I meant to tell you about him ages ago but quite frankly, I forgot. The Parisians have a reputation for being snobbish. Or rude, whichever adjective you prefer. Some of them even openly admit it, if the stories I hear are to be believed.
That is why, on that chilly morning in Paris, we were stunned when the Stranger came out of nowhere. I didn’t notice him before, but he must have been standing on the platform with the rest of us. The Metro glided to a halt and everybody rushed to get in. I don’t remember if we queued, it has been almost four months now, but it quickly became evident that we might not all make it onto the train. There were too many people and too little time for people to move in.
We tried anyway. Four of us got in safely. My dad-in-law was just about to squeeze in when the doors began to close. I tried to get on but there wasn’t even a toe-hold for me. I tried to hold the doors open – perhaps if I could do that, there would be time for the crowd to create room – but it was no use.
Then the doors stopped. The Stranger stood in the doorway, holding the doors open with his arms, his body jammed between them so they couldn’t close. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even smile or look at us, simply stood there while we squeezed in – luckily there was room by then.
When Dad and I were safely on board, he leaned out the door and shouted at the driver of the train. Shouted in French, I suppose. He gestured angrily. It sounded rude.
Dad said thank you, thank you very much. He grunted, not even in our direction. I wish I said merci beaucoup but I was, to tell the truth, too stunned. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even smile or look at us, simply stood there. At the next stop, he stepped out, looked to the left and walked away.
