A Box of Tricks or Threats?

Incarnated in our environments, we often do not realise what awaits us around the next corner. We live our little lives without thinking about where selcouth events might take us. And let's face it, there aren't many extraordinary events in our lives, and when they do appear on the horizon, we don't tend to blindly follow them for lack of time or money or both, so these new things can never be the incarnation of a coloured, spreading autumn tree. This is not going to be that kind of story.

It was supposed to be one of those ordinary days when the sun is shining, the birds are singing and the sky is blue. Although funerals are never like that. There is usually drama, perhaps disappointment at not spending enough time with the person who forgot to kiss life, perhaps resentment. I felt a pure disappointment that my grandfather's famous last words on his deathbed were: “Whatever life gives you, take it with pride. You won't have another chance to either fix it or live it.” I expected lofty words of wise advice from an old man who had been through it all, and instead I was met with banality. Does anyone ever have a choice of continuing or quitting? What else is left inside? I'm sure all my relatives will agree that we're all left with an empty void.

Grandpa Henri died on one of those cold autumn days surrounded by stories from the past. They attacked it with the precision of German soldiers and modern technology. He never got to the cosy scene after the war, closing himself in a circle of circumstances. An accidental catastrophe, as I would call it. When I was a teenager, every time he fixed a flat tyre on my bike, it felt like he was fixing the past. In the absence of the ability to fix the right things, things that need to be fixed, we deal with the things that are available to us. Patching holes won't replace bullet holes, but can it bring some posthumous solace? I hope so.

The next day my doorbell rang like a fanfare of unpleasant surprise. I peeked through the peephole in the door and saw no one. It only rang once and stopped, but it intrigued me. I decided to see if anyone was there, maybe standing out of sight of the voyeur. Knowing me, if I hadn't checked it out, that sound would have bothered me all day.

When I opened the door, there was a package in the middle of the front porch outside my apartment, dropped from nowhere by an anonymous courier. It loomed in the darkness of a disturbingly dingy staircase that reeked of the bygone meagre life of the old and dilapidated tenement house where I lived with my daughter, Léa. It wasn't the best place for a teenager, but as a single mother, it was all I could afford. Artistic flourishes on the cornices, carved tympanums depicting the tree of life or glass lunettes with fanlights, sometimes hood mouldings on rendered buildings, and Ionic columns with circular upper windows overlooking the surrounding area like an aquarium, did justice to cultural education. Not that a twelve-year-old would appreciate it yet, but time will tell.

I wasn't expecting any delivery today. It was more surprising when I looked at it more closely. There were no details revealing who sent it or who it was supposed to be delivered to, but something was telling me that it wasn't a mistake. I started unwrapping plain beige paper encased in red ribbon. Wrapping a package like this looked terribly bizarre, especially since it was a delivery. Or was it not? If there was no address, neither the sender nor the recipient of the box, maybe someone had dropped it directly? But a person would definitely be visible from the distance of the stairs, or even descending from them, as they were wooden and creaky. Perhaps the delivery person hid in a cranny to see my reaction? I must admit there was some buzzing in the air, but I mistook it for an average fly accidentally awakened, so I left it without my closer concern.

Inspection of the contents of the mysterious package felt like going through a tiny tunnel of the past. All the images from that moment blurred out one shuttle hole at a time. My vision became sharper, as if I were looking through a magnifying glass. The white walls of doubt were filled with two pieces of information: a postcard showing the painting and an address on the back. It wasn’t just any painting, it was Van Gogh’s “Café Terrace at Night”, and the address directed the viewer to its core – Le Café La Nuit at Place du Forum in Arles, France.

That’s where Léa’s father lived. The package also contained a note from Théo requesting a meeting with him on the first of November. I felt the floor crumble under my feet, like a puny earthquake. He abandoned me and the baby right after it was born, then he didn't contact us anymore, which made him lose all parental rights.

"What does he want now after all these years? Visiting arrangements? It seems he has lost contact with our daughter for better or for worse. Even if the court granted him any access to her, she might accept the money, but there would never be an attachment formed. All that can exist are just parental arrangements, nothing more.”

I never spoke to Léa about her father, but I was more than certain that important questions would come up in the years to come. I wanted her to at least get acquainted with him, to hate him, as I couldn't imagine it being any other way. So, I booked two TGV tickets for the next day. It was the middle of the week, not a weekend, not even a Friday, so there was a chance the train would be empty.

Of course, Léa asked where we were going, and when I told her all she complained about was wanting to hang out with her friends after school, but I convinced her we had to go. I arranged for her to be excused from all school activities for the rest of the week, family matters. They understood. She was top of her class, always ahead of the rest, such a smart girl.

Three hours from Paris passed like a whip shot, filled with thoughts about the future.

Some souls are irreparable. This is often the case with teenagers. Of course, they will never feel it at the moment of speaking when they are young. Will it come out later in middle age when they have kids of their own. Only one question remains: will she repeat my mistake or will she decide for herself? She was the result of an unwanted pregnancy. I knew I might not have another chance at having a baby due to endometrial hyperplasia, so I took it as reparation for my reprehensible relationship with Théo. After that, I avoided sex like the plague because of the pain I felt every time. Maybe that's why he abandoned us?

When we got to our accommodation on the beach, everything was bathed in deep blue like the sea: blinds, rugs, kitchen utensils and bathroom accessories, even the door code flashed in this colour. I was reminded of the apartment in Rome where the married couple from the film by Jean-Luc Godard "Le Mépris" (Contempt) lived. The same disillusioned atmosphere of disdain pervaded the blue walls, with no chance of being rekindled.

And yet he wanted to meet, so we showed up there in broad daylight. Léa looked great in a flared dress as if destined for dancing. Her messy blonde hair was like Brigitte Bardot's. I took a photo of her outside the café to remember that day. Now I'm not sure I even want to remember it.

Everything was going smoothly until we entered the seafront promenade. Théo hasn't changed at all. His features were the same as I remembered twelve years ago, perhaps sharper now, but still the same flirtatiousness seeped through his blue shirt like sweat drenched hands.

‘How are you, Hen?’

He asked me when Léa excused herself to the bathroom. He didn’t seem to care about her as much as he had in the past, so I was puzzled what the real purpose of his wanting to reconnect was.

‘The name is Henrietta. You seem to forget…’

‘Ah yes. That you don't like diminutives of your name. Fine with me.’

The lamps in the shape of hats above our heads gave the impression of claustrophobic, from which it is not easy to get out. There was an ominous atmosphere in the air, or perhaps I was just imagining things, as usual. You can never be sure with Théo.

When all the cakes were eaten and coffees and colourful juices were drunk, my fears returned to the surface of the seaside promenade. We sauntered as smooth as lost boats, bound more by necessity than by sincere relationship. He blustered about how his life had changed recently, how he couldn’t live without his little girl, and so on. I couldn’t believe any of that nonsense, and judging from Léa’s face, she couldn’t believe it either. I knew my little girl like the back of my hand. I knew she'd rather spend her precious time studying or reading or hanging out with friends, and the last thing she wanted was to listen to her pathetic father just remembering that he once had a daughter because that fact had eluded him for the last twelve years. I didn't want to bother him with my life, how hard it was to raise her alone, how lucky it was that my parents were still alive then, so they could help with the child.

As I was recalling the past with the greatest attention to detail, suddenly some strange hand grabbed Léa's arm and pulled her away from us. All I could see was the terror in her eyes and her hands waving in fear. I tried to run after her and the perpetrator, but there were so many people that I couldn't see them anymore. Théo just stood there, no less stunned than I was, his shrugged shoulders suggesting so.

We immediately went to the police station, but without knowing any details, only the colour of the men's jacket (blue, sic) we beat the hopeless eggs of this omelette. With no chance of any resolution, not even the shadow of a wish, I decided to return to my familiar surroundings as soon as possible, as spending more time with my ex was causing quite an unwanted tingling all over my body.

I don't remember much about the next fourteen months. Objects on my desk moved by themselves as if by magic. Every time I looked at this reproduction of a Van Gogh painting, strange spots showed up on my face and body. I suspected black magic was involved, but a sip of Moët each evening seemed to disperse that cloud into the minute molecules, allowing me to sleep soundly until mornings shrouded in a black veil of oblivion. Finding a female companion for the night has taught me how to keep my spirits high throughout a time of total loneliness, because you never know what life has in store for you until the end. Grandpa was right.

In the fourteenth month they found her in one of the cellars in Arles. She was held captive by her father, Théo, who was later became a lifer. He deserved it, bastard, causing more scars to my precious girl. But there will be no more.

Of course, I threw a party for her thirteenth birthday, as she was released just in time. Did he give it up because of this? Because he was fed up with a teenager who didn't really need a father who had been absent all her childhood, and giving himself now seemed like a missed gift?

When they found her, the door of the house was open, so it looked like someone had framed him, or was it just a coincidence? The job of one of the servants? He certainly had helpers in this business, for kidnapping one's own child could amount to a morbid misunderstanding. I'm sure it just felt different when someone else physically did it, but still has the same name. Using third party services will not create a new name for this ghastly affair.

‘Mum! Did you know I kept a diary? I wrote everything down. I kept it under the mattress. No one ever looked in there because they never cleaned the place. Nobody ever thought of that! What a pity for them, eh?’

Léa confessed this to me at the party. So, this story isn’t over yet.

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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It's a prequel to this story.

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