The Wind-blown Letter

Elise zipped up her coat against the chill wind that was blowing through central Paris that afternoon, but it didn’t make her feel any warmer or happier. She normally didn’t mind the cold of late autumn because it made her mother’s little stationery shop on Rue du Pont Louis-Philippe seem even more cosy and inviting. But the shop wouldn’t be there for much longer, and the thought made her feel cold inside. Their landlord was apologetic, but said that he had to sell the building and the new owner would be tearing it down to build apartments. If they could find twenty thousand Euros he would sell it to them, but they didn’t have anything near that amount of money.

If she had been in a better mood Elise would have been looking up, but she was trudging along and looking down despondently. The wind blew dry leaves around her ankles and as she turned the corner of Rue de Rivoli her foot trapped a whirling piece of paper, making her stop. She could see a stamp peeking out at the corner so she picked it up, finding that it was a letter addressed to ’1 Rue de Trésor’ but strangely with no name above the address. Being a conscientious girl, and as it wasn’t far away, she decided that she would deliver the letter.

After a short walk she arrived at Rue de Trésor and began counting down the building numbers until she arrived where number three and two faced each other. But after number three the street stopped at an imposing stone wall with no doorway in it. There was no number one. ‘Who would post a letter to a building that doesn’t exist?’ she wondered, quite perplexed by it all. She turned the envelope over and over in her hand, looking for some other clue written on it. Nothing.

Elise furrowed her brow, wondering what to do. Opening the envelope seemed wrong, but she couldn’t think of any other way to deliver the contents. Whatever was inside might give a clue so, with some misgivings, she carefully opened it. Inside there was very little, just one small page which she carefully extracted. Being almost as much of a stationery expert as her mother she recognised it immediately, it was a page roughly torn out of a pocket Moleskine. She examined it closely – it was completely, and totally, blank. Not a single mark could be seen.

As Elise stared at the page trying to work out what to do next a cold rain started to fall. Before she could put the page safely back in the envelope a few fat drops fell onto it, making round dark splash marks. To her amazement Elise could see faint letters standing out inside the marks. ‘Of course’ she thought, ‘it’s written in wax’. Excited at the prospect of seeing what was on the page and maybe delivering it to its owner she hurried back to her mother’s stationery shop. She knew exactly how to read the secret writing hidden on the page.

Back at the shop Elise laid the Moleskine page carefully on the counter and fetched a soft pastel stick from the display shelves. Crumbling the end, she sprinkled the coloured dust onto the page and gently worked it across the surface with a broad sable brush. Gradually, the fine writing was fully revealed. Elise’s eagerness to read the page was followed by a swift disappointment – the writing she had revealed was just an out-of-sequence alphabet. She folded her arms crossly and stared at the page. What is your secret? she asked it silently. She decided to go back to Rue de Trésor and see if the letters meant anything when she looked at them there.

Returning to the end of Rue de Trésor Elise stared again at the solid wall where No 1 should have been. She ran her fingers over the carved stone, looking for hidden doors or levers, feeling stupid when she found nothing. She looked at the Moleskine page again and it still meant nothing. She turned it over to look at the other side even though shew knew it was definitely blank. ‘Silly girl’ she told herself, ‘the answer isn’t on the other side.’ As she said the words her eyes went wide. ‘The other side!’ she said out loud. ‘The other side!’

Hurrying back along the tree-lined street she quickly made her way around the city block to the other side of the wall, on Rue des Ecouffes. Just as she thought, there was a gateway there. Yes! She said to herself, pushing the small brass door-bell in the centre of the unmarked door. A bell tinkled musically in the distance. Just when it seemed that no-one would answer the call, Elise heard a key turn in the lock of the gate, which slowly swung open to reveal a small, old lady with piercing blue eyes and a kindly smile.

‘What can I do for you child?’ the lady asked, her eyes twinkling in the most friendly fashion.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I found this,’ said Elise, holding out the Moleskine page. ‘And I think it belongs here, with you.’

Seeing the page in Elise’s hand the lady went pale and held the jamb of the door for support. After a short moment she seemed to compose herself, and drew a deep, clear breath.

‘Come in my child,’ she said, opening the door wide, ‘We have much to discuss.’

After the lady had introduced herself as Mme. Aubert, seated Elise on a comfortable chaise longue, served English tea and a plate of delicately lemon-scented madeleines, she asked to hold the page that Elise had brought. She took it gently, reverently, and as she regarded it tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

‘It was the war, my child,’ she started, ‘I was young and loved words more than life itself when we met. He was here as a journalist, but more besides. He was never just a journalist; he was always more than that. We were… very close.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Elise as she sipped her tea, entranced by the barely told story and the faraway look in Mme. Aubert’s eyes.

‘You know him of course,’ she replied, ‘his name was Ernest Hemmingway. When we were… together… he wrote a book, and he said it was the greatest thing he had ever written. He said that its words would change Europe if they were read. But, it was a time of great danger and he was very concerned that it would be taken from him. So, he wrote it in code, in a single Moleskine, and this page was the key to that code.’

‘And what happened to it?’ asked Elise.

‘When he went away he left the Moleskine here with me. But, dark forces had learned of its existence and were determined to acquire it, to keep it from being read. They came to this house not long afterwards and forced me to hand it over. I was not able to refuse them, but before they took it I removed this page and sent it away for safekeeping. I knew that it would travel for many years. And now, you have brought it back to me. I thank you. But, I am old now and it is time to pass on the responsibility. You must keep it now.’

As they talked and drank tea, Elise learned that the Moleskine had been taken by a shadowy figure called Monsieur Antoine Barbier, and it was a name she recognised immediately. His stationery was printed in her mother’s shop, strange and threatening stationery that she delivered every month to an office on Rue de Rivoli. She kept this information to herself, because the plan taking shape in her mind was frightening even to her, and would likely alarm Mme. Aubert. She was going to go to that office and somehow retrieve that Moleskine.

A short while later, standing outside M. Barbier’s office, the plan seemed even more crazy. Squaring her shoulders, Elise marched up to the doorman with as much confidence as she could muster.

‘Stationery delivery for M. Barbier,’ she told the doorman.

‘Leave it with me,’ he replied. Elise had been expecting this.

‘His instruction was for delivery in-person. Do you want to explain why that didn’t happen?’ she asked the doorman. The thought of this made him go pale, and he waved Elise onwards into the building.

She had only ever seen M. Barbier’s office once during her deliveries, but remembered its location and was quickly standing at the door. It was full of tall dusty bookshelves and uncomfortable looking furniture, but was otherwise empty. Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could Elise scanned the bookshelves. It wasn’t long before her trained eye spotted a familiar small black notebook amongst the bigger ledgers.

She retrieved the worn Moleskine and quickly leafed through it. The whole book was full of the now-familiar writing, and at the front a page was definitely missing. Her hands trembling, she offered up her page to the book. The tear line was a perfect match.

‘I’ll take that, thank you,’ said a voice behind her.

Elise whirled around to find M. Barbier looming over her. With a quick motion he snatched the Moleskine and the loose page from Elise’s hand. She backed away from him towards the door while he regarded his catch with cruel satisfaction.

‘We could never destroy this, until we knew what was in it. Now, after all these years we can complete our task.’ He laughed long and hard as Elise fled the office, the sound echoing down the corridor and following her out onto the street.

Back in her mother’s shop Elise sat at the counter in despair. She didn’t have the heart to tell Mme. Aubert that she’d lost the page, and that Hemmingway’s book would never be read now, except by his enemy. As she gazed around the store her eye fell on the rack of new Moleskines. ‘They’re still the same as they were when Hemmingway was writing in them,’ she thought to herself. She jumped to her feet in excitement. ‘They’re exactly the same!’ she shouted out loud, and laughed.

After a night of hard work Elise was once again standing outside the building with M. Barbier’s office. A sharp look from the doorman ruled out a repeat of the previous day’s ruse, so she sneaked to a side window. Inside she could see M. Barbier sat at his desk. Before him were laid out the Moleskine and the loose page, and it was clear that he was about to start decoding it. Elise closed her eyes and prayed for some luck. When she opened them M. Barbier was nowhere to be seen.

In a flash, Elise lifted the widow and dashed to the desk, replacing the original Moleskine with her carefully crafted copy. With M. Barbier’s pencil she quickly copied the jumbled alphabet from the torn-out page. With everything looking untouched she quickly made her escape. The rescue was complete.

With Mme. Aubert’s help Elise was able to decode the contents of the Moleskine. ‘Between the Stones of Time,’ was the title of the almost-lost Hemmingway book and when it was published it did change Europe. But for Elise the best change arrived some months later, and as before it came inside an unexpected envelope.

The letter inside read ‘For your ingenuity, perseverance and bravery in rescuing ‘Between the Stones of Time’ from almost certain loss, and ensuring that the literary legacy of Ernest Hemmingway is preserved for future generations, we thank you. As a token of our gratitude please find enclosed a cheque for twenty thousand euros. We trust that when future authors choose to follow Hemmingway in using a Moleskine, your shop will be there to supply them.’