Alexander

Serencourt, Gare du Nord. Early morning, late September.

The station's glass dome trembles with the roar. Steam from the locomotives mingles with the scent of croissants, hot metal, damp wool, and perfume—pungent, floral, cheap. Somewhere high up, beneath the vaults, pigeons dart about. Their wings flap like applause—uneven, restless.

The crowd flows like a dense river. Suitcases clatter on the marble floor. A newsboy shouts out headlines. Someone drops a coin—the subtle ringing is lost in the noise.

He stands at the exit of platform 7, just off the Paris train. Alexander Dragomirov. His white officer's coat is slung over his arm, his cap pulled low. His mouth tastes bitterly of tobacco and the long, sleepless journey. Serencourt greets me with the cries of seagulls and a salty breeze from the bay.

He takes a step toward the waiting room, and at that moment the crowd to the left stirs. A woman's scream, the dull thud of a cane on the flagstones, someone's irritated voice: "Mademoiselle, look!"

“Now this is interesting,” he mutters under his breath, making his way through the human wall.

She's at the center of the whirlpool. Her golden hair spills over her shoulders, her hat is askew. Her fingers glide over the marble, searching for her fallen cane, but no one stops. No one sees.

Alexander drops to one knee, picks up his cane—varnished wood with a silver knob—and instead of thrusting it into her hand, he simply places it next to hers for her to decide whether to take it or not.

— Excuse me, mademoiselle. May I help you up?

His voice is low, French—with the inevitable Russian accent he's long since ceased to be ashamed of. He probably smells of train smoke and strong tobacco...

He extends his hand, but does not touch her. He waits, patiently, without haste.

Somewhere behind us, another locomotive hisses as it releases steam.