Camille took a final drag of her cigarette, holding it in as long as possible before slowly exhaling. Looking down at the small golden box she had in front of her, she couldn’t help but admire it. Its delicate curves, its light and airy filigree work, and its rosewood stand, perfectly carved and pristinely polished, glinting in the mid day sun that streamed into her dusty hotel suite. Despite her admiration however, she couldn’t help but still see the box as some small annoyance, a piece of sentimental garbage that seem to follow her for years, like a trailing and lost puppy that won’t take a hint.

 

“Today we’re going to get free.” She said, staring at the little box. Bringing the now entirely consumed smoke to her lips, she went in for another greedy drag, only to find the disappointing sensation of a wet, cold filter pressed against her pursed lips, and with nothing to show for it. She sighed, knowing it was time to confront the reality of yet another listless day of living, here at the SinoAmerican Hotel and Suites.

 

Despite its name, which Camille could only assume was a perverse joke, the hotel was by no means a grand marriage of American industry and Chinese high culture, but rather a drab and soulless monolith, looming over an equally grey and dreary district, a district Camille found entirely too common for her tastes.

 

In an effort to steel her nerves for the ungodly smells and fumes she was doubtless to inhale on her excursions into the bustling labyrinth of streets of this eastern city, she doused herself in perfume, Opium by Yves Saint-Laurent, as had become her habit. Throwing her canvas bag over her shoulder, she deftly piled in her few and dwindling possessions, including the golden box, and her very last pack of Virginia Slims.

 

Exiting the lift at the lobby, she hurriedly walked to the sliding doors, praying the electric eye would finally work properly and allow her time for a comfortable escape. However, as she made her way to the exit, she heard the pitter patter of cheap black patent leather shoes on linoleum flooring, and a meek voice calling out to her.

 

“Oh, Miss Camille!” The voice lilted.

 

She swivelled her head to see Alfred, the emaciated and entirely too coy for her liking receptionist. Hurrying over to her in tiny mining steps, he called out her name yet again, his face plastered with the painted on grin of the freshly lobotomized. 

 

“Oh, Miss Frenchy,” he said, in his high and nasal voice, “Your credit with us seems to have expired!”

 

With every breath he drew in her presence, Camille prayed that it would be his last.

 

“What am I to do Miss Frenchy, hmm?” He inquired, his false empathy making her sick to her stomach.

 

Through gritted teeth, she mustered the simple reply “Run my cards again.”

​

“We tried that, but they bounced. How will I explain this to the general manager, hmm?”

 

“I will have your money tomorrow.”

 

The balding domestic looked down at his feet for a moment, as though deep in thought, deeper than Camille would have assumed he would even be capable of, before looking back up at the tall blonde stood in front of him.

 

“Ok. Tomorrow.”

 

Taking this as her as her cue to make a swift getaway, Camille marched bravely into the sickeningly bright sun. Not breaking her pace, she marched down the harbour road, trying her best to avoid the gaze of the wide-eyed locals, who undoubtedly never beheld flesh of such beauty, or at least so she thought. Her aim direct, she did not dally or stall to take in the sites and sounds of this far flung country, but rather marched to her destination, never breaking pace as she seamlessly weaved through the teeming crowds, under the oppressive midday sun. Finally, having come to a rest in front of a red plastered building, she solemnly looked up to the sign looming overhead, a red and green ingot shape, with yellow characters fashioned from twisted flashing tubes of neon. A pawn shop. Camille new the place well, it was her third visit in as many weeks. Gingerly coaxing a slim out of its packaging, she looked down at the small roll of paper and tobacco she held before her. Deciding against it, she returned the cigarette, with no small amount of difficulty, to its paper and cellophane sarcophagus before entering the premises.

The store, if one could even call it that, consisted of a dimly lit room of unfinished walls, with a short, pudgy, balding man locked behind a caged counter along the far wall. The man, for his part, did not seem to mind the less than pleasant atmosphere of the shop, and seemed contented to idle his days away in his cage, reading the papers and chain-smoking off brand Chinese cigarettes.

 

Swiftly gliding across the room, she presented herself at the counter, and with what seemed to be nothing more than the delicate wave of her hand, she produced the small golden box for inspection. The man behind the counter, for his part, seemed to scarcely take notice of either her or the glimmering little box. After a cursory glance, he coughed and sputtered “50 bucks.”

 

Gobsmacked, Camille replied “50? This is real gold! From Napoleonic France! It was a gift for my wedding!”

 

Ah yes,  our unconventional heroine had once been married, the marriage though borne out of love, had quickly soured. Camille, ever the good time gal, couldn’t let her joy ride end, not even in the embrace of her feeble, albeit well-meaning new husband. Taking advantage of a weekly excursion with his friends, Camille seized the opportunity to take her final bow to married life, while conveniently divorcing him from some money and jewelry. And, naturally, the golden box. She couldn’t leave that behind, she couldn’t even fathom it. It was to be her final and sole reminder of her brief encounter with wedded life, a keepsake given to her the very night of her nuptials. But now, confronted with the costs of a good time, and stranded in a foreign land, reality had come crashing down round her ears.

 

Awaking from her daze, she looked square at the inexplicably sweaty attendant through the bars of his little cage, the down at the box. She couldn’t possibly part with it. Summing up the little dignity she had left, dignity she had thought long gone, she retrieved her box and gracefully made her exit, ignoring the fat mans pleas and embarrassing negotiation attempts. Standing outside, she took a deep breath, finally allowing herself to take in the noxious aroma of the street, probably for the first time since she had arrived. Strolling now, she took her time to observe the world around her, the street vendors, the hawkers of fruits and vegetables, the drone of distant motorcycles, like a symphony of swarming cicadas. She could breathe easy again.

 

Breaching the doors of the SinoAmerican, Alfred, who had seemingly been waiting in ambush greeted her warmly. But before he even has a chance to brooch the subject of her bill, Camille simply chimed “Tomorrow, Alfred, tomorrow” in a sweet melody befitting a grand French dame such as herself. Returning to her bedroom, she delicately placed the golden box on her pillow, while throwing down the rest of the contents of her sack like so much rubbish. Slowly, as she made her way to the bathroom, she slipped her clothes off, one article at a time, until she was comfortably nude, making sure not to forget to pick up the bottle of whisky and chilled glass she had left in the mini bar on her way. Drawing herself a warm bath, she calmly slipped herself in, letting wave upon wave of grain alcohol crash through her system, like warm sea water lapping on a sandy shore.

 

“Finally free” she whispered to herself as she sank further and further into her bath. It would be her last SinoAmerican night.