Byron-Beguiled

Fingers gripping the handlebars of my Honda 90 motorcycle, I leaned into the curve of the parking lot. Tucking my gloves and keys into the dome of my helmet, I handed the helmet to Norbert, the elderly concierge who guarded it for me every day until I was done with classes.

Today was to be different. At 3:15 p.m., when I asked Norbert to return my helmet, he exclaimed in thick Yorkshire brogue, “I don’t ’ave it! Yer brotha came by ’n tuk it a while ago. ’E said ’e’d bring it back lata’ — jus’ takin’ it for a spin. … ”

“My brother?” I said. “Took my bike? That’s impossible! My brother lives in America! Anyway, he’d never do something like that.”

Flustered, Norbert explained that a young man who looked just like me had presented himself and asked for the helmet and keys. Baffled, I realized I had no way of getting home. I stifled my frustration, feeling badly for Norbert, and told him I’d come back later.

When I showed up an hour later, Norbert sheepishly reached under his desk for the helmet and handed it back to me, saying my “brother” had returned and simply given it back to him with a “Thanks, mate.”

I peered out the window. Sure enough, there was my bike, back in its usual spot under the tree. I thanked Norbert and headed down the steps. There had to be some explanation. I took out my keys and gloves, but as I tried to pull on the helmet I felt something stiff and pointy jutting into my scalp. A piece of tightly folded paper had been tucked halfway into the lining. I unraveled the paper revealing handwritten words saying:

Thanks for lending me your motorbike, darling. Meet me at the Hyde Park Pub at nine o’clock.

The words stood out on the page—small, loopy, and well proportioned. I quickly glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Students were coming and going through the revolving doors. My eyes returned to the curly handwriting, looking for clues. Who could have written this? Could it actually have been my brother? No. Impossible. Who writes like this? I scoured