Queen of Clubs

Queen of Clubs - Chapter 1

 Chapter 1

The woman who walked through my door on the 4th of July was not Sandrine Ferrand anymore. She had changed. When she left me again 3 months later, I knew who she had become. I have to admit I envied her.

I am a painter, you know. I think in colors, pictures, emotions. I own a little cottage situated between Frejus and Les Issambres in the Côte d’Azur. I sell landscape paintings to galleries in Nice and Cannes, I eat whatever the countryside has to offer and indulge in my passions: Food, friends, and love. Sandrine’s world however...

 Well, when she stumbled through my door on that summer morning, I would never have guessed, what she was about to tell me. The last time we had spend a night together had been 5 years before, and now she stood in my living room. The cognac-colored leather on her boots was worn away at the toe-caps, tiny loose threads stuck out along the black hem of her skirt, and a creased light-blue silk blouse covered her chest. Sandrine had lost a lot of weight, notably in her face. Some might have mistaken her for a haggard version of Virginie Ledoyen. Her cheek bones prominent, but her cheeks sunken in, her strawberry lips were well-tended but dry. She had evidently dyed her black hair more than once, I could see that clearly. She had put it up with a white horn hair clip. Actually, the only thing that reminded me of my Sandrine, was the stubborn look on her face. Her bold but cheerful eyes with those deep-caramel irides, asking everyone:»Come on, say something!«.

She came closer, kissed my cheek and pushed past me into my bedroom. On the way, she let go of the blue sports bag, she had dragged behind her when she came in.

Walking, she took her boots off one by one, let her skirt slide down her legs and shrugged off her blouse, crawled into my bed, pulled the blanket over her head, and slept – for two days. I nearly called for Docteur Maurice.

Of course, it’s wrong to rummage through a lady’s bag, but did I have any choice? After 5 years, the love of my life makes a sudden reappearance, and walks through my door. She looks dishevelled and lies down in my bed without saying a single word. All I was left with was to pick up her clothes and watch over her sleep. What would you have done?

So I opened her sports bag and, I swear, I still regret it today. What I found were a handful of tubes filled with colorful powder, two switchblades, a SIG Chylewski 6.35mm Browning, red lace panties, three passports all with different names, and her old pochette. I have to admit the latter was still in great condition. Sewn in Paris during the 1930’s it was made of smooth leather and had a golden shoulder strap that Sandrine had added for comfort. The clasp was closed by inserting an elaborate metal tongue, which looked less like a tongue and more like a five-sided frame, into a broad metal slit. Well, as you might realise, I was very uncomfortable when I slowly removed her belongings from the sports bag and put them on the table.

I would never have opened the pochette if there hadn't been some movement inside. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In one of the inside pockets I found Parsley.

Parsley is a black-knobbed map turtle, species Graptemys nigrinoda. Together, we had bought it in Vence, five years before. He was only 4 inches long and had little knob-like processes with shiny black tops that looked freshly polished. I grabbed him and balanced him on the palm of my hand. He yawned.

I turned to have a look at the miserable heap underneath my blanket in the bedroom, resting. I put everything back into the sports bag and put it into the lockable closet underneath the staircase beside the door. I fetched some lettuce and water for Parsley. Then I took him out on the patio, sat down to look out to the sea and waited for Sandrine to wake up again.

46 hours later my blanket moved again. I was busy making lunch, when I heard her take a shower. She entered the kitchen an hour later and sat down. My dressing gown that she had wrapped around herself looked like an empty bag. I put a bowl of chicken soup before her. She deeply inhaled aroma.

»Rested?« I asked. She nodded and sipped.

»It’s been a long time.«

She shrugged, tore off a piece of baguette, and slowly took a bite.

»Is there anything I should know, Sandrine?« I pressed her, tried to lock eyes with her. Her voice was frail when she finally opened her mouth to say something:»Where is my bag?«

I stroked my upper lip with thumb and index finger.

»Safe.«

»I mean the other one.« She chewed intently.

»The pochette?«

Sandrine stopped chewing and gave me a hard look. Then she said something that baffled me. She said: »I am Pochette.«

I closed my eyes, inwardly shook my head, opened the drawer beneath the table top and retrieved the pochette. Sandrine took it from me and looked inside.

»Where is...«

»Parsley?« I asked.

She nodded again.

I pointed behind me with my thumb. The turtle sat on the window sill in the kitchen and dozed in the shade.

Then I witnessed something I had never seen before in my life. Sandrine sighed, elated. Then her shoulders and head sagged forward, her arms thudded on the wooden tabletop, and she started to wail. When she lifted her head again, she looked like Edvard Munch’s »The Scream«. Her mouth gaped open, the corners of her mouth fallen in dismay, her eyes were wide with terror, and tears streaked down her face. I feared for her. One endless breath later, she started to shake with tears. I put my arms around her, then led her back to the bed. She continued to cry rivers. Something inside her had finally clicked into place, she had reached the end of her journey, crossed a threshold. I don’t know what else to call it.

Then life returned. For three months. Day in, day out. We walked on the beach, ate, made love. Not necessarily in this order, but consistently. She gained weight again, her skin got rosy, and the lines in her face softened.

Then one evening she started to talk about it all, about lost companions and relentless enemies, about the darkest moment in her life and about the fall of the mightiest Titans, about fear and about love.

Now that she is gone again, I need to write it all down, so I can understand. So please excuse my awkwardness. Sometimes I lack the right words. I will try my best not to be judgemental, but some things won’t allow for that.

I will strive to write it all down truthfully, so you get an idea of this woman, who left me as Sandrine Ferrand and returned as Pochette.

This is her story...