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The street that got Mislaid by Patrick W.
Transcript of The street that got Mislaid by Patrick W.
design by Dóri Sirály for Prezi
- Marc’s neighbors were noisy and sometimes violent, and his landlady consistently, so this shows that he was unhappy where he lived and that explains two things in the story
Green Bottle Street
Mr Plonsky and Mr Flanagan
Worked in the filing section of the city hall's engineering department. Marc stayed in Oven Street.
Lived for more than twenty years in Green Bottle Street, a forgotten street.
- She looked about sixty yrs old.
- From Green Bottle Street, liked to travel and talk about things they saw.
-From Green Bottle Street, played the piano and gave concerts to the others.
It started a conflict when something happened that filled him with amazement, shocked him beyond measure, and made the world of the filing cabinets tremble to their steel bases.
It explains why he spent a lot of time in the office and as a result, got his mind a complete map of the city’s streets.
2. He was happy to find a place to live in Green Bottle Street at the cost of not disclosing the existence of the street to the outer world.
He found an old index card, dirty and torn, but still perfectly decipherable. It was labelled RUE DE LA BOUTEILLE VERTE, or GREEN BOTTLE STREET.
Marc stared at it in wonder. He had never heard of the place or of anything resembling so odd a name. Undoubtedly it had been retitled in some other fashion befitting the modern tendency. He checked the listed details and ruffled confidently through the master file of street names.
It was not there. He made another search, careful and protracted, through the cabinets. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.he examined the card. There was no mistake. The date of the last regular street inspection was exactly fifteen years, five months and fourteen days ago.
As the awful truth burst upon him, dropped the card in horror, then pounced on it again fearfully, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. It was a lost, a forgotten street.
For fifteen years and more it had existed in the heart of Montreal, not half a mile from city hall, and no one had known. It had simply dropped out of sight, a stone in water. In his heart, he had sometimes dreamed of such a possibility.
There were so many obscure places, twisting lanes and streets jumbled together as intricately as an Egyptian labyrinth. But of course it could not happen, not with the omniscient file at hand. Only it had. And it was dynamite. It would blow the office sky-high.
On either side of a cobbled pavement were three small houses, six in all, each with a diminutive garden in front, spaced off by low iron palings of a kind that has disappeared except in the oldest quarter.
This he opened and stepped inside. Green Bottle Street lay before him.
The houses looked extremely neat and well-kept and the cobbles appeared to have been recently watered and swept. Windowless brick walls of ancient warehouses encircled the six homes and joined at the farther end of the street.
It was so narrow that he could touch the adjoining walls with his outstretched hands. A few feet from the sidewalk was a tall and solid wooden structure, much weather-beaten, with a simple latched door in the centre.
The next day he made up his mind, pleading illness, He knew the location perfectly, he passed it twice and had to retrace his steps. Baffled, he closed his eyes, consulted his mind's infallible map and walked directly to the entry.
It was perfectly real and reassuring as well.