1: Café Perdu

Forty minutes had passed since Margaret attempted to leave her white walled apartment without her brown leather purse in hand. For that forty minutes, Margaret had busied herself by running around her apartment searching for her beloved brown leather bag. She listened to her heels clacking as she ran from corner to corner, room to room; only to hear the incessant racket pause when she knelt to peer under her bed or in her closet. It was after this forty minutes that Margaret clacked her way to her living room and sat on her great green couch to give up. From her disappointment and lack of her brown leather bag, Margaret’s face molded itself into a slight, childish droop.

As she sat on her great green couch she gazed into the black screen of the TV. She could see herself in the reflection, a regular sized woman wrapped loosely in a blanket of floral pattern fabric only to be topped off with a dark black head of hair that she shaped into a bob. Her bangs swept to one side and revealed a small scar on her forehead that she had received on that fateful day when she was eight years, two months, and four days old.

She rose her fingers to touch it. It’s groove was only slightly noticeable on her fingertips as she ran them down her forehead. She remembered how she placed her small hand on that very spot on her head twenty years earlier. It was much more noticeable then and she was grateful for how it had faded over the years. Inspired by the recollection of these traumatic events, Margaret galloped into her bedroom to stand before the enormous mirror that spanned from the floor to the ceiling.

She slowly removed the straps of her floral dress and folded the top of her dress down to her waist. She stood in front of the mirror looking at her half nude body; examining it. She sighed deeply and felt a tear roll down her face as she stared at the empty space beneath her right breast. She was uneven, asymmetrical, and hated the very thought of it. Her hand hovered over her missing ribs for a few moments before she pulled her hand back and slid back into the top of her dress.

After dressing, she concluded that she would go to the cafe despite her missing brown purse. With the thought of company in mind Margaret walked to the front door, grabbed a newspaper and an umbrella, and opened her door to the outside. Before walking to the street, Margaret slipped her spare key out from under her doormat and locked her door, turning the knob afterwards to reaffirm her action.

Running to the street, her floor length dress running after her, she hailed a cab and hopped into the back seat. Normally, Margaret would roll down the cab window and feel the wind on her face as the driver drove, but today she could not, for the weather outside was terrible. The skies were filled with black, ominous clouds and giggled as she thought about the rain as the tears of gods.  She breathed in deep and smiled, relieved that she would be arriving at the cafe despite her lack of brown leather in her lap.

Ten minutes had passed when the cab driver slowed to a stop in front of Cafe Perdu, its glass door and glass windows blaring yellow as they pulled up. She paid the cab driver and stepped out into the tears as they slammed the pavement underneath her. She trotted up to the glass door and swung it open.

There was something about Cafe Perdu that had always intrigued Margaret. A hole in the wall to an almost literal point, Cafe Perdu was small and quaint; perfect. The tables were made of oak; each one riddled with a different array of tree rings. The seats that these tables separated were of a variety of shapes and colors. The regulars at Cafe Perdu had all written their names on their favorite chair; Margaret included. Her chair was small and white. The seat of the chair had an elaborate painting of a sparrow in flight. She had always wondered who had painted the beautiful sparrow she had been sitting on every Saturday for the last three years, but found that the only signature on the entire chair was that of her own. Her white chair was perched at a corner table with a bright red chair that was somewhat larger than hers. It was the same shape as the white chair but came painted with an eagle instead of a sparrow on its seat. It also lacked a signature that it’s white counterpart did not.

As Margaret walked into the cafe she noticed all the chairs were bare, except for the bright red chair her sparrow sat across from. There was a man sitting in it. He was looking outside at the street, watching people as they walked by. His hair was a deep auburn; his skin, tanned and weathered. Margaret had seen this type of skin before on her father after many of this long unexplained trips to South America. In his cup was a light brown mixture of coffee and too much sugar. Her attraction for him numbed the disappointment she received when realizing she wouldn’t be sitting in her own chair today, but despite feeling uneasy from the sight of the empty cafe, she waved at Bernard and walked toward the counter where he stood smiling, leaning on the surface with his forearms; his hands clasped together.

Bernard, a boisterous old Frenchman, was the owner of Cafe Perdu and Margaret’s unofficial surrogate father for the past three years. He had known Margaret’s father and mother before she had even been born and was the only person Margaret’s father would now send letters to. Every Saturday, Bernard would come to her with a new message from her father detailing his travels. Margaret was grateful for Bernard's existence in her life and treasured his advice as much as she treasured her father’s years ago.

“Morning, Bernie.”

“Ah. Margaret. Tardy?” Bernard laughed.

“My purse. I’ve misplaced it.” she said as she rose her hands to show off her empty palms. “How are you?”

“Fine. You know how that goes.”

“So are there any messages from my father?”

The corners of Bernard's mouth pointed downward. “No. I’m sorry, chéri.”

Margaret shrugged and flashed a smile. “That’s alright.”

“I’m sorry about your purse. A coffee for free.”

“No, Bernie. That's alright. I’d want to pay and I don’t have my wallet today. It was in my bag.” she smiled and batted the air with her hand. “I don’t come for the coffee anyway.”

Just as she began to turn to walk to a stranger’s chair Bernard called her again.

“Margaret.” he whispered.

He leaned in further as she did.

“That man sitting in the red chair was looking for you.”

“Odd.” She said as she pinched her brows together.

Bernard's smile grew “Does my Margaret have a date?”

“Of course not.” Margaret Laughed. “Thanks, Bernard.”

She turned back and walked toward the white chair that sat across the man with auburn hair. Looking in the reflection of the cafe window, she fixed her hair and stood beside her seat. She stood for a while longer than she wanted to to get a response from the man. He was incredibly distracted by the people walking by on the street. She coughed to get his attention.

“Hm? Oh.”

She smiled awkwardly and took a seat in the chair before him. From what she saw he was a strong, agile man. He had a white dress shirt that he tucked into unlabeled khaki pants. The shirt had been buttoned to the top to accommodate for a plain black tie; all of which was covered by a gray v-neck sweater.

“Margaret?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“I know. Bernard told me.”

“I thought you usually came in here at nine?”

“I do. I was late. How do you know that?”

“Yes you were.” He looked down at his watch. The scratched silver glinted in the light. “An hour actually. Exactly.”

“So who are you?” asked Margaret as she wrapped her arms around her torso, covering what was missing.

“Peter.” He stared at her without saying a word for minute.

“What do you want, Peter?”

“I’m here to help you find something. Something important.” He lifted up a bag that was underneath his seat. It was brown and made of leather. It was Margaret’s.

“My bag! Thief!” Margaret ripped it out of his hands and set it by her side. Bernard, who had receded into the kitchen, emerged from the doorway and stood to watch with a threatening look on his face.

“No! Margaret! Just calm down I didn’t steal it.” said exhaling.

“It’s ok, Bernie.”

Bernard shrugged and walked back into the kitchen.

“Why do you have it then?”

“I needed you to be late.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t talk to you when everyone was here, I had to get you to come here after they left so I took your bag.”

“From my house? How did you get into my house!” yelled Margaret under her breath as she leaned forward.

“You’re not very good at hiding your spare key.”

Margaret sighed and rolled her eyes.

“What do we have to talk about?”

“That important thing I’m supposed to help you find. That’s what we’re supposed to talk about.”

“Fine.” She turned to the kitchen. “Bernard! I changed my mind! I will take a coffee!”

“Bon, mon chéri!”

Margaret looked back at Peter.

“So what is this important thing, Peter?”

“A letter.”

“Oh really? From who?”

Bernard walked up to Margaret and set the coffee on the oak table before her. Margaret nodded and took light sip. Bernard took a seat at the counter, his back turned, and began reading a newspaper

“It’s from someone important.” He looked away from her and returned his gaze to the street.

“Stop the s**t, Peter. Who’s it from?”

Without answering her question, Peter stood from the red chair.

“We gotta go. Now!”

“What?!” Margaret stood up to stand next to Peter and gazed across the street as he did. What she saw was the barrel of a silenced glock glimmering out the mirrored window of a black Mercedes.

“Oh my g--” Before Margaret could finish her sentence, the man in the Mercedes had released a bullet in her direction. At the sight of this gun, Margaret covered her face with her hands and curled herself like a crepe being folded before inhaling to prepare for her demise. The bullet flew through the glass of the cafe window with a small crack and wedged itself in the red tiled wall behind the counter; leaving only two holes: one in Bernard's newspaper, and the other in Margaret’s loose fitting dress. Margaret screamed in her hands as she listened to the black car skidding on the wet street outside

“Margaret!” yelled Peter.

She could not hear him as she continued to quiver.

“Margaret! You’re fine!”

Once hearing this she slowly released her face from her hands. Her face was painted pink by the warmth of her hands. She quickly reached down and felt her torso to check if she had been shot. Instead of blood, however, she found a hole, right where her missing ribs were. Margaret realized at that moment that her six and three quarters of an inch that she left in Brazil had spared her from the wrath of the speeding bullet.

“I am? Am I?”

He grabbed her shoulder for a moment before realizing it could be inappropriate; sliding his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants.

“You’re just fine.”

Without thinking, she turned to Bernard who swiveled around to face her leaving the newspaper on the counter. His face was drowning with confusion.

“What was that?”

“A bullet! It was a bullet, Bernard!”

“Oh mon Dieu! Oh mon Dieu!”

Margaret ran up to embrace him in his seat. 

“I thought you we were for a second.” she laughed. As Bernard hugged back, Margaret felt Peter tap on her shoulder.

“Margaret.”

Letting go of Bernard she looked at Peter.

“What?”

“It was from your mother.”

She stood before him frozen from shock.

“My mother?”

He nodded, looking at the bullet in the wall.

“My mother is dead.”

“No, Margaret. She isn’t”

Margaret’s eyes grew red and watery from the news.

“No. I don’t. I won’t believe you.”

“Well you don’t have to believe me.” Peter walked to the broken tiles in the wall where the bullet had landed.

“You should believe this though.”

Margaret watched as Peter removed the tiles from the wall and dropped them onto the floor in small crashes. What Peter had exposed was a hole in the wall of the hole-in-the-wall Cafe Perdu. In it were two letters and a small metallic box, labeled only with the letters H-O-R-N engraved on the lid. The dam that once held all of Margaret’s questions now lay in rubble, flooded by the questions she had always wanted to know the answers to.

She looked towards Bernard. Her hands covering her mouth, she mumbled “What is that?”

Bernard walked to the glass door and locked it shut before turning back to face her.

“We need to have a talk, Margaret”

Reviews

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I found only a few small things that need editing. The sentence, ...skies filled with ominous black clouds and giggled as she thought about the rain...I think you just need to add 'she' right before giggled. The sentence, ...I didn't steal it, said exhaling...just needs a 'he' before 'said.' The sentence...at the sight of this gun...would read better if it was just,...at the sight of the gun...(just my opinion). And the last sentence needing editing was...I thought you we were for a second...maybe break this up so it reads better. I really like this story so far. It has elements of intrigue and even some action. There also great descriptivism throughout. I hope you get more readers; I really think you are a gifted story teller!