The Purple Scarf

by Wendie Lovell

a glass of champagne with a splash of cassis

It was the scarves that first caught my eye. Brightly coloured scarves, swirling in the breeze, beckoning me inside the tiny shop in this charming French town. I stopped to take a photo. A magnificent backdrop against a bright blue sky.
 
   As I stepped inside, a tantalising aroma flirted with my nostrils. Incense? The small space was an Aladdin’s cave of trinkets. I wandered around, the relative darkness inside reflecting my mood. The shop appeared unoccupied apart from myself.

  My mind kept returning to the purple scarf I’d seen outside. I liked purple. With my life back home in shreds, I felt it might cheer me up, but how was I meant to purchase it if there was no one around? I caught sight of a bell on the counter. I would ring for assistance.

  A young woman appeared from behind the screen. She didn’t look well and I felt sorry for disturbing her.

  ‘Bonjour Madame.' I tried out my best French. ‘J'aimerais le foulard violet s'il vous plait.’ I gestured outside. She shuffled out of the door and came back holding the only purple scarf, but didn’t utter a word. “Merci beaucoup Madame.’ I said.

  She reached up and tied the scarf a little too tightly around my neck. I looked in the mirror and nodded, it was just what I needed. The price tag said 10 euros. I fumbled in my purse, pulled out a 10 euro note and handed it to her.

  ‘Ne reviens pas.’ She said. I was startled, why was she telling me not to come back? Not the sales tactic I was expecting.

  Pleased with my purchase, I sat in the little square outside the shop and ordered a coffee. I watched the scarves twisting and turning in the breeze, forming a rope of many colours. I ran my fingers over my silky scarf and it momentarily lifted my spirits. Oh the things one could do with a scarf!

  A week or so later, against the shopkeeper’s advice, I decided to return to the shop and purchase some more as presents to take home. I reached the tiny, vibrant square in the Bastide town and found there was a market taking place. It was difficult to spot the shop amongst all the hustle and bustle. Ah, but there it was, behind the fruit and veg stall. It was shut. I looked through the window and to my surprise it was empty and looked as though it was falling apart. I turned to the stall holder and enquired after the shop and the woman with the scarves.

  I shuddered when I was told that the shop had closed some years ago, after the woman who owned it had been found, her face the colour of the bright purple scarf she had been strangled with.

 

About the author

  Wendie has had two previous short stories published in CafeLit this year. This third story was inspired by a recent holiday in France.

Taking Flight

       by Wendie Lovell

a glass of sake with a green tea cookie

  “Con’nichiwa.” The Japanese lady at the entrance to Kanazawa Castle welcomes me with a smile and shows me where to leave my shoes. I thank her with a bow and a ‘manatee’ or see you later.
 
  I wonder around the impressive castle looking out at Kanazawa city and hear the nightingale sing in beautiful Kenrokuen Gardens below. Sunlight streams through the small slit openings of the windows. A sense of freedom lifts my spirit, not for the first time on this trip to Japan.
 
  Never again will I allow myself to be downtrodden, the life sucked from me. I breathe in the fresh air as I watch the birds and butterflies in the garden, free to roam. My spirit slowly returning after years of captivity.
 
  I make my way back to the entrance. The same lady is there. I sit down beside her desk to put my shoes back on and notice that she’s folding a piece of paper. My thoughts return to the piece of paper I left neatly folded on the kitchen table before I came to Japan.
 
  The lady finishes folding her paper and holds out a tiny paper bird in the palm of her hand.
 
  “Hold it like this and pull.” She shows me how to make the wings go up and down.

   “For me?” I ask with delight.

   “Yes, now fly!” She tells me.

   “Arigato!” I thank her, smile and bow again.
 
  Yes, I will fly.

About the author

Wendie had a short story published in CafeLit earlier this year. This second story was inspired by a recent trip to Japan.

Saachi

By Wendie Lovell

Indian tea with an almond biscuit 

  Paintbrush in hand, he paused to observe her sitting under the ancient Indian almond tree, where it’s two twisted trunks offered some welcome shade from the blistering heat. Although these trees were known to grow wild in this part of India, they were often cultivated for their striking looks and their tasty nuts. He noted that the smooth bark of the tree shimmered with the deepest hue of grey-brown.

  She had many similarities to the tree he thought, with her smooth, dark skin, wild tendencies and striking good looks. He’d wanted to take a photograph of her sat under the tree, so that he could paint her when he got home, but she had insisted on no camera. Her long, silky black hair fell around her swollen belly, bearing the fruits of her love. As she looked shyly up at him from under her long lashes, he noticed that her eyes were the exact same shape of the almonds scattered on the ground, like confetti on the sand.

  When the painting was finished, Saachi got dressed, took the money and hurried back to her people in the village. All that remained of her was the painting and her footprints in the sand. For a brief moment he had considered that there might be a connection there, with their minds and spirits entwined like the two trunks of the tree. 

  Although the memory of her lingered on, with age and the passage of time, it began to fade and crack like the bark of the tree.

About the author

 Having recently taken early retirement, Wendie has resumed her passion for writing and joined a local writer’s group. She has  embarked on her irst novel, which is set in her home county of Dorset.