InkStains January by John Urbancik

Author:John Urbancik
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: literary, short stories, random, complete, daily, calendar, art project

16 January

The letter arrived without a return address and without a postmark, though it did have Air Mail stamped prominently on it. Don took his time opening it. There were other things in the mail – a book he’d ordered, the phone bill – and he didn’t think he knew anyone overseas. He felt no real urge to tear into the letter, but shortly after dinner he got around to reading it.

Donny,

Your presence is requested. Please don’t respond by post, but in person.

It was written in a neat, looping style, feminine though he couldn’t be sure. An airline ticket was enclosed, and several few hundred dollars – almost a week’s pay. It wasn’t a lot of money, but the destination, Paris, was far away and a place he’d never been.

He didn’t simply take time off from work and go. First, he verified that the ticket was real; it was, though the airline refused to say who had paid for it. He checked the money, too, with one of those anti-counterfeit pens from the office supply store.

Whoever had written the letter had him intrigued. He got the time off, fished out his passport from its barely-seen hiding place, and crossed the Atlantic.

He didn’t know what to do or where to go when he landed at Charles de Gaulle, but he didn’t have to worry. A chauffer in a crisp suit and sunglasses carried a placard with his name on it.

The chauffer either didn’t speak English or pretended not to, and Don’s knowledge of French language didn’t go far past croissant. They drove mostly in silence, Don in the backseat watching the scenery.

After a while, they reached the city, which was bigger than Don expected, but just as French. He saw many postcard-ready side streets but nothing he recognized – no tower, no church – before stopping in front of a rather regular looking building.

A woman greeted Don at the door. She was dressed very businesslike and wore her hair in a tight bun, but she was young and spoke English smoothly, albeit with a gorgeous accent. “Jean will handle your bags, if you’d like to come with me.”

“Did you send me the letter?” he asked.

“No.” She held open the door for him. “If you please.”

Don entered the lobby, in which there were couches, a rack of pamphlets and maps, and a counter. The girl at the counter didn’t look up, and Don’s guide walked right by her.

“In Paris,” she said, “we have the best food in the world, and you have dinner reservations already made, but you didn’t come all this way for escargot, did you?”

“Actually,” Don admitted, “I’m not sure why I came all this way.”

In a tiny alcove, there was a single elevator door. They got on and went down to the basement, to a long hall with insufficient lights, but Don’s guide seemed not to notice. They passed several opens doors revealing laundry facilities, storage, and canned goods, as well as several closed doors. At one of these, she took a key from her pocket, pulled the door open, and motioned Don inside.

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