Looking out at the countryside, Nikita took in nothing of what she saw. Hopping the train to Belgrade and parts beyond had taken all the energy out of her. The freedom she had longed for was hers. Michael had given her the greatest gift he could. Why, then, did she feel so empty?
Across the aisle a man studied the blonde woman. The mademoiselle, he thought, she is raw with pain. She does not hide emotion well. Ca Va. He should mind his own affairs anyway. Touching his moustaches to ensure they were in place, Poirot went back to his paper.
“Premier Diner” the conductor yelled up and down the aisle. Nikita heard him and concluded she could not eat a bite. But, she should probably have some nutrition. Maybe a milk. Milk. She sighed. Well, it was time to start thinking like a free woman. Free women ate after all. Just a nibble.
Sitting at the table, Poirot fussily fixed his napkin. At his age, a meal was something to be savored. The aroma, the taste, all gave a pleasant feeling. Adjusting the salt and pepper shakers so they were just so, he prepared for his meal.
The luncheon attendant came up to him, followed by the young lady Poirot had watched. “Monsieur, we have a shortage of tables for this service. Could you be so kind as to share with this lady?” “No”, Nikita quickly replied. “I will come back later.” Turning to walk away, she heard the gentleman speak. “Mademoiselle, it would be a privilege to sit with you. Please honor me with your presence.”
Nikita paused. She did not feel like speaking to anyone right now. She turned and eyed the man. He was a queer little man with a huge waxed mustache. With her normal mindset she quickly assessed friend or foe. What threat was he? Catching herself, she decided to sit down to lunch. The sooner she learned to act and think like a normal human being again, the less chance she would be caught for standing out in a crowd.
The mademoiselle, she is wary, Poirot thought to himself. Noticing her careful assessment, he decided there must be a story here somewhere. Unhappy love affair, loss of family? With his own distinct eye he decided it was an unhappy love affair coupled with something else. She looked like she had been burned out on the battlefield. The haunted look in her eyes reminded him of many a solider from the great wars. An odd image, surely, for such a lovely girl.
Luncheon was served. Nikita asked for soup, primarily because it was the first thing on the menu. Staring out the window, her last thought before she lost herself in her pain was a hope that the man across from her would not talk. Sitting here was enough for a first step.
Drinking his mineral water, Poirot noticed her hesitancy to talk. Watching her eat, he winced at her habits. She was disheveled in her clothes and appearance. Young people these days; they have no order, no method. You need to put your best foot forward. Ah, when he was a young man, the mere glimpse of an ankle could raise an eyebrow. Now, this mademoiselle, all you could glimpse was leg. Nice ones, “the gams” his friend Hastings would call them.
They both ate in silence. Poirot made noises of contentment with his filet of sole. Nikita would sip a spoonful, put down the spoon and gaze out the window for minutes. Then she would turn and take another spoonful. After the meal was done coffee and tea was brought around. Poirot asked for a tisane and was saddened to hear they did not serve it. Le service nowadays, he sighed to himself. Now that he was done with his meal, he concentrated on the woman across from him.
“Mademoiselle, let me introduce myself. I am Hercule Poirot,” he said with a bow of the head. “Hello Monsieur Poirot” she replied. “I’m Nikita.” “Mademoiselle”, he said, “surely you have not suffered an unhappy affair of the heart. A beauty such as you could win any man you wanted.” Nikita turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t see how that is any business of yours” “Pardon,” he said. “I could not help but notice your distress. My only worry is you are so young, so full of life. To give up now would surely be a tragedy of mythic proportions.”
Nikita stared at the man scornfully. “You would not understand. If you did, I would tell you that today is the first day of the rest of my life. I have waited years for that to be true. But now it is all spoiled by my foolishness. I am leaving the worst place I have ever been, yet the best man I have ever known.” Poirot moved his mineral water in a circle with his hands. “I think, Mademoiselle, that I understand more than you think. I had a companion once, a young man who was a good friend. He enlisted in the foreign legion. When he came back, his eyes were the deadest things I had ever seen. He had burnt out his soul on all the killing. You, Mademoiselle Nikita, have the same look in your eyes. What I can not figure out, I the great Poirot, is how you can have that look and be so young.”
Startled, Nikita looked at the man between her lashes. “I don’t know what you are talking about” she stated. Moving her things as if to rise, she pushed her chair back. “Bien, bein, Mademoiselle Nikita. I am an old man with foolish thoughts. The pardon, I beg it of you. Please, do not be insulted by an old man like me.” Nikita paused, her body half-hovering out of her chair. Should she stay or go?
Poirot sighed and looked out the window. “I, too, fell unhappily in love once Mademoiselle. It was a great pity because she was a wonderful woman. A master thief and a countess with style. I have never married and some days I am glad of that. Some day I yell at myself like a dog. Bad Poirot! Why do you not love another? Then I know why. My work is my first love. It is sad, yes.”
Nikita sat down again during his touching little speech. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving the little egg shaped man across from her. Especially a thief. But the world was a crazy place, look at her. Just like a man, work being his first love. Just like Michael.
“Monsieur Poirot, I fell in love with a man that does not love me. His first love is also his work. Today, I am on this train alone as the proof of it. He let me go, but he would not come.” She blinked and stared out the window. What a picture the two of them made to outsiders. Both were looking out the train window, deep in thoughts of love.
“Ah, so Mademoiselle Nikita, you look to get lost. I will advise you, no? Heed me, go where you can blend in. With your fair looks Sweden would be lovely, or if you want to travel to the south, the South African republic would do well. Get a quiet job as a waiter of tables. One rarely notices who waits a table, but in your case that might not be true. “
“Bury yourself if you must, Mademoiselle, but remember this. Just because he does not run after you does not mean he does not want to. There may come a day when you will find yourself needing him. Do not be afraid to go to him, Mademoiselle Nikita, or you will find yourself like me. Alone, on a train, where the only thing to look forward to is the next meal. Do not be afraid to follow your heart.”
As he spoke he folded his napkin; now getting up he bowed. “A pleasure Mademoiselle Nikita. I will be honored if you take my advice one-day in your life. Please excuse me.” Walking away, Poirot seemed to mince down the train aisle. Nikita got up with a sigh. Just like section, advice for free. Wonder what Madeline would make of him. Snorting, she walked to her seat and prepared to disembark.
At the next stop, Poirot helped Nikita down the train stairs. She smiled a kind of half smile at him. He bowed and raised her hand to kiss it. She looked sideways at him, but almost started to grin. “Mademoiselle, a pleasure” he said. “Monsieur Poirot” she nodded goodbye and started to walk off. Poirot’s friend Hastings rushed up to him in a great hurry. “I say, old man, who was that? What a stunner!” he exclaimed.
Across the platform from this, Grace sat on the train bench swaying her feet in the air. She was so excited to be going on a train trip on the Orient Express. When it had pulled into the station the adrenaline had shot through her body. When would they start boarding? Watching all the people who came off she saw a tall leggy blond. She sighed. Being a five-foot tall brunette with stubs for legs, she watched with pure envy the blonde strut off into the distance. Perhaps she was some foreign model, or maybe a business woman. Now that short little man, who was met by his friend, definitely a business man. Not the tourist type. Oh well, I bet neither of them have problems. One was too ugly for anyone to love, one too gorgeous for anyone not to. Oh, she thought, to be one of them.
The End
This story ©copyright Grace, 1999
All the standard disclaimers apply. La Femme Nikita owns their characters, and the Agatha Christie Corp owns hers. This is created as a fannish tribute and no copyright infringement is meant.