I didn’t especially notice the tidily kept old woman while conducting the tour. No more so, anyhow, than the general patience required for the handful of aging customers heaving their weak and clattering bones around the ramparts and cobbled streets of Saint-Malo. I glaze over these moments like a low-key pain or annoyance that one regularly has to endure. After giving the same tour for three summer seasons, the majority of one’s day can blur; the words and gestures inevitably falling out to their conclusion much like a sack of potatoes being emptied from an airliner.

The spontaneity in my working day is provided by any forthcoming questions. With experience, these become less and less original. In the first couple of months, individual tourists could be recalled and personified by a previously unheard of inquisition, their words and intonations merging with the details of their faces and bodies, the time of day, the weather and location. Reversely, I would be reminded of certain characters on similar days and points in time and they would become spirits added to my party, causing me to irrationally linger, expecting the same lines of enquiry to be pronounced. I would scan for a candidate. I would search for a resemblance until the general restlessness among my patrons would become conspicuous enough to prompt me onward.

By the end of my second season such details no longer made an impression. Every eventuality could be categorised and grouped with another, forming metaphysical troupes, dreams of a dream-like existence. I have come to believe that contentment belongs to those who fear details. To be completely content is to find joy in directly acknowledging nothing. Those who unwillingly live in this manner run the risk of perpetuating the feeling with depression. The effect is depression whether or not one is actually depressed.

With the last tour of the day complete and my followers dispersing amongst the early-evening bustle of Place Chateaubriand, I checked my watch and sipped at the water bottle from my rucksack. Rather than head straight back to my apartment to unload and change I decided to prioritise a cold beer and a light meal. I headed towards Avenue Louis Martin so to soonest escape Intra-Muros to the open and desolate part of the Quai, an inviting relief from another day enclosed within the walls.

At first, I thought she was just another tourist to sidestep. Then, on the third synchronised shuffle, I faced up to the fact that this rather petite old lady was maintaining earnest eye contact with me. Pleadingly so, but with a hint of hostility.

“Sorry madame, can I help you?”

There came a clipped and somewhat angry response in a language I couldn’t pinpoint. Eastern European? It felt like she was demanding something of me.

“Do you speak English? Parlez-vous Francais? Sprechen Sie deutsch?”

Yet another short, irate and incomprehensible reply followed.

She started making an exaggerated rectangle shape in the air in front of herself. I fished out the map from my rucksack which she immediately snatched from my hands. Accepting the futility of conversation I let her carry on.

Watching as she wrestled open the map and spread it on the pavement, I could observe that, despite her frail appearance, her determination gave her the appearance of a sprite. Every movement was a jerk as though the power of each action, once initiated, was beyond her control. She was on her hands and knees, her face inches away from the sheet and its folds, while strands of her thin and brittle grey hair that had come loose from the many pins and clips hung lifelessly over her features.

Needing all four limbs for stability she searched not with a finger but with her bony, double-jointed nose and wide, unblinking aquamarine eyes. Her right-arm sprang up and slammed back down with the index tip protruding to a point. Without even a glance towards me she began shouting incomprehensible words in a pitch bordering a screech. I squat down to take a look at the directed place of such apparent importance. It was La Grand’ Porte, a landmark not only of Saint-Malo but also of my tour. We had been there together less than two hours previously.

“You would like to go to La Grand’ Porte, the ‘Great Gate’?”

She remained frozen. Ten seconds must have passed as I waited for a response of any kind. She immediately grabbed the arm I offered to help her up. Feeling like I was beginning to count on the persistence of her actions, I took my time to gather up the map and put it neatly back in my rucksack, unsurprised to be greeted by the same penetrating stare behind me.

I walked at a gentle pace, not as slow as to risk her ire but also not as quick to feel the need to repeatedly turn and check for her presence. The journey itself took less than five minutes for what must only be a few hundred metres along the perimeter. I thought it only demonstrated how unfamiliar she must be with the town and that perhaps she only knew her way from a set point, or maybe that she had arranged to be met at this certain spot.

I turned and beamed the most sincere smile I could muster.

“Here we are, La Grand’ Porte. Bonsoir madame!”

Needing to go back on myself, I quickly went to make my way out of by means of the gate to avoid walking past her. I felt a hand grasp my shirtsleeve so tight that it pinched my skin. With a sigh, and what must have been a look of despair, I turned to face the charge that fate had thrust upon me.

She pointed to the steps to the left of the gate that climbed the rampart and began shoving me forcibly and repetitively towards them. She was shoving me now! What I assumed to be tacit consent on my part up until this point was now evidently not perceived as such by her! But rather than becoming perturbed, the turn of events somewhat amused me and I happily succumbed to her wishes.

The steps wound internally within the wall itself. Leading the way once again, I retired to a glacial speed. At the innermost point of our ascent we were enveloped by near complete darkness with no clear view of entrance or exit, so that when she held me by my shirt once more I very nearly toppled on top of her.

It took a moment to make out any detail of the backlit figure beneath me. My eyes, as they adjusted and beheld the glint of the oyster knife, must have become as wide as saucers. The ideas of ‘fight’ and ‘flight’ both seemed equally absurd. Barely daring a breath, I froze.

She simultaneously shouted unfathomable words at me, prodded her finger with one hand at my rucksack and made jerky stabbing motions at me with the knife. I was at the mercy of her liveliness and conviction. I let out a deep gasp as she nicked my forearm. Before I could even fully comprehend what was happening my shirt was beginning to grow damp and sticky.

“The rucksack, you want something from the rucksack? You want the rucksack?”

I took the rucksack off my shoulders and offered it to her. She nodded her head and batted at the zips as a signal for me to open it for her.

“What do you want from me?! I don’t understand what I have that you could poss– oh, Christ… money! You’re mugging me!”

I opened up the security pocket and showed her the cheap zip-up purse. Her features transformed into beaming happiness, the gleam of her dentures illuminating the gloom of the stairwell and the moment. I handed over her prize and felt released. I gingerly made my way up and into the light.

I sat midway up the next flight of steps, happy to inhale the evening breeze. I took the first aid kit from my rucksack, rolled up my sleeve and began attending the wound. I felt pleased with my injury. A smile played its way across my face and rippled out across my entire demeanour. When I had finished bandaging myself I climbed the remaining steps and looked out beyond my day-to-day fortress. There were other stories out there in which I could play a part; it took a lost protagonist to remind me.

I turned to make my way back down and there she was. Her cheeks were wet. She looked embarrassed and tenderly touched my arm with downcast eyes. When I put my arms around her I could feel her sobs escape like hiccups. When I let go she sighed and we both paused, grateful for each other’s presence but unwilling to face. A minute must have passed before she started to pat once again at the rucksack.

Everything seemed clear to me. I unfolded the map and pointed to the train station.

“Train station? La gare? Oui?”

She squinted, calmly nodded and warmly touched my arm again. Her guilt had bound us.

I finally had my early evening stroll along the quai. With our backs facing the weakening sunlight we made our way to the train station. Rather than walking in line as before, I was slightly advanced as we eased forward side-by-side like geese in formation.

The way was quiet and we were silent. It was joyous. Purpose need not be noisy or clear. The docks we were passing were already locked up for the night. Cars would occasionally pass us by but there were no other pedestrians.

We would not have been the only people making their way from the walled town to the station that evening but we were the only ones wishing to traverse desolation and sleeping industry rather than romantically hug the coast. Yet we were in the midst of an intrigue more affecting than any picture-postcard scene. For the first time in a long time, I was leading the way on someone else’s journey. I was liberated from myself.

When we arrived at the station it was in a state of post-pillage; the public had shed its skin with the decay of the day and the clean-up had yet to begin. I led her to the les guichets and presented her to a wistful looking clerk. It was with concealed amusement that I became a temporary spectator rather than a player.

There was a route map inlaid in the counter which she rhythmically tapped at a high tempo upon the ‘P’ for ‘PARIS’.

“Pardon madame, voudriez vous deux billets aller-retour pour Paris?”

The tapping unflinchingly continued without a glance towards the young man behind the glass. Once assured of no forthcoming verbal response, he flicked his gaze over to me in a half-pleading, half-accusatory manner. Yes, I am responsible for this! Yes, I can help!

“No, just one ticket to Paris for my friend, please. One-way, no return.” The clerk’s brow furrowed slightly more, no doubt puzzled at why I had let the charade endure as long as it did.

“The next train to Paris Montparnasse departs at eighteen-thirty-two. There is a change at Rennes. The next non-stop service to Paris is tomorrow morning at six-ten.”

I took a moment to think over how best to ensure the passenger managed to leave Bretagne.

“Monsieur, I could arrange with the train manager to have madame escorted to the connecting train when alighting in Rennes. Would that be best for you?”

A rush of relief swept over me. Responsibility is such an emotional ride.

“Thank you, yes, that would be fantastic!”

“That will be forty-seven euros twenty-seven cents, please.”

I mimed the handing over of notes and the old woman quickly produced her purse and handed it to me. I opened it up to find not only the oyster knife with the blade wrapped in cloth but also far more money than I had earlier donated to her cause.

I doled out the correct amount and the clerk printed the ticket. I courteously and gratefully thanked him again before taking leave of the booth and shepherding my curious cargo onwards.

After navigating to the correct platform and scanning the ticket, we only had a few minutes to spare and the train was preparing to leave. I put one arm around her and with the other made an ushering gesture towards the open carriage door. She looked up at me and smiled widely for the second time that day and leaned her body into mine. She then made off, tottering up the step on to the train and slowly made her way down into the carriage and settled herself into a window seat facing me.

As we both waited for the train to depart, she busied herself with rearranging various aspects of her appearance, reattaching hairpins, straightening her blouse, brushing something off of her arms. It was only as the train finally lurched and pitched itself into motion that she looked out to me with a somewhat happy sadness, a relief and a melancholy that I would never know the details of, which I would never fully comprehend. In that moment, her deep well of feeling had spilled a little into mine. Part of her journey was with me and no matter where she was headed that would always be the case.

As easy as it is to recall her face as she pulled away, I have often wondered afterwards how I appeared to her, what impression I might have made and what feelings I involuntarily conveyed, for I can’t myself describe how I felt other than alive again.

With the train out of sight, I ambled back to the same clerk.

“Hello again. Can I get a one-way ticket for tomorrow’s earliest departure to Lyon, please?”

And I smiled the old woman’s smile, knowing I was stepping forward into life again.

This month's favourites:
   Gaffa Tape Sandy, Family Mammal
   Judith Butler, Gender Trouble
   Elizabethtown (2005)