What happened to the Little Black Book?

Chapter 1: Matthew

I’m awakened from my sleep by the sound of my alarm clock beeping loudly. Don’t get me wrong, I love being an apprentice baker, but I definitely don’t love getting up at 3:00am, six days a week. I roll over to the other side of my bed and slam my hand over the snooze button. Five more minutes of rest is all that I can allow myself. If I showed up even a minute late to work, Pierre, my boss and the owner of Grand de Paris, would have a fit.

I can already hear his voice that drips heavily with a French accent exclaiming, ‘Ma-tu, Ma-tu, you’re late again, what am I to do with you, Ma-tu?’

My real name is actually Matthew, but Pierre has never seemed to notice that this is the case, despite my multiple attempts to correct him when I first started working at his café. I can’t lie though, I’ve grown quite fond of the French pronunciation. I begrudgingly get out of bed as my alarm clock goes off once more, and turn it off. Frantic I’ll be late, I only have just enough time for a quick shower, and a bite to eat. With my curly brown locks dripping wet, I smear a thin layer of butter onto white, probably preservative-ridden toast, and skull an instant coffee, almost scalding my throat in the process. Pierre would be disgusted with my quick breakfast of choice, much preferring a café latte with a croissant to dip.

The fresh, crisp air of a new day envelopes me when I go outside, it’s so cold that I can even see my breath as I exhale. It’s still fairly dark out, but I now know the way to the Grand de Paris well. I ride one handedly on my pushbike as I bite into the remainder of my toast, causing me to zig-zag on the road, and nearly lose my balance numerous times. I push my legs to move as fast as they can as I speed down side streets, peddling extra fast to make up for the lost time. I must not be late again.

“Ahh, Ma-tu,” Pierre greets me while I put on my apron, “Just on time, something finally went into that thick head of yours, huh?”

He grins, and then laughs, shaking his head.

“I guess so, Pierre.”

I glance towards the little black book that’s always tucked into his front apron pocket. I’d consistently wondered what was in it, and why he always held it so close to him, like it was his most prized possession. That was, until one of my coworkers had revealed the reason why. The book contained all of his secret recipes, passed down from his father, who ran the bakery before him.

“Would you like me to make the vanilla slice for you this morning?” I ask him, wondering if he would entrust me with his famous recipe that no other bakeries had yet managed to match.

“No, no, only I will make my Mille-feuille. You go and make the baguettes, go!” He says, as he waves his hands at me to leave.

Chapter 2: Pierre

As soon as the clock strikes 8:00am, I take a short break from work to get some fresh air and exercise. I walk briskly down the shopping strip until I pass the third block, cross the road, and walk back down towards my bakery. I pass by the new bakery, which is positioned opposite my shop and glance as inconspicuously as I can at their window full of baked goods. I’m shocked to see that their gâteaux and des pâtisseries look similar to mine. As I look closer into the window, I’m suddenly knocked to the ground. A pair of hands rushes towards me, and help me to my feet. Embarrassment washes over me, and I mumble, I’m okay, thank you, and quickly make my way back to my bakery with my head down.

Matthew is just pulling the baguettes from the oven when I enter the kitchen. Hot from the walk, I hang my chef’s apron on one of the coat hangers, and call out to him.

“When you are finished with those, come out and have a café latte break with me.”

. . .

After our short coffee break, Matthew follows me back into the kitchen, and obediently begins to work straight away. I grab my apron from the rack, and tie it around my waist. But as I go to reach for my recipe book, I’m troubled to find an empty pocket. My breath catches in my throat, and I can hear my heart beat loudly in my ears as panic starts to set in.

It’s not there. It’s gone. I pat my hands over the pocket a few times in utter disbelief. It could only be one person. The person who dreams, more than anything in the world, to own his own bakery.

“Ma-tu!” I yell at him, “How dare you? Give me back my black book, boy!”

In shock, Matthew says, “I don’t have your black book, you must have put it down somewhere!”

“I NEVER put it down ANYWHERE, it’s always in my pocket. You stole it, so you could use my recipes for your future bakery!” I exclaim.

“I didn’t, I promise you, I would never steal from you, Pierre. I am so grateful for everything that you have done for me, and I love working here at this bakery,” Matthew says as his eyes begin to water.

“I don’t believe you!” I scream at him with a shaking, clenched fist, “You are a thief, I never want to see you again, GET OUT!”

Chapter 3: The Little Black Book

I’m taken from the warm pocket of Pierre’s apron when he falls down to the ground, by a cold and un-caring hand. I had loved living in Pierre’s pocket, close to his heart. But now, I have been thrown into the damp darkness of what I presume is a backpack, as I can smell the stench of rotting banana, and the foul scent of dirty socks.

Now, the backpack where I reside starts to bounce to the rythym of someone walking. The bag I am in is dropped with a thud to the ground, and I can hear the sound of a train moving under me.

Suddenly, muffled, angry voices surround me, and I hear someone yell, ‘Stop thief!’

I’ve been stolen again. How will I make it back to my dear Pierre now?

I know that the thief is on the run as I begin to jiggle from side to side, and the sound of the train fades into the distance. The backpack is thrown to the ground, and the zipper is opened, flooding light into my view. A large hand reaches for me, and roughly flips through all of my pages before chucking me back into the backpack. Thankfully, I’m protected from the fall by my rounded corners, and hard cover. I feel a sharp jab in my spine as the backpack I’m in is kicked off to the side.

Chapter 4: The Mother and son at the station

I sit on the cold, metal bench at the station, waiting for the next train to arrive. If only we could take a train someplace else, where bad things don’t happen to good people; good children, like my son. He sits hand in hand beside me. His legs are so small that they dangle over the seat like he’s sitting on the face of a cliff. He swings them up and down in a steady ryhthm. I brush my thumb lovingly over his small hand.

“Mummy,” he says sweetly, “Why can’t we go back home?”

Oh, how I wish we could. His medical bills had piled up so high this month that I no longer had enough money for rent, so they evicted us. The choice had been this, pay for his medication, or for the roof over our heads. I hadn’t even begun to think about how I’d save enough money to pay for his life saving surgery now that we’re homeless.

The gravity of our situation quickly overcomes me, and I can no longer hold a brave front. I hunch over with my head in my hands, as tears stream down my face in a waterfall of despair. Inbetween sobs, something on the ground below me catches my eye. A backpack has been pushed underneath the bench. I reach down, and pull it out, noticing that on the front of the bag, the name, ‘Bruce Carter,’ has been handwritten in permanent marker.

I look left and right, almost expecting the owner of the bag to appear, but there’s no one else here, just us. I cautiously open the bag, not knowing what I’ll find, but all that I can see is a mouldy banana, a pair of old socks, and a little black book.

I pick up the book, and run my fingers over its leathery, hard cover. There’s something so therapeutic about the feel of moleskine journals. Intrigued by what it might say inside, I gently remove the elastic closure, and open to the first page.

It says, In case of loss, please return to: Pierre at the Grand de Paris Café, with his phone number neatly written underneath. I can hardly believe my eyes as I read what is printed further down the page.

As a reward: $20,000.

At first I can’t move, I can’t even speak. I’ll be able to pay for my sons surgery with this money, and rent us a place to live. A smile stretches across my face, and my eyes begin to well again with tears, but not with sadness, with pure joy.

“Is everything okay, Mummy?” My son asks me, as he wraps his arms around me.

“It is now, everything is going to be alright.” I say to him, and kiss his head.

Chapter 5: Pierre

My phone rings while I’m busy. I’m in the middle of experimenting with the consistency of ingredients that are used in the cherry clafoutis recipe from my Father’s book, but I decide to pick up the phone anyways. I could use a break, I just can’t remember the recipe, it’s no use.

“Hi,” a ladies voice says, “Is this Pierre?”

“Bonjour, how can I help you?” I respond, expecting the call to be regarding an order.

“I’ve found your little black book, but it was in the backpack of a man named, Bruce Carter. I think it may have been stolen,” she replies.

I can’t believe it. My book of recipes is not lost after all. But what have I done? Matthew was not the thief after all. Bruce is the owner of the bakery opposite me, he is the one who took it from my pocket, so that he could copy my famous pâtisseries. I was so embarrassed by my fall that I hadn’t even looked up to see who had knocked me to the ground.

“I can’t thank you enough, please come to the Grand de Paris this afternoon at 4:00 and I will give you your reward in check,” I say, before ending the call.

As soon as I get off the phone, I run out of the bakery, and drive to Matthew’s house. I frantically knock on his door, once, then twice, before it is opened.

“Ma-tu! I am so sorry, I now know you did not steal the book, it is being returned to me. Please, please, forgive me and come back to the bakery, Ma-tu.” I plead to him.

He stares blankly at me, and for a moment, I don’t know how he’ll react. All of a sudden, his arms are wrapped around me in a warm embrace. He does not need to speak, as I already know that I am forgiven.