The Little Black Cigarette Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Rendezvous Point

It started in a rounded flat just north of Luxembourg Gardens, when my feet lifted out of bed and landed firmly on newly polished marble. Icy-cold, newly polished marble. I rocked to the balls of my feet and made my way down a sunlit hallway to, what my sleepy eyes made out to be, a toilet. I bit my lower lip as I tiptoed, dancing around the chance of making noise and startling whomever I might be sharing the space with. As I put my bare skin to the seat of a stranger’s toilet, I let out a sigh of relief.

If it was Monday, that would mean I was missing two days. Two days had gone by and I had no recollection, other than the faded stamps on the inside of my left arm. One newer one older. My head pounded every time I blinked, my eyes felt like dry rocks placed in hot water. I gathered my panties off the floor and pulled them up again around my hips, making my way back to the room in search of trousers. The air was thin and well circulated between the high ceiling, I could hear a fan humming somewhere in the flat. But whose flat was it?  

I found my belongings folded nicely on an antique chair in the corner, who stood on four weathered Chippendale legs. I began to pick up each piece of clothing one by one, realizing that none of which were mine, but the sizes were correct. So I dressed myself with what was given: a pair of dark blue, fabric pants, accompanied by a cream blouse with an expensive shape. They both smelt new. I looked around for a jacket, anything to keep me warm from what was surely a chilly day outside. Hanging on a coat rack was a long, tan faux fur coat and next to it dangled a ruby pendant. Deep, bloody maroon. I cupped the ruby in my hands and pulled it closer to inspect it, (even though I would have no way to distinguish a real stone from a fake). It was heavy and dark, until it collected light on one of its many sharp edges and shot it back out. There was one bright diamond just above the stone, flirting with its gold chain. I unclasped the hook and eye and placed it around my neck so it hung in the center of my chest. At first I thought to leave the coat where it hung, but against my better judgment I took that too, draping it over my shoulders, carefully leaving the room. 

Instead of following the hall to the bathroom, I veered left into an open room filled with morning light. Floor to ceiling French windows replaced the outer walls, one of which was open, leading me out onto the terrace. Cold concrete chilled my toes as I stepped past a pair of black Louboutin’s with a lightly worn interior. I slipped my bare feet into them only to find nylons bunched in the toes. I pulled those over my heels and retried the fit, parfait. I stepped out further, only to find I was on a roof, white stone surrounding me as I looked out over the iron railings. I could nearly see the pale blue water of La Seine from where I stood, the narrow streets snaked like a map below me. I walked to a corner to take a better look, only to find a table set for one. Flowers, potent purple irises, terracotta vase. A platter of croissants, enough to feed a large family, filled with chocolates, flakey butter and powdered almonds. A press full of coffee, steamed as if it had just been filled, but with no one in sight. I sat down at the chair in front of an empty golden plate, an envelope resting perfectly in its center. Addressed to Mlle Sullivan. 

Anna, you must be well rested by the time you are reading this. 

I hope you have found the clothes I’ve laid out for your day, it will surely be a beautiful one. If anything is out of sorts, call to Julia, she will happily attend to any miscommunications. As we discussed last night, I’ll meet you under Pont Neuf around 15hr. I will try to be on time if you promise to do the same. I’ve left the rest of your things in a bag by the door, don’t forget to take a key as you leave. 

Looking forward to seeing your radiant smile once again.

Pierre

I snuck out the front door without staying to find out who Julia might be, considering I was already unsure who Pierre was. I was lucky enough the building had been upgraded with an elevator, unlike most Paris apartments I found myself in prior. I pressed the button for the ground floor and peered at myself in the mirrored walls. My eyes looked unfazed by the fatigue I was certainly feeling inside. My pupils, normal size. Skin, a little flushed, probably due to shock rather than my deafening headache. I looked…expensive. The ruby dangled on my neckline, catching every flicker of fluorescent light from above me. I reached for it and saw my hands were shaking, the croissants I managed to swallow hadn’t caught up with the coffee yet. 

I oriented myself once I made it out to the street, it was quiet, being that the city wouldn’t start to wake up for a couple more hours. I headed towards Rue Bonaparte, I was familiar enough with the area to know it would link up with Boulevard Saint-Germain at some point. I could find a cafe to gather myself, or walk further and find fresh air by the water. It was 8:00 AM, plenty of time to unearth any sort of Pierre related memories.

I tried my phone, dead. I should find somewhere to charge it. Friday night shot to the forefront of my mind. Red wine at dinner, with Cecile. I was wearing my dirty black boots, I remember the uncertainty of walking with them on cobblestone to the bar. More drinks? Gin with lime, and shots of tequila for her. Where was she? We bought cigarettes at the last open tabac shop, which must have been around 1:00 AM if all the others were closed. Smoking by the water, my feet dangling over the stone edge. Don’t fall in, don’t fall in, don’t fall in. Cecile’s high, air cracking laugh. A man in a suede jacket asking for a light. Search for his face, come on, you can see it now. Dark hair, broad shoulders. I held my lighter out and he reached with his left hand, gold pinky ring. Vintage. 

Apart from the scattered scenes of Cecile and I leading to the water, I had nothing. We must have been on the right bank, so how did I end up near Luxembourg Gardens nearly two days later? And where was Cecile? 

I came to the entrance of Les Deux Magots, just opening its doors. I sat on a table under the heaters outside and asked the waiter if he wouldn’t mind putting my phone on charge for me. I scanned the menu, but nothing appetized me, my stomach was tearing itself into knots, a mix of alcohol and sudden nerves, so I settled for a cappuccino. My feet were aching from the heels, so I lifted my nylon toes out and put the shoes on the empty seat next to me. When the waiter returned with a hot cup of life I decided to sift through my bag for clues. 

Lipstick, a dark matte burgundy. My passport, debit card, no wallet. A folded receipt, Le Marta, a bottle of Dom Perignon for a whopping 400 euros. Did I know no limits? An address written on the back, with a triangle. I looked at my wrist where the faded stamps still showed vaguely, enough to match with the receipt. 54 Avenue Montaigne. I wished desperately for my phone to be charged enough to type the address into Maps. I folded the receipt back up and put it back safely in my bag. 

If I did in fact buy that bottle of overly priced champagne, surely there wasn’t much left in my account. Enough for a cappuccino. I’d have to catch the metro for a cheeky free ride, or go on foot to my unknown destination. Following the breadcrumbs of my mind was exhausting enough. Did the gold pinky ring belong to Pierre? I fiddled with the small spoon that accompanied my cappuccino and popped the small morsel of chocolate onto my tongue, letting it melt and stick to the roof of my mouth. Whoever Pierre was, he was right, it was a beautiful day in the city. 

I stayed for another thirty minutes or so until the lone waiter brought my phone back sufficiently charged. Immediately I typed in the address, a thirty-six minute walk, a bit over twenty by metro. I looked again at the stilettos and decided to take the 12 to Place de la Concorde and walk the rest of the way. The jerking stop and go of the train unsettled my empty stomach, but when I exited out onto the right bank the soft breeze gave me a second wind. I checked the time, 10:53. Only a ten minute walk to the address. 

Large ash trees sheltered me from the odd amount of sun that began to pound down on the boulevards. I found myself in the chic 8th arrondissement of Paris, strolling past upscale boutiques and quaint cafes.

I was trying Cecile’s number outside a Stella Maccartney boutique when I caught my reflection standing next to a display mannequin in the window, dressed almost identically. When the call went straight to voicemail, I put my phone back in my bag and stepped closer to the fiberglass woman before me. It was the same coat, and the shoes as well. I searched for a hanging tag, but remembering my retail days I knew I wouldn’t find one, they were all tucked out of sight. I was startled by movement in my peripheral. 

“He was right, you know,” said an older man inserting a key into the boutique's lavish glass door. His heavy English accent cut through the French air. I could smell his overwarn cologne in the spaces between us and it struck me as familiar and calming. 

“I’m sorry? Who?” I looked at the man, bewildered by his friendliness.

“Monsieur..Ah.. You were with him when you came yesterday! What is that child’s name? What a racket, I can’t seem to remember. Alexy’s grandchild! Proper gentleman, you know. He said the coat was made for you.” He slid open the door and stepped one foot inside while still facing my direction, “Would you like to come in? I have some diamond earrings that would certainly compliment that stunning necklace you’re wearing.”

I stood firmly put, turning the man’s words over in my mind. I grasped my bag where I had placed my phone, hoping to feel it vibrate from Cecile’s call. 

“Sure, I don’t have anywhere to be for a while,” I said when I realized I had let the ungodly pause go on for far too long. I followed him up the two small steps inside. 

“When you first arrived I thought you two might clean out our entire new line! But I see your choices suit you fine without the rest. Come look at these! Darling little things.” He scurried over to a glass box in the far corner of the shop and peered inside like a child above a pond, seeing his reflection for the first time. “Oh they are perfect!”

The stranger fiddled with some keys before finding the correct one, unlocking the box and sliding out a small pink, satin pillow. On the pillow sat two diamond pear cut earrings. They looked heavy in his hands as he held the pillow out for me to see. A wrinkled smile grew on his face as he watched my eyes trace the light bouncing around the earrings. They looked heavy.

“Here put them on!”

“No, really I shouldn’t. They’re lovely, but I shouldn’t.”

He set the pillow down and took the earrings in his hands. 

“Your ears are bare, if only just for the day. I’m sure Monsieur Aymard, ah yes that was his name! Monsieur Aymard will accompany you back to the boutique later if you are worried!” Monsieur Aymard? I took the earrings in my hands and felt their real weight. “Please, I insist. They would look so becoming that you have no choice but to put them on and walk out of my store this instant!” 

As I slid the friction backings off the earrings and placed them in my ears, my new admirer brought me to a mirror. 

“Is that who I was with? Yesterday? Do you know him well?”

“Oh a sweet thing you are! Funny as well! They compliment your eyes.” The old man tucked my wind-teased hair behind my ears and rested his small hands on my shoulders. “Yes. Yes, you must take them. He will love them.”

Looking at myself I could barely see me at all. Dressed in money and lofty fabric, my movements swift and purposeful. He put away the pillow and box, adjusted my jacket and practically forced me back out onto the street. I forgot to ask his name, though I felt I should have already known by the warm manner he said goodbye. 

Continuing my walk, I reached the address, at least I thought I had. The building was under construction, there wasn’t a door in sight that looked operable. I tried the short alley next to it, looking for any names on the mailboxes that fit with what I knew already. Louise Caron..Maribel Mullins..Boris Page. I shook my head with frustration and headed back to the street. I still had another chance, Le Marta wasn’t far from where I was so I headed there with hope they could tell me something I didn’t know already. It was beginning to feel like any information regarding the past few days would be unbeknownst to me. 

Le Marta was found inside Hotel Barriere Le Fouquet’s. Standing outside on the street I could see straight through to the Arc de Triomphe. The hotel stood four floors high as a corner building, red awnings stretched out as if to say ‘royalty only.’ Two doormen in topper hats greeted me bonjour, mademoiselle, opening its pleasures to me as I walked inside. The air wafted into my face, lemon and tobacco. Red carpets, dark wood paneling, large sofas, soft lighting. Gold pillows, fringed lamps, black and white photos of celebrities. 

“Hello, welcome.” said the young receptionist, I guess I didn’t pass as French. Her eyes were dark and peering, a mismatch to her painted smile. 

“Hi, yes, is Le Marta open?” 

Before the woman could reply, a man came out abruptly from behind the desk.

“Mademoiselle Sullivan! How nice to see you again! I hoped you would be back before the end of your stay. Your things are still safe upstairs. How very nice to see you, truly!” He turned to the woman, motioning her away, so she disappeared into the door behind them. Mumbling something in French he looked up at me again, waiting for an answer. “Ah yes, you must have forgotten your key the other night, you both left in such a hurry I couldn’t catch you outside! Where is Monsieur Aymard? Doesn’t matter now, I’ll take you to your suite.” 

He grabbed a key from underneath the marble counter and held out his arm to me, realizing what he was reaching for, I took off my coat and followed him to the elevator doors. 

“What a beautiful day in Paris wouldn’t you say! Oh what word had you used the other day? Enchanting. Yes, that was it. Enchanting day!” The stout man excitedly entered the elevator before me. 

“Of course, a perfect day.” Enchanting didn’t sound like a word I would normally use. I was slightly disconcerted watching the finely dressed man hold and carry my newly acquired belongings. 

He tapped the key against a sensor, lighting up the button for the top floor. We rose for a moment, and the doors opened to a magnificent entrance. Warm gold and grays flooded the space that reached out onto a rooftop terrace, with direct view of the Arc de Triomphe. Five separate rooms, all tastefully decorated with Harcourt photographs. Deep reds interrupted each room like misplaced color in film noir. Large, overfilled book shelves towered to the highest arch of the ceilings, and all the windows remained open, blowing the weightless white drapes into the room, silently giving shape to the wind. I felt like I had been opened up into a different class, and I stepped into it unsurely. The man hung my coat in a wardrobe just inside the door as I attempted to lighten my steps, fearful my feet might leave black soot imprints on the expensive rugs. 

“I’ll have some champagne brought up right away!” And then he was gone. I checked the clock, almost noon. 

The suite was arranged as if it were a high-end photography studio. Massive gold octobox lights acted as floor lamps, their size diminished by the high ceilings and floor mirrors. Black glass tables were filled with pink rose petals and macaroon towers. Grabbing a few macaroons, I moved from the sitting room into a joint office and dining room, one that seated eight comfortably. The office sat cater-corner to oculus windows, oeil de boeuf, where the busy L’etoile could be seen clearly, circling ‘round the Arc de Triomphe.

I went to the desk where an open book sat, its pages held by a large crystal paper weight. Removing the weight, I felt its silk hardcover, closing it slightly to read the title, Beyond Extravagance: A Royal Collection of Gems and Jewels. Opening the pages back up to where they were held, I was struck by the beauty of the photos before me. Royal Indian Jewels, sarpeshes, tiaras, pendants. I sat down on the wide office bench, noticing particular pages were marked with braided strings, I examined each one carefully. 

The Shah Jahan Dagger, 1592. 

Early 19th century inscribed imperial spinels. 

The Arcot II, late 18th century. 

The Taj Mahal Emerald, 17th century. 

The Patiala Ruby Choker, 1931. 

With my left hand holding open the thickly glossed pages in front of me, turning back and forth between the marked photos; my right hand inadvertently toyed with the large ruby dangling around my neck. The Al Thani Collection, so the book read. I knew nothing of royal Indian history, though I had an overwhelming familiarity of the photos before me. If this was my suite, certainly I was the one who rummaged through these books. Though, the stout man from the front desk had said Monsieur Aymard was with me when I last left the hotel. I was beginning to lose patience with myself. 

I decided to search the bedroom, as the belongings I had left behind would surely be kept there. The color scheme found in the rest of the suite rightfully continued into the bedroom. Heavy red curtains opened to a king-sized mattress placed between two side tables, dressed again in rose petals. A freestanding closet was left slightly open, exposing the clothing hanging inside, I immediately went to uncover them. Two long beige fabric sleeves. I unzipped the first and found with impressionable surprise: a vintage haute couture ball gown, Dior. Soft gold, sleeveless silk, fashioned with heavy sequins, stones and simulated pearls, drenched in the glamor of the 1950s. The second cover held inside a creamy lace evening wrap delicately packaged around a velvet hanger. With it hung a matching pair of long silk gloves which I took in my hands, running the fabric through my fingers in remembrance. I slipped the appropriate glove over my right hand. The silk hugged my wrists, then my forearm and rested comfortably above my petite elbow. I stood in front of a tall gold framed floor mirror, feeling my memories fight to the forefront of my mind. 

Crystal champagne flutes. Waiters dressed in bow ties and white gloves. Gold kitten heels on my feet chattering atop old wood floors. Romantically painted ceilings, dressed with oversized chandeliers, taper candles lit with warm flames. My right arm draped through a man’s navy blue velvet sleeve, my hand resting on his. Gold pinky ring. French, Italian, Dutch all spoke at high volumes as we moved through the crowd. Envious glances from women dressed as elegantly as I, adrenaline shooting through my veins like fresh heroin. I turn to say something to my escort, but hold my tongue as he introduces me to an older gentleman dressed in black with a fluffy white cravat tucked into a high gafton collar. His voice muffled, I misplaced his name, and suddenly I am back alone. Staring apprehensively into my own pale face once again. 

I returned the glove to its place in the closet as I heard a knock at the door. 

Must be the champagne I was promised. 

I rushed myself to the door, peered through the peephole and found myself to be correct, so I let the excited man in once again. He placed the silver ice bucket into a stand just inside the room and pulled the bottle out, uncorking it masterfully with a sudden pop. While filling a glass, he peered at me as I sunk into one of the ivory armchairs. 

“Do you have the time?” My voice cracked as I spoke. 

“Yes let me see,” He wrestled with his coat sleeve, “Half past noon! Have you somewhere to be, mademoiselle?” 

“Well, yes, in fact I do.” Though I had no real understanding of what it was I would actually be doing, I suddenly felt how hungry I had gotten.

“Super! I’ll have the valet call a car for you! It will be ready promptly. Enjoy your champagne, compliments of the hotel!” And he left. 

As the door clicked shut I stood up abruptly, running back into the office space. Once again I flipped through the pages of the book, snapping pictures with my phone of the marked items. Then I slid the silk book into its volume cover and placed it back into the bookshelf. I retrieved my coat from the wardrobe and stumbled out the door, taking the elevator back down to the lobby. The same sharp looking woman who was somewhat reproachful before, smiled kindly at my presence and told me my car was waiting outside. 

Ushered into the back of a black Mercedes sedan, I nestled into the leather and took off my heels once again. I asked politely if the back windows could be rolled down, seaking the fresh air. My head was pounding again. 

“Where to, Ms. Sullivan?” The driver looked timidly at me through the rearview mirror. 

I pretended to think for a moment, knowing I hadn’t a clue. 

“Do you know of any cafes near Pont Neuf? I’d like to sit outside and enjoy the weather.” 

“A beautiful day isn’t it! Uncharacteristic of Paris at this time,” He smiled gaily, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the hotel, “I know of an agreeable cafe, yes most agreeable!” 

“Wonderful.”

I draped my hand out into the wind and let it dance between my fingers, thinking what really sounded wonderful was sticking my head out the window.

Where is Cecile? With a bit of concern I tried her number again. Straight to voicemail. There hadn’t been any evidence of her presence in my suite, which helped me conclude that she probably hadn’t been there. If we had gone our separate ways naturally there would be no reason as to why I hadn’t heard from her yet, and even more unsettling why her phone was still off. If she was safe, her phone would have been charged, giving her no reason to ignore my calls. I sent a text asking her to call me as soon as she received it, then I opened up my photos and began to examine the pictures I had taken of the book. The only descriptions of the images were the names and dates which I then typed into google, hoping to find any information that might help me arrange my memories. 

The first link that popped up in my search for the Shah Jahan Dagger was a news article, Greatly Awaited Grand opening of Hotel de la Marine, Paris. I clicked and scanned the article viciously, stopping after only the first paragraph as it mentioned The Al Thani Collection. I read on attentively. 

 An intimate gathering is to be expected to view the royal Indian jewels ranging from the Mughal Empire period, to the British Raj and into the twenty-first century. The invitation-only guest list, that has yet to be released to the public, includes primarily the highest members of royal society, as well as jewel collectors from across the world. Following the impressive splash the collection made at Christie's much awaited auction last summer in New York, experts and admirers alike have been patiently waiting for the next opportunity to bid for the pieces. Though it has been expressed that none of the collection is for sale, it is rumored that Hotel de la Marine will be their new home. 

The article included a link to the hotel’s website, which I clicked immediately. The announcement page came up first, with a headline GRAND OPENING SUCCESS, dated March 7th. It described in vague detail an accomplished night of wine and caviar interrupted intermittently by educational presentations of each artifact on display. I skimmed the list: Diamond Turban Ornament, Pen Case and Inkwell (devat-e dowlat), The Patiala Ruby Choker, the magic box of Tipu Sultan, The Imperial Spinel Necklace, The Mirror of Paradise, The Taj Mahal Emerald, Shah Jahan’s Dagger..the highly sought Arcot II diamond. 

I stopped, having read enough, noting all four of the marked photos from my suite were named, and sighed with vexation. I returned to the home page and clicked on the images from the event. The photos were scarce, but clearly showed an extravagant ballroom filled with expensively dressed guests, chatting incessantly under large chandeliers and candle lighting. I frantically searched for the dress I discovered in my suite. There, hidden slightly behind a waiter, was my small frame, long gloves, lace wrap, arm and arm with a tall man who faced away from the camera. His navy, velvet tuxedo jacket fit tightly around his broad shoulders, and his gaze was towards the back of the room. I followed his eyes to a glass display case, but the photographer had been focused on the crowd rather than the scattered exhibits around the room. The zoom on my phone could only reach so far, and with irritation I gave up and set my phone down on my lap as my driver slowed to a stop. 

To my disbelief we had parked in front of Restaurant Guy Savoy. As traffic slowed, angry drivers maneuvered around us, cursing our sudden rest in an undesignated area. Visibly unbothered, my driver turned off the engine and exited to open my door. 

“Wait just a moment, I’ll let the host know you have arrived!” Before I could answer he scampered off towards the closed doors and disappeared. 

I climbed out onto the curb, closing the door quickly so as not to be blamed for the commotion the parked car was causing on the busy avenue. The restaurant sat in direct view of Pont Neuf, as well as the flocks of Parisians walking across the bridge, seizing the golden afternoon’s light. Bouquinistes stood outside their green metal stands awaiting tourists’ gazes, happily keeping busy reading magazines or making jewelry out of metal wire. Scooters flew by in the bike lanes, taxis honked angrily at oblivious pedestrians, and the wind carried the faint memory of morning into the afternoon air. I had almost lost my place amongst them when a timid voice broke the melody of the city. 

“Excuse-moi mademoiselle, we are ready for you.” 

I turned to see a fresh faced man holding the door to an unmarked entrance open, awaiting my recognition. I smiled pleasantly and thanked my driver, informing him kindly that I wouldn’t be needing him anymore. The host reached for my coat, which I grappled with to take off, giggling nervously. 

“Do you prefer the Belles Bacchantes Lounge or the Vert Galant? We’ve set a table for you in both rooms,” He asked seriously, as if he expected a well prepared response. 

“Oh I really don’t have a preference, maybe somewhere next to a window? I’d like to watch the people outside.” He nodded in like-mindedness, inconspicuously hiding a smile, and led me to a table on the second floor next to a large window overlooking the Seine. There was no one else seated in the restaurant. 

When I looked around, obviously discouraged, he told me pas de probleme, they had just finished their lunch hours, being that it was just passed 13:30.

“It is our very pleasure to open our doors for you, a friend of Monsieur Aymard is a friend of ours as well!” He practically skipped away.

I ordered an artichoke soup to start, followed by the duck confit, and ate happily enough in the room of empty tables. As the hour turned, I asked for a cappuccino to go and left with the bill comped by my friend with no face. I began to count the minutes until 15:00, attempting to distract myself with my perpetual habit of romanticizing strangers. Where I once felt worried, I was suddenly filled with an apprehensive anticipation. Only five minutes to 15 hour, I better make my way to Pont Neuf.

Confused about our exact meeting spot, I chose to stand in the middle of the bridge facing the Square du Vert-Galant, (a simple garden constantly full of happy souls drinking wine) which protruded out from underneath the bridge, splitting the Seine like a fork. The weeping willow tree at the garden’s edge was overgrown, its lazy limbs dangling delicately into the water below. Every so often a boat would cruise beneath me, rippling the water like a gently tossed stone.

Just as the top of the hour hit, a small, seventeen footer, vintage Chris Craft Sportsman glided towards the garden below. Lean lines of polished mahogany reflected onto the water as the soft rumble of her motor began to hit my ear. The three passengers on board were dressed in different shades of navy and beige, curiously matching not only each other, but the classic interior of their vessel. After docking directly below me, the driver stepped out onto the stone steps, his arm extended for the woman to steady herself as she followed. Searching for something in her hanging side bag without any luck, she dusted the front of her pants with both of her palms, rubbing them together afterwards in a familiar calmness. I know that calmness. I squinted into the sun, wrinkling my brows in careful attention. Cecile lifted her head towards the bridge, scanning the crowd. I smiled, I had found my rendezvous point. 

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