13 Little Blue Envelopes(43)

She pulled herself upright and looked around. People were milling around in the park now. No one seemed to pay them any notice. She quickly reached up and rubbed at her face, trying to get rid of any sleep or slobber. She checked her braids as well. They seemed more or less intact. Aside from the fact that she felt a little sticky (which she guessed was something you had to expect after sleeping on a bench all night, though she couldn’t really say why), she was in pretty good shape. Total cleanliness had become such a distant reality that her whole perspective on the matter had changed.

Some of the other people in the park were walking dogs or just strolling. No one seemed to care that they’d been using the bench for a bed.

Keith stirred and sat upright slowly.

“Right,” he said. “Where’s breakfast?”

They found a little café down the street that had a huge pile of pastries in the window. Soon, they were sitting in front of three cups of espresso (all Keith’s), a café au lait, and a basket of pain au chocolat.

When he wasn’t shoving pastry into his mouth, Keith filled Ginny in on all the news on the show.

“We’re just finishing up here,” he said, “then we’re off to Scotland as soon as we get back. Oh, blimey, that’s not the time.”

He stood up.

“Look,” he said, “sorry . . . but I have to get back. Have a show to do this afternoon. Drop me a line. Let me know how it’s going.”

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He reached over and grabbed her hand, then produced a pen from his pocket.

“Might as well keep it up,” he said, writing a few words on the back of her hand. “My IM.”

“Okay,” she said, unable to hide the dropping in her voice.

He grabbed his bag and was out the door. Her body instantly felt heavy. She was alone again. Who even knew if she would ever go back to England and see Keith again?

Automatically, she reached down into the front pouch of the backpack and pulled out the envelopes. The rubber band was growing slack now.

The cartoon on #9 was drawn in dark ink. There was a small drawing of a girl with braids in a skirt in the lower-left corner.

Her shadow was long, running on a diagonal across the entire width of the envelope.

She pulled out her notebook.

July 7

10:14 a.m., café table, Paris

Mir,

Keith was HERE. In PARIS. And HE FOUND

ME. I know it sounds impossible, but it’s true, and it’s really not that magical of an explanation. But what matters is that we made out in a graveyard and slept on a park bench.

Just forget it. No way this can be explained on paper.

Will require telling in person with lots of gestures. Suffice it to say that I totally love him, and he totally just walked out of the door of the café and I may never see him again . . .

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and I know that sounds like a great movie ending, but in life, it just sucks.

I want to follow him. I want to go where his show is

and just lie on the sidewalk outside so he can trip over me.

Okay? That’s how pathetic I am now. You should be

thrilled.

I know I have no right to whine. I know that you are

still in New Jersey. Please know that I think of you 75

percent of every single day.

Love,

Gin

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#9



#9

Dear Ginny,

Know why I like the Netherlands so much?

Because some of it shouldn’t even be there.

True story. They constantly keep the sea at bay,

and they create new land through drainage and

moving dirt around. Water cuts all through the

country—and canals slice through Amsterdam. It’s a

miracle that they keep the place afloat.

You have to be pretty clever to pull that off.

Plus, it shows a lot of determination.

It’s not surprising that the Dutch also changed

painting forever. Back in the 1600s, the Dutch

could paint pictures that looked like photographs.

They captured light and movement in ways that had

never been known before.

These are also people who like to sit around and

smoke and drink coffee and dip fries in

mayonnaise.

When I finished painting the café, I felt like

Paris was done for me. Which is a ridiculous thing

to feel, when you think about it. You can’t wear out

Paris. I guess I’d been in one place for so long

(sleeping on the floor behind a bar can be a little

confining).

I had a good friend, Charlie, who I knew from



New York. He’s an Amsterdam native, and he lives in

a canal house in the Jordaan, which is one of the

coziest, most beautiful quarters in all of Europe. I

decided I needed to see a friendly face, so that’s

where I headed. That’s where I want you to go.

Charlie will show you the real Amsterdam. His

address is 60 Westerstraat.

There is one other task. You have to go to the

Rijksmuseum, which is the major museum in

Amsterdam. One of the world’s great paintings,

Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, is there. Find Piet

and ask him about it.