The world has never been quiet

Lie 1 : I'll save you !

"Are we going to be hanging around for long?

- They're arriving. Be patient.

- That's what you've been saying for ages," I whined. "Your friends don't know about punctuality?

- Being on time is not always a sign of politeness."

I sighed, exasperated. I really loved my father. There wasn't anyone better than him, at least not as far as I knew and not back then, but he sometimes was exasperatingly calm. He could tell the entire world that nothing was wrong while everything collapsed all around him, and I'm almost certain that, if indeed everything had collapsed around him, he would have had the audacity to explain me how important it was to build according to standard practice to avoid this kind of annoyance.

But he was my father, and calm was his default setting. He loved to tell me that I was more like my mother than him, but I got the chance to check. She was long dead. A car accident - at least that's what he told me over and over again and what I believed for a long time. I only have very vague memories of her and, since her death, it was only my father and I. Well, me and myself, most of the time; he worked a lot, moved a lot, and didn't want me to be around. I got raised by nannies and tutors. My father didn't want me to go to school. I didn't know why, but he didn't want to.

But this time, it was different. He asked me to come with him while I didn't ask. Until he ordered me to pack, I had actually no idea he was leaving. When I had the gall to ask him where we were going, he only told me I need both summer and winter clothes. Might as well have said he didn't want to tell me. We were in the middle of August: where could he go as to need winter clothes? But I obeyed, packed my suitcase with every coats that I had and kept in my bad some t-shirts and light jacket for the journey.

Journey that should be done from the edge of the city, through the hinterlands. And that's what we were waiting for: the friend supposed to drive us to this place where I would need winter clothes in summer. But he wasn't arriving and this lateness annoyed me, even more than my father's behaviour. Well, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't only annoyed by the lateness: I had forgotten my typewriter back home and my father refused to go get it. The result? I only had my notebook and pencils to write and I had plenty of things to write. The hinterlands always inspired me lot of stories and I already imagined a novella in which a criminal wanted by all polices but gifted with a remarkable talent of disguise would flee through deserted lands to Mortmain Mountains.

Looking back, I realize that I was already deep into secrets and schemes before I even understood I was. It was not this damn novella in particular, and I will repeat it in this tale, but I always had the strange and ironic ability to predict what would happen to me one day through jokes or cynicism – but I digress.

"Cassandre Dupin," my father hailed me. He had seen my pout. "You're not here to whine, young woman.

- I still don't know why I'm here.

- You'll know when we arrive. Ah, here they are." He gestured a dark car that slowed down near us. "Wait for me, I will greet them."

I managed to stop myself from uttering another remark about their punctuality and watched my father. I'd like to say that all that mattered for me at this point was this slender and distinguished man, this impressive man of knowledge and diplomacy - but that would a lie. I couldn't think of anything but my typewriter, packed in its leather box, waiting for me in our entrance. And I thought about it to such an extent that I didn't realize that the debonair calm of my father had turned into defiance and that the car was not friendly.

I can't get myself to tell you what happened right now. Instead, I can't help wondering what would have happened if my father had accepted to go get this damned machine. We would have been way later than them. Maybe they would have left and I would have been focused enough to understand something was off. Maybe my father would have understood. Looking back, getting my machine would have changed many things. Some lives would have been longer, others, well, would have been shorter. Fires would not have been set, others would have been. All that fuss for a typewriter.

"Cassandre, run "

I never heard my father scream before that. It wasn't in his habits nor his genes to yell, even to reprimand me. I jumped and turned stunned eyes in his direction. I only got enough time to see the car's doors opening and multiples arms seizing him before he disappeared from my sight. It took a few more seconds to understand they were no friends. My blood froze in my veins and, like the child I was, I ran - but not in the good direction. To the car that was taking my father away. There were noises of hits, screams, yells, before he managed to look at me through the window and scream another time for me to run.

"DAD!" I replied. I completely forgot the typewriter. "DAD!

- I'll find you, I promise! The eye, mind the eye!

- I'll save you dad! DAD! »

I can't say why exactly I stopped following the vehicle to run in the opposite direction. In fact, I don't think I had any sound reason to do it. All I knew was that my father had ordered me to run and I had to run. Taking my bag on the way, I rushed to the nearest shop, a joke shop full of shelving and useless stuff. Forgetting my manners I crossed it to go to the most important artery of the city, where I would be able to grab a taxi to go back home.

When I turned back to make sure I hadn't dropped a clown klaxon or a whoopee cushion, I understood a little better why I had to run. One of the men of the car had left it and was on my heels – a man with a beard but no hair, struggling with the shop guy who was arguing about a portable buzzer. Feeling panic invading my thoughts, I ran again and entered the first building on my right.

If I had been in my normal state, I would have never entered this kind of building. It was literally falling into ruin and I only figured it out in the stairs: a part of it had collapsed in a huge pile of rubble. It almost looked like this heaping up of concrete and framework was some sort of artistry. Unable to think straight, I banged the nearest door I found closed, wishing someone would open.

And someone opened. A little woman, very little, just as wrinkled as an old apple wearing an old grey apron and a pinkish dress. My heart beating hard in my chest, I didn't wait for her to tell me to enter to do it and I found myself in the middle of a poorly decorated but rather spacious room. The sun was shining through broken but clean windows. The ground under my feet creaked when I paced the room to check no one followed me.

"Is everything okay, young lady ?

- No, nothing's ok," I let out. My voice sounded shrill with fear. "My father… Has been kidnapped, he told me to run but I…

- Calm down, calm down! Everything will be fine, just tell me…

- No, nothing will be fine, my father had been kidnapped! I need to calm someone, the police or…"

I stopped when I realized what I was doing: I didn't know this woman. I didn't even know where I was. Maybe I was stepping into a trap, maybe I had just signed my death warrant. My father told me to run and I had stopped. Stopped!

The beatings of my heart went faster again and I rushed to the windows. The man with a beard but no hair was following a fake lead that led him to the back of the building. The old lady, near me, was looking at me with a mix of awe, inability to understand and fear. And honestly, I think I would already have run if I'd been her. Well, if I'd been myself I would have run too.

"I need to go," I said restlessly. "I need…

- Do you want to call anybody? You look panicked…

- No, I need to go. I'm sorry I…" I watched for a while, unable to find my words. "Thanks for your help.

Wait, you can't…"

- I never heard the rest of her sentence and rushed again in the stairs. I still wonder what this old lady would have done, if I'd stayed. Would she have called the police? Was she a friend? An Arsonist? A Volunteer? Both? Anyway, I ran again until I recognized the street I was walking. I hailed the first taxi and threw myself inside while I gave him my address. My father's address.

The journey seemed to last an eternity, but I ended up home. It was downtown, in a calm but lively neighbourhood where only families lived. I didn't know my neighbours, not enough to get the idea to knock at their door. My panic had washed away in the taxi and, once I had paid him, I found myself alone in front of my door. I didn't have the keys, but I knew where to find some - in the trunk of one of the cypresses of the alley.

And, for the first and last time since I've left my father, a wave of calm and comfort flooded me as soon as I passed the door; everything was where it was supposed to be, from the typewriter in the corridor to the trinkets on the walls. Everything was there, except my father. I sat one on the dining room's chair and took my head in my hands. I needed help. Somebody had to help me. The police? My father didn't trust them.

Friends, then. But who, exactly? We had some, obviously, but who to choose? Who to trust? Panic came back immediately, tears came to my eyes and my throat tightened. Who to call? What to do? I tried to remember his last words. I didn't understand everything, but it was about an eye. Mind the eye. That was all I heard.

I then began to search the whole house to try to forget the severity of the situation. The whole house and especially where I usually didn't have the right to go. I took everything I could and everything that looked important. Files, papers, loose sheets, photographs, everything that could get me or anybody else to my father.

When I reached the depth of the library, I took some books he always designed as essential. I was going to empty a drawer when I realized the back of the library was hollow. It sounded hollow, anyway. I fiddled with the back of the furniture to try to understand what was going on when I touched and pressed a button.

I don't really khow in which order everything happened. I was in such a panic and urge that I must have pressed the button in the same time as I knocked it over. Or maybe it was the other way around ? Honestly I'm not even sure it changes anything. Especially if we take into account what this fake-back contained.

When I figured out this fake-back was ornamented with an eye, I let down everything, drawer, books, everything, to rummage into the cache I just found. There was nothing in there, except a teeny tiny thing that could fit in my hand. I took it to expose it to the light and was going to open it when I heard knocking. I almost fell from my ladder and put the thing in my bag with the files, papers, photographs and books.

I walked to the door furtively and looked out the peephole. I sighed in relief when I recognized the intruders and opened the door. They entered quickly and looked around to make sure nothing wrong happened. I know that now, they were searching for something. And this something wasn't really me.

"They" meant Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire, two of my father's best friends. If they'd given me the time, I would probably have called them. They were often invited here, and vice-versa. I knew well their three children, Violet, Klaus and Sunny. I used to play with the two eldest and went to the baptism of the youngest. They weren't exactly friends, but they were my father's friends' children and it was a good enough reason to see them.

"Cassandre," Beatrice finally said. "My poor child, we learned for your father.

- He… He's been kidnapped but I… But I don't know who did this…

- Come here."

She opened her arms and, like the child I still was for a few days, I ran into them and finally let my tears roll. I didn't care about my bag anymore, fallen on the floor with a dull noise. When I think about it, if I'd known how important the content of my bag was, I probably wouldn't have thrown it away. But at this point, I was the only one who knew what was inside and it's probably the reason why I'm still alive today.

When I went out of tears and my sobs finally stopped, I pulled myself from Beatrice Baudelaire's arms and wiped out my reddened eyes. She handed me a tissue and put a protective and maternal hand on my back. Her husband was going through everything I already went through. When he came back, he looked worried.

"Do you know if anyone came before you?

- I…" My thoughts were blurry, but I knew for sure that I was the first to enter my home since we left. But still, something in my mind told me to keep quiet. "I don't know… I didn't check…

- She is chocked, Bertrand. Are you sure it's here?

- It should be. I will stay a bit, take her home."

And I had neither the will nor the desire to resist. I let her take me to her car, then from the car to their home. Their house, their manor, rather, was beautiful. Huge and beautiful, way bigger than ours even if my father used to say that there is no place like home. And that was true. Maybe not when he said it, maybe not to the kid I was, but it was true. Because in this house, there were books everywhere, books about everything, maybe not hundreds of them, but enough. And because this house was safe. And believe me when I say that nothing in this world is safe anymore.

Back then, at least, the Baudelaire's house was considered as one of the most beautiful in town and, even if I didn't know yet and would only know once it would be too late, one of its safest places. That had probably much to do with the wealth that built it, but it mainly had to do with the importance of its owners. But on that subject, I had no more idea.

All I knew was that I was alone in the great hall, my bag in my hand and a sudden need to run again. The only thing that stopped me was the arrival of the three Baudelaire children who came hurtling in front of me to meet what they thought to be their parents. Beatrice didn't give them the time to welcome me since she asked them to wait here while she found me a room. One of the many rooms of the house.

What is the saddest thing with these memories is that everything could have gone differently. I don't know what would have happened if I didn't lie to Bertrand and told him this thing he was looking for was in my bag. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't opened the door either. I only know, and it's still much, that no matter my choices, they would have influenced everything drastically. I'm not even sure there were any real good choices, especially at this point.

The Baudelaire children, however, couldn't do anything to influence what would happen to them. And yet they came in this room to meet the then semi-orphan about to become a full-fledged one, after having assured their mother that they would be tactful with their guest. The way they knocked at my door and entered, it was clear they were walking on eggshells. Violet had her hair tied, she was probably wondering if an invention could find lost people with something that belonged to them. Klaus was putting his glasses back on his nose and Sunny had crawled to me to squeeze my leg with her tiny arms. And I couldn't help smiling in front of such sweetness.

"I am… We are really sorry, Cassandre," Violet finally declared. "If we can do anything…

- I don't think you can. But it's very kind of you.

- Don't worry. Do you want to… Go out? Get some fresh air?

- Not now, no.

- Tomorrow, the?" Klaus proposed. "We were going to go to Briny Beach anyway."

I kept quiet for a while – again, any other choice than the one I did would have changed everything. I looked at the three of them before nodding. I would never find my father alone and I wouldn't find him without help. Adult help. It would an opportunity to look around and, that was the most important thing, to get some stuff from home and check one last time if anything there could help me find where those men took my father.

"Tomorrow then.

- Alright. Oh, I almost forgot," the eldest told me while handing me a pile of clothes she was holding behind her back the whole time. "Our mother asked us to give you that. Just some old clothes of hers, she thinks they will fit until you can go back home.

- Thank you very much, Violet."

The young girl smiled and turned around, soon mimicked by her brother and sister. When the door closed down behind them and left myself alone again, I put the pile of clothes on the bed and walked to the window. It overlooked the pretty garden that surrounded the house and one of the biggest trees. I was surrounded by books, papers and pens but still, for the first time in my life, I didn't want to write. I had nothing to create, no histories, no tale, nothing. I felt like my life had turned way more dramatic than the most interesting of my tales, more tragic than the saddest too. And god knows I was right.

I know how most of books work. We begin by the beginning, by what marked a beginning or a revival. It's obvious that, would my father still be here, nothing that happened to me would have happened like this. But I'm still sure that it's not this day, nor this lie that changed who I was. It happened later, way later. But let's not burn bridges; other events rushed in before I came to it.