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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to remove so much stuff from her lovely apartment; she was determined to dismantle all this nonsense in her kitchen cupboards and under her bed – and it was the second time she’d done it, and it was less than a year – all those empty boxes.

Decluttering … that was the word, as she muttered to herself, as she started to shred all those papers which were not useful anymore, but at least they would be recycled.

She had several sacks which she had commandeered from the basement, and she’d brought them up to her apartment; she’d filled them up and now she’d put then outside in her front door, hoping that someone might help her, since it was six floors down – she giggled to herself thinking, maybe she could just drop then down, but probably not a good idea.

She shut her door and went into her living room, as she sank down on her couch, then she looked on the right; there it was – she gripped her big bag, she needed to take everything out… everything! – she took a big breath, and opened it.

Right on the top was that note, she stared and stared again, still as dense as it could possibly be; ‘dense’ she thought … that’s a useful word; she smiled again, the word dense, is almost the same as Denise – she could help me, she was sure.

She was going to scoot out… this minute!

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been pondering since she still couldn’t fathom who had written that strange note; it was indelibly etched in her brain, and she had shoved it in her big bag while she’d thought about something else for a bit.

She was very much happier since the whole crowd – meaning the Proprietors – were all back, plus a couple of others who had joined as well; they were all pretty busy, even though some of them had been doing certain nefarious things, well, she at least thought so.

La Raconteuse stretched for a moment then moved over to the bar; she craned over to watch Mimi and Tom who were parading their new aprons – they had found them on their pegs on the back of the door in the kitchen.

Denise, the Bartender, explained: ‘I’d wondered what would look good on those aprons since there are so many symbols around everywhere; I’d thought maybe a dove, or maybe a heart, but then, of course,’ as she grinned, ‘here it’s on the floor.’

‘Ah yes, we all know that place don’t we,’ as la Raconteuse smiled, ‘what a perfect idea.’

She turned around and looked up where the Gatekeeper was back in his usual spot – he’d returned to the front entrance, as he was lighting his cigar; the red-head writer dropped down from the bar, as she ran up to talk to him, she hugged him and said: ‘we will never forget what you wrote there.’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had just sat down in her usual booth, all seemed fine, as she started to open her laptop, as she glanced over to the bar where her usual suspects (meaning the Proprietors) – although of course they were not usual suspects at all.

However, she had realised that there were a couple of people around now who she felt were big time hoodlums – like Lou and Rosetta, still they were pretty cool and clearly well-bred and ‘interesting’, and for that she was fine about it.

Then she saw a written note inside her laptop, and that was weird: who had written that? – she didn’t recognise the writing, and why did it say – ‘this is very misleading, isn’t it’; she stared around for a bit, but the only thing she was sure, was that someone had been sitting here just before.

There was no signature, and just six words, how can that help, she wondered; but never worry about that for the moment: time to write!

She had been doing some poetry earlier; it was a good exercise to take more than one meaning; she’d used ‘witch’ and ‘which’, but what next – ‘rose’ or a pretty ‘rose’; but meanwhile, she was also writing a tiny story, one which only used 100 words.

But now she was thinking about food – some nice bread and a lovely moist and rare steak; and suddenly she giggled out loud, that was a perfect word for this… ‘stake’ (poor vampire).

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) grinned a huge grin, as she looked up to see the Gatekeeper who had just arrived at the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro; several other people looked as well, as he stopped at the second step down, and surveyed the room.

La Raconteuse looked the other way for a moment, as the Bartender gave a nod and a wink on the other side of the bar to the Gatekeeper: destiny was back, and the red-headed writer was more than pleased about that.

She hopped down from the stool as she turned around to see the Gatekeeper as he began to walk along the long bar – ‘gosh, you’re even smaller than I remember,’ he said – while she grinned – ‘just flat shoes for me now.’

Despite so many things had changed – and of course it had been several years from the start, but at least the main Proprietors were still in the heart of the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, although there were more exotic, devious and more besides too, who hang out there now, but the red-headed writer wasn’t worried.

The tall, thin man turned from the small group in the corner, as he strode to meet the Gatekeeper in the middle of the bar, right by the Bartender; in less than a minute, she’d served the finest malt whisky and two chunky glasses plus some ice – ‘let’s go through to the Manager’s office.’

La Raconteuse glanced out to see how dismal the weather was, as she sat down into her usual booth.

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Back into that wonderful Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, the red-headed writer (aka La Raconteuse) was ready to write another chapter in her story.

Earlier she had been far too busy to do anything but eat and drink, since she’d had a very late breakfast (or brunch); she had been umming and arring about the menu for ages, as Tom was on leave, and Mimi was not here either. In the end she plumped for a couple of small pancakes with bacon and syrup (very proper for those American people, as she grinned), and in the meantime she munched some toast with butter and jam, or was it marmalade she wondered for a moment, but anyway everything was delicious, and she drank two coffees as well.

She went back to her usual booth where she opened her laptop, she was so happy that it had been fixed by this clever guy, since it took more than three days to work properly again. Without her laptop she had to write things down using paper and pen or pencil, and now she had so many notes and scribbles in her little notebook – what a mess! – but at least now she could continue to write on that laptop.

She had been working for more than an hour, but then she walked over to the bar, she smiled and waved to her great friend, the Bartender, while the tall, thin man gestured to the small group in the corner, and now, of course, she would be earwigging again.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had decided that she would not go to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro today, no naughty-but-nice things to eat just at the moment; she was already primed to eat healthy things, and she had several juices on the go, plus for breakfast she had some muesli and half of a mango.

Then suddenly she could hear a ruckus down below, she opened her front door, it seemed that a couple of officers were waving a warrant around in one of the lower apartments; it was interesting, but best not to get involved, she thought, in any case petty rules were not for her, as she shut the door, and rather quickly.

She potted around in the living space, as she grinned: primal, she thought, it was a new plant called a Venus fly-trap; she peered closer, aha she beamed, another one caught – excellent!

She went to the tiny kitchen, and quickly washed the dishes, but she glared at that messy thing on the corner; perhaps she should forget about using that juicer, it was so messy and fiddly, and it took forever to clean it.

She went for a rummage in the bedroom – lots of things were under the bed – she pulled everything out and there it was, the useful box and inside was the receipt and the warranty, because by this time, she knew she would never use that juicing thing ever again.

But now she was hungry again, what would she eat… maybe another banana?

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That was very, very odd, thought the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), she was sure that she had written a small piece about the Stream-of-Consciousness, but there’s nothing on her laptop – but how could it be? – more than odd, but she decided to do something different today, she would go to one of the markets not far from here.

But before anything else she would have to put her two bin bags out, as she mused as she lugged down those many stairs, maybe she could reform herself a little bit: for example, she could lay off some of that coffee and chocolate, and even that lovely wine, but not quite yet, as she grinned to herself.

All that finished, she strided off to decide where she was going, since she knew some of the best places to go now, as she looked around in that neighbourhood.

She passed the wedding shop – not for her she knew, as she crossed the street and then walked around the corner; where there seemed to be a celebration, and then she clicked, it was the Cinco de Mayo.

She continued over a couple of streets before finding herself in the particularly good market – with lots of art, crafts, vinyl, gorgeous vintage clothes, and all kinds of bric-a-brac stuff, but what to buy, she thought; but then she couldn’t decide.

There were several food emporiums around, and all looking very nice, but as usual she decided to go over to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro for lunch.

—
p.s.
So that’s where it when! Who knew? That red-headed writer was very confused. But, at least she’d found it. So that’s alright. That Stream of Consciousness, hmm, it was very strange.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been a bit rattled in the deep night yesterday; she had almost lost the plot as she had continued to write furiously on her laptop, but at least this morning she was feeling much better, particularly since she had been fortified with her breakfast in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro just now.

She was very keen to show this to Deborah, but la Raconteuse still needed to read back again, since she wanted to make sure what she had written was as good as she could; she knew that the lovely librarian would be perfectly happy to be callous as she explained how it could be better – otherwise, what would be the point?

A final read would be all she’d need, so she settled down in her usual booth, while she put her phone to charge on her laptop, as she started to read again.

She picked up her big bag, waved a hand as she left, then almost ran up the three steps, but then she stopped… dead; she stared in the distance, something suddenly had confused her, but then she continued to walk again – everything would be fine.

Soon she had arrived in the excellent library, as she hurried to the counter to where one of the librarians appeared, a young man, she’d asked for Deborah but what a blow; alas, there was no Deborah, there had never been a Deborah, but how can that be?

Did she just make it up… everything… really?

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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!

next episode

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