by Laura Resau
“What are you writing about?” As soon as I ask, I wish I could snatch back my question.
“Your eyelids.”
Feeling dizzy, I’m suddenly conscious of my eyelids.
He scrawls a little more. “They are the flicker of fireflies.” He reaches his hand to my face, and his fingers graze my eyelashes.
“Attends.” Wait. I step away and sputter, “I—I have a boyfriend.”
He lets out a long, slow breath between pouting lips. “Where?”
“In America. But he’ll be here soon.”
Jean-Claude looks at me for a moment with a thoughtful expression. A little sad, maybe. Then he raises a shoulder in a resigned shrug. “You should bring him over for dinner to our apartment.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Really?”
“Bien sûr. If friendship is what you have to offer, I’ll take it.”
A block later, we’ve reached my apartment, and he gives me a kiss on each cheek. “I’m glad we met, Zeeta.” Then he adds, “You’re one of us, you know.”
“One of you?”
“Someone who makes every day a song.”
I give him an odd look. “Layla says that all the time.” I study his face. “And it’s the phrase that was written on that CD.”
“It’s from a story about a troubadour.”
“I know the story well. The man uses his music to save himself.” I stare at him, bewildered. “Where did you hear it?”
“Ouf. Who knows? It’s just a story that we travelers pass around, non?” He smiles. “Like I said, you’re one of us.”
Streetlamp light pours onto my twisted, crumpled sheets. My open window lets in a faint night breeze, but the air still feels too hot, heavy, pressing down on me. My travel alarm clock glows 3:00 a.m. with fiery red numbers. Most of the time, I can handle anything that comes my way. There was the pickpocket I chased down at Carnaval in Brazil, the bus breaking down in the desert in Morocco, the angry hyena in Tanzania.
But at this time of night, when I’m most alone in the world, every fear emerges. They rush out of hiding in full force, especially when the apartment is new and doesn’t feel quite like home yet. The worst part is I can’t always put my finger on the worries. They’re looming monsters that shift shapes once I think I’ve seen their outlines. They make my insides twist and my heart race, but they’re shadowy, elusive.
I wish I could talk to Layla. She doesn’t mind being woken up in the middle of the night for a chat. But she’s still at her solstice party on the Celtic ruins, which she warned me would last all night. She and Sirona and the others are probably dancing naked around a bonfire about now.
Instead, I conjure up a good memory with Wendell—stretching out beside each other in a garden in Ecuador, hand in hand. Usually this relaxes me, lets me drift to sleep. But not tonight. I climb out of bed, walk barefoot across the cold tile floor, and open the red CD case. I stick it in the mini stereo and press play. Closing my eyes, I let the music grab hold of me, spin me away.
Make every day a song. I try to remember the original version of the story, the one Layla first told me years ago. My mind has always spun its own variations, depending on where we lived. The forest morphed into a desert or jungle or beach, and the guitar changed to congas or didgeridoo or whatever instrument we were into at the time. The story goes something like this.
There was a troubadour—a singer, poet, musician—who led the wandering life, like us. “Make every day a song” was his motto. Every day a new adventure. A new lifetime. A new poem. He would wander around, playing his music, singing his poems. This is how he made money for food to eat, a place to sleep. And if, one day, he had to eat only nuts and berries, that was fine. Or if he had to sleep on the ground one night, that was fine too. He had his music to nourish him. The songs in his soul. All he needed was his guitar and he was happy. (Layla loved telling me this story when, as a kid, I complained about our lack of well-rounded meals and our inconsistent bedtimes.)
One day in the forest, the troubadour encountered a band of criminals, men with hard hearts, tough pasts. When they found he carried nothing of value, they decided to kill him.
“May I have one wish before I die?” the troubadour asked.
The criminals laughed at his request. “Yes,” they said, expecting him to ask for a cigarette or jug of wine. Instead, he said, “Let me play one song.”
They agreed.
The troubadour closed his eyes and held his guitar like a precious child and plucked out the first notes. They were the most beautiful notes: sparkles of sunshine on water, the perfumed hum of bees on the first days of summer, dewdrops, nectar, trails of comets.
One by one, the criminals sat down on the mossy forest floor.
And then the troubadour began to sing, the words from the deepest place in his soul, the farthest reaches of the ocean, the bluest space between stars. The song was a spring bubbling up through rocks. A cool glass of water in a desert. The sweetest fruit dripping from your lips. The troubadour sang and the earth seemed to quiver with his voice, to pulse with each note. On the last note, the troubadour stretched out his voice, and finally, it faded like dawn. He put his guitar on his lap, ready to die.
For a moment, there was silence except for the birds and insects. Then the criminals found their voices and said, “One more song.”
Again the troubadour conjured up the deepest, highest, brightest, darkest song from the most secret treasure-filled place inside him. He played with all his soul.
When it was done, the criminals cried, “Another one. Another one!”
All night he played. One by one, the criminals sank into the soft earth and drifted off into the sweetest dreams. And by dawn, they were all asleep, with smiles on their faces.
The troubadour, too, had a smile on his face as he picked up his guitar and walked off into the rising sun, ready for a new day, a new poem.
Sometimes, instead of “See you later,” Layla says, “Make your day a song, love!” That’s what she takes from the story. I’ve always loved the story’s assurance that when we find ourselves lost in a dangerous slum or a thick jungle or a parched desert, if we reach deep enough into our souls, we can survive anything.
But tonight this story doesn’t comfort me.
Now, after Layla’s third espresso at Café Cerise, she’s finally waking up, jumping straight from lethargic to hyper. “Z, it was so amazing at my solstice fête!” She rambles on and on about the ceremony, which involved jars of olive oil, goblets of springwater, candles, chanting, dancing, singing, feasting, and general merriment under the moon. She didn’t come home from the Celtic ruins until dawn. Apparently, she and Sirona and her family and friends hopped the fence around the ruins and had their all-night party in secret. Typical Layla. I wonder if she’ll ever outgrow this stuff.
“Hyper cool,” I say without enthusiasm, rubbing my eyes. I put my hand back on my bag and scan the square, determined that the fantômes hand won’t sneak by me so easily again.
Layla ties her hair into a knot. Already the heat of the day has set in. “Look, there’s Sirona!” She waves, a flick of the wrist that jangles her dozens of copper bracelets.
Sirona and her family wave back at us as they set up not far from our table.
I open my notebook, looking at each member of Salluvii closely, remembering what Vincent said about some secret. A secret older and deeper than you can imagine. I list my observations:
• They all dress oddly.
• Their instruments are unlike anything I’ve seen before.
• Their music sounds strange and old.
• They have Celtic ancestry.
I strain to hear them talking, listening to the rhythms and intonations. They’re not speaking French or any other language I’ve heard before—and I’ve heard dozens. The closest familiar language would be Gaelic, which an Irish colleague of Layla’s spoke.
• They speak a strange language, similar to Gaelic.
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sp; In the sun, Sirona’s brass pendant flashes, the triple spiral. And then I notice they’re each wearing the same kind of necklace.
• They all wear triple-spiral necklaces.
Sirona’s coming over, so I quickly turn to a blank page. After we greet one another, she sits down beside me, and I ask, “What do those spirals on your necklace mean?”
She rubs the pendant. “Whatever you want them to mean. Water, cycles of life, ending and beginning, renewal, rebirth, eternity.”
I jot this down and ask, “Why does your whole family wear them?”
“They remind us who we are,” she says, and counters my question with her own. “And who are you, Zeeta?”
I’m tongue-tied.
Layla jumps in and answers for me. “A seeker! That’s what her name means. And that’s what you do in your notebooks, right, love?”
“How fitting,” Sirona says, looking delighted.
I’m determined to foil her attempt to switch the focus to me, but it’s tricky. The thing about secrets—especially old, deep ones—is that by definition, you don’t go around talking about them to people you’ve just met. Instead, I ask her details about what town she’s from, how she and her husband met, where she lives, why she speaks a Gaelic dialect. Her answers are gracious but a little cloudy. “We’re from around here, but we’re often on tour.” “We live in a quiet, old part of town.” “Grannos and I met ages ago on our travels.” “We’ve always been good at languages.”
I’m getting nothing interesting, so I change tactics and ask about local Celtic history. With this, Sirona opens up completely, answering questions in intricate detail, recounting vivid stories of her people. Her face lights up as she describes the array of festivals—the festival of light, summer’s end, the winter solstice, the spring equinox. Then, shaking her head and wincing, she tells about the loud carnyxes that people blew on the battlefield, dozens at a time, creating an ear-splitting, earthshaking noise that terrified their enemies. She laughs. “Some of those Romans cried out for their mothers, they were so scared!”
Finally, Sirona stands up with her lyre. “I’d better go warm up with Salluvii now.” We kiss goodbye, and she says, “It seems you’re interested in Celtic history, Zeeta. I’d be happy to give you a tour of Entremont. It’s the ruins of the Salluvii town on a hill outside Aix. Where Layla went to our celebration last night. My family and I go there often.”
“We’d love it!” Layla says. “Right, Z?”
“Sure,” I say, watching as Sirona leaves, gracefully toting her lyre. I can understand how Vincent might think someone like Sirona holds ancient secrets. Still, I don’t see anything that sets her apart from some of the other unusual people I’ve met on my travels.
After Sirona rejoins Salluvii, Layla turns to me. “And how was your party, Z?”
“Fine.” I pause, considering how much more to say. “I talked with Jean-Claude. The accordionist from Illusion. He told me we’re alike, that we’re the kind of people who make every day a song.”
Layla’s eyes widen. “You think he’s your fantôme? Jean-Claude?”
I shake my head. “But I’ve never met him before, so the jar of sand wouldn’t make sense. And he claims that the troubadour story is just one that travelers pass around.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “He’s almost always in the square with his band. And before your fantôme left both gifts, Illusion was nearby, right?”
“I guess.” My hand is still on my bag, guarding it.
“Well, love, perhaps you should keep an eye on this accordionist.” Layla stands up, stretching, and craning to look at the time on the clock tower. “More teacher training meetings. See you tonight for dinner?”
“Right. I’m making pistou.”
“Yum.” She kisses my cheeks. “See you, love.”
As she disappears into the crowds of tourists, I search in my bag for my notebook. My hand lands on something soft. Fabric. I pull it out. It’s an old, worn T-shirt, faded black. There’s a decal of a dreadlocked guy playing a guitar. I hold it up and squint at it. Jimi Hendrix is my guess, although some of the image has crumbled away. The shirt is riddled with holes, nearly threadbare. Tentatively, I press it to my face. It smells clean, freshly laundered.
Why would the fantôme give me a ratty old T-shirt? And how? I’ve had my hand on my bag practically the whole time. How could he have gotten past it? How could I not have noticed? Maybe he is a ghost.
I frown. It could have happened at the fête last night. With all the distractions, I wasn’t watching my bag the whole time. Or it might have happened even before that, on the street last night, going to or from Nirvana. The streets were bustling.
I look around in frustration. Nothing suspicious. And Vincent the pigeon man isn’t even there, so he couldn’t have seen anything. Speaking of Vincent, he’s probably waiting for me at his shop for our English lesson. I fold the T-shirt and stuff it back into my bag, more annoyed than mystified.
On the way to Vincent’s shop, I swing by the market, grab a head of garlic and a bundle of fresh basil for the pistou, then hurry through the maze of side streets. Here and there, people slip in and out of heavy wooden doors. As the doors swing closed, I peek behind them, down the hallways. Some passages offer glimpses of hidden courtyards with trees growing inside, their leaves poking over the buildings. Some courtyards are visible from the street, with only wrought-iron gates blocking the entrance, making it easy to peer right through. Of course, I want to know what’s behind the closed, locked doors.
Why is it that the forbidden always holds so much allure?
On the Place des Trois Ormeaux, I pause by a circular fountain, water bubbling up from the center, a few pigeons hopping around the edges. Just on the other side is Vincent’s antiques shop, its sign nearly hidden by a cloud of flapping silver feathers. The sign is wooden, and shaped like a pigeon. LES SECRETS DE MAUDE, it reads in gold calligraphy on a black background, some of the paint chipping off. I smile, imagining what kinds of juicy secrets Vincent thinks his beloved pigeon has.
The wrought-iron gate is open. Trying not to step on any pigeons, I walk back into the cool shadows of a narrow courtyard, navigating around leaves from potted plants and overhanging tree branches. Tucked into the foliage, like ruins in a jungle, antiques peek through. They’re stashed haphazardly against the stone walls—old gilded picture frames, a dusty velvet chair with stuffing coming out, an ancient wooden chest. The furniture seems to be overflowing from the shop entrance at the rear of the courtyard.
I’m taking so much care not to trip over any pigeons or antiques, I nearly collide with a man in a pink polo shirt.
“Désolé, mademoiselle,” he says.
“Oh, my fault.”
“Well,” he says, “actually, it’s my father’s fault for attracting vast quantities of birds and furniture.”
I study him, confused. He has light brown skin—or else a very deep tan—and doesn’t look much like Vincent. Then I remember that Vincent’s wife was from the Canary Islands. It’s ironic. People are always questioning whether Layla’s my mother, simply because we have different complexions. And now I’m making the same wrong assumption.
“I’m about to visit Vincent now,” I say. “Tutor him in English.”
The man laughs. His laugh is similar to Vincent’s, deep and hearty. “Bon courage, mademoiselle! My father is not exactly a linguistic genius.” He extends his hand. “I’m Jean-Christophe.”
“Enchantée,” I say, taking his hand, which is calloused and muscular, maybe from pulling and knotting the ropes of a sailboat. Another J.C., I can’t help noting. Of course, Jean seems to be a prefix to lots of guys’ names here in France. Vincent mentioned that his son sailed around the world. He looks it—his face is worn from the sun and wind, deep wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes, probably from squinting at the bright ocean. “I’m Zeeta.”
“Young to be an English teacher.” He grins. “Impressive.”
/> “Well, my mom’s the certified one. I just picked up some things from her. Layla drags me to live in a different country every year.”
“Exciting life, no? You must be very happy.”
“More or less,” I say.
He’s about to say something when a pigeon flies onto his head, making him jump. He grabs the bird and looks into its eyes. “Juliette! Don’t scare me like that.”
I smile at his first-name basis with his father’s pigeons. “I should tutor Vincent now,” I say, walking toward the shop. “Au revoir, Jean-Christophe.”
“Au revoir, Zeeta.”
He walks out onto the street, and I head to the back of the courtyard, into the shop. The throngs of pigeons reluctantly move aside, giving me a little space to stand. It’s a small room, packed ceiling to floor with feathers and antiques. Everything seems balanced precariously, as if touching one thing might cause the rest to come tumbling down. There are statues of saints and the Virgin of Lourdes; dark oil paintings of people in old-fashioned dress; glass beads and rosaries; heaps of lace spilling from falling-apart trunks; cracked leather books wedged into every possible space; clocks of all shapes and sizes; golden pendulums swinging and hands ticking. I stifle a sneeze at the dust and mold, which is strong enough to overpower the sharp smell of basil in my bag.
Through piles of ancient canvases and mirrors and glass, something moves. A page, turning. The yellowed page of a book. And a yellowed, age-spotted hand turning it. Vincent is hunched over the book, peering through thick glasses through an even thicker magnifying glass. He looks utterly lost in whatever he’s doing. He’s motionless now, and if it weren’t for that page having turned, I’d believe he was a statue. Maude, of course, is nestled on his shoulder, nuzzling her beak behind his ear.
I’m wondering whether I should interrupt him or come back later, when he raises his head and sniffs, like a dog tracking a scent. He sniffs and sniffs and turns his head and rests his gaze on my bag.