September 1, 1911 Montereau, France

I looked up at the Gare de Provins, struggling to haul my impossibly heavy bags over my shoulder. My arms and back ached and I longed to already be on the train where I could relax and maybe take a nap. I’d travelled many times at the Provins, but looking up at the humble train station, all I felt was a sense of dread, nervousness and mostly homesickness.

It was a quaint, even pretty building, made of golden red brick, a large sign on the front calling it the Gare de Provins in bold, black letters. Various people were rushing into the wooden doors, some holding leather cases heading off to work. Others were hauling larger bags, like him; the women trying to keep them from tangling in their long dresses, the men holding onto their bowler hats, as the early morning wind was beginning to gain its strength.

I let out a sigh, trying to dispel the nervousness from my stomach. This is going to be good for me, I thought, this is an opportunity not many are privileged to get. These thoughts did little to dispel my anxiety and I was almost annoyed at myself. I had to get used to going to new places and making it on my own. Yet, I could barely make it a few feet to the doors of the station.

I trudged over to the large double doors, the bags seeming to grow heavier with each step against my weak frame. I was breathing hard by the time I reached the doors, grateful when I saw a coach attendant opening one of the doors for me. I silently cursed my servant for being busy with the party today and my parents for being required to go.

This is what you wanted, I reminded myself, clenching my aching fingers more tightly around the handle of my bag, prepared to enter the station.

“Would you like me to help you with your bags, monsieur?”

 I looked up at the coach attendant, his neat navy uniform fitting snugly against his strong form as he held open the door for me. There was no smile on his face or any acknowledgement that he sincerely actually wanted to help me, but I forced a tight smile anyways.

“Merci.”

The coach attendant nodded, his face bored. “It is no problem, monsieur.”

I gave my bags to him, feeling ashamed at how easily he seemed to manage the weight. In that moment, I was overly conscious of my own frailty. Still, I was grateful for the help.

“And where will you be travelling today, monsieur?”

“Paris,” the words came out quickly, just wishing to get this awkward exchange over with. It was embarrassing as it was.

“That will be platform 3,” the coach attendant said, his voice monotone. I couldn’t help but observe his disposition. As an artist, I was given to these kinds of things and I guessed he must be about nineteen, maybe twenty. He had one of those long faces with a stubby nose, a dark moustache outlining his nearly non-existent lips. It wasn’t an attractive face, yet I was still slightly jealous at his figure, it looked strong, probably from all the heavy baggage he dealt with everyday. I looked away from him when he gave me a strange look, pushing down my self-pitying thoughts.

He then led me into the station and I rolled my shoulders back, feeling relief now that the weight of my bags had been lifted. Since it was early morning, the sun was just starting to stream through the glass windows, creating pools of light across the polished marble floors. People were scattered across the place, women with their flamboyant, colorful hats, like a bouquet of flowers on their heads; men in their dark suits and canes, constantly checking their pocket watches. I straightened my own beret, pressing it more onto my head just as I passed a small child who gave me a bright smile before rushing off to her mother. I was endeared by the smile, that small moment dispelling a little of my distress.

“And her we are monsieur,” the coach attendant said, gesturing to a bench near a wooden sign that said Poste 3. “The train will be arriving in forty-five minutes now. Would you like to sit here and wait?”

I nodded and thanked him as he set down my bags near the bench. He then looked up at me, his face the definition of boredom, “Is there anything else you need, monsieur?”

“No, thank you,” I said, wishing he would just leave.

“Have safe travels, monsieur. Bonne journee.” I gratefully watched him leave, sitting down on the bench, forcing myself to take a deep breath to relax my nerves. Again, I was starting to regret my decision of ever deciding to do this. Not many people get this opportunity, I reminded myself, I should be more grateful than this. But the thought of my dog Coco and my brother Paulo brought a wave of homesickness through me. I badly needed something to distract myself.

I bent down towards my bags, unhooking the buttons from the smaller one and rifling through it, before I pulled out my sketchbook and a pencil. Just feeling them in my hands gave me comfort. This was the reason I was here.

I opened the sketchpad, flipping to a blank page, smoothing my hand over the silky paper. I studied the page for a moment, nibbling on the back of my pencil, debating about what to draw. I looked around, suddenly overwhelmed by the possibilities. There was an old lady, on an opposite bench from him, wearing about ten jeweled rings and a delicate necklace of creamy white pearls around her neck. She seemed angry about something. Her brightly painted thin lips set into a stern line. It amused me how much that expression was so similar to my sister’s when she was angry, considering she was at least fifty years younger than this woman. But I was most fascinated by her eyes. I studied the hard lines around them that spoke hardship and experience, the watery blueness of them echoing a wisdom that was both intriguing and daunting. The thought of portraying this picture through a drawing was nearly irresistible.

But there was also a mother holding her child, which was always a classic, beautiful drawing. I studied how she sang to her child softly, rocking the infant gently in her arms. It was a face I could draw every day. The love and tenderness of a human face, the soft, relaxed smile. My hands itched to draw the glowing face of the mother, the shining eyes. It was a priceless face.

I had just about made up my mind, when I heard shouting. I turned my head to see what was happening, surprised to see a young man and the coach attendant of before seeming to be locked into an argument.

“I am supposed to be on this train. Look, I was referred here by Monsieur Deniau,” the young man looked angry, gesturing wildly, “I was given no ticket because he said he was reserving it here. I’ve just taken a train from Barcelona to Montereau, referred by the Monsieur and I didn’t need a ticket then.”

“Monsieur, no ticket, no boarding.”

“I need to get on this train,” the young man growled and I then noticed his rather thick Spanish accent. I’d seen Spanish men before, but they weren’t common around France, yet with my limited experience with their people, he looked like no Spanish man I have ever seen. I watched as he threw up his hands in frustration, “Could I see someone else that has some sense?”

“No,” the coach attendant looked firm, an obvious dislike on his face for the Spanish man, “because you will only be denied entry. Now, if you need to be somewhere, you can buy another ticket. But…” the coach attendant looked him up and down with distaste, “I’m thinking that might be a problem.”

I looked at the young man’s clothes, knowing what the coach attendant meant. His clothes were ragged and poor, like scraps of clothing shoved together to make some sort of attire. He looked a lot like a beggar and it was easy to see why the coach attendant didn’t trust he had a reservation.

This comment seemed to only make the young man angrier, “So you’re not going to check I have reservation because I’m lower class?” The coach attendant said nothing and the Spanish man said something in a language I didn’t understand, but I could tell it meant nothing good.

“My name is Jamal Hadad. Just look it up, monsieur.”

The coach attendant seemed even angrier from the obvious foul language he didn’t understand. “Monsieur, if you don’t leave this station immediately, we will be forced to remove you.”

I was almost amused when another coach attendant came on the scene, looking apologetic to the Spanish man, before whispering something to the angrier coach attendant. As he kept talking, I watched the coach attendant’s face start to color in an unpleasant way, reminding me, strangely, of the ruby rouge my mother sometimes wore.

“Monsieur Hadad,” the attendant said quickly, bowing and the one attendant who had came over, bowed as well. “If I had known you were referred by Monsieur Deniau himself, I would never have given you such trouble. Please forgive me, monsieur.

The young man rolled his eyes, obvious annoyance, mixed with relief on his face. “Just give me my ticket.”

“Of course, monsieur, of course,” the coach attendant said, pulling out a roll of tickets from his pocket, ripping off one and giving it to him. His face, if possible, seemed to be getting even redder. “Would you like anything? Anything at all?”

“Just leave me the f**k alone, that’s what you can do,” the young man said, turning away from him and picking up a long black bag and a very small knapsack. The coach attendant look embarrassed by the vulgar language, but didn’t dare say anything else to the young man.

He deserved it, I thought, wondering who Monsieur Deniau was. It sounded very familiar.

I turned back to my sketchbook as the young man walked away from the two conductors, finding myself burning to draw him. His face was unlike anything I had ever seen. I couldn’t place why he looked so different, but I had never seen a Spanish man with some of the features he had. It had seemed his eyes were green and rather large. He had one of those sculpted faces, a lot of angles and well-proportioned. I found I couldn’t really remember what his lips looked like and I was struggling to figure this out in order to start my drawing, when I nearly jumped out of my skin when the very young man I had just been about to draw, sat on the same bench I was. I immediately closed my sketchbook shut, not believing what had almost occurred. My body tensed as he leaned back on the bench, stretching out his legs and letting out a long sigh. I was immediately disturbed at how improper he was being. To sit in such a public place with such carelessness was wrong.

Still, I couldn’t help my curiosity, after all, I had wanted to draw him. I peeked a look at his face, and, for a moment, I was surprised by how, well, beautiful he was. It was an odd thought and an embarrassing one, but as an artist, I figured I had to notice such things. I knew beauty was relative, but generally, he had the characteristics for what was considered beautiful. He had one of those Greek noses, set into a well-proportioned face. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and I saw the dark scruff that came all the way down to where the underside of jaw met his neck. His eyes were unusually large for a Spanish man’s and his lips were different as well, yet I couldn’t quite place why. I noticed his dark hair looked unwashed, coming down to the middle of his ears. He looked like he needed a good grooming. Still, I wondered why he looked so, what was the word... exotic? He couldn’t possible be all Spanish.

I quickly looked away when the young man looked towards me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw that his eyes were a rather bright green, almost outrageously green, like they had been painted.

I nibbled on the back of my pencil, wishing he would just look away. He kept his burning eyes on me though and I was getting more uncomfortable by the second. I decided to open my sketchbook in a need to do something.

“Are you an artist?”

I flinched at his voice, noticing his accent more clearly than before, but didn’t look up at him. By nature, I have always been shy and I pretended to look at my sketchpad.

“Sort of,” I responded, wishing my voice didn’t sound so feeble.

The young man chuckled. “You can’t just sort of be an artist. You are either an artist or you’re not.”

I forced myself to look up at him, trying to ignore his amused expression. “Then yes, I am an artist. Drawing is something I enjoy.” I sounded awkward and I quickly looked down again to avoid seeing my embarrassment on his face.

“I respect artists,” I watched as he sat up straight on the bench, “As for me, art is a foreign concept, my talent extends to stick figures.”

I forced a smile, still not daring to look at him, nibbling on my pencil again.

“So…where you headed to?” the young man continued after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Paris,” I made myself draw a line on the blank paper.

“Looks like we’re going to be traveling buddies then. Have you been there before?”

“A few times,” I drew another line.

“Anything I need to look for? I know that Notre Dame is supposed to be amazing, not to mention the Eiffel Tower everyone talks about.”

“Yeah… It’s pretty nice.” I pretended to shade something.

There was a pause and I hoped he was done talking to me, when he turned more towards me. “What are you heading to Paris for? Family or something?”

I looked up at him, pushing down my discomfort, realizing I wasn’t going to get out of talking with the man. “I’m actually going to school there. The Academie de beaux Arts and Music, if have ever heard of it.”

The young man’s eyes widened, his eyes glowing green. I was momentarily distracted by how such an eye color could even exist that I was utterly taken aback by his delighted smile. “That’s ironic. I will be attending the same school as well.”

I was in disbelief, not helping but to look at his ragged clothes, improper manners and scruffy look. This man was obviously lower class, there was no way he could have afforded such an elite school, not to mention be accepted.

“I thought you said you weren’t an artist?” I said, not helping myself.

The young man grinned almost childishly. “I’m a musician, actually,” he patted the long black bag next to him, “I play the cello and the piano. What about you? I thought you said you were sort of an artist. From my understanding, this is the best art school in Europe. It is considered an honor to be accepted.”

I shrugged, feeling my face flushing with embarrassment. I had no idea what to say to him.

The young man nodded, leaning back on the bench again, “I understand, you’re the modest type.”

“You must be a pretty good musician yourself,” I broke in, striving to get the conversation off of me, “How long have you been playing?”

The young man laughed at that and I found myself uncomfortable, wondering what I had said that was so funny. Still, there was something oddly wrong with that laugh. It was the same sort of laugh my father gave me when I said I had wanted to become an artist. “I’ve been playing for… is it six months now?”

At first, I thought he was joking and I forced another smile. “No, really, how long?”

The young man’s amusement faded and the force of his eyes took me aback; it was nearly strangling. “I never caught your name.” I blinked, struggling to realize how fast he had just changed the subject.

“Um… My name is Leo Dechene.”

“Jamal Hadad,” he held out his hand to me and I took it, “It is a pleasure, monsieur Dechene,” he said, shaking my hand.

It was then there was a honking of the horn and I looked up to see their train enter the station, giving off a burst of steam, the sound of the engine crashing through my ears.

“Looks like this is our train,” I watched as he stood up, grabbing his bags. I was much slower, watching his movements and facial expressions. I was determined to draw him. Still, now that the train had arrived, all the anxieties that I had been distracted from came back in a rush. I took a deep breath in, but this did little to soothe my nerves. I bent down to get my bags, grunting from the weight and slung them over my shoulders.

“Hey,” I looked up and was surprised by Jamal’s warm smile. Jamal…what a strange name now that I thought about it. “May I see some of your work when we are on the train?”

I felt my face grow hot and I looked away from him. The only person who had ever asked to see my work was my mother.

“I understand if you don’t want to. I must met you.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said hastily, realizing I sounded like a fool, “If you really want to.” I suddenly dropped my sketchbook I was holding, probably from over-nervousness, also succeeding in dropping my other bags. I silently cursed my clumsiness. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, bending down and picking up my sketchbook first.

“Here, I can help with the bags.” Before I could protest, he easily slung one of my bags over his shoulder with his own bag.

I stood up with the sketchpad in one hand and my other bag in the other, stammering a, “Merci, monsieur.”

“It’s no problem,” Jamal gestured towards the train as I noticed the strength of his lean build. As usual, I felt the burn of shame at my weak form, yet, I was strangely happy. Already, this young man didn’t seem to think I was overly strange or incapable of being social. Perhaps, I had even made a friend.

“Shall we?”

I nodded, following him towards the train as people began gathering towards it.

“Ticket?” I looked up at the conductor, pulling out the ticket from my breast pocket. He took it, allowing me to go inside.