The Mystery of the One-Legged Prince

It happened again. Damned shipping drones. Third time in a month they dropped a small packaged at the wrong address on the other side of the Seine.

“Another one,” he grumbled, slipping it underneath his arm along with his second past-due rent notice.

“New tech,” commented Johanna, his neighbor, sifting through an endless pile of letters. “They’re all the rage in Tokyo.” She’d been away on a business trip, and seeing her now, after a nearly a month, left him with a strange sensation not unlike what those samba singers he listened to called saudade. He could also be very wrong, but Ilias was a hopeless if melodramatic romantic. Just standing next to her at the mailboxes made his hands moist while his heart embarked on a frenzied dance.

“It was great. Hokkaido in late winter is definitely worth a visit. Onsens, grilled fish, some skiing. The Sapporo snow festival was so charming.” She paused and flashed him a smile that triggered a thousand and one thoughts in his mind. “You’d love it.” Johanna never ceased to amaze him. They lived in the nicer apartments, with tall windows and old hardwood floors and glasses of Pinot Grigio at night to take the edge off. A world away from Ilias the broke nomad.

The question he inevitably dreaded came scurrying next: “How about you? Any news on the book?” His throat curled up into a thick muscle, and all it managed was a muddled half-truth.

“It’s going well I’d say. Grinding through the middle. I’m hoping to finish it by the end of Spring.” Another deadline he dreaded to miss.

“That’s exciting,” she replied. “I look forward to reading it.” So did he. Johanna stuffed her mail into her tote bag, pushing a protruding leek to the side.

“I’ll see you around then.” He bowed his head and clasped his palms together in a way he thought made him look the epitome of cool. “And good luck with that package,” she added, before turning heels and summoning their cranking 19th century elevator.

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Johanna was everything he only dreamt of being, at least that’s how he saw things. On the open-air steps that crawled seven stories up to his floor, his mind wandered to imagined nights with her. He took a break on the fifth floor, swearing he’d stop smoking. He shoved his way into his maid’s room under the mansard, and pictured himself typing away on a fancy MacBook or better yet, an old typewriter. A window with a sunflower in a pot and a view to the Eiffel Tower, no, no, Montmartre. He slipped off his sweatpants and threw them unceremoniously beside his dog, Balto. On his bed he shut his eyes, slid his hand between his legs and watched as Johanna, wearing a turtle neck, made love to her partner, drapes open, on their sofa. As he drifted into a nap, he’d completely forgotten about the box tossed beside his front door.

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Finding an address in the 21st century wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Any search engine worth its salt would be able to provide at least decent directions to Rue Mouffetard. On the metro ride to the Left Bank, Ilias wondered how the drone could’ve made such a blatant mistake. A three times. In one month. Talk about a system error. The packages all came in the same size. Identical packages, small enough to fit easily into a backpack. In fact, by the chipped corners and the worn-out label, he wondered if it wasn't the same one he'd twice returned at the drop off box.

“It doesn’t make the least bit of sense.” After all, he lived on the other side of town, in a completely different arrondissement, at the back of a grand Haussmann building, each floor stratified according to class and overall income status. Being broke confined Ilias to the mansard and a nine square meter room, complete with a sink, a small fridge, and a tiny shower stuck beside his bunk bed. And on top of that, he’d bought himself a dog: Balto, a mini Bernese mutt.He loved Ilias, and Ilias loved him, and neither one of them left the other’s side. Unless the side involved going out drinking all night. Apart from his increasingly exhorbitant rent, the nights away from his writing dug deep holes into his wallet. As the metro doors loudly swung open, he was left wondering how he'd make it through the next month.

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“Continue for five hundred meters,” spoke the digital voice inside his earbuds. Rue Mouffetard meandered from one end to another. A picturesque street lined with countless restaurants and brasseries, bakers and butchers and fishmongers. Not to mention the local clothes stores running late season sales in a strong push to put a mild winter behind them. As he made his way down the street, searching for house numbers behind wool sweaters and freshly caught cod on an ice bed, Balto sniffed at each passerby.

“Come on buddy,” he insisted, pulling on the leash while Balto’s mouth watered at chicken roasting on a spit.

Five hundred meters. Judging distances in that decimal measuring system wasn’t his strong suit, and in the three months he’d been in Paris he was just getting used to thinking in the metric system. He used the distance from his building to the nearest supermarket as a rough estimate of how long one hundred meters were.

“So five supermarkets,” he concluded. Although it was late March the sun was bright and out and the sky clear and windy. Spring poked its nose around and the terraces were packed with lunch patrons soaking up the light after three months of darkness. Here and there coats came off and sunglasses perched proudly on noses. Ilias hadn’t been to this part of town, and earlier as his train cranked across the Seine he wondered what the new season had to offer. Some adventure, he hoped, something that would jolt him out of his funk. As if catching a one-way transatlantic flight hadn’t been risky enough.

“Number 27A-bis, 27A-bis,” he mumbled as he strained his eyes to find the correct place. “Wait, this is 31,” he said in front of La Brasserie du Dauphin. “Great place to bring Johanna,” he thought, “if I can fit myself into her schedule.” He swung his head back, peering behind rows of tables to find a narrow fissure between a fromagerie and a wine shop, just wide enough to fit an adult. Ilias approached, pulling Balto again, this time from a tasty cod soup from Brittany. He’d run into it on a recipe website a few days earlier and was planning on making one.

“Maybe I could invite Johanna,” he asked himself. The thought made his heart jump out of his chest and roll down the alley.

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Ilias bolted over to fetch his beating heart, cursing it for making a fool of himself in front of all these people.

“You can’t just pop out of my chest like that,” he said as he scrubbed it off and plopped it back in place. “It’s embarrassing.” He lifted his head and took a look around him. Although the sun shone on the blue roofs above, the alley itself was bathed in dim light. Night lingered there. It was damp and all around unpleasant. From his backpack he pulled out the mailbox and confirmed the address on the label:

“27A-bis, rue Mouffetard,” he repeated. “Maybe it’s down here.” It was hard to see through the darkness. Behind him the noise from the bustling street seemed to fade with each step forward, until it rang distant.

“Come on Balto,” he insisted, but his dog, usually so adventurous, refused to take a step further.

“Fine,” he relented, “just wait for me here ok? Wait. Good boy. Wait.” There were no doors in the alley, only crooked windows covered in soot. From solitary lightbulbs he guessed shadows and shapes, forms that seemed aware of his presence. Up ahead he noticed a sign, barely visible in the dark. From his pocket he turned on his phone light.

“An arrow,” he remarked, flashing the sign. It pointed down a short flight of steps, to a purple door illuminated by a single outdoor lamp. As he took a step a multitude of rats scampered away, some bold enough to run over his shoes.

“Fucking hell,” he exclaimed. He turned to see Balto, but although he’d taken only a few steps alone his companion appeared as if he were a hundred yards away. A yard, about 0.9144 meters.

“What the fuck is-“ the sound of the purple door creaking open distracted him. He peered down the steps, only to find a faint light glimmering inside.

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It wasn’t the first time he’d been in an odd situation. Before the drones came out he was a certified coke novice. Fuckin’ loved it. The rush, the pointless conversations, the moist hands and erectile dysfunction. More than once he’d stumbled into a bathroom only to catch people in all sorts of situations, many natural, others more free spirited.

None of this helped him now. With Balto whimpering and moving backwards down the steps, Ilias crept slowly towards the door left ajar. He poked his head through, and his glasses caught a glimpse of what lay inside.

“Hello,” he called out, weakly at first. A burnt smell tingled his nose. Timidly, Balto turned around and stuck his snout inside, before sneezing loudly.

“Somethings catching fire,” Ilias thought, before repeating, “hello, anyone there?” Again, no response. Tending his ears he heard the faint sound of liquid bubbling in a pot. Gently, he pressed his knuckles against the door. It was heavier than expected, and only stubbornly creaked open. Balto, regaining his composure, scurried inside.

“Hey, Balto, get back here,” whispered Ilias, but no sooner had he spoken that his dog began to bark loudly. Drumming up the courage he followed his furry friend into the basement.

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He noticed the clutter of seemingly random objects crammed into an already small room: an oil portrait propped against a shelf, an odd sculpture of what looked like a laughing ogre on a two-person round dining table and, tucked in a corner of the place, a jumble of electronics gathering plugged into a computer. He tracked the scent to a pot overflowing its contents onto an electric stove. The pot was bursting at its seams with a pungent reddish broth.

“Holy mackerels,” he yelled, dropping his backpack in the process. He snatched a blue rag from beside the microwave, clasped the pot, and pushed it over to the side, before cutting the stove off. Just then, he caught a shadow behind him. With his heart again testing the limits of his ribcage he turned his head and caught her lying completely down on the couch.“Such a lovely dog,” said the woman, startling Ilias and sending Balto barking.

“Holy s-“ he exclaimed, “I didn’t I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” From the candles on the coffee table he noticed a trembling smile.

“That’s alright,” she replied, “you weren’t supposed to notice me.”

“Is, is everything alright?”

“No, not exactly,” she began “You see I’m stuck in a whirl-jam. A tourbi-bouchon, as they say in French. Common mistake when making infused snallygaster tea.”

“Snally what?”

“Never mind the technicalities,” she brushed him off. Ilias scrutinized her appearance, deciding whether he should run or stick around. “Would you please pour out a cup of that broth? It’ll help with my half-sleep paralysis.” She wore a pair of floating jeans and a wide t-shirt. Ilias noticed a pair of green feather tattoos that matched her hair running over her shoulder and disappeared into her shirt. Beside her, facing two curved and incredibly wide computer screen, a handful of couches marked a floor seat of sorts. Sprinkled on each side were half-open snacks that Balto busily sniffed: olives, a can of sardines, some carrots. Pretty heathy compared to his barbecue chips and hazelnut chocolate fire combo.

“Don’t just stand there,” she repeated, as forcefully as her immobile head could. “Go over to the pot and bring me some.” Chasing Balto off he rushed over to the kitchen area. There was a ladle in the pot. With the rag he popped the lid open and took a whiff at what smelled like an extraordinarily strong mint tea mixed with a pungent spice that made him mildly nauseous.

“The cups are in the cupboard,” she said, nudging him on. Ilias filled one up then brought it over to her.

“I can’t move, remember? You’re going to have to lift my head up.” Setting the cup to one side he took the pillows from the ground and propped her up before feeding her the concoction.

“Mmh, delicious. You should really try some.” Ilias hesitated:

“Thank you, not right now.” Balto, for his part, took great pleasure at licking up the sardines.

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Ilias stayed for a moment while movement trickled down to her’s shoulders.

“I’m Ilias, and this is my dog Balto,” he said, crouched beside her. She ignored his introduction and sternly asked:

“Can you explain how you made it down the alley and more importantly why you’re here?”

“I have something for you,” he said. Fetching the backpack he pulled out the box. “This came to my place, but it’s addressed to you. I’m on the Right Bank, off the Boulevard.” He explained where he lived.

“That’s a pretty big mistake,” she concluded. “What was it one of the drones?”

“It was,” he replied. She frowned, then eyed the box up then concluded something had to be done.

“There’s a pocket knife in my backpacker,” she said. “Open it up.” Hesitant he complied with her order, but not before averting his gaze.

“Come on Ilias, not a time for hesitation,” she encouraged. With the knife in hand he tore up the package and peered inside, and what he saw puzzled and fascinated him.

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“I’ve never seen a bracelet like that before,” said Ilias. It was made of black stone, as pitch as night and rolled into perfectly round pebbles.

“It’s no ordinary bracelet. It’s from-“ She cut him off mid sentence.

“Something’s not right,” she muttered, shaking her newly flexible head. “How did you get this?”

“I told you,” Ilias replied, “I’ve been getting these packages in the mail. The drones, you know?” She cursed under her breath, words Ilias did not understand. Balto raised his head from the sardines, his long tongue repeatedly licking his snout.

“Not right, not right at all,” she repeated. Her expression tightened. Ilias watched as her neck muscles strained against whatever affliction kept her momentarily paralyzed.

“Do you want some more tea?”

“No, no,” she said, “the necklace, bring it closer to me.” Ilias brought the black pearls closer to her face, and as he did so he noticed tiny white specks floating in each pebble.

“That’s strange,” he said, gaze fixed on bracelet. “There’s, like, these white tear drops swirling in there-“ Ilias felt the room spin. Slowly at first, mimicking the drops, then as they twirled faster so did the room. Balto barked, but it was as if he were far away, across a deep ravine.

“Stop looking at it,” he heard the woman with the green wings say. He gave speaking a shot but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Stop,” she repeated, her voice forceful, fighting the paralysis. Balto jumped onto his leg and pawed him, but the bracelet held him in a tight grip. The spinning turned into a whirl. Ilias felt himself collapsing backwards. Gravity slipped, weightlessness took hold. A powerful hand seized his wrist. It was covered in feathers, green and gold, shimmering like diamonds.

“Don’t fall,” cried out the voice, booming. The feathered hand struck the bracelet from his grasp. The spinning came to screeching halt. His eyes focused on the still place, and he realized he was lying on the ground. Balto and the woman loomed over him.

“What in the mackerels was that," he asked her. Those gilded feathers covered most of her exposed skin and protruded wildly from her head. Only her narrow face and her finger tips remained human.

“It’s the bracelet from the museum,” she said, her voice calm and composed. “The bracelet of the One-Legged Prince.”