by Laura Resau
“How was your flight?” I ask. What a dumb question. The kind anyone could ask anyone else. Two people who don’t even know each other. Why can’t I think of something real to ask him? I’m supposed to be the expert on deep questions. I have notebooks full of them.
“Good,” he says. “Slept, mostly. And watched a bunch of bad romantic comedies.”
My laugh spurts out, sounding jittery.
“God, I’m happy to see you,” he says.
“Me too.”
And then, as if it’s too much to look at him, I turn to the baggage circulating on the belt. “So, you see your bags?”
“That big dark green one,” he says. “And the matching smaller one. Christmas presents from my dad.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “I couldn’t fit all my art supplies in, so my mom packed for me. She put red ribbons on them to make them easy to spot.”
I smile. A red ribbon is how his parents explained their spiritual connection with him before his adoption. On one hand, I love that I know what the ribbons mean, and I love that he knows I know. But at the same time, I can’t help comparing him to Jean-Claude.
I can’t in a million years imagine Jean-Claude owning matching forest-green suitcases. His would be shiny vintage, lacquered with bits of strange fabric. Wendell’s clothes are all subdued earth tones, sandy beige pants and a shirt the pale blue-gray of an overcast sky. The only flash of real color are the tiny red ribbons on his suitcases. Not a single sparkle. Nothing shines. Last year, Wendell matched the adobe and woods and fields and rivers in Ecuador. He matched me. But something’s different now.
And there’s more. Jean-Claude’s nineteen, only two years older than Wendell—three years older than me. But next to Jean-Claude—who’s been on his own for years already—Wendell seems like a little boy. Of course, he doesn’t look like a little boy, with his broad shoulders, which are even broader and more muscular now. And I can tell he’s grown a few inches. I have to raise my eyes to look into his.
On the way back to Aix in the navette, our conversation starts and stops in little fits. I don’t say much as he tells me about the end-of-the-year parties. I mention Illusion’s dinner invitation, then change the subject so I won’t have to mention Jean-Claude and get flustered.
Wendell seems content just gazing out the window, commenting here and there on the landscape. His profile is beautiful. He is beautiful. His face has grown more angled and strong over the past nine months. But Jean-Claude’s face is in a different realm altogether, the lose-your-breath realm.
Stop comparing them! I order myself.
“So,” I say, “Aix was inhabited by Celtic tribes thousands of years ago,” and I proceed to give him a history lesson, something throughly impersonal. Nothing to indicate that this is the love of my life. I ramble on about the Celts and Romans as he listens and nods politely.
After a while, we fall silent again. How can it be that we have nothing to say?
A half hour later, in Aix, we get off the navette and are greeted by an enthusiastic middle-aged woman and her whole extended family. The woman holds Wendell’s photo, printed out from a computer, and gives him a big hug. The others—a small crowd of men, women, and kids—proceed to hug him, shake his hand, or kiss his cheeks, each nearly bursting with excitement. They talk to him slowly and clearly so he can understand their French, and they laugh at his attempts at jokes. He’s using all his energy to try to communicate with them. I hang back, feeling invisible in the exhaust from the navette.
When Wendell introduces me, I raise a hand and fold my arms over my chest, keeping my distance from the greeting frenzy. The host father heaves Wendell’s bags in the trunk, and then everyone piles into two small cars, the kids sitting on each other’s laps. The host mother offers me a ride to le centre-ville, but there’s clearly no room for me in either car. I decline, and wave goodbye to Wendell.
“I’ll meet you in le centre-ville tomorrow, Wendell?” I call through the open window. “On Cours Mirabeau?” I name a café far from the Place de la Mairie, where there’s not much chance of running into Illusion.
“Sure, Z. Three o’clock?”
I nod, and watch the cars putter away, the laughter fading, leaving me feeling suddenly alone. I stare at the ground most of the way home, trying to figure out what just happened.
The leafy tree branches lining Cours Mirabeau form a translucent green tunnel over the wide street. Wendell and I are sitting at one of the cafés along the Cours, beneath a striped awning, engaged in less-than-riveting conversation about the French lycée system. Spending the morning tutoring students gave me a taste of what’s to come when high school starts for me in the fall. It’s always a little jarring to delve into a new school system, year after year.
I explain to him how in France, the non-college-bound students stop school to train or work around age sixteen, and the rest continue for two years, preparing for the bac—a giant, important standardized test. The students I taught this morning have a whole year until they take the bac, but their parents are already willing to dole out tutoring money in hopes that they master the English section. If they do poorly on the test, they might have to take an entire extra year of high school.
“Sounds stressful,” Wendell says.
“Well,” I conclude, “I’ll be living in a different country when I’m eighteen, so no bac for me.”
“Lucky.” Wendell’s still in a dazed, jet-lagged state. Now he’s staring, mesmerized, at a dripping, moss-covered fountain in the center of the street, which motorbikes and tiny cars are weaving around.
“Natural hot springs feed into that fountain,” I say, glad to find a new topic of conversation. “Supposedly, in the winter, the fountain steams. That’s why the moss can grown on it year-round.” Great. I’m back in historical tour guide mode. I bite my tongue and stir my café au lait, glancing at Wendell. We used to have hundreds of things to talk about.
“Chouette,” he says, trying to show enthusiasm. He looks worn out. The good thing about this café is its prime people-watching location, which covers awkward gaps in our conversation. He takes the last sip of his second espresso, which isn’t even touching his jet lag.
I let my gaze rest back on the fountain. So much moss clings to it that you can hardly tell the shape of the stone underneath. You can’t even pinpoint where the water’s coming from. It just seems to emerge from the moss and fern leaves and drip into the pool below. It’s like a remnant of another age, something you might find in the middle of a forest.
I give Wendell a sideways glance. “You know the pigeon man I wrote you about? And the elderly binoculars lady?”
He nods.
“Well, I’ve been hanging out with them lately. Tutoring Vincent, and having tea with Madame Chevalier. But here’s the weird thing. They’re convinced there are magic waters around here. Healing waters. Immortal waters.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Where?”
“That’s their quest. To discover the location.” I take my last sip of café au lait. “They’re cute, like two little kids playing spy, all wrapped up in this secret mystery. Want to go meet them now?”
“Another time?” He glances at his watch. “I told my host family I’d go out to eat with them tonight.”
“How about after that?”
He gives a sleepy half-smile. “Well, as I learned last night, their meals tend to last till midnight.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Sorry, Z. They’re taking me to hike Mount Sainte-Victoire. And at night we’re going to a concert.”
“Oh. Okay.” I look at him closely, trying to figure him out. “Are you—” I swallow, unsure how to say this. “Do you not want to hang out with me? Did I do something … ?”
“No, Z. Look, I’m sorry.” He does look sorry, but mostly sleepy, his lids heavy. “They have everything planned out for my first week here. They’re just really nice and excited and want to show me around. And it’s good for my French to hang out with them. You could come along�
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“You don’t get it, Wendell!” I feel like smashing my cup on the ground. “Two months. That’s all the time we have.” I drill my eyes into his. “I’m used to this. I’m used to things ending too soon. Used to making the most of these little windows of time with people. You act like we have all the time in the world.”
“Z, I’m sorry,” he says softly. He pauses, looking a bit bewildered at my outburst. “I shouldn’t have waited till the last minute to duck out of living with you. But it’s not a big deal, Z. After this summer, there’ll be other summers, and then, after we finish school—”
“Wendell. Anything could happen. We have to be together while we can. Forget your itinerary.”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Z, I can’t be rude to my host family. This Saturday I’ll see you for that dinner party, right? With your friends?” He reaches his hand across the table and lets it rest on mine.
I calculate the days in my head. Saturday is four whole days from now. And he acts as though it’s nothing. “It’s like we live in different worlds, Wendell.” I pull my hand away, wrap it around my cup.
After a pause, he starts ripping up his sugar-cube wrapper.
I wonder what’s really going on here. If he thinks I’m like Layla, flighty and fickle and flaky. If he thought I’d abandon him. And instead, he’s abandoned me.
His expression is sleepy and distressed but still tender, and I want, so badly, to move forward and kiss him. To hold him. To just be with him, smell him and taste him and feel his warmth—all the things I was dying to do during the past nine months.
Instead, I drop five euros onto the little plastic tray, stand up, and say, “Well, see you around.”
He doesn’t reach for my hand again, or even try to stop me. He just adds a few coins and stands up and says, “See you Saturday, right?”
“Right. Bye.” I turn and walk down the street alone, thinking it’s strange that in the past week, I’ve kissed Amandine’s and Jean-Claude’s cheeks more than I’ve kissed my own boyfriend’s.
After a few seconds, on an impulse, I turn back to see if he’s still watching me. No, he’s moving away, his faded jeans and brown shirt easily blending into the crowd. I stand and watch him disappear, then sink down onto a bench. To make matters worse, Rumi sneaks into my head, unwelcomed. It’s the quote Layla tosses out whenever we’re leaving our home for a new country.
Look as long as you can at the friend you love. No matter whether that friend is moving away from you or coming back toward you.
Of all the people who could walk by at that moment, it’s Jean-Claude. His accordion is slung over his back, his dark curls bouncing with his steps. He sits down beside me and pushes his hair away. His eyes are shockingly blue up close. “What’s wrong, Zeeta?”
“Nothing,” I say. No way am I going to cry on his shoulder about Wendell.
Jean-Claude nods, then says, “Know what I do when I feel terrible?”
“Write secret, morbid poetry in that tiny notebook?”
He grins. “Sometimes. But sometimes, I do this.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up, leading me down the street.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Jean-Claude is running down the sidewalk now, dragging me along, weaving around all the people in creamy-hued outfits, and crossing the street, darting between little cars. We stop, breathless, in front of the carousel.
I give him a look full of questions.
He grins and buys six tickets at the kiosk.
“Six?” I ask.
“Three for you, three for me.” He grabs my hand again and helps me onto the carousel. We’re the only people over four feet tall on here. “Take your pick,” he says, flinging his arm wide. “Zebras, lions, airplanes …”
I climb onto a black horse, feeling silly.
Jean-Claude gets on the zebra beside me.
The music starts—horn, accordion, tuba—and the carousel spins and our horse and zebra go up and down. I can’t help laughing.
“Excellent!” Jean-Claude says. “See? I told you it works.”
For the first round, I feel slightly ridiculous, passing all the parents waving at their children. After that, the ticket man comes around and collects our second tickets. Parents help their kids off and on, and there’s a scramble for their creatures of choice.
“Want a different animal?” Jean-Claude asks.
“I’ve grown fond of my horse, actually,” I say. This time, when the music starts, I get into the rhythms of going up and down and around and around. I forget my self-consciousness. I actually start smiling despite myself.
After the second ride, in the commotion of the kids getting off and on the carousel, I say quietly, “I don’t think Wendell gets me.” I don’t look at Jean-Claude as I say it, just stare at the brass pole in front of me.
“Why?”
“I’ve been living this nomadic existence. Like you. And you know how you have to have a certain intensity in your relationships? Because within a year you’ll be saying goodbye?”
He nods. “Tout à fait.” Exactly.
“Wendell doesn’t understand that.” I press my head against the cool metal. “He’s completely wrapped up in his host family.”
“Ouais. It’s hard for people to get us gypsies.” The music starts again and Jean-Claude throws back his head, making his curls fall back in a wild mane. The moving lights make his vest sparkle.
“That doesn’t make you dizzy?” I ask.
“Embrace the dizziness, Zeeta!”
I throw my head back too. Now everything is backward and upside down, a mishmash of lights and colors, and nothing makes any sense, but yes, in its own way it’s beautiful, and I hang on tight, just letting the spinning lights and colors wash over me.
The tiny bells ring as the door swings open and I step into Nirvana. The stuffy, stale air smells almost homey after my absence of the past few days.
“Zeeta!” Ahmed cries. “Where have you been?”
“Wendell’s here in Aix now, remember? I don’t need to e-mail him as much.”
“Ah, oui!” He beams. “And how is it finally being with l’homme de ta vie?”
I muster up as much enthusiasm as I can. “Great.”
“And Layla?” His eyes flicker back to the screen. He’s making an obvious effort to sound nonchalant. “She’ll come back again soon, I hope?”
I sigh. So many men’s hopes raised, then shot down. “Ahmed, trust me, Layla’s not your type. She gravitates toward poorly groomed artists and musicians and clowns. She’s never had a boyfriend for more than a couple of months. Forget about her.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You know, the Persian mystic Rumi mentions a Layla in his poetry.”
“You read Rumi?” I can’t hide my surprise.
“I have a doctorate in Middle Eastern literature.” He smiles. “There are many things about me that you don’t know. Do not always judge a person by how he appears.” Laughing, he turns back to his game.
“Do me a favor and don’t mention Rumi to Layla.” The Rumi thing might let Layla overlook the fact that Ahmed is well groomed and financially stable. And the last thing he needs is to form a Rumi bond with Layla, then get his heart broken.
“Listen, I just need to make a quick call to Wendell,” I say, handing Ahmed a slip of paper with the host family’s number. Wendell canceled his cell phone for the summer to save money.
Ahmed dials the number as I head into the phone booth.
The host mother picks up. She whispers that Wendell’s sleeping, exhausted from jet lag and the family’s latest outings. I stare at graffiti on the wooden door as she chats about Wendell’s jam-packed itinerary for the next few days. They’re planning to take him to the major tourist attractions. First Mont Sainte-Victoire—the mountain Cézanne adored painting—then la Sainte-Baume—a cave where Mary Magdalene supposedly lived in her later years—and then the pretty little beach town of Cassis.
All the places that Layla and I crammed in during our first week, before her teacher trainings started.
Finally, I interrupt. “Madame, I have to go. Can you tell Wendell I called?”
“Bien sûr. Does he have your number?”
“I don’t have a phone. But he can e-mail me.”
“Can I give him a message?”
I think. What is it I want to say? I don’t know. I just want to be close to him. Just be together, comfortable together, like we were in Ecuador. But we’re no longer in Ecuador. We’re no longer who we were in Ecuador.
Of course, this is not the kind of thing you leave in a message. “Non. Merci, madame,” I say. “Au revoir.” I set the phone in the cradle, leaving my hand there for a moment, feeling, with that click, that something has ended.
Beneath white awnings, long tables stretch before me, covered with yellow cicada-print tablecloths and filled with bags of crushed herbs and spices, heaps of dried red sausages, soft white sheep cheeses, jars of amber honey, bottles of olive oil, shining like liquid sunshine. Sirona and Layla and I have been wandering up and down the market aisles, sampling baguette dipped in fresh olive oil or spread with cheeses. Sirona looks cheery in an orange tunic, her hair woven in a network of intricate braids. She did Layla’s hair the same way.
The outdoor market is packed with people, the perfect time and place for my fantôme to slip me another gift. I’m keeping a close eye on my bag, hoping to catch him in the act. It’s easy to get distracted, though, with all the people to look at, the food to taste. We’re just sampling an array of olives when Layla says, “Look! That mime’s actually moving for once.”
It’s true, he’s doing a performance, acting out a skit in pantomime. We pop a few more olives into our mouths and wander over to the crowd that’s gathered around him. One moment the mime is crying, looking mournful in his skullcap, with the black tear, clutching his hands over his heart. The next moment, he changes character, throwing on a bonnet and prancing around like a playful, silly girl, skipping arm in arm with someone. Next, he tosses off the bonnet and puts on a colorful vest with a patchwork of rainbow diamonds. He must be the girl’s companion now—a frolicking, distractible clown, elbows linked with the girl’s, pointing at this and that. Seamlessly, Tortue switches among these three characters. Although I don’t understand the story, it’s fascinating to watch.