by Laura Resau
We walk along the labyrinth of streets as Sirona points out highlights, telling us about the healer who lived here, the musicians who lived there. She explains how the women used to walk down a long path, all the way to Aix, where they’d collect springwater in their vessels and then tote them back up here and dump the water in a communal cistern. “Let me tell you,” she says. “We women had bigger muscles than the warriors, from carrying the water uphill for kilometers!” I scribble her remarks in my notebook, glad at my talent for writing and walking at the same time, while hardly ever tripping.
“How do you know so many details?” I ask.
She shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance, and smiles. Her gaze lands on my necklace. She reaches out a graceful hand to touch the beads. “What a lovely necklace, Zeeta. Seeds of a tree?”
I nod. “Wendell got it for me.” I’m acutely aware that she’s just changed the subject.
“He’s the one I told you about,” Layla tells Sirona, idly grabbing a leaf from a low-hanging olive tree. “Her boyfriend. The one who’s coming, what, in two days, Z?”
“Yup.”
“You must be excited to see him after so long,” Sirona says.
“Oui,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. Now it’s my turn to change the subject. “What’s that, Sirona?” I ask, pointing to a large enclosure.
“The olive presses!” she says, delighted. “Nothing better than the smell of fresh olive oil. Oh, and here’s where we gathered for the market. Over there was the poorest part of town. We’d always slip those children some fruit or a bit of bread.”
“We?” An odd choice of pronoun for the ancient inhabitants. I imagine what Vincent would say about this.
“Well, the Salluvii,” she clarifies. “My ancestors.”
“Hmm.” I move on to more philosophical topics, which comes naturally since I’ve been doing this for years with my notebooks. “So,” I ask, “what do you think about eternal life on earth?”
Sirona raises an eyebrow and tilts her head.
After a pause, Layla says, “Time is relative. You can make a moment last an eternity with the right attitude. If you truly exist in the moment, you already have eternal life.”
I ignore Layla and look directly at Sirona. “Do you think it’s possible for a person to literally live forever?”
“Maybe,” Sirona says, brushing her hands along the ancient stone.
Before she can say more, Layla jumps in. “But it’s irrelevant, Z. There are other, easier ways. Rumi said,
“Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it.
It will turn to gold. Resurrection
Will be now. Every moment,
A new beauty.”
I turn again to Sirona. “What about those stories about immortality? Like the Holy Grail? The fountain of youth?”
Sirona lifts a shoulder in a kind of shrug.
“Metaphorical, not literal,” Layla says. “It’s about discovering a different way of being in time. Sink into the infinity of every moment.”
I turn to Sirona, looking at her expectantly. Finally, she says, “Your mother is right, Zeeta. It’s best to simply live in the moment. Because whether you’re immortal or not, moments are what make up a lifetime, non?” She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Remember, Zeeta, seeking eternal life on earth has brought most people nothing but trouble.”
The chimes of the clock tower slip into my dreams, and I find myself counting them. Eight, nine, ten … and then I remember it’s Monday, and I have my meeting with Madame Chevalier and Vincent at ten-thirty. Usually I’m an early riser—a necessity when you’re responsible for making money, grocery shopping, fixing things, and performing a dozen other duties that quickly fill the days. I look at my clock, and sure enough, it’s ten already.
Groaning, I roll over, right onto Curiosités d’Aix, whose corner jabs into my ribs. Last night, I stayed up late reading it after we got home from the Celtic ruins. I skimmed through the entire book, which was interesting enough, but chapter nine—“Les Eaux Magiques”—was the best. I must have fallen asleep with it still in my hands.
I splash water on my face, throw on some clothes, run a brush through my tangled hair, and hurry downstairs. Luckily, our apartment is just a couple of blocks from the square, so I’ll be on time to the meeting at Madame Chevalier’s apartment. As I race down the street, my bag flopping against my leg, the melodies of Illusion drift down the street. I whiz by the band on the Place de la Mairie, giving them a brief wave, and they nod and smile in my direction. Jean-Claude’s smile lingers, I can’t help noticing.
Then I turn around the corner to the narrow side street behind Café Cerise, stopping at a polished wooden door, scanning the names next to the buzzer. Mme Violette Chevalier. 2eme étage. Literally, the second floor, but since the French don’t count ground floors, it’s actually on the third story. The outside door’s unlocked, so I let myself in and walk up the flights of worn red-tiled stairs until I reach the door labeled Mme Violette Chevalier in fading handwritten ink. I knock, and a faint “Entrez” floats from behind the door. I draw in a breath, turn the knob, and push the door open. I catch a whiff of sweet vervaine and mint and old velvet and furniture wax. “Bonjour?” I call out tentatively. “Madame Chevalier?”
“Entrez, entrez!” she calls again.
I follow the voice through a long hallway lined with framed paintings and sketches that cover every centimeter of wall, ceiling to floor. Most feature beautiful women of all ages. They have chestnut hair and bright brown eyes and elegant necks and each has a different style of clothes. One woman sits in a tropical fruit market, her hair piled in a bun woven with flowers. In another picture, a woman with a pixie haircut in a cute sixties dress is silhouetted against a shimmering ocean. Another wears a palm hat, her face hidden in the shadows, with colorful African-print fabric hanging in the background. Farther on, the subjects of the painting look older. The oldest has chin-length gray hair and big copper disc earrings and looks like she’s been caught laughing at a bawdy joke.
Now the hallway opens into a small living room, tastefully decorated with antiques—an overstuffed sofa, a faded blue velvet armchair, a few cedar chests, glass vases, and, in the corner, an empty artist’s easel. Off to the right is a closet-sized kitchen with a half-fridge and a two-burner stove top and tiny sink and enough counter space to hold a single plate. To the left is a bathroom, containing a single toilet, with space for nothing else. Beside it is the washroom, not much bigger, barely fitting in a sink, mirror, and tub.
And there, silhouetted against the window, is the woman with the binoculars. It’s not until I see her that I realize the paintings in the hallway are not of different women. They’re all the same woman. All self-portraits of the live version here in front of me. She is as still as her portraits, only in three dimensions, with the Place de la Mairie through the window as the background. Her expression holds an odd mix of weariness and curiosity. Her body seems to weigh on her, even though she’s bird-thin, yet her eyes are alive, clever. And they brighten even more when I offer her my hand. “Madame Chevalier?”
“Oui, ma petite.” Those caramel-brown eyes pierce into me. It feels as if dozens of eyes are watching me, eyes of all the ages she’s been, looking at me, into me. Dozens of different people that are somehow one person. I’m not sure how I can tell, because her skin has shriveled and become spotted with brown patches, her muscles have diminished, her hair has turned coarse and gray, her eyelids have drooped, and her shoulders have shrunk.
“I’m Zeeta.”
“Enchantée, Zeeta.”
“Enchantée.” Her shawl is red velvet, faded by the sun. She wears large earrings, dangling, silver filigree like ones I’ve seen in South America. Around her neck hangs a heavy necklace made of bits of hand-worked metal, a style common in the markets of Morocco. Old-fashioned ivory binoculars hang from her neck. Her shirt is Mayan—and her skirt, long and simple black. Her shoes are worn leather thongs that l
ook handmade, revealing knotted toes.
“Sit down, sit down,” she says. “Vincent will be a few minutes late. He sent word with Maude. He’s with a customer now.” She leans forward. “Now, you, ma petite, you’ve got a bit of everything in you. The way you move, you talk. I can’t put my finger on where you’re from.”
“From everywhere and nowhere,” I say, and I reel off the sixteen countries I’ve lived in.
“I’ve spent time in quite a few of those places,” she says in a thoughtful voice.
“You were in all those places you painted?”
“I was. My whole life I’ve spent noticing things and putting them on canvas.” She pauses. “Until recently, that is.”
“Why?”
She waves away my question with her hand. “You’re a girl full of questions, aren’t you?”
“Oui,” I admit, pulling out my notebook. “Madame Chevalier, you’ve watched me in the square. Have you seen someone dropping things into my bag?”
“Well.” She strokes the leather cord around her neck, where the binoculars dangle. “I notice a great many goings-on in the square. And although I haven’t seen anyone actually slip something into your bag, I know who I’d place my bets on.”
“Who?”
She smiles. “That red-headed acrobat girl.”
I stare. “Amandine? The girl with Illusion?”
“Oui. That one.” She points a bony finger out the window, toward Amandine, who’s skipping around from one table to another, offering the top hat as people toss in coins.
“Why do you think it was her?”
“She’s taken an interest in you, ma petite. And she’s agile. She jumps and flies and flips all over the square. She has mastered the art of charming people to distraction.”
“You think she’s sneaky? Deceptive?” I study Amandine through the window.
“Oh, she’s never pickpocketed anyone, but she’d be good at it, I can tell. Trust me, ma petite, there’s more to that girl than meets the eye.”
“Wow.” I open my notebook and jot down notes. Her theory’s interesting, even though I have a feeling my fantôme is male, and most likely someone I’ve known before.
“And another thing I’ve noticed,” Madame Chevalier whispers mischievously. “The accordionist is drawn to you and you’re trying not to be drawn to him. But you can’t stop.”
I flush, looking quickly at my feet.
She goes on. “I notice that you have confidence walking around markets, through crowds, talking to strangers. Yet there is part of you that feels lost.”
I blink. How can she tell?
She points a ring-bedecked finger at my notebook. “Most of all, I notice you writing in that notebook. I notice that you noticed me. I notice that you are a person who notices.”
I take a long breath. No wonder I’ve felt I was being watched.
She twists the binocular cord around her fingers thoughtfully, like an observant, retired spy. “Most people in the square only notice what their tour guide points out. They notice the statues and carvings mentioned in the guidebooks, or the displays in the storefronts. They notice the prices of things. They notice what they want to buy. They notice beautiful women or beautiful men. They notice what would make a pretty photograph. They don’t notice an open window. They don’t notice the old lady inside it. But you do, ma petite, you do.”
Once in a while you stumble across a person like Madame Chevalier, the best kind of person for interviews, the kind who could fill a whole notebook. I jump right in. “Madame Chevalier, can love last a lifetime?”
She jangles the silver charms of her necklace, thinking. “Not for someone like me. I was always running off to paint new pictures in some new place. I loved the thrill of it, the newness. I was like your young accordionist friend, always moving from one amant to another.”
“You mean Jean-Claude? How could … ?”
She smiles. “This is not the first time he’s been here. He and his band have come and gone over the past few years.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, I shift the focus back to her. “So you’ve never had one true love—un grand amour?”
“Perhaps. But love isn’t always returned. When it is, you’re very lucky.” She stands up slowly. “I’ll make some tea.” She shuffles into the kitchen, hunched over as if in pain, with a slight limp. I can’t tell how old she is. Her mind seems sprightly, but a cloud of exhaustion hangs over her. She has to be the same age, more or less, as Vincent, since they were school friends, but she moves like someone much older. And she’s thin, thin, thin, as though she’s disappearing up here.
A book sits on the table, a handmade album of gilded leather. I open it and there, pasted to the pages, are scraps of thin paper covered in small, formal handwriting, written with an old-fashioned ink pen. They must be messages from Vincent, delivered by Maude. Many of them are funny little things, nonsensical rhymes. Once in a while there’s a reference to Salluvii or simply les Eaux—the Waters. It’s as though he and Madame Chevalier are still children playing detective, a game they never outgrew.
Madame Chevalier comes out with the tea, struggling under its weight. The cups are rattling and the tray looks about to fall. I jump up and rescue the tray.
Embarrassed, she looks away, and sees the open album. “Oh, you found my little book. We have fun together with little Maude. I adore that bird.”
She strokes her binoculars. Her fingers glitter with rings, a mélange of silver, brass, copper, and gold, studded with cut stones of all shapes and colors. “Now, Vincent said you believe in the powers of sacred waters. Is this true?”
“I’m open to the possibility. I’ve seen lots of amazing things.”
“Such as?”
“Last summer, a crystal led my friend to his birth family.”
“This was in the Andes?” she asks.
Vincent must have told her about the Peguche Waterfall. I might as well tell her about Wendell now. She’ll see him through her binoculars soon enough. “This friend, well, he’s my boyfriend, actually, and he’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Eh bien, dis donc! Better than a soap opera,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes. “Tell me about this boyfriend.”
I tell her about last summer in Ecuador and Wendell’s birth family and the crystal cave. She listens so intently that before I know it, I’ve let something slip. “And last summer,” I say, “he saw us together in France.”
Immediately, she asks, “What do you mean, he saw you in France?”
Her eyes are piercing into mine and I can’t think of a rational explanation fast enough. It seems safe to tell her. She obviously believes in sacred waters. Wendell’s powers wouldn’t be much of a stretch. “He can see the future,” I say, pausing to gauge her reaction.
“Ah bon?” She leans forward. “What exactly does he see this summer?”
“Me and him, soaking wet. I’m in a dress.”
“Très intéressant,” she murmurs, staring into space, as if her mind is whirling. “What else?”
“He won’t tell me anything more,” I say. “I’m worried he sees me with—” I force myself to continue. “Someone else.” I bite my lip. “Or maybe he sees us not connecting. Maybe I’m not the same Zeeta he knew in Ecuador.”
She makes a sympathetic cluck, then launches into questions about Wendell’s powers. She wants to know the kinds of things he’s predicted, how specific he can get, how easily he can see the future on demand.
The more I answer her questions, the more I wonder why she’s so interested. There’s an intensity to her questions. An inexplicable urgency blazes in her eyes, as if my answers, somehow, are a matter of life and death.
By the time Vincent finally arrives downstairs and rings the buzzer, I’m thoroughly confused. Is Madame Chevalier wise? Or a tad crazy? Or maybe both? I remember what Layla says about clowns and fools—that craziness and wisdom go hand in hand.
“Would you get the door, ma petite?” Madame Chevalier smooths her hair, he
r shawl, her skirt. “That must be Vincent.” As she says his name, she lights up.
I open the door, waiting for Vincent to climb the stairs. It takes him a minute, and when he appears, he’s a little breathless. A light dusting of feathers covers his coat, and Maude is perched on his shoulder. He’s wearing old-man cologne that blends nicely with his natural smell of birds and old cedar. As he enters, he takes off his beret, revealing white hair that’s been recently combed with some kind of oil. He fiddles with the beret in his hands.
“ ’Ello, Meez Zeeta!” he says in English, punctuated with a laugh.
“Hello yourself,” I say in English, and head down the hall. He follows slowly, lingering over the self-portraits on the wall, as if he’s in the Louvre. The first is when Madame Chevalier was about sixteen. My age. I wish I looked so poised and elegant. He stands in front of the painting. “Comme elle est belle!” he whispers in an awed voice. How beautiful she is!
He waddles along like a pigeon, craning his head forward and peering at the paintings that grow older and older, oohing and aahing over each one. Sometimes he reaches out his hand, as if he’s about to touch the portrait, and then, at the last second, withdraws it, shoving it in his pocket.
“I never grow tired of looking at these,” he murmurs. “No wonder she’s world famous.” He lowers his voice. “Now you understand why she intimidates me. She’s a genius.”
We continue walking past all the faces of Madame Chevalier, growing older, portrait by portrait. At the end, Madame Chevalier, in the flesh, sits facing the window. Vincent greets her with a burst of energy—“Bonjour, madame!”—and pulls a wicker chair to our chairs by the window.
Madame Chevalier reaches out to him, and for a moment I think she’s going to embrace him, but instead she takes the pigeon from his shoulder, kisses her on the head, and tucks her into her lap, stroking her. “Maude, ma petite Maude. Ça va, mon amour?”
Vincent watches Maude for a moment, smiling, then turns to me. “So, have you read chapter nine?” He’s as excited as a little boy.
I’m direct, even though I feel silly saying the bizarre theory out loud. “You two think that the members of Salluvii drink from the sacred waters? You think they’re the immortal guardians?”