by Adrien Leduc
* * *
We’re on the road in fifteen minutes, the sound of the old, clanky gears grinding and the spokes clacking as we go.
“Ow! This seat! There’s a spring sticking out of it!”
I can’t help but smirk as Josh wiggles and waggles to re-adjust his bum on the seat.
“How old are these damn bikes!?”
“Older than us,” I answer mildly, my attention moving to the pasture to our right in which I can see three horses grazing on some kind of wild grass. “Aww, look at the horses.”
Josh grunts but says nothing.
I want to go horseback riding...
The road into town takes us about ten minutes to pedal.
“Okay...so we’re looking for L’Épicerie Margot,” I say with my best French accent.
“I don’t see it,” Josh replies.
I glance at him. He’s staring at his handlebars and humming to himself.
“You’re not even looking!”
“What? I am too looking!”
“Whatever...I’ll find it.”
Ahead, I see a group of girls my own age. They’re seated at a wooden table outside a little cafe, huddled over cups of something (it’s hard to imagine them drinking coffee at my age). I can hear them conversing in rapid French. It sounds so beautiful and I wish I could understand what they were saying.
Further on we see a mother trying to get her two children into the car. Looking thoroughly exasperated, I hear her yell “Lucien!” This is followed by a barrage of incomprehensible, angry mom French.
“Is that it?”
Josh’s voice draws my attention from the mother and her two children and I look at him.
“Where?”
“There,” he says, taking one hand off the handlebar to point.
I turn and look to where he’s pointing. A big yellow sign with blue letters announces L’Épicerie Margot.
“That’s it.”
We pedal as far as the gravel parking area in front of the store and hop off our bikes.
“She didn’t give us a lock,” Josh observes aloud, eyeing the bike rack in front of the store.
“We don’t need a lock. We’ll only be in there for a minute. Besides, this is like a small town. People don’t steal in small towns like these.”
Josh shrugs. “I’ll wait with the bikes.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
We slide our bikes onto the bike rack and I leave Josh while I go inside.
“Bonjour,” a voice call.s
“Bonjour,” I answer, unable to see over the tall shelves.
I move around the shelf and head in the direction of the voice. But then I stop.
The voice most certainly belongs to the cashier. She’s smiling at me as she opens the register and begins counting change for the man standing before her. A man with a bald head and a scar on his face.
I dive back behind the shelf, nearly knocking over a tower of tomato cans.
This can’t be! It’s him!
I shuffle slowly to the back of the store, sidestepping, like you see in the movies when the cop is walking along the ledge outside a building, ten storeys above a traffic-snarled street.
He’s following us. There’s no way this is just coincidence. He’s followed us here.
“Merci, monsieur,” I hear the woman’s voice say.
“Merci à vous, madame,” comes the man’s reply.
The sound of his voice sends a chill down my spine and I crouch down behind the shelf I’m hiding behind.
“Bonne journée. Revenez bien tôt!”
“Bonne journée.”
I hear him coming my way and I shuffle slowly away from the sound. I’m hidden now at the end of an aisle, well-hidden, and I’m crouched down just to be extra certain.
My mind jumps to Josh.
Josh!
But it was only me the man was staring at on the plane and in the airport. Does he even know who my brother is?
I listen carefully to his footsteps as he passes and move along the aisle so that I can watch him when he leaves the store.
“Can I help you?”
The door opens and the man steps outside just as the woman appears beside me. She’s peering down at me over the top of her glasses and she doesn’t look happy.
“Um...I’m just looking for some potatoes...”
Her eyes narrow. “Well, you are not going to find any potatoes down zair,” she says with her thick French accent. “Come. I show you zee potatoes.”
I get to my feet and brush the dirt from my knees. “Okay.”
What about Josh?
The woman isn’t letting me out of her sight now and it would be really weird if I were to just suddenly go to the door. So patiently, very patiently, and worrying the entire time, I follow her to the opposite end of the store. I can tell we’re in the right section because the whole section smells like garden carrots and produce and then I see the bins. Big yellow bins full of cucumbers and leafy greens and turnips and radishes and just about every vegetable you can imagine.
“Les voilà,” she says, stopping beside one of the bins where I can see a sign advertising “Pommes de terre - €1,60 / kilo”.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly.
She’s watching me like a hawk right now. Every movement. Every facial expression.
“How much do you want?” she asks, taking a paper bag from a stack beside the scale and forcing it open.
“I don’t know...it’s for supper...and there’s...(I have to stop a second to do a mental count)...six of us.”
She looks at me like a teacher does when they want you to confirm your answer. “Six people?”
“Uh...yeah. There are six of us.”
“Very well,” she says, pursing her lips together and suddenly being all French. She starts loading potatoes into the bag. One, two, three. Each one ruffles the bag as she drops them in. “Bon...cela devrait être suffisant.” She plops them on the scale and then, pulling a well-worn pencil from her apron, scribbles the number on a piece of paper. “That is everything?” she asks, eyeing my closely.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Bon. Please come to the desk,” she says, pointing to the cash register.
I’m about to tell her that we don’t say “desk” for that - that we simply say, ‘I can ring you up at the cash’, but I’m in a hurry. Josh is still outside with that man and who knows what’s happened by now!
“Here...keep the change,” I say, setting five euros on the counter.
She looks at me as though I’ve said something offensive, but I can’t be bothered. I have to get outside and see my brother. And find that man! If I can see which way he goes...
I take the potatoes from the counter and hurry from the store. Josh is leaning against the building, flipping an old bottle cap over in his hands, looking relaxed.
He looks at me. “Sarah? What’s wrong?”
“That man. The bald one. The guy with the scar on his face.” I whirl around, my head turning left and right as I search frantically for him.
“A bald man?”
“The man...from the plane!” I stammer in frustration. “The man from the plane! The effing weirdo who was staring at me on the plane and at the airport!”
“Ohhhhh, that man! What about him?”
I round on my brother, feeling completely frustrated and pissed off. “He was just here!”
Josh looks surprised. “He was just here?”
“YES!”
He looks around. “I don’t...wait a second...yes. There was a man that just came out of the store. I didn’t really get a good look at him though...and I didn’t notice a scar. He had sunglasses on.”
I seize my brother by the shirt and shake him. “Which way did he go? Did you see where he went?”
“No! I didn’t! And get off me!” He pries his shirt loose from my fingers and pushes me backwards.
“I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’m just...arrrrhhhhh!” I want to scream. I want to shout.
“That effing bastard. He’s following us. He followed us here.”
Josh doesn’t say anything for a second.
“Are you sure? Maybe he lives here...”
I look squarely at my brother. “Josh. What are the odds that a man on the plane who was staring at me like some creepy weirdo and then again at the airport just happens to live in this tiny town of a few hundred people!?”
He almost smiles. “You’re right.”
I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. “Let’s get back to the house and I’m going to tell Uncle Marty.”
“Wait...Sarah...what if it like...what if he gets all worried and then he won’t let us go out on our own anymore.”
I shake my head as I pull my bike loose from the bike rack. “I don’t care. That effing bastard. He’s a creep Josh. And if he’s following us, Uncle Marty should know about it.”
Josh shrugs as he takes his bike from the rack. “Alright...”
Yeah, that’s right alright.
I’m mad at my brother because he’s not seeing my side of things. If it were him being stared at by some frickin’ weirdo, he’d be concerned. But of course that stuff never happens to guys.
Gah, why does this have to happen? Of course we couldn’t just come to France and have a good time. There always has to be some dumb B.S. like this.