A Good Lead

It was springtime on the East Coast, and I had escaping on my mind. I had barely known my great aunt, but now an unexpected twenty grand inheritance from her was sitting in my bank account. This seemed reason enough to buy a ticket, pack a bag, and fly over a big blue ocean. I was now boarding a train in Amsterdam. With a tea tumbler, a camera, and some essentials in my bag, I selected a roomy seat at the back of an empty car. Settling in, I felt the nudge of something under my leg. I fished around and retrieved a small black notebook that was wedged between my velvety seat and the equally plush armrest. Inside were notes, dates, and names of people and places. The notes appeared to be in French, but I could decipher a few words. Inspired, I thought it would be nice to keep a similar record of my travels, and I had seen notebooks in the station’s gift shop. So, while waiting for the early morning train to fill, I hopped off and purchased a similar little black book.

Back in my seat and anxious to get something on a page, I cracked open my new notebook and jotted down some thoughts. There was the information I had read on the back of the pamphlet on the plane about why the Amsterdam airport was called Schiphol. I had found it fascinating. And I noted facts about the train, my flight, etc. before tucking it into my bag. I went back to the book I had found and opened it up to the last page that had writing. It listed an arrival time and the name of the station I was in, now. There was also the name of a hotel and a note that said, “Gem, Conductor.”

After the train had begun moving and turned South, I had a lovely view of the sunrise and tried to capture it with my camera. A man passed by my seat, surprising me, and asked in accented English for my ticket and destination. As I handed my ticket up to him, I noticed the name on his jacket, Gem. I asked him if he knew the man who had sat in my seat on the last trip. He told me there had been a man named Henri who was searching for someone. With this information, I examined the notebook with renewed interest and found several references to a woman, Camille. I also noticed that many of the notes included other names along with relationship qualifiers like “aunt,” “friend,” etc. I guessed that these were notes taken on this man’s journey to find this woman, Camille. A mystery! The best way to solve a maze is to start at the finish, I thought, so, I should work backwards in the book. I noted that the next entry was from Bruxelles and mentioned a café and a woman named Marie.

When the train stopped in Bruxelles, I found the café and lunched there, asking after Marie. A young man sat down with me and explained that Marie was another baker there, but that my meal had been made by him. His name was Antoine, and he asked if I had enjoyed it. I spoke enthusiastically of the food, and he retrieved a cigarette, asking if he could take his break sitting with me. His words soon turned to the subject of a girl he had danced with the previous night. His eyes glazed over as he described her. She was beautiful and wore a dress, light green with dots, he explained, “Mon Dieu, the way she moved.”

I felt myself smile. Suddenly, he looked uncertain. “Tonight, do I buy her a drink? Do I ask her to dance?”

My eyes crinkled. “Did she smile when she danced?”

He smiled, remembering again, “Yes.”

“Are you a good lead?” He looked at me, puzzled. “What I mean is, when you dance with a girl, do you direct her how to move without words? Does she move gracefully because you guide her?”

“I think so, yes. I am a good dancer,” he preened, and I grinned. His expression turned serious, “She was very graceful.”

“Then, yes. Ask her to dance. If you are a good lead, then she enjoyed dancing with you. You made her feel beautiful. That is why she smiled when she danced.”

Antoine’s face lit up, “Thank you. Yes, I will ask her to dance again.”

He returned to work, and I returned to my train. Only after we had left the station, did I realize I had not learned about Marie, or anything about Camille. Still, I was pleased. I had enjoyed my handful of minutes in Bruxelles and instead of places and names, I wrote of Antoine, and my mind was full of images of him gazing at a girl in a twirling green dress with dots.

In Paris, I looked up Camille’s aunt, but she was not home. I spoke, instead, with her housekeeper, Jeanne. She was a little older than my mother, and she insisted I come in to have refreshment. She retrieved a drink and a photo from the fridge and handed them to me. Pointing at the picture, she explained excitedly that this was her son and his wife who were expecting twins very soon. “I will be a grandmother for the first time, and there will be two! I am overwhelmed with joy. But I do not know how to be a good grandmother.”

I laughed, and Jeanne looked at me strangely. I coughed a little and apologized, “It is only that you are so happy. If your grandchildren grow up knowing the woman who has welcomed me as you have, they will love you. You are happy at their coming, yes?” I smiled warmly at the woman. She was, indeed, glowing and it made me feel secure and at peace in her presence.

“Oui! You are right. I am excited. I already love them so much. You. You have a good grandmother?”

“Yes, the best,” I answered.

“What makes her the best?” she asked, genuinely curious.

My eyes pricked at a realization, “Because she likes me.”

“Ah, yes,” Jeanne nodded and looked at me with a knowing, motherly smile. “You must go child, you will miss your train.”

She was right. I said my goodbyes to Jeanne and hurried back to the station. I took the time to write in my journal about Jeanne, and then I added some thoughts about my own grandmother. I also thought to add a note or two about a beautiful bell tower I had hurried past, though I had to google the name of it.

I waved down Gem and asked him if he was able to have tea with me. He produced a cup for himself and I poured him some of my green tea. He asked if I preferred green tea to black tea, and he commented that most Americans asked for coffee. I told him that my mother and I would drink tea when we watched European movies and that she preferred green tea. “I suppose this is my way of bringing her with me on this trip,” I explained.

Gem smiled. He then asked me why I had come on this trip. I thought a bit and explained to him that I often had an irresistible urge to travel somewhere, to see something new.

“And have you seen the things you wanted to see? You have been to beautiful places. Are they what you thought you would find?” he asked.

My forehead scrunched, “I don’t know. The country is beautiful of course. But I have found more than I expected. I, I have found something to find,” the thought came suddenly.

“Indeed,” Gem replied, “I have travelled this route hundreds of times. The country is always beautiful, no matter the season. And, always, there is someone new to meet. Today, I have tea with a wandering young woman. Tonight, I will attempt to comfort the children in the next car so their mother might get some sleep. I keep toys in back just for this,” he winked.

“I think I envy your job,” I smiled. Gem smiled back and, finishing his tea, he excused himself to tend to another passenger.

Our next stop, and the first entry in the book, was La Rochelle. On the page, there was also mention of a letter Henri had left for Camille at the train station. Did I dare?

After deboarding, I summoned courage and decided that I had followed the mystery this far. I should see it to the end. I went to the counter and asked if there was a letter for Camille. The stationmaster handed me a neat scroll of a letter with an old-fashioned wax seal on the front. I was surprised. I had just expected a regular envelope. I realized I was gaping in front of the man, and self-consciously I stepped aside. I turned the letter over. In the fanciest script I had ever seen was written,

Camille Anne Buchard

Please read.

Please, wait here for me.

Henri

I realized, in the span of a breath, that I could not read this. I could not break this seal. This was one story I would not be able to write in my book. I retrieved the little black book I’d found on the train and returned to the stationmaster. I handed him both the book and the note and explained that they should be given to either Mademoiselle Buchard, or a man named Henri, whoever arrived first. Then I returned to the train.

I continued my trip after that, noting places, meeting people, creating and witnessing stories. When I arrived back in Amsterdam, I peered out the window and my thoughts drifted back to Camille and Henri. I wondered if she’d been found. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be found. I would never know. My mind returned to other people. Antoine. I wondered if he had gotten to dance again with the girl in the green dress. I wondered if Jeanne was a grandmother yet, and I imagined the glowing smile that would light up her beautiful face when she met her grandbabies. I thought of others I had met. Looking up, I saw Gem coming toward me.

“Ready to deboard, Miss?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes! I am ready for my week at home. I want to see my wife. If you are in Amsterdam long, you must visit. My wife runs a sweets shop called Zoet. Here,” he pulled a small card from his pocket, “here is the address. Come see us.”

I thanked him excitedly. I hoped I would be able to visit. I would like to see Gem again. The train was slowing now and I opened my notebook. I looked at the card Gem had given me and noted the address on the last page. Under that, I wrote, “Gem, Conductor.”

Then, I thought again of the people I had met. I would likely never meet any of them again. But, somehow, I felt they would remain with me. My story was entwined with theirs and theirs with mine. I felt a curious sense of ownership of this little part of the world. I had lived here. I had been me here. I had been seen and heard and trusted here. I would never forget. So, when the train was stopped and I stood to deboard, I paused and removed my little black book from my bag. I tucked it between the velvety seat cushion and the armrest. Perhaps it would be found by someone else who needed a good lead.