Chapter I. The Black Notebook

The girl was dead alright, drenched almost unrecognizably in cardinal-crimson blood that poured in steady stream down a slouched naked arm onto my worn out Buchara. I could not locate the source of the blood, which felt irrelevant and the position of her legs betrayed what I suspected. I placed my hand clumsily on her throat in search of a pulse then held it tight in remorse. In death she had an ever more youthful light in her eyes than I remembered. But maybe that was just the drink talking. I had no name to give her, just a incriminatingly empty wallet and a third and final strike I couldn’t afford. It was time to pack up my troubles and leave this devils island. For good.

My belongings didn’t amount to much. My books fit in the boot of my truck, a ’53 Ford that I had no love for and some torn three pieces to follow. My Vienna walnut-desk and the girl and some half empty bottles of whiskey where the only things of any value in my flat. The first two would have to stay behind.

I would need immediate shelter for a few nights while the heat blew over but with my qualities and virtues friends came few and far between. Especially those I could trust. I didn’t need to lock the flat door but I did. Somehow it concluded the frustrated and unnecessary end of yet another chapter. I ripped my brand new crown-band-brim Borsalino and my trench off the coat hanger by the front entrance with such nervous fury that my Moleskine flew out of my inner pocket. A black notebook with years of tear that held my life bound tight in elastic, thick with papers, business cards, addresses and numbers. Life.

My notebook knew where I needed to be. It always did. The spine was now covered in blood, it was my only ally in this world. The door opened out and in poured a Paris autumn dusk. It was going to get colder.