The 6:41 to Paris

By Jean-Philippe Blondel

After decades, former lovers come face to face in a novel filled with a “suspenseful dread that makes you want to turn every page at locomotive pace” (St. Louis Post-Dispatch).
 
Cécile, a stylish forty-seven-year-old, has spent the weekend visiting her parents in a provincial town southeast of Paris. By early Monday morning, she’s exhausted. These trips back home are always stressful, and she settles into a train compartment with an empty seat beside her. But it’s soon occupied by a man she instantly recognizes: Philippe Leduc, with whom she had a passionate affair that ended in her brutal humiliation almost thirty years ago.
 
In the fraught hour and a half that ensues, their express train hurtles toward the French capital. Cécile and Philippe undertake their own face-to-face journey—In silence? What could they possibly say to one another?—with the reader gaining entrée to the most private of thoughts. This intense, intimate novel offers “a taut, suspenseful psychological journey from which there is no escape . . . Gripping” (Kati Marton, author of Paris: A Love Story).
 
“Perfectly written and a remarkably suspenseful read . . . Absorbing, intriguing, insightful.” —Library Journal (starred review)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939931313

Jean-Philippe Blondel

Jean-Philippe Blondel was born in 1964 in Troyes, France where he lives as an author and English teacher. His novel The 6:41 to Paris has been acclaimed in the United States and across Europe.

Book preview

I could have taken the 7:50, or even the 8:53. It’s Monday. Mondays are dead quiet at work. It’s just that I couldn’t take it anymore. What was I thinking, staying Sunday night. I don’t know what came over me. Two days are more than enough.

I didn’t sleep well at all last night, obviously. I was so annoyed with myself. Another wasted weekend. And at the same time, it was no surprise, it’s always like that. Valentine could have told me it would be. So could Luc. And I understand their perspective, but it pisses me off. That they didn’t come. That they didn’t do their bit. That they weren’t there supporting me so I could get through those two days. That they don’t care as much about my parents as I do. Which is normal. They are my parents. My very own. My only parents, and I’m their only daughter.

Every time, I swear it can’t go on like this. And then I start feeling guilty. Insidiously. I hear their voices on the phone. Never a reproach. Never a complaint. Just silence, when I say that I have a lot of work at the moment. I have to get in touch with my suppliers. I have to satisfy my clients. I can just imagine them on the other end of the line. My mother standing ramrod straight behind my father. Brittle. The grimace on her face. The scathing remark on the tip of her tongue. I wonder if there is anyone anywhere who knows how to look after elderly parents. Elderly but not yet bedridden. Just old and weak. Old and vulnerable. And bitter.

No, actually, I don’t wonder. There must be somebody, yes. Luc, for example. Except actually he doesn’t care about them at all. He severed all connections with his family more than twenty years ago, and apart from a very occasional visit or phone call, he’s not in touch. I think that’s what I admired most about him when we met. How independent he could be. That salutary selfishness. I admired it even more than his presence. Or his style. The style he has kept in spite of the passage of time. He’s pushing fifty, but he’s still slim, trim, almost rugged. The kind of man that women over forty dream about. I’m not jealous. I never have been. I’m not submissive enough. Our mutual independence is both a challenge and a source of respect.

Naturally my parents complained when Luc didn’t show up. It’s not that he’s overly friendly with them, but they like it better when we come as a family. With Luc and Valentine. That way they can tell the entire neighborhood—the shopkeepers in particular—Last weekend, the whole family was here. They like saying that, the whole family.

This time, the other two members of the whole family didn’t give in.

I tried to explain. Luc had a lot of work, his company is in the middle of a restructuring. And as for Valentine, you know … As a rule, just saying you know … and following it with a sigh should be enough, should suggest the fact that Valentine is almost seventeen, she lives just outside Paris, she’s in love, and she hates coming to this town out in the boonies where she doesn’t know a soul and where her grandpa is constantly sending her out into the garden to play as if she were still seven years old.

But that’s not enough for my parents. I have to come up with a pretty lie, neatly packaged, festooned with magnificent lemon yellow ribbons—and served up with a radiant smile. I’m used to it. I learned to hide the truth from them very early on. So I invented some fake exams for Valentine on Monday morning, that way all day Sunday she’d have to be studying for them. When I told her how I planned to lie to her grandparents, she burst out laughing, hugged me, and asked why I didn’t just tell them that whenever she went there she got so bored she could die and that they were a real pain in the butt. I didn’t say anything. The only thing I could think of was I couldn’t speak like that to my parents, but I didn’t come out with it because I know for a fact that Luc and Valentine would be perfectly capable of saying something like that.

I wonder if Valentine will talk to us like that later on. When it’s our turn to wait for her visit in our little house in the suburbs. No, no suburbs. I’m not going to get old in the Paris suburbs. I don’t come from there. There’s nothing to keep me there. I’ve started thinking about where I—I mean we, if all goes well—might end our days. I like the thought of Mexico, or Morocco, but I know I would miss books and movies and my own language. And besides, I know those countries. I’ve already been there. I’m glad I was able to visit them, but I can’t see myself living there. No. I need a quiet place. Flat, open country—but with hills on the horizon, all the same. Or else the sea. The ocean, rather. Salty, wild, sticking to your skin. But not Paris. No. Or here, either. Troyes. The Champagne region. I’ve had enough of it. On the station platform. 6:35. I can’t begin to think how many times I’ve waited for a train under this glass roof.

It’s stupid.

Everything is stupid.

The fact I got up so early. And stayed an extra night, above all. I had the choice. I could have gone home last night—but I don’t know, the thought of forty-five minutes on the Métro and RER and then getting home from the Gare de l’Est, and then all over again in the other direction on Monday morning really depressed me. And my mother’s face, transformed into this Mater Dolorosa, stubbornly silent of course, at the thought of my departure on Sunday afternoon. I knew that Valentine was sleeping over at Éléonore’s and that Luc would be spending the evening on his computer. So I clapped my hands, like a little girl, and blurted, I’ll just leave on Monday morning! I called Luc, who grumbled. And sent a text to Valentine—in any case, there’s no other way to get in touch with her. Her reply: OK. Hugs. There comes an age when you find yourself trapped between indifferent children and recalcitrant parents. That’s all there is to it. I’m forty-seven years old. I’m right in the middle of it.

In the end, my parents were more surprised than anyone. Unpleasantly surprised. Especially my mother. The Mater Dolorosa became a Mater Anxiosa. This would upset her routine. This would give her multiple causes for concern. She wouldn’t be able to put the sheets I had used into the washing machine. It would throw everything off. And what on earth will we have for supper, we didn’t plan, did we, Sunday evening, you know, usually it’s just soup, the police show on Channel 2, and off to bed! And besides, what’s behind it? Is there something wrong between you and Luc? That’s why he didn’t come, isn’t it! Oh, you know you can come out and tell us, but you could be a little nicer to him, after all. It’s as if you always decide everything.

So I had to fight back. I said, Aren’t you pleased I’m spending some time with you? They beat a hasty retreat. They apologized. They said, Of course, it’s just that … No point in taking it any further. I know. The whole family. And to think that, in my everyday life, I am respected. Almost feared. I plan. I decide. I hire.

I don’t know if I’ll be sad when they pass away.

Apparently you can boast about your indifference, but when that time comes, the emotion just comes straight at you and mows you down. Whatever. I find it hard to believe. In short, a completely wasted weekend. All I did was go around in circles in my parents’ house. The only time I got out was to go and change my train ticket yesterday—oh, and I also went with my mother to the boulangerie-pâtisserie which isn’t a boulangerie and even less of a patisserie, but just a place where they sell bread. She wanted to buy some custard. For dessert on Sunday evening. Since nothing had been planned.

It goes without saying that I won’t share any of this with Luc. It would only prove that he was right and he would go around with his smug little smile on his face. Nor will I say a word to Valentine—she doesn’t care, anyway. Nor do my colleagues. And the few friends we still have—it’s crazy how once people turn forty friendships seem to disintegrate. They get transferred, they’re busy with their kids, you no longer share the same opinions—everything alienates you from people you thought would be close to you all your life. All that’s left are laconic email messages. Phone calls punctuated with long silences. Sporadic meetings.

No. Stop.

I have to remind myself that when I haven’t slept well I get all bent out of shape. It’s 6:41 in the morning, after all. And I’m in a foul mood.

I’m astonished how many people are here. And how many trains there are this early. It’s as if half the town were going to work in Paris every day.

Which may well be the case.

Here comes the train—on time. Thank goodness.

I would have gone crazy if it had been late.

I like trains. All the time you can spend doing nothing in particular. You get your bag ready for the trip—like with kids when they’re still small. You pack two paperbacks, some chewing gum, a bottle of water—you can almost imagine putting your security blanket in there, too. Everything you need to pass the time pleasantly. When you get to the station, you even linger at the newsstand, you buy a magazine, preferably one about the rich and famous. It’s as if you were going to the beach—and like at the beach, you end up not bothering with the novels or the magazine, you don’t chew on the gum and you even forget to drink the water. You get hypnotized by the landscape rolling by, or the rhythm of the waves.

The only train I can’t stand is on Sunday night to Paris. When I was a student, that train meant depression and uprooting. I would get to the Gare de l’Est feeling totally dispirited. Because my roots are here. I’ve always known that. I was like the

Reviews for The 6:41 to Paris

[vickiln · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I love books that take place in Paris so I knew as soon as I saw the title I wanted to read it. It’s a really short book at only 170 pages, but it’s impact on you will be huge.Imagine being seated on a train with a ride of one and a half hours in front of you. Suddenly someone sits down in the empty seat beside you. Of course you look at the person. Now imagine that person is someone who you knew thirty years ago. A person you had an affair with. A person who hurt you badly and embarrassed you terribly. What would go through your mind? What would go through his? This is the situation that Cecile and Philippe find themselves in. In this book you’ll read the thoughts and conversations of Cecile and Philippe, told in alternate chapters.I loved getting into the heads of Cecile and Philippe. I can’t imagine being in that situation. I would just not say anything and pretend to sleep :)This is a book unlike any I’ve ever read, and it is well worth the time it takes to read it. I would definitely recommend this book.

[debnance_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The simplest of plots: a man and a woman sit down next to each other on the train to Paris. Insert a small twist: the man and woman knew each other well, more than twenty years ago. Now enter the thoughts of each, in turn.I took this little train ride of a book the last few days. How well the author got into the heads of these two complex and real people. How well the author maintained the tension between them. This is the perfect book for your next short train ride. I caution you to look carefully at who you are sitting beside on the ride.

[laura6thomas-5 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I can honestly say I’ve not read a book like this before. That said, I’ll do my best to intrigue you more.Imagine you bump into a former lover, someone you’d trusted, hoped to spend the rest of your life with. And he betrayed you so deeply.It’s been 30 years, but the pain still festers for Cecile, the wound freshly opened by a chance encounter with Philippe on a train.“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?” This quote came to mind as I was privy to Cecile’s thoughts.It’s one and a half hours until the train reaches their stop. Ride with them. Enter their minds. Hear what they are thinking.Such a twisted tale. It’s one thing to imagine what someone is thinking. It’s something else entirely to read those thoughts, unguarded and almost vicious. I felt uncomfortable. That’s when I realized how well this story worked. If the author could unsettle me with his story, then his characters came across as living, breathing people.I read this in less time than the characters shared on their train ride. The story stayed with me a lot longer.

[wassilissa · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Eine Frau und ein Mann sitzen zufällig im Zug nebeneinander. Beide tun so, als würden sie sich nicht kennen, doch vor 27 Jahren hatten sie eine kurze Beziehung. Nun reflektieren beide, was seitdem aus ihnen geworden ist und wie sie diese eher unrühmliche Affäre verändert hat.Ich finde das Buch sehr interessant und toll geschrieben. Es stellt wirklich ausgezeichnet dar, wie man mit 20 tickt und welches Entwicklungs-- und Veränderungspotential in einem steckt. Die Art, wie sich die Gedanken der beiden entwickeln und nach und nach sowohl die Vergangenheit als auch die Gegenwart enthüllt wird, ist absolut plausibel und nachvollziehbar, dabei durchaus auch spannend.

[paradiseporch · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sometimes I wonder how publishers choose the books that will be translated. I guess I missed the (literary?) point in this one.

[bookomaniac-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Achter dit ogenschijnlijk simpele verhaaltje (je leest het op 1 wat langere trein rit – pun intended) steken toch wel behoorlijk wat levensvragen: hebben gebeurtenissen van lang geleden nog altijd invloed op ons leven, hoe kunnen negatieve ervaringen een mensenleven veranderen, welk een diversiteit aan ervaringen bouwen mensen op 25 jaar tijd op, wat is succes hebben als je in de middelbare leeftijd bent gekomen, kan je je leven plots helemaal over een andere boeg gooien, enz. Dat is niet min. En het is de verdienste van Blondel dat hij dit allemaal verpakt heeft in een verhaaltje waarin 2 mensen die ooit een korte relatie hadden, elkaar 25 jaar na datum toevallig tegenover elkaar zitten in een trein, elkaar herkennen maar niks durven zeggen, en heel die tijd hun leven aan zich voorbij zien komen en wat er toen en sindsdien gebeurd is evalueren. Knap gedaan, al blijft het noodzakelijk wat aan de oppervlakte, en is het einde redelijk voorspelbaar.

[cornelia16-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cécile Duffaut, eine attraktive und beruflich erfolgreiche 47-Jährige, hat am Wochenende ohne Mann und Tochter ihre alten Eltern besucht. Im vollen "6 Uhr 41"-Zug reist sie von Troyes nach Paris zurück - direkt zum Job. Ein Mann setzt sich auf den leeren Platz neben ihr - Philippe Leduc, eine Jugendliebe. Beide erstarren im Wiedererkennen, jeder für sich alleine erinnert die Verliebtheit, die Irrtümer, die Verletzungen und den Bruch vor fast 30 Jahren und das individuelle Scheitern in den Jahren seither. Kurz vor Ankunft offenbaren sie ihr gegenseitiges Erkennen, unter dem Small Talk schwären alte Wunden. Cécile revidiert im letzten Moment ihre Zurückweisung - oder auch nicht? Der Leser wünscht jedenfalls innig ein Wiedersehen. Das Kammerspiel im Zugabteil fesselt bis zum offenen Schluss. Der Autor, zuletzt "Zweiundzwanzig" (ID-A 8/14), hat mit der anrührenden Geschichte einer alten Liebe in Frankreich einen Bestseller gelandet. Empfehlenswert schon für kleine Bibliotheken.

[redhead.with.book · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

"I'm talking to you and you can't hear me.

Thirty minutes to dive in, into the flotsam of the years gone by, and hope to find a piece of wood, a roof, a boat adrift - to start everything over again.".

The 6:41 to Paris is a glimpse into the private musings of two people unexpectedly seated together on the same train. Two persons who, 27 years previous, parted in pain. Each agonizes over past memories, mistakes, family problems and and contemplate their possible futures.

This book, originally written in French, was translated into English by Alison Anderson. It was incredibly well done. The dual musings blended back and forth smoothly between Cecile and Philippe, one picking up where the other left off. Their story begins to take shape as their train rolled on toward Paris, their final destination.

There were many gentle and amusing anectdotes and reflections which I found to be beautifully written. For example:

"There comes an age when you find yourself trapped between indifferent children and recalcitrant parents. That's all there is to it. I'm forty-seven years old. I'm right in the middle of it."

A pleasant and easy read (perfect for a trip!). You'll want to this this story on to someone else to enjoy as well.

[lucaconti-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Lovely novel on a train. Highly recommended

[circlestonesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

„Wenn ich die Augen schließe, sehe ich sie wieder vor mir, die nächtlichen Straßen von London, damals in jenem heißen Juli“.“ (Zitat Seite 138)

Inhalt:
Nach einem Wochenend-Besuch bei ihren Eltern sitzt Cécile, 47 Jahre alt und eine erfolgreiche Geschäftsfrau, um 6 Uhr 41 im Frühzug zurück nach Paris. Der Platz neben ihr ist der letzte frei Platz im Waggon und ein Mann setzt sich neben sie. Es ist Philippe Leduc, der Mann, in den sie vor vielen Jahren verliebt war. Bis zu einer gemeinsamen Reise nach London und deren katastrophalem Ende. Siebenundzwanzig Jahre ist das nun her. Soll er sie ansprechen, hat sie ihn erkannt?

Thema und Genre:
In diesem Roman schauen zwei Menschen in Gedanken und unabhängig von einander zurück in ihre Jugend und eine Entscheidung, die sie damals getroffen haben. Beide erinnern sich und fragen sich auch, was wäre gewesen, wenn.

Handlung und Schreibstil:
Der Geschichte spielt im Zeitraum von weniger als zwei Stunden, nur die Länge einer Bahnfahrt. Durch die jeweiligen Gedanken der beiden Protagonisten ergeben sich erklärende Rückblenden in die Vergangenheit. Sie waren erst zwanzig Jahre alt, als ihre Beziehung in London abrupt zu Ende ging. Wir erfahren auch, wie es im Leben von Cécile und Philippe weiterging, wo sie heute stehen. Wobei beider Leben eine andere Entwicklung genommen hatte, als damals zu erwarten war. Die Spannung ergibt sich aus der Frage, ob die beiden doch noch miteinander reden, oder ob sie schweigend vorgeben, einander nicht erkannt zu haben.
Die Sprache ist leise und poetisch, aber auch präzise beobachtend und macht aus diesem Buch eine sehr angenehme Lektüre.

Fazit:
Zwei Menschenleben, die sich dem Leser nur durch die Gedanken der beiden Protagonisten erschließen, denn sie sitzen schweigend im Zug nebeneinander. Eine leise Geschichte, die nachdenklich stimmt.