Poker chips & Parisians

Emma Belmondo huffed as she carried another box down the stairs from the attic. At the speed Justin and she were moving, it would take them days to sort through their grandfather’s belongings. She placed the box on top of another as she entered the kitchen. Justin sat on the counter, a glass of water in one hand while he scrolled through his phone.

“Are you planning on taking a break between every box?” She questioned grabbing her own glass.

“Possibly,” he shrugged. “Real estate agent isn’t coming until next week.”

The silence in the old Victorian house lingered around them. From her position in the kitchen, Emma could see the setting sun and the park they used to run through as kids.

“Did you want to stop for today and get some food?” She suggested.

Justin looked up from his phone in clear agreement.

“I can grab two more boxes if you get the pizza,” he proposed.

“Are you going to pay me?” Emma challenged, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Four boxes.”

“Deal.”

The walk to and from the pizza shop wasn’t long, roughly three blocks. The sun barely hitting the horizon as she bounced up the stairs to the front door.

“I’m back,” she announced, placing the checkered box on the counter as she proceeded to take the stairs two at a time up to the attic.

Justin was sitting on a box with his back to the door, hunched over inspecting something.

“Did you even take any boxes down?” She questioned.

“Who’s La Seine?” He asked instead.

Emma walked over to him, observed the pile of books covering the floorboards and the now torn and empty box they obviously dropped out of. There’s a little black book held gently between his fingers. The pages are worn, edges torn in several places, and dried spots showed evidence of water damage.

“Who?”

Justin waited as she found a sturdy box to sit. Once she was settled and avoided stepping on the fallen books they both turned their attention back to the leather-bound journal. His finger traced along with the slants and loops of curved words as he read from the middle of a passage.

“As I lay near La Seine I think of Catherine. Was what I had asked of her too much? Too greedy?”

“It’s a river in Paris,” Emma answered after a quick scan of the paragraph.

Her finger bumped against his as she pointed out various Parisian landmarks and words that littered the current passage.

“I fear I must look a sight in appearance, stalking up and down the Pont d’léna nervously eating à jambon-beurre. It’s all the money I can afford to show for now.”

Emma took the journal from Justin flipping quickly through the aging pages, each filled with either hastily written paragraphs, small sketches, or souvenir clippings.

Scribble across the first page read:

Oliver Durham

“I don’t suppose you know who Oliver is?” Justin asked as he stood grabbing the box he had previously used for a chair.

Emma shook her head as she flipped through more pages, a simple sketch of a ferry caught her eye. The sound of descending footsteps faded behind her as she read.

20 August 1952

It was a grueling few years but I have obtained my degree in education. A few mates and I will be boarding the newly reopened Night Ferry tonight. After petitioning with Headmistress Edith, she was able to collect enough donations from the church to allow me to attend. This will be my first trip away from

It has been my misfortune to understand that I seem to have developed a type of motion sickness. The waters are

Emma frowned as the next few words were lost to whatever Oliver had originally spilled across the pages.

21 August 1952

We have arrived in Paris. Thomas’ father knows a man, Monsieur Belmondo, who has generously opened his home for us to stay for the entirety of our trip.

A loose page fluttered to the floor as she flipped to the next page. Reaching down the edge was soft to the touch. Emma placed the sheet back into the notebook opening it gently; faded lines ran on top of each other to provide shading. She could only presume at one point this was a legible sketch of Paris.

26 August 1952

The metro in Paris has not been too confusing. We mostly take the Blanche station on Paris Métro Line 2, which borders the 9th and the 18th arrondissements.

29 August 1952

Edward has come down with some kind of illness, nothing too nasty I hope. Aside from myself on the metro, there is only a mother and her two children, an elderly couple, and a group of women smoking cigarettes. The tallest of the group is using her cigarette as a form of pointing occasionally gesturing over to me. I cannot tell if she is smiling or sneering at me. I do not believe my French is well enough to participate in a conversation.

Underneath the short entry was a small drawing of a woman smoking. Her hair short in a blunt cut, her eyes surrounded by thick charcoal, and a boat neck top shaded in gray.

1 September 1952

I am happy to report Catherine’s English is surprisingly well. She seems to find my accent amusing. Though her humor holds a great deal of bite. I chalk that up to

“If you’re not down here in 5 minutes I’m eating the whole pizza,” Justin shouted.

Emma sighed as she descended the stairs, index finger a makeshift bookmark until she could place a napkin between the pages.

“You’re still reading that thing,” Justin asked, using his pepperoni slice to point before taking a hefty bite.

“The pages that are still intact are interesting. There’s this girl in Paris–”

“I don’t want to hear whatever pride and prejudice quote you’re about to use,” he said going back to the video he was watching on his side of the couch. He nudged the box towards her while taking another slice.

She felt the way her eyes rolled to the ceiling before grabbing her own slice, falling back into the small recliner, and opened the journal as she took a bite.

9 September 1952

I have been meeting up with Catherine nearly every day since we have met. She has taught me how to properly order à jambon-beurre. I have learned more French in one week than I will in this lifetime.

Ink blotches scattered across the page. Smeared over words, with the faintest hint of an outer handprint. Captured across two pages was a watercolor sketch of a red windmill.

13 September 1952

We have just returned from the Moulin Rouge. The sound of the crowd still roars in my ears. I have even found a few red feathers tucked into my pockets. Monsieur Belmondo was kind enough to leave a few lights on for us though I can only assume the noise Thomas and Edward are causing has awakened him.

I pray I find sleep quickly tonight as I have made arrangements to dine with Catherine in the evening.

She is more careful this time as she spots the edges of a napkin as the page flipped. It’s yellowed with age, but the bright red lipstick stain is pigmented as if it was kissed just last night.

15 September 1952

Edward has befriended a man who hosts small poker games on the fourth floor of a hotel near the Moulin Rouge. I have decided not to attend and will meet Catherine later tonight to go dancing.

19 September 1952

In just a matter of three nights, Edward has seamlessly gambled away all the money his family has given him for this trip. Thomas has asked that I join them tomorrow night in hopes of helping him win just a fraction back.

Emma paused at the hint of red blotches that bled through the page and covered some words. She turned to the next entry which revealed several dried fingerprints. She titled the black book closer to her face spying similar blotches on the edges.

A single entry covered the page alongside an ace of spades playing card shoved into the fold.

21 September 1952

When one does not come from money one often wonders in their mind what they would do if they were to ever come across such an amount.

A few pages seemed to have been torn from the book with such force a string from the inseam thread laid limp between the horizontal lines.

23 September 1952

Monsieur Belmondo, Thomas nor myself have seen Edward since the night of September 20th. I have yet to disclose to Thomas or Monsieur Belmondo of the rucksack Edward had tossed down the fire escape.

Or the man I had

I can still smell the smoke. It lingers around me – heavy and thick.

My hands have stopped shaking for the time being.

I have counted it nearly 10 times and have gone over every mathematical formula possible. The sum is still the same.

$20,000

25 September 1952

Thomas and myself have been advised by Monsieur Belmondo to return to England without Edward. The police have started to move door to door in the district asking for information.

They know about the missing rucksack.

The paper under her finger flaked from the heavy stain on its pages.

27 September 1952

In a series of embarrassing events brought on by consuming too much of the liquor Monsieur Belmondo keeps in his studies I have confided in Catherine. She handled the revelation better than myself, though that might just be the Parisian way.

28 September 1952

Two deux fromages de jambon

Deux café au lait

$19,991

There were translucent fingerprints along the edge as if grease had clung to Oliver’s fingers as his handwriting tilted at an awkward angle.

29 September 1952

I fear I must look a sight in appearance, stalking up and down the Pont d’léna nervously eating à jambon-beurre. It’s all the money I can afford to show for now.

I have checked my watch 27 times.

Thomas has fled without me. His ferry ticket left behind on his bed with a hastily written apology. At best he has assumed an orphan boy such as myself could surely get himself out of such trouble.

As I lay near La Seine I think of Catherine. Was what I had asked of her too much? Too greedy?

Has the time we have spent together, albeit short, revealed myself enough to dream of stars?

What followed were a series of French newspaper clippings, travel tickets, and various receipts tucked between pages. Emma could translate the multiple uses of ‘hotel’, ‘fire’, and ‘poker den.’

There’s a detailed drawing of a park on one page.

For a brief moment Emma stopped, tempted to turn around to compare it to the park behind her.

10 November 1952

I no longer wake to the sounds of accented shouts and glass breaking overhead.

San Francisco is a lovely place. I have purchased a modest home with views of a park to greet us every morning.

Catherine is overjoyed to start working as a style consultant at Macy’s San Francisco tomorrow.

I have obtained an interview in the neighboring school district for next week. Catherine believes she’ll be able to bring home a suit for me to wear.

Two blank pages divide the next entry, a poker chip slid between the folds.

24 December 1952

Despite the many pages left, I’m afraid our time has come to an end. I will begin teaching as an English professor next month.

Emma felt the way her breath caught, as she ran her fingers over the weathered University of Cambridge student identification card taped to the page. The resemblance was similar enough to Justin to correlate one conclusion.

Au revoir cher livre,

Oliver Durham

Robert Belmondo

$12,637