Chapter 3
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A storm had begun to roll in. The street was thick with moisture and a faint but enticing smell of fried chicken filled the air. Frankie had been frequenting Saint Germain-des-Prés, one of the more affluent suburbs of Paris. An administrative office sector by day and a fine dining area by night. Frankie searched for a diner, which wasn’t a common sight in France, but after twenty minutes of walking, she found one. She spotted a dusty booth in the corner and took a seat. The waitress promptly walked over.
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‘Vous avez choisi?’313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHh7fWhUeBH
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‘Oui’313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6VtcAEfgLs
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‘Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?’313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDVxfXwXnk4
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‘Le café au lait.’313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLrTS3Mxvev
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‘Oui.’313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeseVdcsF8X
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Frankie spoke limited French, but had remembered how to order a coffee with milk, a drink in which she had only ever imbibed in France.313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV2P7vAtYrY
The diner was almost empty aside from two old men sitting together in a booth, probably a couple of fags, she thought. The sounds of the street outside were drowned out by an obnoxiously loud jukebox playing Edith Piaf.313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT0AASvjthR
Sipping at her coffee, she noticed a folded piece of paper behind the cutlery jar. Curiosity got the best of her and she unfolded the discoloured note. It read:
“Our deeds still travel with us from afar and what we have been makes us what we are.”
She immediately recognised the quote as George Eliott, but why would someone leave such a note behind, was it meant for someone who never got it? Or was she the intended serendipitous recipient?313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqUjyL9VFDB
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As her coffee arrived she was overcome by the urge to empty her handbag on the table, for the sake of sorting trash from treasure. She’d often do this as a way of inducing that feeling of satisfaction one gets when having a clean up.313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNVlx8MSpT9
She tipped the bag upside down and the contents spewed out, of which included: a crumpled packet of ‘French Kiss’ strawberry gum / 3 pieces remaining. A tube of red lipstick. A single packaged straight razor. A CD copy of her favourite Jeff Buckley album she always kept with her - ‘Sketches for my Sweetheart the Drunk’ a squashed packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes of which there were 4 remaining, accompanied by bloodied tissues, 2 loaded morphine syrettes, (a habit in which she was trying to kick.) a strawberry chapstick, her tattered passport, €170 in cash, a damaged photograph of someone she’d once loved and a pack of playing cards with a symbol of a renaissance court jester on them. She stared at the jester, recalling what she had once learnt from a history book about the jesters plight.313Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZxGCvbiV04
Commonly, a court jester would be a mentally ill serf who had been appropriated by a lord or king to dress up in colourful clothing and dance in front of the aristocracy at dinner. The jester’s often had illnesses that were undiagnosable at the time, such as epilepsy and schizophrenia. So the jester would frantically dance and flail and seize in front of the aristocracy’s banquet during dinner, solely for the bemusement and delectation of the guests. A cruel fate for an unluckily ill pauper, she thought..
