Sitting on the train, the expatriate couldn't get the image of the dissected frog out of his mind. There was something in the air; perhaps it was something on the tracks, a lubricant used for the rolling doors or a cleaning solvent that had been used in the cabin recently. Whatever it was the smell tugged at a memory and produced the image of the graven frog.
The train slowed to a stop. The doors clicked and slid open; the smell grew stronger. The expatriate heard the electric voice announce, "Mind the gap," as men and women began moving on and off the train. When the crowd had settled and the train began to slide out of the station, it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going.
The Underground stations were labyrinth places, each turn out of sight around the next corner. Even though the authorities had done their best to make the system easy to navigate, it had taken him a year to know the ins and outs of the entire system. Despite this, though, momentarily he did now know where he was in the system. The ghostly gravity of the train pulled at him as it sped through a turn.
***
He was thirteen when he began to dream in French. He had never studied it. It had bloomed in his dreams like a magnesium flare, white and bright, drifting through darkness to land in his outstretched palms. When he had awakened, it was fully realized and he could speak the language. Living in Knoxville at the time, he might have not have ever become conscious of it had it not been for the Creole girl he had a crush on. She had assumed he had learned it for her sake and was delighted with his efforts. Parents and teachers assumed he had learned it from the girl. He told no one the truth. That had been the good time, with the girl so happy with him, his parents and teachers so proud. Knowing the language made him feel smarter. Learning this started to come easier to him then. But it didn't last.
