| General Fiction posted November 12, 2018 | Chapters: |
...24 25 -26- 27... 
|
  |
Chapter 26: Charles begins to read Helen's journal
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Journal
by tfawcus
| Background Charles's plan to flee to England with Helen and Jeanne has been delayed by Jeanne's sudden seizure. While she and Helen are at the hospital, he has a chance to start reading Helen's journal... |
The first few entries in the journal were about Karachi and, as Helen had already told me what happened there, I skipped over them to the account of their arrival in Thailand:
September 3rd
As we approached Bangkok, the aircraft was tossed around like a boat on a rough sea. Banks of cloud towered above us, grey and bearded giants that batted the plane about like a plaything. We hit an air pocket on final approach that sent my stomach to my mouth, and I reached out in panic, grasping for Kayla's hand. She smiled weakly to reassure me, but it was obvious that she was as scared as I was. Anyway, she tried to put on a brave face, saying, "Trust us to arrive in the middle of the monsoon season, dear sister!"
A few moments later, the plane hit the runway with a sickening thud and a squeal like a stuck pig. A sudden surge of power threw us forward against our seatbelts as the pilot slammed all four engines into reverse. I looked out of the window to see needles of rain splattering on the tarmac. The ghosts of buildings slid past as we gradually slowed to walking pace and turned off the runway to follow the blue taxiway lights. Thank God! We had arrived. Safe, and in one piece.
When Customs and Immigration formalities were complete, we proceeded to the arrivals hall. We were looking around for an information desk, when a man approached us with a welcoming smile. He made a few remarks about the appalling weather before offering us a cut-price taxi fare to the city. Among his torrent of words were, "no need to queue in the rain like everyone else" -- "my friend is just across the road in the carpark" -- "so much quicker and easier".
He introduced himself as Sammy, and asked which hotel we were staying at. We told him we hadn't booked one, and off he went again, ten to the dozen, "not to worry" -- "I know the very place for you" -- "cheap and clean" -- "a nice area" -- "my uncle works there" -- "he'll look after you ladies".
Sammy was so plausible and friendly that we took him at face value and agreed to everything. He was quick to scoop up what little luggage we had, and marched off, flashing gold-filled teeth as he called back over his shoulder, "Follow me!"
How lucky, we thought! Such a nice person! He reminded us of Ibrihim, our taxi driver in Chitral.
I paused in my reading to glance up. The proprietor had arrived with my half bottle of champagne, held deferentially at an angle of forty five degrees so that I could read the label.
"Monsieur has made an excellent choice, if I may say so."
There was a slight hiss as he removed the cork and poured a little of the wine into my flute. I held it to the light, swirled it around, and inhaled, then nodded appreciatively. He filled the glass, leaving the remainder of the bottle in a small bucket of ice, with a white napkin draped elegantly around its neck.
The ceremony complete, he retired, and I was left to reflect upon the utter naivety of Kayla and Helen, two unaccompanied girls travelling overseas for the first time. I took a sip of wine and then read on, curious to see how the scam would play out.
We hurried out of the terminal building after him. The heat and humidity outside were so intense that we were gasping for breath. The rain had stopped, and a fierce tropical sun was now beating down on the pavement, turning it to steam...
I anticipated that, when they reached the car park, Sammy would put out his hand for a tip. Of course, they wouldn't have any bahts, so they would need to give him dollars, probably a ten-spot. At the hotel, the driver would demand three or four times the proper fare, even more taking into account his scandalous exchange rate for their US dollars.
I glanced down the page and confirmed my predictions. The hotel, however, turned out to be central, in one of the better areas of the city, and not too expensive. Doubtless Sammy and his friend were getting a hefty kickback.
I skipped through a few pages filled with Helen's first impressions of the city, and her various excursions to the places tourists tend to visit - the temples, the Royal Palace and a river trip to the famous Floating Market. My eye was caught by a reference to exotic street food and delicacies being sampled from a bug cart.
September 6th
This evening we browsed around street stalls, milling about with a thousand other tourists. Some were eating deep fried insects from a street stall. Kayla and I watched in fascination as the vendor scooped them up into a paper bag like French Fries, and sprayed them with a mist of soy sauce. We decided to risk it, and tried some fried grasshoppers. I shut my eyes as Kayla dropped the first one into my mouth and, after getting over the initial revulsion, I crunched and found it tasted quite good - a high protein snack!
I stopped reading, to reflect on the strange things people eat in foreign countries. Just then, the kitchen door swung open. I found it wryly amusing that my thoughts should be interrupted in this way by the arrival of a dish of snails.
"Bon appétit, monsieur!"
The irony was not lost on me as I picked up a shell with the stainless steel tongs provided, and deftly removed the first escargot with a small two-pronged fork and dipped it in melted butter. I chewed its gristly flesh to release a clam-like flavour beneath the garlic. Who knows? Perhaps crunchy grasshoppers are equally delicious.
In due course, I wiped my chin and drained my glass of champagne, then returned to the journal. I found little of interest until an event that was to change the lives of the girls for ever:
September 10th
Calamity! Kayla and I were out this afternoon, when a young girl tugged at my skirt and beckoned us to follow her down a narrow alleyway. As soon as we were away from the main shopping street, we found ourselves confronted by three Thai boys. One of them pulled out a knife and motioned us to back up against a wall, while the other two relieved us of our bags. Kayla tried to resist, and received a savage backhand blow across her face. The next thing we knew, they had run off down the alley, whooping in triumph, and laughing. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
I saw that Kayla had an ugly welt raised on her cheek, and blood trickled from her swollen lip, where her teeth had cut the inside of her mouth. I tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable. Hysterical, in fact. I escorted her back to the hotel, ducking behind some newly arrived guests as we passed through the foyer. Once in our room, she became calmer. We were both numb with disbelief.
This evening we are taking stock. We have lost everything - passports, money, phones, all forms of identity - everything. What can we possibly do? The Pakistani Embassy is out of the question. With Kayla having cashed cheques on our dead father's account, she must be a wanted criminal back home - and I could be arrested as an accomplice.
The Thai Police? What would they do? Lengthy statements and cross-questioning. After that, if they believed our story, they would probably hand us to the Embassy for repatriation. Alternatively, if they did not, they might consign us to the 'Bangkok Hilton' - one of the most notorious prisons in the world.
What would make them think that? There was certainly nothing in the journal in the least bit incriminating up to this point. Had they been doing something illegal while they were there, or was it just street talk that they had overheard?
I read on. They trampled over a multitude of discarded ideas before they found the answer - they would use their talents as entertainers. Their upbringing in the Kalash Valley had blessed them with an innate grace of movement, an ability to dance with sinuous ease. I remembered what Helen had told me about the mesmeric rhythm of drums at village dances and the eerie sound of the mountain flutes. I also remembered her trance-like state as she spoke of the sitar's haunting melodies, and the singing of ghazals.
What fairy-tales might these two weave in the cesspits of Bangkok after the tropic sun had done with staining the sky? What magic might they create to defend themselves against the pallid moon, and her sorcery of glittering lights?
Again and again, they auditioned as dancers, each time setting their sights lower to raise their hopes of survival. At last, after weeks of wearying disappointment, they were successful. An insalubrious nightclub took them on, offering a pitiful, subsistence wage, and the prospect of pin money entertaining sleazy, drunken customers, the dregs of the sex tourism industry.
How glad Helen was that Kayla had insisted they both took lessons in Muay Thai after their harrowing experience with the three Thai boys. She had pawned the few pieces of jewellery she had, to make sure of it. One entry in the journal suggested that, even at that early stage, she might have pawned even more than that.
What became increasingly clear as I turned the pages was that, under Kayla's tutelage, Helen became progressively more street-wise, more able to look after herself. As time went on, the journal chronicled the way in which they gradually lifted themselves from the gutter, making some kind of a life for themselves.
December 18th
Good news this morning! I have been offered a job at one of the high-class nightclubs. There's an important Pakistani business convention in town at the moment. The manager has already employed a sitar player and wants someone who can woo the businessmen with traditional ghazals from the Hindu-Kush. He liked what I sang at audition, and has given me a generous prepayment to make sure that I can dress for the part. We are to perform every night for a week. Whoopie!
If it all works out, I may end up getting more permanent employment, and at a decent living wage. This could be the break we've been waiting for, but it has also made me feel desperately homesick. How I wish I could escape this place for ever.
December 20th
My performance last night was met with rapturous applause, and not just by the businessmen. There was also a European lady in the audience. French, I think. She came up to me afterwards to congratulate me. She wants to meet me again tomorrow so that she can find out more about us. She seemed like such a nice lady, and said she had a proposition that might interest us. Intriguing! I can't wait to hear what it is! Kayla says I should be careful, and not say too much until I know more about her - who she is, what she wants, and where she comes from.
I knew, of course, that this must be Mme Durand. Perhaps now I could get to the bottom of the mystery. I was about to continue reading when my phone rang. It was Helen, from the hospital.
"Hello? Listen, Charles, I can't join you at the restaurant tonight. Something has come up."
"What's the problem? Is everything all right?"
"Yes, but the doctor has just examined Jeanne. He wants to speak to me about her condition, and get more details about her collapse." There was a slight pause, then she continued in a voice barely above a whisper, "Can you meet me here at the hospital in half an hour? I'll explain everything then."
Before I could answer, the phone went dead.
September 3rd
As we approached Bangkok, the aircraft was tossed around like a boat on a rough sea. Banks of cloud towered above us, grey and bearded giants that batted the plane about like a plaything. We hit an air pocket on final approach that sent my stomach to my mouth, and I reached out in panic, grasping for Kayla's hand. She smiled weakly to reassure me, but it was obvious that she was as scared as I was. Anyway, she tried to put on a brave face, saying, "Trust us to arrive in the middle of the monsoon season, dear sister!"
A few moments later, the plane hit the runway with a sickening thud and a squeal like a stuck pig. A sudden surge of power threw us forward against our seatbelts as the pilot slammed all four engines into reverse. I looked out of the window to see needles of rain splattering on the tarmac. The ghosts of buildings slid past as we gradually slowed to walking pace and turned off the runway to follow the blue taxiway lights. Thank God! We had arrived. Safe, and in one piece.
When Customs and Immigration formalities were complete, we proceeded to the arrivals hall. We were looking around for an information desk, when a man approached us with a welcoming smile. He made a few remarks about the appalling weather before offering us a cut-price taxi fare to the city. Among his torrent of words were, "no need to queue in the rain like everyone else" -- "my friend is just across the road in the carpark" -- "so much quicker and easier".
He introduced himself as Sammy, and asked which hotel we were staying at. We told him we hadn't booked one, and off he went again, ten to the dozen, "not to worry" -- "I know the very place for you" -- "cheap and clean" -- "a nice area" -- "my uncle works there" -- "he'll look after you ladies".
Sammy was so plausible and friendly that we took him at face value and agreed to everything. He was quick to scoop up what little luggage we had, and marched off, flashing gold-filled teeth as he called back over his shoulder, "Follow me!"
How lucky, we thought! Such a nice person! He reminded us of Ibrihim, our taxi driver in Chitral.
I paused in my reading to glance up. The proprietor had arrived with my half bottle of champagne, held deferentially at an angle of forty five degrees so that I could read the label.
"Monsieur has made an excellent choice, if I may say so."
There was a slight hiss as he removed the cork and poured a little of the wine into my flute. I held it to the light, swirled it around, and inhaled, then nodded appreciatively. He filled the glass, leaving the remainder of the bottle in a small bucket of ice, with a white napkin draped elegantly around its neck.
The ceremony complete, he retired, and I was left to reflect upon the utter naivety of Kayla and Helen, two unaccompanied girls travelling overseas for the first time. I took a sip of wine and then read on, curious to see how the scam would play out.
We hurried out of the terminal building after him. The heat and humidity outside were so intense that we were gasping for breath. The rain had stopped, and a fierce tropical sun was now beating down on the pavement, turning it to steam...
I anticipated that, when they reached the car park, Sammy would put out his hand for a tip. Of course, they wouldn't have any bahts, so they would need to give him dollars, probably a ten-spot. At the hotel, the driver would demand three or four times the proper fare, even more taking into account his scandalous exchange rate for their US dollars.
I glanced down the page and confirmed my predictions. The hotel, however, turned out to be central, in one of the better areas of the city, and not too expensive. Doubtless Sammy and his friend were getting a hefty kickback.
I skipped through a few pages filled with Helen's first impressions of the city, and her various excursions to the places tourists tend to visit - the temples, the Royal Palace and a river trip to the famous Floating Market. My eye was caught by a reference to exotic street food and delicacies being sampled from a bug cart.
September 6th
This evening we browsed around street stalls, milling about with a thousand other tourists. Some were eating deep fried insects from a street stall. Kayla and I watched in fascination as the vendor scooped them up into a paper bag like French Fries, and sprayed them with a mist of soy sauce. We decided to risk it, and tried some fried grasshoppers. I shut my eyes as Kayla dropped the first one into my mouth and, after getting over the initial revulsion, I crunched and found it tasted quite good - a high protein snack!
I stopped reading, to reflect on the strange things people eat in foreign countries. Just then, the kitchen door swung open. I found it wryly amusing that my thoughts should be interrupted in this way by the arrival of a dish of snails.
"Bon appétit, monsieur!"
The irony was not lost on me as I picked up a shell with the stainless steel tongs provided, and deftly removed the first escargot with a small two-pronged fork and dipped it in melted butter. I chewed its gristly flesh to release a clam-like flavour beneath the garlic. Who knows? Perhaps crunchy grasshoppers are equally delicious.
In due course, I wiped my chin and drained my glass of champagne, then returned to the journal. I found little of interest until an event that was to change the lives of the girls for ever:
September 10th
Calamity! Kayla and I were out this afternoon, when a young girl tugged at my skirt and beckoned us to follow her down a narrow alleyway. As soon as we were away from the main shopping street, we found ourselves confronted by three Thai boys. One of them pulled out a knife and motioned us to back up against a wall, while the other two relieved us of our bags. Kayla tried to resist, and received a savage backhand blow across her face. The next thing we knew, they had run off down the alley, whooping in triumph, and laughing. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
I saw that Kayla had an ugly welt raised on her cheek, and blood trickled from her swollen lip, where her teeth had cut the inside of her mouth. I tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable. Hysterical, in fact. I escorted her back to the hotel, ducking behind some newly arrived guests as we passed through the foyer. Once in our room, she became calmer. We were both numb with disbelief.
This evening we are taking stock. We have lost everything - passports, money, phones, all forms of identity - everything. What can we possibly do? The Pakistani Embassy is out of the question. With Kayla having cashed cheques on our dead father's account, she must be a wanted criminal back home - and I could be arrested as an accomplice.
The Thai Police? What would they do? Lengthy statements and cross-questioning. After that, if they believed our story, they would probably hand us to the Embassy for repatriation. Alternatively, if they did not, they might consign us to the 'Bangkok Hilton' - one of the most notorious prisons in the world.
What would make them think that? There was certainly nothing in the journal in the least bit incriminating up to this point. Had they been doing something illegal while they were there, or was it just street talk that they had overheard?
I read on. They trampled over a multitude of discarded ideas before they found the answer - they would use their talents as entertainers. Their upbringing in the Kalash Valley had blessed them with an innate grace of movement, an ability to dance with sinuous ease. I remembered what Helen had told me about the mesmeric rhythm of drums at village dances and the eerie sound of the mountain flutes. I also remembered her trance-like state as she spoke of the sitar's haunting melodies, and the singing of ghazals.
What fairy-tales might these two weave in the cesspits of Bangkok after the tropic sun had done with staining the sky? What magic might they create to defend themselves against the pallid moon, and her sorcery of glittering lights?
Again and again, they auditioned as dancers, each time setting their sights lower to raise their hopes of survival. At last, after weeks of wearying disappointment, they were successful. An insalubrious nightclub took them on, offering a pitiful, subsistence wage, and the prospect of pin money entertaining sleazy, drunken customers, the dregs of the sex tourism industry.
How glad Helen was that Kayla had insisted they both took lessons in Muay Thai after their harrowing experience with the three Thai boys. She had pawned the few pieces of jewellery she had, to make sure of it. One entry in the journal suggested that, even at that early stage, she might have pawned even more than that.
What became increasingly clear as I turned the pages was that, under Kayla's tutelage, Helen became progressively more street-wise, more able to look after herself. As time went on, the journal chronicled the way in which they gradually lifted themselves from the gutter, making some kind of a life for themselves.
December 18th
Good news this morning! I have been offered a job at one of the high-class nightclubs. There's an important Pakistani business convention in town at the moment. The manager has already employed a sitar player and wants someone who can woo the businessmen with traditional ghazals from the Hindu-Kush. He liked what I sang at audition, and has given me a generous prepayment to make sure that I can dress for the part. We are to perform every night for a week. Whoopie!
If it all works out, I may end up getting more permanent employment, and at a decent living wage. This could be the break we've been waiting for, but it has also made me feel desperately homesick. How I wish I could escape this place for ever.
December 20th
My performance last night was met with rapturous applause, and not just by the businessmen. There was also a European lady in the audience. French, I think. She came up to me afterwards to congratulate me. She wants to meet me again tomorrow so that she can find out more about us. She seemed like such a nice lady, and said she had a proposition that might interest us. Intriguing! I can't wait to hear what it is! Kayla says I should be careful, and not say too much until I know more about her - who she is, what she wants, and where she comes from.
I knew, of course, that this must be Mme Durand. Perhaps now I could get to the bottom of the mystery. I was about to continue reading when my phone rang. It was Helen, from the hospital.
"Hello? Listen, Charles, I can't join you at the restaurant tonight. Something has come up."
"What's the problem? Is everything all right?"
"Yes, but the doctor has just examined Jeanne. He wants to speak to me about her condition, and get more details about her collapse." There was a slight pause, then she continued in a voice barely above a whisper, "Can you meet me here at the hospital in half an hour? I'll explain everything then."
Before I could answer, the phone went dead.
 Recognized |
|
List of characters:
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Helen Culverson: A woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, who seems to have become Charles's girlfriend.
Kayla Culverson: Her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with the Mafia in some way.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix, vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin: An intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased]: mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased]: Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. tfawcus All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
tfawcus has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
