by Laura Resau
Next I answer a dozen other e-mails, IM for a while with an old friend in Brazil, e-mail some little girlfriends in Ecuador, then Google Illusion. They have a pretty basic Web site, just photos and tour dates and a blog that hasn’t been updated for three months. I sign up for their newsletter, then plug in earphones and listen to a few songs.
Suddenly, I realize I have nothing to wear to the party tonight. Nothing dazzling, that is. Illusion’s sparkling outfits make my own clothes—mostly from markets in Ecuador and Thailand—seem dull and rustic.
I log out, jump up to pay Ahmed, and dash next door to the secondhand shop. It’s musty and dark inside, with low French reggae playing. I shuffle through the racks, not sure what I’m looking for, until my hands rest on a soft red dress, an airy blend of cotton and silk. It looks about my size, although I’m not sure how sizes work in France yet. When I try it on behind a thick velvet curtain, it fits me perfectly, close enough that it skims my curves, loose enough that it won’t suffocate me in this heat. It’s held up by slim spaghetti straps, and seems to float around my body. It stops midthigh, which is shorter than most of my dresses, but it’s liberating to have my knees uncovered.
It’s not until I’m standing in front of the mirror that I remember Wendell’s wet dress vision.
Not your style.
Whatever my style is at this moment, this dress seems to fit it. The French Zeeta. La Zeeta Française. I press the fabric to my face. It smells like roses, maybe the perfume of whoever owned it before me.
At the cash register, my stomach tightens, as it always does when I make a rare frivolous purchase. Our checking account has been nearly wiped out after the deposit on our apartment and a week’s worth of groceries. And Layla’s first paycheck will go to next month’s rent. I’ll have to start tutoring right away. Last year, I made Layla swear that we’d put away money for savings, and now I’m the one breaking the promise.
I take a deep breath and lay fifteen euros on the table, our food budget for the day.
Outside, I lean against a wall and make a few quick signs in my notebook. ENGLISH TUTORING by a Fluent Speaker with Six Years of Tutoring Experience. I tear out the pages, tuck the flyers beneath my arm, and head toward the university to hang up the first batch.
When I’m inside the university’s main foyer, by the bulletin board, I reach into my bag to pull out the flyers. My fingers graze something small and smooth and cylindrical. A little jar of lip gloss or face cream? I don’t remember putting anything like that in my bag. I pull it out, curious.
It’s a small jar that fits perfectly into my palm, made of clear glass, worn and scratched. Sand is inside. And on a white sticker label is written, That night meant the world to me. It’s the same compact scrawl as the writing on the CD.
I glance around, scanning the faces of tourists and locals streaming by. Nothing unusual. No one paying any attention to me. Someone must have put this in my bag while I was on the square. It was crowded enough that it could have been done inconspicuously. I review where I’ve been. It couldn’t have happened in Nirvana—that place was empty except for me and Ahmed. Maybe at the secondhand shop while I was looking at dresses. But it wasn’t crowded in there. I would have noticed.
As I walk home, turning the possibilities over in my mind, I suddenly stop in my tracks. That night meant the world to me.
The fantôme must already know me.
“Look, Layla,” I say, pulling out the jar of sand and setting it on the café table. “My fantôme slipped this in my bag.” I rest my bag on an empty chair, tempting him to leave something else but keeping a close eye on it, in hopes of catching him in the act.
Layla shields her eyes from the glaring sunlight and reads the note, then gazes at the jar in her palm. “Undeniably romantic!” she announces. “I told you he was smitten, Z. Any ideas who it is yet?”
“Well, it’s obviously someone I’ve met before. And spent time with.” I pause, contemplating the grains of sand. “Or the fantôme could be mistaking me for someone else.”
“True,” Layla admits, twirling her finger around a lock of hair. “But what if it really is someone from your past, Zeeta?”
I make a face and say, “I haven’t exactly had many unforgettably romantic nights, Layla.” Then, flushing slightly, I add, “Except with Wendell.”
Layla’s eyes twinkle. “The universe will reveal its secrets with time, love. In the meantime, enjoy the mystery!”
I keep staring at the sand, as if it holds answers. “The sand must be a clue. Maybe it’s from one of the beaches we’ve lived near.”
“Thailand?” Layla says, lighting up. “Oh, wait! There was that cute French boy you met in Brazil. What was his name?”
“Olivier.” His name gives me a little jab of pain. My first fling. He was on vacation in Brazil, where Layla and I lived three countries ago. Olivier and I surfed together, took some hand-in-sweaty-hand walks on the beach at night. But then he went back to France and after a few months stopped answering my e-mails. “He was the one who ended things with me,” I remind Layla. “It can’t be him.”
“Oh, but maybe that’s why he isn’t showing himself. He’s ashamed. Regretful! Karma has brought you together again. Now he can find redemption.”
I shake my head, remembering how Olivier broke my heart, how I lay on the beach for hours on end blasting our music in earphones and crying. Of course, I always imagined he had some reasonable excuse for not e-mailing: A virus infected his computer and erased my e-mail address. His house burned down and his family was barely surviving on the streets. And the best, he was murdered.
“I don’t know, Layla,” I say. It’s way too messy to think about Wendell and Olivier being here in the same town. I look over her shoulder, toward the fountain, where the pigeon man has reappeared and is scattering more birdseed. “Listen, I’m going to ask that old guy with the pigeons if he’s seen my fantôme.”
Layla kisses each cheek, adopting the Provençal style. “Bon courage, Z!”
I grab my bag and hand her a bunch of flyers. “Can you hang some of these up?”
“With joy,” she says, tucking them under her arm. I hear her voice calling after me, “Make your day a song!”
Holding the jar of sand, I walk across the expanse of stones, toward the flock of pigeons. This man looks like a pigeon himself, dressed in shades of silver. Around his neck a green-purple iridescent scarf mimicks the colors of a pigeon’s neck. He walks like a pigeon, wobbling along, jutting his head forward. Even his potbelly echoes the roundness of a pigeon’s midsection.
The main difference between him and the pigeons—apart from belonging to different species—is his gray beret. He’s the only person I’ve seen in this supposedly beret-adorned country actually wearing a beret. He climbs onto the edge of the fountain and, standing there, reaches out a tin cup, fills it with water, then takes a long sip. He even drinks from the fountain like a pigeon. It’s strange to see him perched up there, the blue sky behind him, a mysterious smile in his eyes, the breeze carrying a few stray feathers from his shirt. The children around him are chasing the pigeons as they hop and flutter a few feet away. The man seems amused and hands the kids some birdseed to toss. Catching my eye, he waves to me, then climbs slowly down.
I walk up the low steps. Up close, his face looks jaunty. His pink-tipped nose and rosy cheeks make me think of Santa Claus minus the beard. Water drips from the points of his white mustache.
I sit down beside him and open my notebook. “Bonjour, monsieur. I’m Zeeta.”
His cheeks form little balls when he smiles. “I’m Vincent.”
“Enchantée,” I say. “I like your pigeons.”
“Merci, mademoiselle.” He looks pleased. “If only everyone felt the same way as you.” He clucks. “The city put those pins on the stone heads over the doors so my dear pigeons can’t rest there.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “But I think those old heads look better with a bit of pigeon merde on them, don’t you?” He gi
ves a hearty laugh.
I smile appreciatively, then get to the point. “You saw me earlier today at that café table, didn’t you?”
Vincent squints at the table, smiles, and says, “You’re observant, mademoiselle.”
I pass him the jar of sand. “Monsieur, did you see someone slip this into my bag?”
He weighs it in his hand, studying the grains, as if their texture and color might hold some clue.
“I think the same person slipped a CD into my bag a few days ago,” I add.
He hands back the jar and raises a bushy white eyebrow. “Ah. A mystery. How I love a good mystery.” He chuckles. “But no, mademoiselle, I cannot offer you any clues to your mystery. Tell me, do you have any suspects?”
I stash the jar back into my bag. “Maybe this boy I knew in Brazil.”
“And he followed you here? Is this le grand amour?”
“No!” I say. “It was definitely not true love. Just a silly fling. Anyway, I have a boyfriend now.” I skim my fingertips over the water, watch a few feathers float and sink and rise again in the rushing water. Just calling Wendell a boyfriend makes him seem so temporary, as if he could easily go the way of Olivier. But l’homme de ma vie, as Ahmed would say, sounds way too dramatic. I snatch my hand from the water, pull out my notebook and pen, and impulsively say, “Vincent, tell me about the love of your life.”
“The love of my life!” He laughs, a big, belly laugh, looking at the pigeon on his shoulder as though he expects it to laugh, too, as though they share an inside joke. “Eh bien, dis donc! Why do you ask?”
“So I can remember you after I leave here in a year.” I pause, then add, “Plus, I’m curious.” Then I admit, “And maybe a little confused.”
Vincent laughs again. Another real laugh, a genuine bubbling of joy from deep inside. He takes his time laughing, a full thirty seconds, until the laugh runs its course.
“And how, may I ask, did you choose me, mademoiselle? Do I have true love written all over my face?”
I study his face. He has something written on it. Playfulness. Liveliness. Jolliness. But something deeper, something secret, something he’s holding back. “I noticed you and your pigeons. And you seem like a person who knows a thing or two.”
Vincent rubs his chin. “I like you, mademoiselle. Alors … the love of my life.” He reaches down and picks up a pigeon, white with gray spots on its wingtips and tail, and a band of green-purple iridescence around its neck. A tiny clear vial is tied to one of its spindly, salmon-pink legs. “Maude,” he says, gazing at the pigeon.
“Maude?”
“My true love.”
“Is Maude your … wife?” I venture.
He gives another deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body. “In France there exist many kinds of amorous unions, but never have I heard of a man marrying a pigeon.” He whispers to the pigeon. “Ma Maude, ma petite Maude.”
It takes a moment for this to register. “This pigeon is Maude? And she’s the love of your life?”
He’s smiling now, a wistful smile. “Maude’s been living with me for, oh, fifty years now. Since just after my wife died.” He looks at me merrily. “My human wife,” he says. “She died in childbirth a year after our marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Oh, it was so long ago,” he says. “I was twenty. She was beautiful. Hair black as yours. Skin like yours too. She was from the Canary Islands. Maybe she could have been the love of my life, but she was gone before I could find out. I started getting to know the pigeons, feeding them birdseed.” His voice turns serious. “Birdseed is better than croissant or baguette crumbs. More fiber. Produces nice piles of merde that wash away easily. The street cleaners appreciate it. Now, croissants and baguettes, they make hard balls of merde, little sticky green things that won’t come up.” He holds out a handful of birdseed for me to inspect.
I nod politely and jot down, Birdseed—good pigeon merde. “Alors, monsieur, how did you know that … Maude … is the love of your life?”
“She was there for me when I needed her. She stuck with me. I let her fly, but she always came back, roosted in my alcove. I need her. She needs me. We understand each other. She makes me feel like myself. And I know she’ll be with me forever, until death do us part.”
“You never get tired of her? Wish for another pigeon?”
“Ouf! The new generations of pigeons are a dime a dozen. I like the ones who’ve been with me a long time. These little ones”—he points a finger at each one—“Yves, Irène, Marie—they’re nice, but not like Maude. There’s just something comforting about Maude, how she looks at me. All the things she knows about me.”
“What’s that vial on her leg for?”
“Ah! It holds messages. She’s a homing pigeon, you see.” He turns to Maude, stroking her feathers. “You work for your birdseed, don’t you, mon amour?”
I survey the mass of birds, pecking and waddling. “How can you tell them apart?”
“Eh bien, dis donc! How can you tell me apart from your mother? Why, they look completely different! Different colors and patterns and beak size and feather shape and, oh, just that magical thing, that soul thing that makes each creature special. And with Maude, why, I could recognize her even if I were blind. Look! She only has three toes on her left foot! And the way she wobbles on her three toes touches me right here.” He puts his hand on his chest.
He really, truly loves this pigeon. It’s touching. I scribble all this in my notebook.
“And you, mademoiselle, what brings you here?”
“We live in a new country every year, my mom and me. This year’s France.”
“Where were you last year?”
“The Andes of Ecuador.”
“Ah bon?” Vincent looks excited. “Did you see the Peguche Waterfall?”
I’m surprised he’s heard of it. “As a matter of fact, Layla and I bathed in it with rose petals. To make our wishes come true.” I leave out the parts about its being a near-death experience. “Have you been there?”
“Mon Dieu! Non, non, non! I’ve never left France. My son, now, he’s sailed around the world, lived all over the place. He just came to town a few days ago to make sure I’m still breathing!” He winks. “But back to the waters. You could say that sacred waters are a bit of a … hobby for me.” He leans in, eager. “Now tell me, mademoiselle, did the waters of Peguche work?”
“Well. Sort of.”
“Tell me! Every detail!”
I describe how you walk down a forest path to reach the waterfall, how icy cold and tumultuous the water is, how sparkling it looks in the early-morning sun.
Vincent is a sponge, soaking it all up, wide-eyed. Once I’ve finished, he says, “So, mademoiselle, you believe in the powers of sacred waters, non?”
I shrug. “I’ve been dragged to sacred waters all over the world. My mom’s a water-ritual junkie.”
A radiant smile spreads across Vincent’s face. He strokes Maude’s neck feathers. She makes a warbly purr. Finally he says, carefully, “You are the kind of girl who could uncover secrets. Uncover them yet keep them hidden. Aren’t you?”
I try to think of secrets I’ve uncovered yet kept secret. Nothing immediately comes to mind, but I say, “Sure.”
“And you are also the kind of girl who notices things, unusual things.”
“That’s true,” I say. I do have a suitcase full of notebooks to show for it. “I noticed you, monsieur. I noticed the lady with the binoculars.”
With a chuckle, he glances at the window and waves. I can’t tell if she waves back. “The exquisite Madame Chevalier. The famous artist. She was my playmate as a child.”
“You think she might have seen someone slip mysterious gifts into my bag?”
“Quite possible. I’ll ask her and get back to you.”
Before I can ask more, he whispers, “You know the woman who plays the harp in that Celtic band, Salluvii?”
“It’s a lyre, actually. And her name’
s Sirona. Why?”
“Well, here’s one more thing for you to notice. That woman and her band. Study them. Write about them in that notebook of yours. Remember them.”
“Why?”
He moves his head close to mine, lowers his voice. “Because, mademoiselle, they have a secret deeper and older than you could possibly imagine.” He looks at me, rubbing his chin, as if musing about something.
I wait another moment, to see if he’ll explain, then I say, “Well, I’d better hang up the rest of these posters.”
He glances at them. “You teach English?”
I nod. “Six years of experience. No certificate, but I’ve picked up lots from my mother.”
“I will hire you.”
“Really?”
“I own an antiques shop. One must be able to converse with tourists.” He sighs. “Of course, my son speaks English, and many other languages, but he has no patience to teach me!”
“Well. All right.”
“Come to my antiques shop by the fountain on the Place des Trois Ormeaux. How’s tomorrow afternoon?”
“Parfait.”
He presents me with a silver pigeon feather, and then turns back to Maude, the alleged love of his life.
“So what’s this fête you’re going to tonight?” Layla asks, adjusting her flower crown. She’s already dressed for her own party, wrapped in flowing yards of white cotton, with sparkles over every bit of bare skin. It looks as if she got tangled up inside a fabric store and fell into a vat of glitter. We’re headed to Nirvana for a quick stop before going to our separate solstice parties.
“That group Illusion invited me,” I say. “It’s in a cave.”
“Hyper cool!”
I nod. “I think I might become friends with that acrobat girl, Amandine.” I don’t mention Jean-Claude, or clarify that he was the one who invited me. I don’t mention his poetry book that makes me think of pathways to castles, either.