorraine completely. The Hotel d’Orsay identified itself by its lacy black iron balconies and high slated windows, giving Prevot the impression of lashes and corsets.
Across from the hotel’s entrance, Prevot saw two men in a furniture shop kiss each other’s cheeks over the counter. He looked up, twisting his shoe into the concrete and adjusting his sweater at the neck. From an apartment above the furniture store, a little girl with blonde fluff for hair waved at him for behind the bars of her rusty balcony. She wore a bathing suit, and Prevot imagined how she would return from the sea smelling like the ocean.
A man exiting the Hotel d’Orsay bumped into Prevot.
“Pardon Monsieur,” he said. He smelled like cigars, and the taste lingered on Prevot’s tongue as he entered the building. The dilapidated but comfortable dining room was mostly empty. Only two tables were occupied—one by three backpackers. They spoke Dutch to each other and French to the solitary waiter. The waiter was an elderly gentleman with sweat stains on his navy blue shirt. The other occupant caught Prevot’s eye and waved at him. He joined her at the window table.
“I ordered for you,” Celia said. She played with the hair tucked behind her ears, and Prevot noted that she hadn’t dyed it recently. In some ways, the white only made her look more blonde.
“Is it a cafe au lait?” he asked. He moved his hand across the table to where Celia’s was cupping a tumbler with juice. She moved her hand back and smiled at him. Her lipstick was bright and overwhelming—an electric pink that hurt Prevot’s eyes. It yelled at him.
“No,” Celia said, “Ice tea. It’s hot.” Prevot fidgeted in his dark sweater. He hid his hands under the table and looked at how the sunlight spotted the plastic sheet that protected the floral tablecloth under it.
“It’s good to see you, Martin,” she said. The waiter came over with Prevot’s drink and asked if he wanted to order anything. Prevot could smell the garlic on the man’s shirt. He wondered if they were already preparing vats of bouillabaisse for the incoming tourists. He wondered if Celia would order bouillabaisse like a tourist. She was digging around in her small red clutch for her lipstick and mirror. She reapplied it to her loud mouth.
“Isn’t it good to see me?”
—by Sarah Dzida (2012)
Author’s Note: This was an exercise from my Techniques of Fiction class with the talented Janet Fitch!