The wind swirled. I remember trying to orient myself and read a flapping city guide map. The free clunky leaflet young travellers collect at railway stations.
I was solo travelling in Europe at the start of 1981. Not my preference, but I enjoyed a contemplative trip combining art masterworks and heritage attractions. My wandering in the previous month made way for free accommodation in Paris.
I anticipated the famous galleries and the dreamy prospects the city of romance offered. There I was, globe-trotting far from the land of 'Oz' a year after completing my higher degree. At age twenty-four, I believed I was primed to explore life.
Paris showcased clear, crisp, and cold in mid-January. The fabulous metropolis was my final destination before heading home to Melbourne in a few weeks.
Avenues of bare trees and a winter chill greeted me. The evening sky, full grey under street lights, contrasted my expectant mood. Though at my Métro stop, I experienced an unsettling, brief local interrogation.
Then, I recovered fast. Wasn't this the city of love?
I headed, lugging my backpack and street map, an address in my hand for a suburban apartment. A few wrong turns proved inevitable. Furthermore, my woeful schoolboy, French, struggled when seeking directions. My finger jabbed at the map as it fluttered. Then, a local helping point indicated a large unit block in the distance.
I found the address-matching information scrawled on the reverse of a restaurant card. It loomed late when I knocked on an apartment door after climbing three flights of stairs.
As I rapped again, I recalled the reasons delaying me: the sketchy map and a strange encounter at the Métro. On alighting a subway train, I emerged disorientated, caught in making a split decision on the exit to take to the street level—an initial hesitation before choosing a passageway.
Two suited males corralled me to the wall side of the underground station platform, a marshalling manoeuvre expertly completed. There was no touch, yet it pressed my backpack against the postered wall. I understood enough high school French, as the taller requested my passport. His assertive voice contained no malice as his close-shaven face and block jaw scrutinised mine. He extended a large palm, which expected compliance. The public location eased me, and his nippy pine-scented aftershave matched my dad's.
I followed the man's instructions. The pair's body position influenced my response. Feet planted, legs apart, chests and chins forward. The second guy, a half step aside, heavyset, bouncer built. However, his thick black eyebrows required a pluck.
After a fumble and a tug under my jumper, I released my travel belt and retrieved my passport. The shorter individual eased it out of my hand and perused it. Visa stamps, including a previous Southeast Asian trip, branded my global movements. I twitched. The unexplained circumstance left me insecure in asking questions.
The; why and being singled out?
I racked my brain to deduce some reasoning behind these men stopping me. Paris presented a cosmopolitan city of travellers and incessant business deals.
Why me? Why here?
Then my focus shifted to their whispers, words too soft and fast to comprehend. The shorter man shut my passport and returned it, snapped shut, adding a pleasantry: a sharp nod.
The burly guy said, "C'est la vie," and his attention flashed to the next arriving train.
I understood my freedom, yet I leaned against the wall.
The pair strode out of my space at near-matched paces with confident strides. I realised their sync backed me to the platform wall minutes ago. After I secured my passport inside my travel belt, I scanned the terminus. Already filling for the next train, the two men had disappeared.
French security, I surmised. Securing what?
No immediate ideas cropped up—no travel alerts or terrorist headlines the past week. Again, I racked my mind to recall recent events prompting my detention. And- it clicked as I drifted up the Métro escalator. A synagogue bombing, a subversive attack in Paris last October. I recalled some vague details of the atrocious attack.
A parked, unattended motorbike outside a synagogue. Its saddlebags contained deadly explosives, timed to detonate as the congregation exited their worship. The bomb exploded earlier than planned, causing horrific injuries and inexcusable deaths. The trauma of the explosion created permanent physical and emotional scars compared to my temporary delay on a Métro platform, etching the synagogue as harrowing for those present or helping later.
My brief profiling by a national security agency floated in my memory as an unusual one-off. Connecting the terror attack to the real lives taken or broken would be a much longer life journey. Unlike those related to the injured or killed, they live the event daily. People may see the memorial plaque at the location but not consider it. Most (like myself) struggle to hold sustained affinity to any harrowing place across time.
After leaving the Métro, my focus returned to an address: an opened street map and an apartment to locate. Then trains and traumatic events joined as I pictured Coral and her involvement in a tragedy. Even though closer to home, I failed to grasp what Coral endured. Holidaying in Sydney in January 1977, she caught a train heading to the city. A packed commuter service derailed, never reaching its destination. The tragedy compounded as an overhead bridge collapsed and crushed carriages. Coral, alongside all survivors, hung tough in the aftermath of Australia's worst rail disaster at Granville.
I knocked again and heard movement inside the apartment.
My oh my - Ruby had changed since I saw her three years ago.
Before travelling to Paris, her mother informed me, she studied at the Sorbonne and worked at a youth hostel.
The brunette's usual immediate confidence dominated as I stared. A pixie haircut softened her cheeks and directed focus to her playful eyes.
I pictured her missing signature teenage ponytail; I remember it as whipping and high.
Ruby welcomed me into the small apartment.
"So, you found this dive okay," she piped, leaving me to shut the door.