Chapter Un
It was a warm Sunday, the Parisian breeze carrying wafting scents of freshly cut grass and baking breads for the masses. A young man sat on his tiny apartment's window ledge, enjoying the morn, the wind shifting his hair ever so slightly, while Paris slowly awakened on its resting day. He watched the citizens leisurely stroll across the streets below and waved a hello to those who looked his way. They waved back, as the boy noted who was walking across the streets this morning. There was an artist, shedding supplies while he ran to catch the early morning sky, two twins who cheered at him with gusto, (to which he waved back of course) and a darling old woman who playfully glared at him to shout ,
"Raphael, get down from there! You could hurt yourself!"
"Sorry Paula!" would be his reply each and every day, to which she would yell back,
"…and get out of your pajamas, lazy boy!"
His trusty mutt was still asleep, since last night's heist ran rather late, and dear Fondue was nice enough to tug off his suit and hat while he remained collapsed in the doorway. (His neck still has pains to ring it true.) Deciding that his caretaker deserved an awakening with breakfast, he slid off his perch and headed into the kitchen. He leafed around the refrigerator for ingredients. Eggs, bacon, and… milk? (He took a sniff. Nope, not milk. Slime would be a better name for it.)
Just as the eggs were finishing their time in the pan, he heard the mail flap shutter and a light fwump hitting the tiled floor of the entrance to his home. It was odd, mail never came on Sundays. Could it be? A hand delivered note from his father? He held hold of his optimism until the burner was off, and then skidded his way to the door.
Much to his disappointment, it was not. It was just an envelope with his name quickly scripted on in drippy ink. There was no stamp or return address, which meant it had to have been put there by the writer or one of their associates. It wasn't in his father's style to put such little effort into things such as letters. A perfectionist he was, just like his son. He picked apart the wax seal as carefully as he could, (he was a collector, a habit from when he was young) to unfold the letter inside. He read
"Raphael,
I wish to have a discussion with you. How about over coffee and cake at the Café de Délices today? Half past 10 sound good? See you there.
A fan"
It was hastily scribbled down and it was obvious that little thought went into devising it. It was horribly awkward. It was probably devised by another "ingenious" individual who thought he was the illustrious Phantom R, to, of course, they were right about, but he would never let someone get away with such a secret as that, even if it meant lying to their faces. Even so, he wanted to go anyway, he liked the attention. He sauntered back to where breakfast was sitting, on the way nudging Fondue to awaken him for his meal.
Just as the last piece of bacon was fought over and snatched up by a doggy snout, Raphael realized the time. Ten fifteen. The café was half an hour away on foot. Shit. He shuffled into his battered sneakers and, with a bid adieu to Fondue of course, fled his building and dashed his way through the throng of people making their way to the markets.
He (miraculously) arrived only 5 minutes late to his destination. A quick glance over the outdoor tables held no profit onto who his said "fan" was, so he had no choice but to take a parasol-shaded table for two near the corner to wait. As time sluggishly made its way past, Raphael's mind began to wander. It was a rather nice café, wasn't it? The carefully-chosen coloring made everything feel warm and inviting, and the food looked cute and well made. The closeness to the constable headquarters made this place a safe point in the case of robberies, which he felt comforted by. He just might come back here in his spare time with his partner, maybe to split a croissant or two. He was so lost in thought he never noticed who pulled the chair across from him out and set down two sets of coffee and shortcake.