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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had only been in this apartment for just over a month now, and the lease was pretty generous in this neighbourhood, she was able to stay there for a year, or even three years, if she wanted to, and she does… very much so.

The place had been renovated several years ago, mostly by a master builder, she’d met him – nice man, she remembered; she was just about to leave, taking her various things with her, but then she thought she should water her plant, it was an aster –pretty and showy, all those little purple flowers, and it was still alive, rather a miracle.

Then done, she locked the front door and began to walk down all those stairs, and as usual she stopped half-way, looking up and down, and this time she thought about those handsome walls, off-cream, and meticulous, those wonderful plasterers must have worked very hard.

She turned to look out at the other buildings and then to the river beyond, since she would always yearn for any large river which flowed out to the ocean.

She’d been thinking about what she’d written over the last week, and she was fairly pleased about that at the moment.

But before anything else she needed some strong coffee, and maybe a bagel; so she began to walk quickly, since it was always better to be sitting in one of those tables in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, where the most helpful people are there.

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Deborah, the top professional librarian, was in business now, she was able to stay after hours for as long as she wanted, this was not the most important public library in New York, but it was pretty good.

She had put on her oversize smock (almost like she was an artist), and also her thick socks, to keep her feet warm; she had her pince-nez on her nose, plus her handy magnifying glass, and now she would be precise and detailed as she would look at that map.

Deborah had been to many places around the world, from most of North America and much of the south of Europe, and also parts of North Africa, but nothing had haunted her as much as Alexandria in Egypt, that wonderful Great Library.

It was late but she was getting very close, even though that map was still slipping and sliding around; she’d looked up as she heard several people talking loudly, revellers she realised, and she thought one of them was the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), in fact, she was sure about that.

Earlier, Deborah had been skimming through the two most recent novels written by the red-headed writer, both of them were set in Africa; and now Deborah suddenly put two and two together…

There was a map of the seas on the boat in that latest novel, and look at that… almost the same on the table just here, in fact, they are the same: oh my, what a shock!

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It was the third of April, and the red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse), was looking forward to enjoying a fun evening in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.

Two days ago she had been doing a short story, slotting the two gargoyles in Paris (as usual) – it was about the Poisson d’Avril (April fool’s day, literally ‘April’s fish day’), where the iconic trick involves secretly sticking a paper fish onto someone’s back… she had been still giggling as she sent her email.

She went into her bedroom, wondering what she would wear, something understated – mostly black, just a bit of bling, all she would need to do was remove a little blot on her sleeve, but not a problem.

As she dressed, she remembered way back, when she had been in the Manager’s Office – while the tall, thin man had been over in the bar area, she had been lounging on that lovely chaise-longue, while eating a chocolate flake, closing her eyes… but, of course, what a mess she’d made – yes, she had been clumsy, such a clot; but she giggled again, that mat was probably still a bit sticky in one corner.

She was in the main room, where she looked at the time on her laptop, she’d have to take that, but she was almost ready; she had her flat shoes, much more comfortable, and her big bag with all those things she needed – now to go down all those stairs.

She walked quickly now, she could almost hear the music…

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The red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse) suddenly shouted, ‘THAT MAP’, while several people looked up and stared, after all, it was a library… ‘sorry,’ she muttered, as she thought… fortitude, I must be strong.

The thing was, she’d realised that the map – the one that seemed to move around – it was real (of course), not like all those things she’d made up, for example, she might use slang for certain things, even though she wouldn’t necessarily mean it, or something she’d pronounce making it completely right, even though it wasn’t – no problem if it’s just writing, but this map…

Meanwhile, Deborah sidled up, ‘you know that you’ve written several novels, and they have been released, so I’ll send a card to one of the other librarians to go to the fiction section, and I can look at your work, that seems sensible, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t think any of my books are in your library though,’ said the red-head writer, ‘only in Amazon,’ – ‘well, maybe they will have a little look anyway – trust me,’ said Deborah, ‘we can get things,’ as she winked.

The Raconteuse smiled, but she was clearly rattled, she pointed at that map again, ‘I’m thinking about my most recent novel, gosh, it’s a bit complicated as far as I remember,’ – said Deborah, ‘in that case, you could wait, like I said, just trust me.’

‘Okay,’ said the red-headed writer, ‘I’ll wait, and the map will stay here; I’ll do something in the meantime.’

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