Metro Mice
I know of a mouse that lives in the Porte d’Orleans station of the Paris Metro. Now I don’t know him personally but I do know he exists. I spy him one day as I wait for a train to take me to see the sights of Paris.
He is an industrious little fellow and when I spot him, he is scurrying with great purpose along an open channel in the concrete behind the seats on the platform. I fancy him to be late for an important meeting. Perhaps he is hurrying to the International Mouse Court to argue an important case. Could it be that he holds the fate of the entire French Mouse Nation in his tiny paws? He must surely be a mouse of great stature for he is the only one out so early on this bright spring morning.
And now I have disrupted his weighty plans because my eyes have been drawn by his stealthy movements. We remain motionless, staring deep into each other’s eyes, a game of chicken to see who will move first.
The Paris Metro is a beehive of activity and noise. It’s early morning and a workday. Trains arrive and depart regularly, their brakes screaming in loud protest each time they stop. Beeping doors slide open to disgorge herds of people who unapologetically bump into each other, as they head to their exits. Within seconds, the doors slide shut and the trains are on their way to the next destination.
Newcomers file in and mill about waiting for the next train, the cycle repeating itself. They peer anxiously down the tracks to see if it’s coming. They pace back and forth, some animatedly talking on their cell phones, others reading ragged promotional movie posters tagged with graffiti. Up to now, they have provided an interesting diversion for me as I wait. I am no longer interested in eavesdropping on their private conversations under the guise of improving my conversational French.
In all of this hustle and bustle I am suddenly aware that a man is watching me. When I look up, la souris important* takes advantage of the opportunity and darts down a tiny hole.
The man strains to look into the concrete channel to find the object of my attention, but because the mouse has vanished, he sees nothing. He looks back at me, his brows knit with curiosity. My cheeks flush and I look away. He remembers he is in a hurry and rushes to catch his train.
I look around to see if anyone else is watching me; no need to worry- people are much too busy.
I sit quietly, staring into the tiny hole, hoping that the mouse will pop his head up to see if the coast is clear so he can continue safely on his way. He doesn’t. Perhaps he has connected with another route or maybe he is trembling in a dark corner traumatized by the whole experience. Whatever the case, it is doubtful that I will see him again.
A nosy squeal of brakes announces my train. I am bored and anxious to be on my way. I have no one to talk to on my cell phone, it is certain no one would eavesdrop in the hopes of improving their English, and it is highly doubtful I will go see the new movie, Marie Antoinette, no matter how many times I read the movie posters.
* the important mouse
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