She jabs her fat, meaty hand into the bucket of chicken and pulls out a leg. Grease oozes between her brown-sausage fingers, dribbling onto her lap, as eager teeth grasp the skin and rip. Her head whips rabidly left and right, again and again like a shark with a seal, until sinew detaches from bone. Congealed sweat drips from her top lip into her gaping maw, helping dissolve gristle between wildly masticating jaws, excess spluttering in all directions.
The passenger next to her shifts slightly away but the train pays her no heed—Paris does not judge.
As her hand reaches down in search of the bucket it pauses mid-thrust. Breathing in the stench of summer and rasping it back out again, her whole person jerks forward like a great capsizing ship, spilling breasts and skin as she gathers up strings of yarn escaping from the battered bag at her side. Still rasping, she retrieves her breasts, stashing one between her incisors and plopping another couple back into the bucket whilst scrambling the runaway scarf into place.
She sits back, chewing…chewing as her stray hand absentmindedly winds the yarn. She imagines the letters. The “E” for Evrémonde, stitched into consciousness at the back of the tavern, “D” for Darnay.
Her hand is shaking.
She wipes a clump of wet hair from her cheek, leaving a rust-coloured stripe, the aftermath of a clammy paste conjured from the fat on her fingers and the crusted blood on the yarn. War paint.
She stuffs the knitting back in her bag. She’ll pull it out when she’s in her seat, front row. Unravelling names as life flows like wine into the cobbled crevices of Place de la Concorde, Madame exacting her revenge. Whoosh-whack-thud. Or whoosh-whack-whack-whack-thud.
Picking meat from her teeth, Madame inspects the red and white remnants sticking under her nail and puts them back into her mouth, a sparkle in her eye.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
