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Because the spelling was a bit unusual, Henry glanced at the name and asked:
"How do you pronounce this?"
The girl replied,
"In English spelling it's Charlize Theron.
It's Afrikaans—my native language."
"So you're South African?"
Henry looked genuinely surprised—
not acting, but truly shocked that he had bumped into the future "South African Diamond," the Venus of Hollywood herself.
"Yes."
After signing her name, Charlize didn't immediately return the sketchbook.
Curiosity lit her eyes.
"Mind if I look through it?"
There was nothing in the sketchbook that couldn't be seen, so Henry waved generously:
"Go ahead."
The future Oscar winner flipped through it slowly.
Henry's habit was to leave a note on each finished sketch—sometimes a line or two, sometimes just the date and location.
His handwriting wasn't cursive, but not rigid print either—easy enough for anyone to read.
The book wasn't a proper artist's sketchbook, just a large B5-sized blank notebook with a spiral binding, making it easy to flip pages completely around.
Most were pencil sketches, occasionally ballpoint.
Mainly Los Angeles street scenes.
Few portraits.
When he did sketch people, they were part of the scenery—someone who happened to stay in the same spot long enough to be captured.
As she flipped further, time moved backward—from May '94… to January '94…
One more page back, and suddenly they were in December '92—
a snowy courtyard in the little Swiss town of Tolochenaz.
It was Audrey Hepburn's home. Henry just hadn't written the address.
A simple winter scene—no people in it—
but five little Jack Russell terriers ran across the page: Rob's dogs.
Dogs weren't easy to sketch, so Henry had drawn them mostly from memory.
There were only two or three sketches from Tolochenaz.
Flipping further back, the date shifted to September '92—
more scenery, but increasingly, people appeared too.
Always the same elderly lady with different groups of children.
African children.
Central and South American children.
South Asian, West Asian—
different locations, different faces, different clothing—
yet always the same graceful woman among them.
Charlize couldn't ignore her.
The face grew more familiar with every sketch.
The notes listed places all over the world.
That, combined with the distinctive features of the lady, brought a certain Hollywood legend to mind.
Charlize paused, flattened a sketch across the table, and asked:
"Who is she?"
"Ms. Audrey Hepburn," Henry answered plainly.
"It is her."
Charlize's eyes widened.
"So these sketches were made while she was doing work with the UN?
You really traveled all over the world?"
Henry corrected gently:
"Strictly speaking, it was UNICEF's child protection missions—
mostly in Africa, Central America, South America, and South Asia.
Not the entire world."
She blinked.
"And you said you'd worked as someone's assistant…
and then the boss passed away…
So you were Audrey Hepburn's assistant?"
"Yes."
"Then your name is…?" Charlize asked.
Henry blinked.
"Oh, I never introduced myself?
Henry Brown.
Just a nobody."
Charlize's eyes widened in shock.
"W-wait—
the Henry Brown?
The author of Love From a Foreign Culture?
The one Audrey Hepburn personally recommended?"
Ah.
That book again.
Henry rubbed his nose, embarrassed.
"That's me.
But I should emphasize—it's a translated work, not my original writing.
Those stories existed for centuries in various cultures.
I only translated them."
"But… but…"
Charlize, still a newcomer, suddenly found herself face-to-face with someone she had considered a "name," and the words tangled in her mouth.
Yet everything at the table—the girl-thief, the sketching, the conversation—had already attracted the restaurant staff's attention.
So when the title of that not-so-bestselling book was mentioned aloud—
A waitress squealed.
The bold one—the same nearly muscular lady who'd almost tackled the future Oscar winner earlier—
bolted to the break room, dug through her locker, and returned breathlessly clutching a paperback.
She rushed over, eyes shining.
"Are you really Mr. Henry Brown?"
"Yes."
Henry smiled at the book in her hands.
"Well, well—you actually bought this?
That surprises me.
Looking for a signature?"**
"Yes, yes—if you don't mind!"
She held out the well-worn volume.
Not damaged from abuse—just thoroughly loved and reread.
Henry accepted it, pulled a fountain pen from his coat, and asked:
"What's your name?"
"Lorraine."
He flipped to the blank page beneath the cover and wrote in elegant script:
**"To Lorraine,
Wishing you health and beauty always.
—Henry Brown"**
"Thank you, thank you!" Lorraine clutched the book to her chest.
"So many of the love stories are beautiful…
But none of them have perfect endings."
Henry made a helpless face.
"The originals were like that.
I just translated them."
A few waitresses crowded around, squealing over the autograph.
Thankfully, they remembered they were still on duty—under the boss's watchful eye—and hurried back to work.
Charlize, however, continued staring at Henry with doubtful eyes.
"You really are Henry Brown?
The author… translator… of that book?"
Henry sighed.
**"I can show you my driver's license, sure.
But what do you want—proof I knew Ms. Hepburn?
Or proof I translated the book?
I don't carry that around.
"I do have photos with Ms. Hepburn—but they're at home.
And I have the publishing contract—but also at home.
These aren't things people lug around to prove their identity."**
She thought for a moment, then asked:
"Judging by your expression…
you're surprised you have fans?"
Henry answered honestly:
**"I don't know how you feel about the book.
But the publisher told me it didn't sell well.
Just enough to pass printing cost—slow but steady sales.
"It's not the kind of book that explodes for two weeks and then vanishes.
It's the slow, long-tail type.
Not losing money, but not a hit either."*
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