Work Text:
A busy day. Same as usual. A lot of clients. Selling cigarettes, newspapers and gossip press. Giving Loid some updates about members of red circus. Keeping an eye on Anya while she was doing some colouring by his side on the counter, waiting to go back home with her father.
Franky decided to close his shop after this, his daily clients being already gone. He was about to leave when he just noticed a small object left behind at the other extremity of the counter.
“Anya… She forgets a notebook again” he sighed. He thought she probably accidentally forgot it when she was next to him, occupying herself while he was having a conversation with Loid. He grabbed it kindly and before leafing through – he had that weird sensation this was not the possession of a little child – but engaged himself in opening the small journal before he could process it was not Anya’s homework.
He had several shivers looking at the white lined pages. Among some notes – probably rendezvous, according to the names matching dates – was written his very own name.
Franky
A nice writing. Surrounded by sketched hearts.
Was someone spying him? And since when? Was it a prank? A prank from Anya? No. Impossible according to the delicatesse of the handwriting. It was not the pad of Anya or of any child.
He instantly closed the book in a clap and inspected the cover. A simple notebook. A carboard cover without fancy decoration. About thirty pages at most. He felt his blood being pumped harder, ignoring if it’s due to fear or excitement. Or both. He opened it again, at the same mark. He was feeling like a lurker, him whose job is to collect intel on people. He glanced at his name again, letters following each other in a pretty cursive style.
In the middle of notes taken quickly – it was even hard for him to decipher them - someone took the time to write his name. In the other page was written other messy lines. And at the bottom of this same page, several doodles, bunnies, sparkling stars, and the profile of a man, with curly hair, glasses and an ear ring.
“Is that… is that me?”
For a second, he believed it was an hallucination. Even if it was drawn with very simple shapes, he managed to identify his own portrait.
He shook.
And closed the pad again. Maybe it was not the best location and time to inspect a lost object. He kept the diary in his trench coat inside pocket. On the way home, he could feel the notebook bouncing against his heart.
During all the evening he could not stop thinking about that journal. Once home, he put it like an esteemed treasure on his desk. Like a pandora’s box, he did not dare opening it again. It was also out of question to check the other pages. He was tempted to, the excuse of finding a phone number or an address, or even a name of its owner, and the way to bring it back.
Before going to bed, he brought the booklet with him and put it on the nightstand on the opposite side where he was used to sleep, as he was waiting to wake up next to the person who wrote his name.
However he wall full of questions. He read very distinctly “Franky” written. However, is he the same “Franky”? What if he was not “this Franky”? This is a common name, and after all, an alias for him. But with that sketch, no doubt was possible. It was his portrait. If a lot of men could be called Franky in Berlint or in Ostania, the probability for them to have curly hair, glasses and an ear ring was very low.
Franky tried in his mind to reconstitute the list of all the clients and people he saw today. He did not record who could have left this notebook and when. Maybe it was on the counter all day without he could notice it?
Was it left on purpose? Was he supposed to find it? Was he aimed to open it? Dates and names were recorded inside. Maybe those were important? If they were written, it was to not forgot them. Franky thought for a second he could go to the rendezvous, at the indicated place and hour to give the precious object back to its owner. However, what if he was not supposed to look at what was inside? He could easily be taken for a stalker or a lurker.
“Ok. One and last time.”
He grabbed the journal and opened it at the exact same mark. Same names and dates. He just discerned a Dr with one of the names. Probably a medical appointment. A phone number, without description. And his name.
Franky
“What a lovely handwriting.” He whispered.
And those hearts. In another colour. A pink one, where all the notes were in deep black. He imagined the writer could be a teacher, or someone whose job is writing, even illustrating. It was a true contrast next to the other words, in capital letters and with ink spots, like if they did not matter, the importance being correlated to the quality of the script.
Franky glanced at the drawing of -what he supposed to be him – again. The draft was representing him with his best profile. Drawn with a light pencil. For sure now, it was not Anya’s art.
“Damn… Do I look that pretty?”
Some other illustrations were orbiting, as stars and bunnies.
“Cute…”
Franky even had the fear this carnet could be from someone spying him and collecting intel on his person. Him? The informant? It would be a funny situation. But who would draw hearts around the name of their target? And letting the notes after? Such a weird move. In his bed, he began to imagine romantic tales between two informants supposed to collect intel on each other, slowly falling in love without meeting.
When he woke up, he realized he felt asleep with the diary, feeling lucky to not have damaged or wrinkled it.
“You dummy…” he groaned getting up.
Without opening the notebook, he inspected it one more time. No one could guess he has it in his hands (and incidentally spent all night with). He just focused to prepare his day and took the precaution to bring the journal with him before going to his shop. Maybe someone would claim it this day?
Same as usual. A lot of clients. Selling cigarettes, newspapers and gossip press. The owner of the notebook did not show up. Or at least, did not ask for a lost diary. Waiting for this moment, Franky left it in a small box under his counter, among Anya’s drawings. He sometimes glanced at it, checking its presence.
He was daydreaming.
“Someone wrote my name with love.”