Tourists - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 2000 by Mildred Verba Morris

Midnight. The heat on the bus does not work and the windows steam up. Under a donated coat, Lauren sleeps over two seats,, legs carefully folded to accommodate Spinney. The Boy, resplendent in a yellow and green argyle sweater, also sleeps. In back of the bus, the Australians and the girl from Nebraska, laugh and drink beer. The dour Canadians (at least those from Montreal) sing "Mon Pays." Howie snores.

"Voyez, the City of Light," Nicole announces, hand resting tentatively on Pamela's arm. The passengers wake, rub eyes, wipe mist off the windows with mittened hands. But the lights do not twinkle prettily as on a picture postcard. And the sad, gray sky, the same sky pursuing them from London, presses down on the buildings, erasing their grandeur, and decapitating the Eiffel Tower. The windows steam up again....

It is as if ... as if, what ...? Susan tries to think, but nothing comes to mind, except that well-known picture by Gericault, and she writes, It is as if the tourists are on a raft, floating in fog, hoping for a miracle that will not come. Bound by the mysterious chains of love, hate, honor and country, they are the best they could offer each other. They could no more abandon each other than Lauren could forget Spinney, or The Boy could cross a street by himself, or St. Anthony could bring back the time they have lost, or for that matter, any of them could find the Paris they have made up in their minds ...

That last phrase, the Paris they have made up in their minds, has a ring to it, and Susan, who has written through her sorrow, anger, her stub of a pencil, and her entire notebook, is now ready to explain. "Pamela should never have left the bus unlocked or the keys in the ignition," she tells Howie. "I just wanted to teach her a lesson. If Bonita hadn't made such a fuss, I would have found them under the seat two seconds later. It would have been a big joke. Everyone would have laughed." Howie's eyes are on the mid-distance. He, too, has seen the gray cliffs peering back at him from the dark water. "You had one of your bad days, Susan," Howie says. He takes her hand, and this time she does not withdraw it.

Mildred Verba Morris's stories have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, The Iowa Review, Crescent Review, and elsewhere