by Laura Resau
Someone is watching me. I’m sure of it. And I’m guessing it’s the fantôme. I glance around, then stir four cubes of sugar into my tiny espresso cup with a pinkie-sized spoon and take a baby sip to make it last. That’s what French people do—savor small sips of small servings in small cups. Layla’s at an English teachers’ training today, so I’m on my own at Café Cerise. I’ve written down my goals for today in my notebook.
1) Find the fantôme.
2) Buy more yogurt in those cute little jars.
3) Make some friends.
Usually after I’ve spent a week in a country, I’ve managed to form some friendships. The sooner I make friends, the longer I have with them until Layla and I move on to the next country.
The band Illusion starts playing about five meters away, just under the tree by the edge of the café tables. Their outfits are different today but still blaze red and gold with tiny ornaments glinting the sunlight—old coins, soda-can tops, beads. Their melodies suck me in, like a whirlpool, making my insides spin and dance.
I look around again. I’m not usually paranoid. But now that I think about it, why wouldn’t I feel I was being watched? The Place de la Mairie is like one giant stage at the heart of town. Everyone is watching everyone else. In fact, the main occupation here at Café Cerise seems to be watching. And now, most eyes are focused on Illusion.
People in Aix-en-Provence love street performers. Accordionists, drummers, singers, jugglers, harpists—you name it—make their rounds around town, usually lingering here in this square. It’s a prime, sunny spot, in front of the café tables that line two sides of the square like theater seating. There’s an expanse of space, perfect for performing, just between the fountain and the ancient city hall building and the historic post office. Peering out over each of the arched windows are carved stone faces bursting with expression—jovial, devilish, grumpy, snooty, angelic.
The fountain is the centerpiece; it’s circular, with a round column shooting up high, topped with a stone ball. Water spurts out from four sides, and short, wide steps lead up to it, covered with kids and pigeons. The fountains scattered throughout town are why we chose Aix. The fountains and the light. The only thing Wendell has ever told me he saw in our future was this: a place with amazing light and fountains everywhere.
Back in Ecuador, when we mentioned these features to Layla, she said she knew just the place. She unfolded seven crumpled, weather-worn sheets of lined yellow paper that had survived for seventeen years and seventeen moves. Her List—one of her most treasured possessions—records all the places travelers have urged her to visit over the years. She has declared them the coolest places in the world. Whenever she’s getting restless and ready to leave a country, she peruses the List to find our new home.
There’s not too much logic to where on the List we go next; it’s usually some place drastically different from the one we’re in. Sacred sites are always a plus for Layla, especially if water rituals are involved. Last year she chose Ecuador after she heard about bathing in the Peguche Waterfall to make wishes come true. When she found out that Aix-en-Provence was built over a network of springs, she was sold. And when she learned it’s just an hour from the miraculous cave springs of Lourdes—which we visited the jet-lagged day after we got here—she was in heaven.
Aix-en-Provence is near the top of page one of the List, which means someone must have recommended it a long time ago, before I was born. Next to it, in purple pen, Layla wrote, fountains, light, art, ruins, underground springs, cafés, music. And as fate would have it, there were a few summer-abroad art programs here for Wendell to choose from. It was a good choice, but for me, anywhere would have been fine, as long as Wendell was there. I can easily blend into any scene, quickly take stock of how people act, and slip right in, unnoticed.
Which is why I can’t stop thinking about why my fantôme picked me out of the crowd. I open my notebook, write, Who gave me the CD? And why? With questions on a fresh page, my powers of observation sharpen. I take another look around, sure that my fantôme must be out there.
There’s that mime again, frozen against the tree trunk, eyes closed as though he’s asleep or dead. A mime, I write. Of course, I would have noticed a mime slipping something into my bag. He’s pretty conspicuous.
Above him, just inside a tall, ceiling-to-floor window above Café Cerise, sits an old woman, peering outside. The French doors are open wide behind a twisted wrought-iron railing. The woman lifts something to her eyes. Binoculars? Yes, they must be. They’re cream colored and look old-fashioned, like opera glasses. No one but me seems to notice. Then I realize they’re pointed in my direction.
I write, There’s a lady in a window with binoculars. She shifts the angle higher, gazing at something else, beyond me. My eyes dart around to see what she could be looking at. By the fountain, an old man—covered head to toe in pigeons—waves to her, and she waves back. I jot down notes on the binoculars lady and the pigeon man. Maybe they saw my fantôme.
My espresso is nearly gone now. I resist sipping the last drops, and instead, nibble on the square of dark chocolate that came on the saucer.
Looking around to signal the waiter for another espresso, I catch a glimpse of the old woman in the window. She’s waving again, this time straight at me.
Startled, I wave back.
As Illusion plays the last notes of their set, the red-haired girl tosses up the hat, does a backflip, and a split second after landing on her feet, belts out, “We. Are. Illusion!”
Wiping sweat from their foreheads, the band members pass around a carafe of water. The tuba player is all loose limbs, with a relaxed smile that grows bigger when the gypsy dancer sidles up to him, slips her arms around his waist, and whispers in his ear.
The other girl is busy pirouetting around the square, collecting money in the hat. When she dances up to me, I toss in some coins and shake off my twinge of nervousness. The only way to make friends fast is to jump right in and start talking. “Your band’s great,” I say.
“Merci.” She eyes me carefully, then says, “There’s something different about you.”
“Different how?”
“You’re not quite a local, but you’re not quite a tourist, either.”
I smile, curious. “How can you tell?”
“You’re an insider and outsider all at once. You fit right in, but stay at a distance. A girl of contradictions. Like me.”
I laugh. I like her. “I’m Zeeta,” I say.
“I’m Amandine,” she says, her eyes dancing. “Always nice to meet another traveler our age, isn’t it? We stick together, non?”
I nod.
She holds the hat as if she’s forgotten about collecting money. “How old are you, Zeeta?”
“Sixteen.”
“Me too! I just had my birthday last month.”
I’m surprised. She looks younger.
“When’s your birthday?” she asks.
“March seventeenth. I’m a Pisces.”
“Water’s your element, then.” She does a backflip, not in a show-offy way, but more like it’s a restless habit, the way some people might jiggle a knee. And somehow, she doesn’t drop a single coin from the hat as she does it. “Air’s mine,” she announces, then says abruptly, “You think I look young, don’t you?”
“A little,” I admit.
“Life circumstances have made me old for my age, even though I look like I’m twelve.”
“Life circumstances?”
She nods. “The wandering life. Lack of parents.”
The accordionist comes over, offers Amandine a swig from the carafe of water.
After sipping, she does another backflip, as effortlessly as if she were scratching her nose. They obviously know each other well, well enough that they don’t need words.
The guy’s lips are wet with the water. His mouth stays in a sensual pout even as he smiles at me. He runs his hand through his black curls, revealing, for a second, a thick white scar across his foreh
ead. Then the curls fall back into place, just grazing his eyebrows.
“I’d better finish collecting the money,” Amandine says, pecking my cheeks and skipping away as people shower coins into her hat. Apparently in Aix, people kiss once on each cheek in greetings and salutations. I’ve noticed it can take a long time for a large group of people to greet each other here, with all the kissing going on.
I turn to the accordionist. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“My stepfather.” He smiles again. “I’m Jean-Claude.”
“Zeeta,” I say, registering his initials, J.C., out of habit, although of course he’s way too young to be my father. Just a couple of years older than me.
“Enchanté, Zeeta,” he says formally, shaking my hand. Enchanted to meet you. Not pleased. Not glad. Not happy. Enchanted. Magic seeps into even the most mundane interactions in this language.
“Enchantée, Jean-Claude,” I say, turning to a fresh page in my notebook. It’s a relief to look away from his eyes. They’re disconcerting, like two perfect circles of sky.
“I noticed you sitting at the café yesterday,” he says.
He noticed me? I wonder if he could be my fantôme. I decide to take him by surprise. “Yesterday, in the square, did you notice someone slip a CD into my bag?”
He cocks his head, amused. “You attract mystery, non? Could it have been from an admirer, perhaps?”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Just a fantôme.”
“Ghosts can be tricky,” Jean-Claude says. “They’re good at not being seen.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where are you from?” he asks, thankfully changing the subject.
“Everywhere and nowhere.” One of my standard responses to a standard question.
“So that’s why I can’t pinpoint your accent.”
“It’s mostly Moroccan. That’s where I learned French. My mom and I lived there a few years back.” I’m very conscious not to let my gaze linger on his face. It’s disturbingly handsome, especially those eyes that pull you in like blue pools. “How about you?” I ask.
“I too am a wanderer. All of Illusion wanders.”
I twirl my pen. “Tell me about Illusion.”
“We are each a bit of kindling.” His eyes skim over the others in his band as they stand around talking and putting away their instruments. “Our music is our fire.”
As I jot down his answer, he doesn’t question what I’m doing. Not only does he not question it, he whips out his own notebook from his back pocket, a small spiral one. No one has ever matched my notebook with another notebook.
There’s an instant bond between us wanderers, I’ve noticed. An understanding of how to leap into conversations, to grab hold of the day with passion, to hurl yourself into adventure—because you know that once you move, everything changes. And then you have to do it all over again. Which is why there’s also a hint of sadness in wanderers’ eyes, the exhaustion of being a cup that’s emptied out when you leave a place and filled again in a new place only to be emptied again.
Jean-Claude is scribbling now, his eyes closed. His notebook is so tiny you’d think he could only fit about seven words per page. And how can he follow the lines and keep from running off the page with his eyes closed? I try to peek, but his handwriting is minuscule.
He shuts his notebook, glances up, and smiles. The sun catches a bottle cap sewn onto his sleeve as he waves at someone over my shoulder.
I turn to look. It’s the mime. The man breaks his frozen posture to wave back.
“A friend of yours?” I ask.
“Oui.” Only he says it “Ouais,” like “Yeah,” the cool way to say yes. “His name’s Tortue.”
“Tortue?” Turtle’s an odd name. “As in the animal?”
Jean-Claude nods. “Tortue’s like a father to me and Amandine.”
“She’s your sister?”
“Like a sister.”
“What about the stepfather you mentioned?”
After a beat, he says, “My parents are part of my old life. The life I’ve left behind.” He rubs the scar on his forehead, as if trying to erase it. “And your family?”
“Just me and my mother. Layla. We’re more like sisters. The kind of sisters who fight a lot,” I add with a cynical grin. “You probably noticed her—the blond one?”
He nods. “I thought you two were friends.” He squints at me. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen. And you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Don’t you miss your home?” I ask. “And your parents?”
“Not at all. It’s liberté absolue. Ultimate freedom.”
His name rings through the noise of the square. “Jean-Claude! On y va!” It’s the gypsy dancer girl, calling to him.
Jean-Claude blows out an “Ouf!” through his pursed lips, then kisses both of my cheeks. Even though that’s how everyone here says hello and goodbye, my face burns.
“There will be a fête Friday night, Zeeta. For the summer solstice.” He scribbles an address on the inside cover of a small, old book. Looking back up, he runs his hand through his dark curls, once again revealing the scar, the only flaw on his otherwise perfect face. When I know him better, I’ll ask him about it. Stories about scars are always good notebook material. People can pick and choose their memories, but they’re stuck forever with the ones linked to their scars. The reminder’s there every time they look in the mirror, or take a shower, or rub their hand absently over their skin.
I trace the tiny, nearly invisible scar on the back of my hand. In Guatemala, I was spending the weekend with Paloma’s family in her grandparents’ village, and as we were cutting firewood in the forest, my machete bounced off a stone and slashed my hand. When I showed my bleeding hand to Paloma’s father, he tore off his T-shirt and wrapped it tightly around my wound. It didn’t hurt too much. Despite its depth, it was a clean slice. He carried me three kilometers through the woods back to their pickup truck.
Strangely, it was a good memory, him carrying me, worrying about me, murmuring to me that it would be all right. I glimpsed what it would be like to have a father, his smell of sweat and soil and pine wrapping around me, the warmth of his chest under my cheek. He stayed with me at the hospital as the doctor cleaned the wound and stitched it up. She told him, “Señor, your daughter will be fine, but she will probably have a small scar.” He didn’t correct the doctor, simply nodded and held my good hand, and I closed my eyes, not in pain, but bliss.
I try to study Jean-Claude’s scar more, but hair is hiding it. He presses the book in my hand. “Viens, Zeeta. Come to the fête. S’il te plaît.” Please.
I look at his scrawl. After the street address, he’s noted that it’s beneath Café Eternité. In a cave. Before I realize that cave means “basement,” I think of a real cave, imagining the cave Wendell and I were in last summer.
And then I remember Wendell. I’m supposed to be an expert at fitting him into any conversation. I push this fact from my mind and focus on the address in my hands. “Merci,” I say, not committing to anything yet.
“Return the book at the fête!” Jean-Claude calls over his shoulder, then follows his friends out of the square.
I watch Illusion leave, a mass of glittering red, growing smaller and smaller and disappearing down the street. I check Make some friends off my list. Now all that’s left are the cute little jars of yogurt and finding the fantôme.
A few hours later, after a quick trip to the boulangerie for a baguette and the charcuterie for chicken, I swing by Nirvana. Ahmed is dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, gazing longingly at turquoise posters of seascapes taped to the walls, the only splashes of color in the room. They’re the kind of posters you might find free at a travel agency—Mediterranean ports with painted fishing boats, whitewashed domed chapels on hills, colorful houses built into cliffs over the sea.
“This heat is insupportable!” he says in greeting.
“Why don’t you take a day off, Ahmed? Go to the beach? It’s only an hou
r away.”
“Oh, too much work.”
I look around. “I’m the only one in here.”
He grins. “Exactly. It’s hard work keeping you in constant communication with the love of your life.” He looks back at his screen. “Anyway, that young, crazy part of my life is over.”
I laugh, trying to envision Ahmed as young and crazy, then settle down at my computer and open my e-mail.
Wendell’s sent me another photo. He must have sent it during the pool party. The photo is artistic, even though it was taken on his phone—a red rose blooming in the foreground with a blurred pool scene in the background—wet skin and bikinis and sparkling hair and hot dogs and shiny cans of soda and a green lawn. He’s written a few lines. Sorry about the change of plans, Z. I love you. I can’t wait to see you. Love, Wendell.
Nice rose, I write. I’m at a loss for what to write next. So, I begin. How long’s your hair now?
I’ve wondered this recently. If hair grows at the rate of a centimeter a month, Wendell’s should be nine centimeters longer now, practically down to the middle of his back. He wears it in a braid, like the men of the Ecuadorian Andes, where he was born. Of course he’s sent pictures of himself over the past year, but never a backview with the braid. It’s these little things I’m curious about, these small surprises.
Do you still use that cinnamon soap? Do you still go through a tin of Altoids a week?
This is shaping up to be the world’s most boring e-mail. I take a deep breath and write about what I really want to know, what I’m circling around. Someone dropped a CD of guitar music into my bag. It’s weird. I wish you were here already to talk about it. Have you—I hesitate, let my fingers rest on the keyboard, imagining his reaction to what I’m about to write. He’ll sigh, close his eyes, shake his head. And he won’t answer my question. I write it anyway.—had any visions of a mysterious CD?