The Music Box

Part 1

I am grateful, Charlotte Maybee told herself. I am grateful that I have this job and I'm grateful for my house and food, and water.... Her weak attempt at reassurance faded away as the awful sensation of complaint set in. Letting out a long sigh, she rose from the chair behind her desk and grabbed her coat and hat from the hook on the wall. Turning out the lights as she exited, she made her way out of the building and out into the chilly night air.

In late December Paris, France looked like a winter wonderland with snow-covered rooftops and the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance. Couples were sitting together on benches, a good Samaritan was throwing away a piece of trash that had been left to lay on the side walk, and cars whizzed by, no doubt on their way to visit family for the Christmas holiday. It was currently the twentieth and as much as she longed for a vacation, she knew the only day she would get off was Christmas itself.

Letting yet another sigh escape her mouth, she took a moment to marvel at the beauty. Then she signaled a taxi and quietly brooded on the way to her Parisian apartment.

Charlotte moved to Paris six years ago to attend college. Now, graduated and on her own, she had a job at a bank downtown, which was just as miserable as it was popular. Her boss, a grumpy, melancholy, six-foot five man by the name of Ivan, often criticized her and treated her poorly. She was often tempted to quit, but she didn't want to have to find a new job. Times were rough and there weren't many available.

The taxi cab pulled up in front of Charlotte's apartment building and she paid the driver, got out, bundled up, and breathed in the freezing air.

Once in her warm, cozy apartment, Charlotte hung her coat up and took a hot shower, washing off every insult she had received that day. Not two minutes after she had gotten out of the shower and was putting on her nightgown the phone rang, awakening her from a most wonderful daydream. She groaned, already regretting answering it because she knew the only person who would be calling her at eleven thirty at night was Ivan, and muttered a groggy, "Hello," into the receiver.

"Mademoiselle Maybee," came Ivan's harsh tone, "I need you to come into my office immediately."

"Ivan-Monsieur Wald-it's not my work hours."

"I don't care," he stated bluntly.

Charlotte closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "May I inquire as to why you need my presence at so late an hour?"

All he said was, "Now, please," and the line went dead.

Summoning all the patience she had, she put the cordless phone down and slipped back into her knee-length, lilac dress with blue polka dots and made her way, step by step, back to the bank.

When she arrived, using her key to unlock the front door, she took the elevator up to floor five, where Ivan awaited her. The elevator dinged and Charlotte, groaning to herself, approached the tall, solid wood door that more often than not led to her doom, and knocked softly.

After a moment there was a muffled, "Come in," and she did so.

Ivan's office was just as gloomy as ever with blank, navy blue walls, not one window, and no furniture excused from the coat rack in the corner and the metal desk placed in the center of the room. Its owner was sitting behind it in a chair that wasn't near big enough for his large rump. He stared at Charlotte with his beady black eyes and waited not-so-patiently for her to come up to his desk and ask sleepily, "What is it you want, Monsieur Wald?"

He looked at her silently as she waited for his response. The longer the silence, the more impatient she became. But she knew better than to speak out of turn and so she stood there, watching Ivan intently and observing that his eyes were different. They were still black and very cold, but there seemed to be a new, completely foreign addition.