The black notebooks

The black notebooks

I inserted the key and turned; nothing happened! I was looking at the knob and then tried again to turn the key and pushed. SQUEEEQ…. I jumped backward in fright while watching the door fly and crash against the wall with a loud thud and high cloud of dust. Coughing and wiping the tears from my eyes I wondered if I should even enter the house, I promised to prepare for grandfather’s return.

I am twenty-five years; I was four when I left “carried crying silently while my mother screamed bloody insults “. My selfish mother packed a bag in a car and me and said we are leaving here “we are leaving this fucking place.” It is not and was never just a place. It was home; God help me this was home. One year later, mother was dead from an overdose in Paris and I was passed to the orphanage as no one knew who I was exactly. A birth certificate stating a county in California as a place of birth was all they could find, even the passport I had for sure was not found. Inquiries about mother's family went nowhere, and the American Embassy didn’t have my father's name anywhere. I was suspended in Paris because no-one knew if Jacques Claude a very common name was French or belonged to another nation.

I made it out of the orphanage. I made it as an artist, I was good most of my teacher exclaiming about my paintings and photography. Only one teacher Monsieur Tremblant, looked thoughtful at my nature work, and said: “I have never seen anything like these, they don’t seem to be from anywhere in Europe, or depicted in great artistic work.” This has made me ponder and look in art books and the internet for unknown artwork depicting similarities with mine, I found none.

It niggled for a long time; for where could I have seen these sights?

Six months ago, Monsieur Tremblant met her in a gallery where a few of my paintings were on display and asked me again where had I seen this kind of nature?? And this time I wanted to know; these drawings I was creating meant something. Something from my lost childhood but while buried deep, had a magnanimous effect.

The next day I contacted a well-known detective agency and inquired if they can help unearth my roots. They asked a lot of questions. I knew very little and had even fewer documents, only the sole birth certificate with my name on it said that a childhood out of France existed. The detective; Monsieur Laurence pondered for a while; thoughtfully he explained “I can give no promises of success, it has been more than 20 years, it will take time and effort”, he continued looking serious “I will start a few preliminary inquiries, see the police records, and orphanage records and cast a search net in California for information, if nothing serious comes up, I will let you know. Going forward after that will be costly.” He paused and asked, “Have you done a DNA test to check for ancestry?”. I just shook my head, still trying to understand and register his gloomy prediction of difficulty and costly length. Monsieur Laurence looked at me and asked “Can I get photos of those sights in nature?”, I affirmed that it is possible, I can take them, or if he likes I can give him tickets to the exhibit and write a letter allowing him to take the photos.

Two months passed, I was anxious, wondering every day; what happened, asking myself every night if I should call in the morning and see if there is anything new. Gradually, I told myself I wanted to keep the hope. I threw myself into my art, colors exploded on my canvases. The more I drew the more details started to appear. A fence here, a house in the distance there. In June five months after I met Monsieur Laurence. The house appeared, so familiar yet so very foreign.

I kept drawing the house, slowly adding details, drawing the inside bits and pieces. I remembered the smell of freshly baked bread and the birds chirping outside, and most interestingly pipe smoke and an old man with salt and pepper hair, saying how pretty I am and how much he loves me.

On that day I decided I was calling soon, maybe tomorrow, which was ridiculous tomorrow was Saturday. I dreamt of the house that night and a barn, horses, sheep, and few chickens, and Martha “my favorite cow” I could barely believe that I had a favorite cow. Monday I was still asleep at 7:30 AM. The phone rang and Monsieur Laurent said “I have news, when do you have time??”, I said, “As soon as you have it.” I went to see him at 9:00 AM. I was pretty nervous, wondering if it is good news or bad news.

When The secretary opened the door for me, I saw Monsieur Laurent first, but then I noticed the two other gentlemen. I looked inquiringly at Monsieur Laurent, and he motioned with his hand and said “Please have a seat, Mademoiselle, these gentlemen are lawyers with your grandfather estate, Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Robertson.” The gentlemen looked at me severely, I wondered if I did anything wrong or was wearing a cuckoo in my hair to bring this intense scrutiny.

Then I asked, “what is this about?”. Mr. Robertson started talking “When Monsieur Laurent contacted us a few months ago, we had to make sure you are the real Christina Claude, it took some time and the DNA samples helped to confirm that you are the real one.” I felt my mouth hit the ground and wondered “Were there more than one false Christina Claude” apparently this was not only in my head. Mr. Ackerman replied, “Quite a few Ms. Claude, that is why we had to be absolutely sure, the last one sent your grandfather to the hospital with a stroke a few years ago, he never fully recovered.”

So, I have a grandfather. I was eager to know more, Mr. Robertson started talking “Mr. Claude senior is a wealthy man, in addition to the ranch and his investment in several agricultural manufactories. He is quite well-known. Your father Mr. Claude Junior is the heir to most of it of course, but Mr. Claude senior wanted Christina Claude to inherit the main ranch with a sizable investment,”

I wondered, “Doesn’t my father not want me to inherit those?”. Mr. Robertson answered “Quite the contrary. But he is tired of lying females coming to raise his hopes, he looked for you, you know. Unfortunately, we started that late is why we could not find you.” He paused for a bit and then started again “Before we continue, I was told by Mr. Claude senior if we ever found you to give you these.” He opened a suitcase and took a big-fat envelope. My hands trembled as I took it, I opened it and looked perplexed at the two little black leather notebooks. I raised my head inquiringly at Mr. Robertson. He shook his head and explained.” I know what they contain, and I know for a fact, that Mr. Claude senior has few more that he takes with him everywhere, even when he goes to one of his physiotherapy sessions, he will take one with him. I asked him once, and he joked that they are his reason to live and want to get better so he can see you when he finds you. I once wondered if he will ever give up, and he told me never, my little princess will find her way home.”

I opened the first one, and tears started falling I quickly wiped them, worried I will destroy my grandfather’s treasured memories, for the black notebook with its impeccable leather-held drawings, childish innocent drawings. As I leafed through the pages, more tears came, and few smiles at the childish picture of Martha with a girl in braids standing in front raising her hand. They were the work of a four-year old maybe five. I finished the first and started the second one, the first page was full of notes about crops and weather. I looked up and before I asked, Mr. Robertson started, “He said to tell you that this one was the reason for all the other black leather notebooks.” Interesting. I leafed the through until the tenth page when I understood, the drawings started there. The first one was of a weird-looking one-eyed cat done in blue ink not even finished.

I asked, “Will he meet me?”. Mr. Ackerman answered “He is waiting for you; his health is not good enough to fly from Sidney….”. I gasped, “But he was hoping you will want to meet him.”. I answered, “Yes, yes, I want to meet him and my father if he wants to meet me.” Mr. Robertson explained, “He wants to meet you; he was overseas when the final confirmations came back Mr. Claude senior was impatient and asked us to travel as soon as possible.” Mr. Robertson took over “When can you travel to Sidney?”. I reflected carefully on my schedule. My paintings were ready for the next exhibit in August, as I worked like a demon. I needed a break, and I needed to meet this man, my grandfather, the man to whom my childly drawings were his reason to fight and live. I raised my head with determination “On the first flight, I can find. I will need minimum preparations. If I may have your contact, I will inform you when I book my flight.”

Mr. Robertson explained, “There will be no need Ms. Claude your grandfather's private jet is waiting.” Now, I was amused “Is he this rich?”. Mr. Ackerman “Your family does not lack money or connection Ms. Claude; can you leave today?”. I looked up from the last page in the second book. It was of a man on a chair with what looked like a horn and bubbles on top, I smiled “Yes.”

The jet stopped in New York and California and I finally landed in Sidney. My heart filled, I was told it will be Winter now in Australia, but the weather was mild. Mr. Ackerman drove me to a pretty mansion in the heart of Sidney and introduced me to an enormous woman by the name of Mrs. Norris. She burst into tears and held me in a bear hug. Surprisingly, I slept well that night. I woke up and wore a lavender dress that matched my eyes.

Mrs. Norris complained that I looked underfed and prepared breakfast for three people. No one has ever made me breakfast even mother. A chauffeur came and said that he can take me to my grandfather in the physio-recuperation clinic. Mrs. Norris told me yesterday that the doctors sometimes keep him when they want to monitor his improvement, she said “he is doing much better, almost walking with a stick on his own.”

The car stopped in front of the clinic. I went inside and ask about Mr. Claude’s room, I explained that I am his grand-daughter. A nurse took me to a room and tapped lightly on the door “Yes” came from inside. The nurse opened and said you have a visitor, Mr. Claude. Grandfather raised his head and looked at me, tears in his eyes, and whispered “My princess, my Christina I would have known those lavender eyes anywhere.” By those words, I was crying too. I went to him and hugged him. He did not feel like a stranger, he felt like home. After a while I opened my carry bag and took a big black leather notebook. It had my last drawings I gave it to grandpa and whispered “A new notebook to get better.”