Page 28 of The Last Postcard

28.7.1928?

Continental?

Blood and Sand?

Sorry?

There was something else, some word that had prickled at him. Going back to the beginning of the letter, he saw it:

D Portuna.

D Portuna. An unfamiliar word. Someone’s name? He scrawled it down, followed by another infuriating question mark.

By mid-afternoon, he was wandering up the Rue Anoual, turning it all over in his mind. A writing case lost to the casbah, a letter never sent, a suitcase never collected, all fifty years ago. A strange passport and now this name: Portuna.

It was like eavesdropping on a conversation, without being able to hear the whole thing. He’d fill in the gaps using his imagination; weave these fragments together into characters, events, into a story that made sense.

If you’re going to play the game, you have to learn the rules.

Smiling, he pushed open the door of the Gran Café de Paris. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the waft of warm air from the ceiling fans. He shouldn’t waste money, not even on coffee. Even with the small flush of cash from Abdelhamid, things would soon begin to look threadbare again. There was nothing else to sell, no one else to ask, except maybe Norton … The idea made him grimace. But what the hell, he decided, he couldn’t stay in his room all day, and it was only a dirham. He sat down in the corner, and placed the writing case in front of him. His head was bubbling over with ideas, just waiting to be brought to life in scratchy ink.

‘Café, shukran,’ he said to the waiter who appeared on the other side of the table.

‘Excusez-moi, vous êtes appelé Hackett?’

He looked up in shock. He’d never told anyone at the café his name.

‘Yes.’ He half stood from the chair. ‘Is everything all right?’

The waiter signalled for him to sit down again. ‘Oui, oui, pas de problème. Mais … I have something for you.’

Did he mean the letter? Maybe one of the waiters had taken it after all, and here was the manager, giving it back. Sure enough, the man was reaching into the pocket of his apron and pulling out an envelope. He laid it on top of the writing case.

‘Is that my—’

Sam stopped abruptly. The envelope was addressed with one word:

HACKETT

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

‘Where – did you get this?’ he spluttered to the waiter.

‘It was left here,’ the man said in broken English, ‘for you.’

‘Who?’ Sam was up from his seat again. ‘Who left it? How did they know who I was?’

The waiter was shaking his head, as if he wanted to deny any involvement. ‘Je ne sais pas, I do not know his name.’

‘He? Was it an old man? With a hat, glasses?’

The waiter nodded, looking uncomfortable.

‘Did the man—’ Sam stopped, forcing himself to speak more calmly. ‘L’homme, the old man, he knew my name?’

‘Oui.’ The waiter was looking around, wanting to take his leave. ‘Oui, he said you are an American, and I will know you by this.’ He tapped the writing case.

Sam stared. He’d written a letter to the past, and now here was a reply. What the hell was going on?