Aimi follows the stately man unobtrusively. With light, soft steps, the distance to the local bar is shortened. It is a semi-basement establishment that survived the great French Revolution. The faded, time-warped sign bearing the name “Parmi les routes“ greets guests with armless embraces and a dull stare of its letters. Crumbling steps lead into pitch darkness. The man descends as if into the netherworld. He opens the old, creaking, parasite-eaten door. It’s unclear how it still hangs on its hinges. It seems like it would be left in your hand if you took hold of the handle.
The girl exchanges the street light for the bar’s gloomy darkness. She sits down at the nearest table. The interior is quite interesting. Round tables for two fill the small room. On each stands a dark-green bottle holding a candle. Judging by the cracks and chipped pieces, the candlesticks have fallen more than once. Once, it was not as quiet here as it is now. Dim light envelops the dusty canvases of paintings in crooked frames on the ancient brick walls. Resins of thick tobacco smoke have permanently ingrained themselves into the images of the peasants’ hard life. Even the window thrown open onto the cobblestone road does not help eliminate the persistent smell of time.
A rustling sound drifts up from the depths of the wooden floor. Stepping around the rat holes, the man approaches the bar in a few strides. Plump lips, a slightly raised left eyebrow. Several wrinkles around his tired eyes betray an attachment to the gloomy spot on the left side of the counter. A rat, no smaller than a kitten, scurries past his worn-out, dusty army boot. It merits no attention from the patrons. His hands lie heavy and motionless on the bar counter. An index finger rises into the smoke-filled air. The bartender confidently sets down a glass of straight bourbon, nodding as to a regular customer.
From the pocket of his shabby doublet peek out personal notes, soiled black. Scratches of various depths and colors cover the leather cover. The pocket-sized book has traveled a considerable distance with him. Sip by sip, the bourbon disappears from the translucent glass. The clear fingerprints of previous visitors do not match the fingers of the current one. The bartender refills the usual order without being asked, and returns to his work.
Aimi smoothly moves to sit at the bar counter near the enigmatic man. The stool creaks, as if sighing heavily, recalling bygone days and everyone who has sat on it before. The wrinkles on the man’s forehead deepen. His gaze fixes on some unknown distance. One hand remains frozen on the murky glass; the second reaches into his pocket, pulling out an unusual briar pipe. The nearest candle illuminates a carved eagle on the bowl, rapidly attacking a not-so-nimble rabbit.
Gray hair occasionally gleams on his hair, eyebrows, and beard, reflecting the sun’s rays that sometimes stream into the bar when the dreary patrons—residents of the quiet, God-forsaken little town—enter and exit. Each of them comes here regularly, hoping to drown their routine troubles in liquid fire. The stories of their lives conceal much joy and sorrow, meetings and partings, happiness and grief. The years inexorably passed by, irrevocably turning everything into dust, leaving behind in exchange the realization of the complete meaninglessness of the life they have lived.
Cracked, half-empty glasses rivet the gazes that were once directed toward a bright future. Their eyes do not rise above the bar counter. Heavy bodies merge resignedly with the rough wooden stools. Candle after candle. Glass after glass. The candles slowly burn down, much like the lives of the patrons. The wax holds the green bottles on the tables, just as life holds the people in this town.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks the girl, habitually wiping the counter with a long-unwashed towel.
“Red wine, please. In a clean glass, if possible.”
“You wound me!” the bartender glances over, grinning. “One moment!” he hurries to fulfill the order. The search for a clean glass takes the most time. A comparatively clean one. The bartender has to rub it with the towel to remove the ingrained film. A moment later, he smoothly slides the drink over on a darkened white napkin. “There you are!”
“Thank you, Monsieur!” Taking a sip, Aimi notices words on the damp napkin through the murky base of the glass.
The handwriting is firm, strained, and sprawling, difficult to decipher. The ink is not of the best quality. The note’s author was likely in a hurry. In haste, he used the inkwell and bald quill pen that have been stored for many years under the bar counter on the right. One can tell from the thick layer of dust and several fingerprints. The ink is dry, meaning the message was written before the girl’s arrival.
Aimi touches the note, and a heavy, hairy, wrinkled hand of the man rests on hers. He does not look at her. With his strong hand, he gathers the girl’s thin fingers into a fist and, along with the crumpled napkin, smoothly lowers it into her pocket. He gets up heavily, downs the remaining bourbon in one gulp. With a powerful palm, he stamps several coins onto the bar counter, exits confidently and swiftly, just as he entered.
Her foolish body strains to follow. The girl does not dare to go after him. She sits for a few minutes in the silence of loud thoughts. Aimi comes to her senses at the slam of the door as another patron enters. The note flashes in her memory. She puts her hand into her pocket. The note has vanished along with the wallet of brown calfskin bearing the family crest of one of the oldest aristocratic families in France. She regrets the loss of the gift from her closest friend before her departure.
An inner panic, tinged with a girlish hysteria and deep resentment, grips Aimi. The most upsetting thing is that it was a gift from her best friend, with whom she had been friends since her first years in France, and now she may never see her again. Her distressed eyes well up with transparent tears of sadness. Observing this scene, the bartender understands everything, saying with a smile, “It’s on the house,” to calm the sweet girl somehow. She nods gratefully. Tears drip onto the bar counter.
Her thoughts are completely scrambled. Not fully grasping the entire situation, she steps outside. The spring sun breaks through the moisture in her eyes. An incomplete rainbow arches across the sky above the houses. Aimi regrets not catching the rain that stimulates the mind and feelings. It is sad to miss a sorrowful joy that is now hiding behind a curtain of grief. Disregarding her coat, she slides down the wall, crossing her arms. The rain left paintings in the shadow of the gray and dirty beige houses. Today the sun will not reach them. Puddles reflect the spring sky. A barely noticeable fresh breeze dries her eyes, leaving coolness.
Aimi’s mournful feelings carry her back to Spain, where her family once lived. They had moved years ago from a tense France. The Legislative Body had decided to punish the opposition publisher. Aimi’s father was a writer who criticized the government’s actions in his works and supported the publisher. A thorough investigation into the publisher’s connections began. They had to leave the country so as not to lose her father.
Within a few days in Spain, they found a new home in the town of Toledo, not far from Madrid. The girl was only seven years old at the time. She had to grow up early. Pleasant moments became rare bright beams amidst the solid gray sky of daily survival. The desire to abandon everything and simply disappear visited Aimi more and more frequently.
The family was lucky that in his youth, her father had perfectly mastered the craft of shoemaking. Hard work helped them survive. Every Sunday, Aimi and her sister, two years her junior, would go to church for the service. After the service, they would go to the riverbank. They ran, jumped, and played like ordinary children. In those moments, absolutely everything bad was forgotten. It seemed like it would always be this way, even better. Everything around them warmed their souls and filled them with sincere joy.
One Sunday outing ended with a heavy, lifelong memory. They came home in wet dresses, without their shoes. They found their mother sobbing on her knees before the icon of the Mother of God. Her moan changes into a desperate scream. Tears flow in a torrent down her red face; her hands, clasped for prayer, tremble, barely holding together. Their mother does not notice as her daughters approach her from both sides, hugging her.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Aimi asks softly.
“Our Fernand is no more,” her mother’s trembling voice breaks off into sobs.
“What do you mean, ‘no more’?” Aimi’s heart stops. It feels as if it will never beat again, and tears stream down onto the dry floorboards. The girl loved her father more than anything in the world. “How can that be, Mommy?!” she cannot believe what she hears.
“Mommy,” the sister whispers, stroking their mother’s disheveled hair.
“My darlings, I never thought he would die like this. I expected anything but this.”
“What happened?! Tell us, finally!” Aimi pities her suffering mother, but she cannot stand the not knowing any longer.
“They killed him,” the mother answers, choking on the bitter flood of tears.
“Killed him how?! That can’t be!” the elder sister cries in horror.
“They killed your father,” the mother repeats, covering her face with her hands.
“How did it happen?!” Aimi feels strength draining from her body.
“He wanted to give you a surprise. In the morning, when you went to church, a neighbor said that some foreigners had brought the most beautiful dolls. Fernand decided to delight you. He took the money we were saving for his birthday. At the market, he chose the two most beautiful dolls, paid for them, and happily walked home. On the way, a few young men stopped him. They demanded money. He had nothing to give; all the money went for the presents. The bandits did not believe him, thinking your father was lying and did not want to hand over the coins. They stabbed my Fernand several times with a knife. Bleeding profusely, your father held onto the dolls until the last, pressing them tightly to his chest. The bandits searched his breathless body but didn’t find a single centime. They tried to snatch the dolls from his firm, blood-soaked hands so the attack wouldn’t be for nothing. When life finally left his body, they took the dolls. They tried to flee the town. The woman who told me this informed the police. At the exit from town, the murderers were given away by the doll’s bloody hair sticking out of a torn bag. Why weren’t they caught earlier? Why did Fernand receive such an unjust death? What did he do to deserve this?” the mother asks the heavens.
The sisters are tormented by their thoughts. They cry all night, asking God why He allowed such a thing. No answer is heard. After their father’s death, the family’s life becomes even harder. Their mother finds a second job. They barely manage to survive. The sisters get jobs at a tailor’s workshop, helping the neighbor for half the price. Aunt Yvette is about sixty, but her curly hair makes her look twenty years younger. She radiates so much kindness and warmth that one simply wants to hug her tightly upon meeting her. Absolutely everyone loves Yvette.
Aimi’s mournful feelings carry her back to Spain, where her family once lived. They had moved years ago from a tense France. The Legislative Body had decided to punish the opposition publisher. Aimi’s father was a writer who criticized the government’s actions in his works and supported the publisher. A thorough investigation into the publisher’s connections began. They had to leave the country so as not to lose her father.
Within a few days in Spain, they found a new home in the town of Toledo, not far from Madrid. The girl was only seven years old at the time. She had to grow up early. Pleasant moments became rare bright beams amidst the solid gray sky of daily survival. The desire to abandon everything and simply disappear visited Aimi more and more frequently.
The family was lucky that in his youth, her father had perfectly mastered the craft of shoemaking. Hard work helped them survive. Every Sunday, Aimi and her sister, two years her junior, would go to church for the service. After the service, they would go to the riverbank. They ran, jumped, and played like ordinary children. In those moments, absolutely everything bad was forgotten. It seemed like it would always be this way, even better. Everything around them warmed their souls and filled them with sincere joy.
One Sunday outing ended with a heavy, lifelong memory. They came home in wet dresses, without their shoes. They found their mother sobbing on her knees before the icon of the Mother of God. Her moan changes into a desperate scream. Tears flow in a torrent down her red face; her hands, clasped for prayer, tremble, barely holding together. Their mother does not notice as her daughters approach her from both sides, hugging her.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Aimi asks softly.
“Our Fernand is no more,” her mother’s trembling voice breaks off into sobs.
“What do you mean, ‘no more’?” Aimi’s heart stops. It feels as if it will never beat again, and tears stream down onto the dry floorboards. The girl loved her father more than anything in the world. “How can that be, Mommy?!” she cannot believe what she hears.
“Mommy,” the sister whispers, stroking their mother’s disheveled hair.
“My darlings, I never thought he would die like this. I expected anything but this.”
“What happened?! Tell us, finally!” Aimi pities her suffering mother, but she cannot stand the not knowing any longer.
“They killed him,” the mother answers, choking on the bitter flood of tears.
“Killed him how?! That can’t be!” the elder sister cries in horror.
“They killed your father,” the mother repeats, covering her face with her hands.
“How did it happen?!” Aimi feels strength draining from her body.
“He wanted to give you a surprise. In the morning, when you went to church, a neighbor said that some foreigners had brought the most beautiful dolls. Fernand decided to delight you. He took the money we were saving for his birthday. At the market, he chose the two most beautiful dolls, paid for them, and happily walked home. On the way, a few young men stopped him. They demanded money. He had nothing to give; all the money went for the presents. The bandits did not believe him, thinking your father was lying and did not want to hand over the coins. They stabbed my Fernand several times with a knife. Bleeding profusely, your father held onto the dolls until the last, pressing them tightly to his chest. The bandits searched his breathless body but didn’t find a single centime. They tried to snatch the dolls from his firm, blood-soaked hands so the attack wouldn’t be for nothing. When life finally left his body, they took the dolls. They tried to flee the town. The woman who told me this informed the police. At the exit from town, the murderers were given away by the doll’s bloody hair sticking out of a torn bag. Why weren’t they caught earlier? Why did Fernand receive such an unjust death? What did he do to deserve this?” the mother asks the heavens.
The sisters are tormented by their thoughts. They cry all night, asking God why He allowed such a thing. No answer is heard. After their father’s death, the family’s life becomes even harder. Their mother finds a second job. They barely manage to survive. The sisters get jobs at a tailor’s workshop, helping the neighbor for half the price. Aunt Yvette is about sixty, but her curly hair makes her look twenty years younger. She radiates so much kindness and warmth that one simply wants to hug her tightly upon meeting her. Absolutely everyone loves Yvette.
Aimi deeply misses her father. And she always will. One quiet spring evening, after work, she goes into his workshop. In the pitch darkness, she can hear the paws of every mouse scattering in different directions. Her father often used to take his daughter with him. Aimi learned everything by heart. She easily finds the kerosene lamp. On the fifth attempt, she lights it with slightly damp matches. Her father often used this lamp, especially before holidays, working through the night to earn more money, which they constantly lacked. Prices rose before their eyes, and the family couldn’t keep up with their earnings.
The dim light reveals a true fairy tale country to the child’s gaze. It seems that unusual creatures live here who will carry the girl away to a magical land where everything shines, where harmony, happiness, and love reign, and most importantly, nothing bad ever happens—a place where everyone is alive and well. Unfortunately, this does not occur.
There is so much of interest for a child’s eyes and imagination. She greedily surveys the entire workshop with an admiring gaze. Every small detail deserves special attention: multi-colored pieces of leather, laces, tiny shiny tacks, thick, rough soles—even the dust lies on everything in a distinctive way. It feels as if she has already entered a fairy tale country.
Walking further in, Aimi stumbles over a cardboard box. Something falls out. Lighting the floor with the lamp, she sees a pair of the most beautiful shoes made of the finest white, soft, thin leather. They have a small heel and a silver clasp. A great rarity. Impatiently, she puts them on. They fit her foot exactly. The girl feels like a princess. Surely, even a princess doesn’t have shoes like these. For the first time in a long time, a smile appears on her face. Then she thinks that this is someone’s order. How she does not want to take them off. Yet, she doesn’t want to let her father down either. Another little girl is impatiently waiting for her great happiness. She cannot do this. Aimi takes off the shoes with tears in her eyes.
An envelope falls from the box onto the dusty floor, addressed: “For my little Star.” Tears stream from her eyes. Only her father called Aimi that. She collects herself, carefully opens the envelope, and unfolds the letter. Her father wrote: “Hello, my little Star! I write this letter in case you find the box before I can give it to you myself. I hope you like the shoes. I only wish I could see your emotions right now.
This is my birthday present for you. They took me about a year to make; I deliberately made them a size larger in case you grew in that time. I hope they fit. If you like them, wear them in good health! I love you and give you a huge, tight hug! P.S.: there’s another box underneath, for your little sister. If she hasn’t seen it, please keep our secret until the right moment. I love you both! Your loving father, Fernand.”
Aimi cannot hold back her tears as she reads her father’s last letter. She carefully folds it back into the envelope, puts it in her pocket. The girl wipes away the hot tears, takes the boxes, walks to the door, puts out the lamp’s flame, and sets it back in place. Aimi leaves as quietly as possible so as not to wake the others. Her father’s words stay in her head. She cannot sleep that night. She only thinks of him, recalling the time they spent together. It’s a shame that time was so short. Working for the family deprived him of time with the family.
“Come on, I’ll show you something,” Aimi wakes Nicky the morning of May seventeenth, before their mother is awake. Monique, her younger sister, reluctantly gets out of bed, rubbing her sleepy eyes. They go to the kitchen. Aimi takes a box from the cupboard and gives her sister their father’s gift.
“Is this for me?” Nicky grabs the box with great interest.
“Yes, it’s your present.”
“Oh, how lovely!” the girl excitedly opens the box.
“Do you like them?” Aimi asks with a smile.
“Madly!” Nicky presses the shoes to herself, as if hugging a doll.
“Try them on quickly!”
“They’re just perfect! Where did you get the money?” the girl can’t take her eyes off them.
“It’s dad's gift to you for your birthday!” the older sister explains, tears in her eyes.
“Daddy,” Nicky whispers with a smile and tears, clutching the shoes even tighter.
It’s a pity their father cannot see his daughter’s delight. Fernand, most likely, wouldn’t have held back either and would have cried with happiness along with everyone. The little one flits around the kitchen like a small fairy. Her little heels chime like crystal. She glows with joy. Hearing the joy and laughter, their sleepy mother comes out.
“What’s happened, girls?” their mother asks, rubbing her eyes.
“Dad made us birthday presents,” Aimi replies.
“Presents? Dad? How? What are you saying?” Their mother looks at them as if they are part of a continuing dream.
“Mommy, I went into the workshop recently,” Aimi explains.
“The workshop? What were you doing there? Why did you go there?” their mother asks seriously, trying not to be angry.
“I just went in to look. That’s not the point! I found two pairs of shoes there that Father made for us.”
“Why do you think they are for you? It must be someone’s order,” their mother is nervous.
“I thought so too at first. When I picked up the box, a letter addressed to me fell out of it. Here, look,” the daughter gives the envelope to her mother. The mother’s eyes become moist and shine, reflecting the morning sun. She reads the letter with such absorption. It’s as if she’s looking into her husband’s eyes, hearing him live. They are silent for a little while. They feel a little sad, yet the mood is good. The mother wipes away her tears and leaves the house. She returns with a huge cake. You should have seen little Nicky’s eyes. Their mother is hidden behind the cake.
“And this is our little present for you,” the mother places the enormous cake on the table. She peeks out from behind it with a smile.
“Mummy! Aimi!” Nicky hugs her mother and older sister. “This is my best birthday ever!!!”
This is what real happiness looks like for them. The first happy day since their father passed away. And yet, a year and a half has gone by. Family matters improve. Their mother gets a new job where the salary is more than the previous two combined. The girls grow up to be the most beautiful young women in town. Possibly because they are French. For people accustomed to the mundane, the unusual sparks interest, delight, and admiration. A kind of euphoria.
The young women gladly take advantage of this. They enjoy the boys’ courtship. It’s fun. There are downsides too. The other girls are terribly jealous, envious, and angry, so they often plot mischief. Sometimes, after a hard shove in the back, Aimi ends up in a puddle in her favorite white dress. Nicky often returns home barefoot. They always find the shoes, of course, in various unsavory places. The boys who court them proudly bear scars on their bodies, left not only by rivals but also by their own girlfriends, sometimes ex-girlfriends. They entertained themselves as best they could, but it was nothing personal. No one ever earned their affection.
It’s amazing how time changes people. The daughters do not notice how their beloved mother’s hair turns gray. Life leaves deep wrinkles on her tired face. It’s a comfort that some of them come from happy moments. It seems like only recently those smooth, silky hands stroked their children’s cheeks. Her posture disappears under the weight of daily life. Her movements slow down, losing their vitality. The thought that their mother will soon be gone is frightening. On October thirtieth, their mother leaves this world, but not her daughters. Her great, loving heart stopped. Her body and soul were exhausted. The hard life had taken its toll.
Their childhood ends here. Aimi is seventeen, and Nicky is fifteen. Nothing holds them in Toledo anymore. The day after the funeral, they pack their belongings, taking only the essentials. They give the rest to the orphans at the homeless shelter. Their things are not much better than those worn by the orphans. All those years, they had lived in the house of Aunt Yvette’s husband, who had died two years before their arrival in Toledo. There was a lot of space for her alone. She settled the Tanori family there for free. She gave the workshop to their father to use. Before that, it was just a regular shed.
Their mother often left the girls with Aunt Yvette when she ran errands and their father was very busy. The girls spent a lot of pleasant time in her company. She called them her granddaughters. Before leaving, they go to say goodbye. They hug her and thank her for everything. They grew to love her over the years, just as she loved them. For a long time after her granddaughters leave, Aunt Yvette stands on the doorstep and cries softly, looking after them, wiping her tears with her apron.
Aimi realizes she’s lingered too long by the cold, damp wall. It won’t take much to catch a cold this way. She stands up and checks her coat pockets once more. The wallet is gone. Last time, the loss of the wallet distracted her hand from the note. She unfolds the damp napkin. The ink has run, and the words are blurred. She tries to dry it. The outlines of words begin to emerge. Something about the evening. And a time—seven o’clock tonight. But where? The location is washed out. It looks like the meeting won’t happen. She tries to make out the address again, but no luck.
“Could that man be a thief? It doesn’t seem like it. Why would he want my wallet? There’s barely any money in it,” thoughts swirl in the girl’s head. While it’s still light, she walks to another place. She covers several blocks on the street, which is clean after the rain. Her tears have dried. She adjusts her matted eyelashes. A few blocks bring Aimi to the house of a private detective.
It’s strange why there would be a private detective in a town like this. He must have appeared because of Nicky. She can’t think of any other explanation. She approaches the door. There isn’t even a house number. She finds out the simple way. It isn’t hard to figure out which number fits between twenty and sixteen. The space where the plaque should have been is empty. But why conceal the address?
No one answers her knock. She waits a moment. She knocks again. Silence. She notices a thin arrow on the door, made with a sharp object, similar in thickness to a blade. The arrow points to the right. She looks in the indicated direction. On the doorframe, there’s another small arrow, pointing down. She follows it with her eyes. At the very bottom, an arrow goes right and down again. The molding at the bottom is slightly shortened and doesn’t reach the ground. She stands up and looks around. No one. She crouches down and slides her hand under the board. She feels for a key and pulls it out. She tries to put it into the lock. It’s not the right one.
To the right, between the houses, is an alley blocked by a gate. She puts the key into the lock. It opens. She looks around, enters, and locks the door behind her. She walks through the passage. The space between the houses is very narrow. She has to walk sideways. Another gate. Now the key doesn’t fit. She tries again. Definitely not the one. She should go back. No. She didn’t come here for that. The brickwork is exposed on the walls of the houses. She checks all the cracks and crevices. There are no clues anywhere. On one brick, up high, at arm’s reach, there is a small cross made with the same thin blade.
She taps the sign with her finger. Nothing happens. She taps again; the brick wobbles slightly. She taps harder. It turns out that it’s not the whole brick that’s wobbly, but the end cap. It’s a hiding place. There’s another key inside. She closes the secret spot. She opens the gate. She goes further, locking the door. To the left is a metal door. Again, no key. “What kind of games is this detective playing? It’s his job to find keys, not mine,” the girl grumbles to herself. She regains her composure. She looks for new clues. In the upper right corner, a small flower is drawn. She looks around. At the end of the passage stand planters with ferns.
She lifts the flowerpots—nothing. She rummages around, empty. A circle is drawn on the pot. She glances around the corner; there is a round window on the wall of the right house. A small string sticks out of the frame. She pulls on it. Nothing happens. She repeats the action. She stands, waiting. She is about to leave. She hears footsteps on the stairs—someone is descending. The iron door in the passage opens. She walks toward it. A man looks out and glances around. He unfolds the girl’s hands, takes the keys, and lets her inside. The door closes. Strangely, the door is old, but it doesn’t creak. The specifics of an unnoticeable profession.
They pass the second floor. It looks like a private room. The attic is spacious and looks more like an office. In the far corner, under the window, stands a desk. The man sits down at it, inviting Aimi to take the chair in front of him. The girl obeys. The keys are placed in a drawer. He brushes ash off the table and slightly opens the window to let out the cigarette smoke. He calmly looks at Aimi, squinting his left eye slightly. The girl’s eyes want to close from the acrid smoke. She holds steady, looking directly into the detective’s eyes.
“Not many people get past knocking on the front door,” notes the man, who is no older than thirty.
“I honestly admit I wanted to leave, too,” Aimi replies seriously.
“Yet you didn’t,” the detective smirks.
“I didn’t,” the girl calmly agrees, knowing why she came.
“These kinds of clue games don’t appeal to anyone,” he says disappointedly.
“Why do you use these tricks with clues?” the girl quietly asks.
“To ensure that only people who genuinely need my help and are willing to put in the effort themselves make it here. So, why didn’t you leave?”
“The matter is too serious to handle on my own,” Aimi suddenly feels weak in the detective’s eyes.
“I must say, you’d make an excellent detective. And you could have handled this yourself.”
“Not this time,” Aimi admits her helplessness.
“May I ask why not now?”
“There’s too little time to play detective. A professional is needed here.”
“Very well,” he takes a pen and a notepad from the drawer. “State the problem.”
“My sister is missing,” Aimi answers briefly and clearly.
“Simply missing, or was she kidnapped?” the detective clarifies.
“Most likely kidnapped,” the girl shares her worst suspicions.
“What leads you to that conclusion?” the detective is in no hurry to jump to conclusions.
“She doesn’t go anywhere on her own. She’s afraid to go outside and she’s afraid of people.”
“Why such phobias?” the man clarifies the psychological nuances.
“We recently went through something,” Aimi replies sadly.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s not relevant to the case,” the girl coldly refuses.
“Perhaps it is directly related to what happened.”
“I doubt it,” Aimi insistently conceals the memories.
“Still,” the detective insists, slightly irritated.
“Fine. We fled Spain. A lot happened to us on the way. We met different people. There were practically no good ones among them.”
“I see. Why did you flee specifically to France?”
“This is our native home,” Aimi replies uncertainly.
“Then why did you flee from here to Spain?”
“My father’s connections with one publisher forced us to.”
“Now I understand,” the detective dips the tip of the pen into a bronze inkwell and makes a note.
“Do you think the kidnapping might be connected to that?” Aimi asks.
“I see you’re certain this is a kidnapping,” the detective glances at her.
“It can’t be anything else,” the girl whispers resignedly.
“Anything can happen. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Tell me your name so I know how to address you?”
“Pierre,” the detective introduces himself without unnecessary formality.
“My name is,” she doesn’t manage to finish.
“Don’t give me your name,” the detective interrupts. “Any superfluous information can hinder our case.”
“All right. What information interests you, Pierre?”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Nicky,” the girl answers clearly, feeling her worry for her sister.
“The full name, please,” the detective clarifies.
“Monique Tanori.”
“Is that the real surname?” the detective looks seriously at the girl.
“Yes. In Spain, we had a different one. And I would prefer not to say it.”
“And why is that?” the detective becomes increasingly interested.
“Bad memories are linked to it. It’s long in the past.”
“How long ago?”
“In what sense?”
“How long ago did Spain become the past for you?” the man clarifies.
“Quite recently.”
“How old are you now?”
“Nineteen.”
“And your sister?”
“She’s seventeen.”
“Additional possibilities appear.”
“What possibilities?” Fear instantly spreads through Aimi’s body.
“I’d rather not say,” the detective regrets having said it aloud.
“Why? Is it that awful?” the girl worries.
“Girls that age are sometimes kidnapped and sold into brothels.”
“Do you think that happened?” Terrible thoughts immediately surface in her mind.
“It’s not impossible,” the detective whispers. “We’ll start with that to rule it out.”
“Yes, please, start with that,” Aimi pleads.
“When did Nicky go missing?”
“Last night,” the girl says as if it has been a week of absence.
“And you’re already raising the alarm today?” the detective is surprised.
“That can’t happen to her. She tries not to leave the house at all.”
“Does your sister have friends?”
“No,” Aimi answers shortly and sadly.
“Acquaintances?”
“No. Only me.”
“I see,” Pierre writes something in his notepad again.
“Is there anything else you need?” the girl asks openly.
“A description of your sister would be helpful.”
“She’s slender, a little shorter than me,” she stands up so the detective can see her height.
“Slenderer than you, or the same?”
“The same. Dark, long hair and green eyes.”
“Green eyes simplify the search, but they worsen the conclusions.”
“What other conclusions?” Aimi panics again.
“A rare eye color. It’s particularly prized in certain places.”
“Please! Don’t tell me such things! Just find her!”
“My apologies. I’ll do everything I can. What other features can you share?”
“She looks like me,” the girl turns her face closer to the light.
“Good, I’ll remember that,” he carefully studies her face. “That’s everything for now.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“That’s my business. I don’t want our paths to cross in the investigation,” Pierre replies seriously.
“Fine, I understand. When should I come back?”
“In a week. If I find out anything sooner, I’ll find you myself.”
“Good, here’s my address,” Aimi places a slip of paper with the address on the table.
“Excellent,” the detective puts the address into the desk drawer.
Pierre walks Aimi to the front doors. The girl walks down the street. The sun hides behind the houses. Shadows are everywhere. It’s about five in the evening. Where is she supposed to be at seven? There is only one popular place for meetings here. It’s frightening to go there, especially alone in the evening. The journey isn’t short. She gathers all her courage and walks toward the intended location. If she changes her mind along the way, she’ll leave without reaching her destination. Her thoughts return to their escape from Spain. Nicky was by her side then. Only a day has passed, but it feels like an eternity has flown by.
The road to a new life is not easy. It is a test of strength. The sisters have a difficult time, both morally and physically. The forced journey tempers the soul and the body. They must also overcome themselves. Be that as it may, Aimi and Nicky move toward their hazy goal, distancing themselves from their past life with every step. A new France calls to the girls, beckoning with rosy prospects and hopes for a bright, happy future.
On their path, the girls meet many different people: merchants, carpenters, painters, masons, fishermen, hunters, the rich, and the destitute. People who possess trades, statuses, and those who possess nothing. Many forget that a trade and social standing are not as important as how people interact with you. The elderly turn out to be the kindest, most caring, and most responsive. Thanks to such people, they manage to overcome such a long and difficult journey toward a happy, as it seemed then, future.
Most often, they walk. It’s a good thing they took few belongings. With them go those two dolls, their father’s gifts. The police sympathized with their loss and gave the dolls to the girls. Aimi washed the dried blood from the dolls’ hair and faces, dried them, combed them, and kept them safe. They eat whatever God provides. Simple people become their gods. They stop at villages along the way. In the churches, they can rest a little from the road, drink holy water, and sometimes even get a piece of bread. The bread is so delicious they want to eat non-stop. There is only enough for a few small bites.
They look humble, to put it mildly. Looking at the girls, some people clutch their hearts, while others take up pitchforks, suspecting danger in the grimy faces. Some take pity, inviting the tired travelers to join them for dinner. Sometimes they let them stay the night. This happens rarely. The sisters are used to it, so they don’t get upset; instead, they are genuinely happy with what they have.
They spend the night in abandoned houses without windows or doors on the outskirts of villages. A vivid imagination mixed with experience paints either monsters or scenes of happy family life, which evoke a feeling of home warmth and comfort—something they sorely lack. Dreams keep them warm on cold nights. Hugging each other, they sleep soundly. The slightest rustle can wake them. They always have to be on guard.
The forest often serves as their shelter. To keep from feeding the young girl-meat to wild animals, they climb high into the trees. They tie themselves to the branches so as not to fall asleep and lose their lives in the dark Spanish forests. They try to follow the roads well-traveled by local merchants, which is faster. Sometimes, they get a ride to the nearest town or village; sometimes, they are given food. In such cases, the girls feel enormous gratitude toward the kind people.
They often remember everyone who helped them as much as they could. In reality, the world is full of kindness and compassion; you just have to find it, let it into your life, and repay it in kind. Even if you don’t have the opportunity now, try to do good in the future, when the opportunity arises. Moreover, it doesn’t necessarily have to be to the person who helped you. Do good for those near you. Goodness is ubiquitous and will return in time. Don’t be afraid to be generous; be afraid to be stingy.
One early morning, they wake up in the cool stable of an elderly couple living in a small village, not far from Pamplona. Opening her eyes, Aimi sees the eyes of a bewildered cow right in front of her. In a fraction of a second, her sleepy body is under the wall in a pile of straw. Dazed, the girl sees something in the cow that is simply impossible to convey in words. Just the horns alone are something. The cow is startled itself and jumps back. Nicky laughs at her older sister, rolling from side to side in the hay. The loud and ringing laughter wakes the owners. A couple of minutes later, they stand in the doorway. When they realize what happened, they too burst into hearty laughter, holding their stomachs, which hurt from the mirth.
Well, of course! The young, half-asleep girl, with tangled, straw-filled hair sticking out in all directions, covered in dirt, with unusually wide-open eyes, stares in horror at the cow, which is monotonously chewing the breakfast the owner freshly cut and looks at her as if she is strange. Everyone laughs, even Aimi, once she recovers from the morning shock. The sisters are invited to breakfast. Nicky’s little eyes shine so brightly that it seems the stable will catch fire from the heat.
There is enough space for the four of them in the small, old house. A jug of warm milk stands on the slanted table, and a basket holds freshly baked rye bread, broken into small pieces. How pleasant it is to watch the fragrant steam slowly rising and dissolving under the ceiling. The joy does not end there.
In the middle of the table, on a slightly bent, scratched, and cloudy dish, lies a baked partridge that the owner shot a couple of kilometers from the house earlier that morning while everyone was asleep. Despite his age, he is a surprisingly accurate shot, and he has considerable hunting experience. The hostess brings a basin of hot water and soap. Without a word, the host steps outside. The girls undress, wash, and dry themselves with a fresh towel that smells faintly of morning dew.
Maria calls Marek. They sit down at the table. Over the delicious breakfast, the hosts tell the story of their life. Their family fled Poland during the repressions. They also had two daughters who, much to their regret, did not make it to Spain. A severe illness struck them along the way. The parents don’t know the name of the sickness. The daughters suffered greatly. Perhaps that is why they invited Aimi and Nicky to stay the night.
“Life in Poland resembled a fairy tale, compared to the present one,” Marek recalls. “We often went for walks with our daughters. On weekends, Maria would bake our favorite potato and mushroom pies, and when it was the season, forest berry ones too. The girls adored berries. They would eat so much that they couldn’t eat for a long time afterward,” the old man smiles sadly. Tears stream down Maria’s wrinkled cheeks.
“My sister stayed behind there,” the hostess shares quietly. “We often visited her. It was especially nice at her place during holidays. The huge table simply groaned under the weight of treats. She invited all her friends to share any joy. It was fun.”
“How is she doing now?” Nicky asks.
“I don’t know. We haven’t communicated since the day we fled,” Maria became sad.
“Enough! Why are we talking about sad things?” Marek says with a smile, subtly wiping away a tear. “We have food to eat, we can quench our thirst, thank God, we have a roof over our heads. And we have each other! What else is needed for happiness? And what we don’t have, is God’s will. Why aren’t you eating, my daughters?”
“We are eating! How can one not eat such a delicious meal?” Nicky says, chewing.
They get so engrossed in the hosts’ story that they forget everything else. The story refreshed the sisters’ memory of their family. Marek hugs Maria. Aimi hugs Nicky. They sit opposite each other like that for several minutes, embracing, with tears in their eyes from the past, with smiles of joy and happiness that they are together. The kind hosts urge them to stay longer, but something compels them to leave the cozy place.
After three days spent as if with family, they continue their journey. Day after day, night after night, they draw closer to their future. All along the way, they remember the kind couple. Most likely, they will never see them again. It is sad. Life is like a moneylender: first it lends, and then it takes back with interest.
Aimi approaches the spot. It’s still early. She has to wait half an hour. If she waits at all. It’s the fruit orchard near the church. A meeting place for all the residents. The trees are starting to bloom. The scent spreads throughout the entire district. The girl sits down on a bench in the middle of the garden, so she can see anyone who arrives from afar and have time to examine their face. For now, she sits and admires the blossoming orchard, watching the couples strolling by. They approach, see that the bench is occupied, and leave. But the girl has nowhere to rush until seven o’clock.
The street gradually darkens. It’s completely dark in the garden. Only the incomplete moon reflects on the flower petals. The crunching of branches betrays heavy footsteps from the left entrance to the garden. The girl becomes alert. She peers into the darkness. She can’t see anyone. Silence. The crunching is heard from the other side. And again, nothing is visible. The silence makes her heart beat faster. It almost stops when a heavy hand rests on her shoulder from behind. She wants to scream but can’t. Her voice seems to have been intentionally taken away. She turns around.
“Have you been sitting here long?” the man from the bar asks in a hoarse bass voice.
“Not more than an hour,” she replies, suppressing a momentary shiver of fear.
“Why did you come so early? You could catch a cold. Look at that light little coat,” the man squeezes the collar of her coat with two fingers.
“I’m not cold,” Aimi endures, waiting.
“Well, watch out,” the man says hoarsely, pulling out his pipe and lighting it. He himself is in an unbuttoned doublet over a shirt and a light, frayed, snagged sweater.
“Did you write the note to me in the bar?” Aimi clarifies.
“If I came, then I did.”
“Was this place written on the napkin?”
“You’re here, so it was,” the man exhales a cloud of smoke.
“The meeting place was smudged on the napkin,” the girl admits.
“Then how did you end up here?” the man wonders.
“I guessed,” she smiles easily, realizing the conversation poses no threat.
“Clever girl,” he admits, looking into her eyes. “And they say a foolish generation is growing up.”
“Why did you call me here?” Aimi asks impatiently.
“To give this back,” the man pulls the calfskin wallet from his jacket pocket.
“Why did you take it?” she asks angrily, though secretly pleased to be reunited with the gift.
“As insurance, to make sure you’d come,” the man explains seriously.
“I would have come even without that,” the girl answers harshly.
“Sorry, I’m used to playing it safe with unreliable people I do business with. You’re brave. I didn’t think you’d dare.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate people you don’t know.”
“Fair enough. I won’t,” the man smirks. “My name is Gustav,” he introduces himself, releasing a cloud of smoke.
“Aimi,” the girl replies shortly.
“A pretty name,” the man notes.
“Why did you call me?” she fears it’s a trap. She tries to get to the heart of the matter quickly.
“We need to talk,” Gustav whispers. “And to make sure nothing happens to you. At least for this hour.”
“What could happen to me?”
“The same thing that happened to your sister. What’s her name again?”
“Nicky!” Aimi exclaims.
“Yes, right, Nicky.”
“What about her? Do you know where she is?” she is anxious, worrying about her sister.
“For now, she’s fine. But I don’t know for how long,” the tobacco glows in the pipe with his draw.
“Where is she?” Aimi is ready to shake the truth out of the man to know.
“In one of the houses in town,” Gustav answers vaguely.
“Which one exactly?” the girl looks intently into his eyes.
“It’s better you don’t know that,” he points the pipe at her.
“Why? What’s there?” Aimi is even more worried.
“There’s nothing for a young, beautiful girl like you to do there. Especially not someone like your sister.”
“What is it?” the girl is ready to hit the man for his silence.
“A cult or revolutionaries. Maybe both. I didn’t quite figure it out.”
“Nicky is with revolutionaries?” Aimi is surprised. “It’s good that she’s alive. And not in a brothel,” she whispers quietly with a smile.
“What did you say?” Gustav didn’t hear her clearly.
“What is she doing there?” Aimi continues to press for the truth.
“How should I know?” the man asks, surprised by the question.
“How do you know she’s there at all?”
“I bring them groceries once a week. I noticed a newcomer today.”
“Why don’t you want to tell me where this house is?”
“It’s a secret. I can’t disclose my clients’ secrets. Otherwise, I won’t have any clients. Do you understand?” the man looks at Aimi.
“I understand. Tell me, is she definitely all right?”
“I told you, when I saw her, everything was fine. She even seemed to be smiling.”
“How can I find her?” she asks, hoping for a clue.
“They are planning some business in Paris. As one option, you could stake out the train station. You might run into each other.”
“When will they be traveling?” she clings to any thread leading to her sister.
“I don’t know when. I heard it’s soon,” the man exhales a cloud of smoke.
“All right, thank you for your help,” Aimi thanks him sincerely.
“Let me give you some advice,” the man says quietly.
“What is it?” the girl is interested.
“Try not to get involved in this and don’t listen to what they tell you. Naive girls like that often disappear into these kinds of sects or parties. I don’t even know what they have there.”
“All right. But first, I’ll take my sister. Then we’ll run away from there immediately.”
“That’s right,” the man approves. “But be prepared for Nicky not wanting to leave with you,” he warns in a calm voice.
“Why is that?” Aimi is loudly surprised.
“She left home without warning you, her closest person. That already means something. They thoroughly brainwash the newcomers there. They need exactly those kinds of people, young and naive, who will do whatever they’re told for an idea or ‘to the glory of the dark power’.”
“I see. Thank you for the warning. And thank you for returning the wallet.”
“I don’t need what’s not mine,” Gustav smiles crookedly. “I have my own,” he pulls a worn leather wallet, much older, from his doublet.
“Why are you helping me?”
“I immediately realized the girl’s mind was confused. And the guys in the cult were talking about her sister and nodding toward you when you walked past their house.”
“So, I was nearby?” Aimi recalls all her routes.
“Yes. I saw you there,” Gustav smiles.
“Why don’t I remember you?” she understands that such a person is hard to forget.
“You couldn’t have seen me. The place is secret; you can’t stick your head out.”
“How did you write me a note before coming to the bar?”
“I went in this morning, right after those cultists. I wrote the note. I described you and asked the bartender to pass it on if you came in. And when I saw you on the street, I specifically went to the bar so you would get the note.”
“How did you know I would follow you?”
“When people are looking for a missing person, they chase after everyone suspicious. And I’m the most suspicious one here,” Gustav laughs hoarsely.
“Will they come back here after Paris?”
“They used to return, but now I don’t know. Try not to miss your sister. It’s quite possible they’ll want to cross the border. I heard talk about England.”
“I’ll try,” the girl whispers.
“I should go now, or my wife will start scolding me again for wandering around at night,” the man says, getting up from the bench.
“All right. Thank you so much!” Aimi thanks him, standing up.
“You’re welcome. The main thing is to save the girl. Who knows what they’re plotting,” Gustav empties the ash from his pipe and puts it back in his pocket. “Well, that’s it, bye. Good luck with your search.”
“Thank you!” the girl watches the man go with hope in her eyes.
She sits back down on the bench, thinking about the border with England. They had also thought about England. Maybe Nicky didn’t wait for Aimi to decide to flee there, so she left alone. She should have at least warned her. She can’t do that. She wonders how she is doing there. Hopefully, nothing bad happens to her. She’s still young, still foolish. If the border crossing is the same as last time, she might not make it to the other side. She’ll be stuck here forever. Seventeen years old.