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"But what about the signs?" asked Michelle, referring to the little white cards marked "reserve" posted beside every couchette.

The conductor smiled and shrugged as though to say, "With SNCF (Système Nationale de Chemin de Fers Français), anything is possible." So went the publicity slogan of the French National Railway System. In any event, Michelle and I were left alone.

We spoke. About books mostly, and Henry Miller in particular, since he turned out to be Michelle's favorite American author, "Sexus," being her favorite of his books. A good sign, I thought. She asked me, "Qu'est-ce que tu aimes?" meaning "What do you like?" I could have told her many things, such as how I liked leaning against an open train window at night with Europe whizzing by and the wind whipping my hair and an attractive woman who likes Henry Miller by my side. Instead I said, "I like Nelson Algren," referring to the man who wrote "The Man with the Golden Arm." Being French, she knew right away who Nelson Algren was, since the French tend to know more about our writers than we do, and because Algren, here as well as there, is best known for his affair with Simone de Beauvoir. But Michelle had actually read Algren -- both "Golden Arm" and "Walk on the Wild Side." I'd struck gold -- French gold in an empty sleeping car at night!

Since sleep on trains or boats or planes never comes easily for me, I had my trusty Valium supply on hand: Four tiny canary-yellow pills in a prescription vial in my pocket. But now I had second -- and third, and even fourth -- thoughts about taking any. Alone in the dark sleeping car, the French countryside rolling by under a veil of stars, our forearm hairs commingled as we stood side by side with the humid night air blowing past our faces. I thought of the last scene in "North by Northwest," where Cary Grant hoists Eva Marie Saint up into his "couchette" and the train plunges into a dark tunnel ...

We spoke in hushed voices for several hours, sharing my bottle of water, Michelle having forgotten hers at the station. And she wasn't tired; I got the feeling she could talk all night. If only she'd come right out and proposition me, pull me into her couchette with her. She was Parisian, she was sophisticated. Eva Marie Saint would have done no less. Besides, I was too hopelessly shy to make a move. Finally I said I was going to my couchette, that I'd be lying down there but that I wasn't really tired and, if she wanted to, if she felt like it, she could take the couchette next to mine and we could continue our conversation.

Michelle gave me a look. The look was half-sly, half-annoyed.

"Is that all right?" I said.

"Oui." She gave a toss of her limp bangs, then refocused her gaze back out the window, into darkness.

"You're not afraid to sleep in the same compartment with me, are you?" I asked.

She smiled. "No," she said. "I'm not afraid. I've slept with many strange men in many trains before." The ambiguity was, I felt certain, intentional. "But I'm not tired. I'll be here for a while."

"Will you join me -- I mean, when you get tired?"

"Tu ne veux pas me draguer?"

"Draguer" is an interesting French verb. It means literally to drag up or to dredge, what a minesweeper does. In this context, however, it meant "pick me up," as in seduce, though by the sound of the word you'd think something like rape was implied.

"No, no," I lied. "Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

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