by Laura Resau
Love,
J.C.
P.S. Make every day a song.
Layla speaks softly, in a kind of trance. “Marseille. He lived in Marseille. Right here in Provence.” A sudden look of comprehension flashes over her face. “The List! J.C. must have been the one to recommend coming here. The first place on my List.”
Barely registering her words, I grab the letters and stuff them back into the envelope. “He’s a coward,” I say. “A selfish, cruel coward.”
“I’m so sorry, love.” Layla tries to hug me, but I pull away.
We’re quiet for a while. I let a kind of numbness settle over me. I hear a truck rumbling by. The neighbor boys laughing. A baby screaming. Some distant Middle Eastern music.
Then Layla starts crying, burying her face in her hands.
I crack, let my own tears spill over. I hate seeing her like this. And she’s all I have. I lean my head against hers, try to still her shaking shoulders with my hands. Together, we sit under the stars, watching a silver cat creep across the roof, the blinking light of an airplane crossing the sky. My fantôme father is somewhere out there, hiding, and for all I care, he can stay hidden. Layla and I are fine on our own. We’ve always been fine.
My apartment buzzer rings just as the clock tower is chiming for the seventh time. Wendell is punctual. Seven o’clock on the dot, right on time for Illusion’s dinner party. I grab my bag, call goodbye to Layla, and jog downstairs and out the door. It’s the time of day when the sun’s so low, the streets feel like deep, shadowy canyons. The angled light illuminates the treetops, the red-tiled roofs, the sheets and clothes hanging out fourth-story windows. But below, we’re in the shadows.
Wendell can tell right away something’s wrong. “What happened, Z?”
“My fantôme. I know who he is.” My voice quakes. Wendell waits as I take a long breath. “He’s my father, Wendell.”
“Oh, God, Zeeta.”
I summarize my fantôme father’s letters. Even after I’ve had two days for this to sink in, I still think of him more as a ghost than my father.
After I finish, Wendell says, “I don’t get why you’re not excited about this, Z.”
I whip around to face him. “Why would I be excited?”
“You thought you’d never find him. And now he’s found you.”
I shake my head. “He’s skulking around, spying on me. He hasn’t even introduced himself.”
After a few paces, Wendell says, “Maybe he has a good reason. Maybe it took courage to give you those letters.”
“Wendell, I can’t believe you’re taking his side!”
Wendell takes an Altoid tin from his pocket, offers me a mint.
I decline, walking faster.
“So what are you going to do?” he asks, struggling to keep up.
“Forget about him.”
For a while we walk in silence. It feels too strange to hold Wendell’s hand, so I keep both hands clasping the handle of my bag as I walk. We do not look like soul mates who’ve just been reunited after nine months.
After a block Wendell says, “Maybe he’ll give you something else. Maybe he’ll introduce himself. Maybe you just have to be patient.”
“You know what? Let’s not talk about this anymore. Anyway, here’s Illusion’s place.”
We stop in front of Café Eternité and I press the ringer.
Someone buzzes us inside, and we go up a few flights of stairs, where Amandine is waiting for us with the door flung open. “Entrez,” she says.
Inside, evening sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I can see practically the whole apartment from this vantage point. It’s sparsely furnished, with mostly bare white walls. The color comes from the giant backpacks and bags and piles of clothes pressed against the walls, wedged into nooks between furniture.
When Amandine kisses us both in greeting, Wendell turns his cheek the wrong way and ends up bumping noses with her twice. She laughs and leads us both farther inside, one arm around each of us, and introduces Wendell to Sabina and Julien. Smells of sautéed garlic and shallots and simmering wine fill the little space. Steam and smoke rise from pots on the stove, drifting around Jean-Claude’s damp face as he empties a bowl of sliced zucchini into a pan sizzling with olive oil. From the kitchen area, he smiles and then bends down to adjust the heat.
Please don’t kiss Wendell’s cheeks, I silently beg. And please don’t kiss my cheeks in front of him.
Thankfully, Jean-Claude simply waves to us but stays in the kitchen, apparently in charge of the cooking.
Sabina turns to Wendell and says in English, “So you’re from Colorado? The mountains?”
They launch into a conversation about skiing, and Wendell throws in some garbled French here and there. He actually knows quite a bit, and I’m guessing that in a few weeks he’ll be able to have a decent conversation. In the meantime, since Illusion speaks English, that’s what we all use.
“Let me give you a tour!” Amandine says.
Wendell agrees enthusiastically. The apartment seems so tiny, I’m not sure where she’ll take us. She leads us to the door of a minuscule bedroom, which can barely hold a twin-sized bed. “Julien and Sabina’s room,” she announces.
“And the rest of you?” Wendell asks, peering around.
“The sofa pulls out to a bed, where I sleep,” she says. “The chair pulls out to another. That’s for Jean-Claude. Tortue sleeps on the floor on a roll mat. He likes sleeping on the floor.”
And to think I complain about sharing tiny apartments with Layla. “Where is he, anyway?”
She presses her lips together. “Not here.” She hesitates, as if deciding how much to tell us. “He’s in Montperrin.”
“Where’s that?” Wendell asks.
“It’s a psychiatric hospital.” She lets this fact sink in. “Not far. Just a couple kilometers away.” Now that she’s told us, she seems to want to talk more about it. “I’ve been asking him for weeks to check himself in, and he’s finally done it. Probably not for long, just to get back on his feet.” She folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself. A lonely, helpless gesture.
“Well,” I say. “It’s good he’s getting treatment, right?”
Amandine shrugs, and then, shaking off her gloom, grabs Wendell’s and my hands and skips to the bathroom. “Regardez!” This is what she really wants to show us, I realize. It’s extremely tiny, just a single toilet. Barely enough room for the three of us to stand. Images from magazines are plastered over the walls and the ceiling. They’re cropped in odd ways and arranged by body part—a bunch of knees in one area, armpits in another, a disconcerting collection of eyes in another.
“I’m getting ready to lacquer it,” she says.
“Wow!” Wendell says, looking genuinely impressed.
Amandine smiles. “I leave my mark everywhere we live. The landlords let me. No one cares about the toilet room. Too small for them to decorate but perfect for me.”
Even though we’re crammed into an area the size of a dinky closet, Wendell wants to stay and talk about every single image. “Why did you choose to put this here?” “I love the juxtaposition of these two.” It’s like he’s at a gallery opening, only it’s just the three of us and we’re squeezed into a one-by-three-meter space with flower-scented toilet paper.
“All recycled,” Amandine says, standing with her foot pressed to the inside of her thigh, tree yoga pose. Her arm is stretched up, her hand leaning on the wall, crawling up like ivy. “I’m friends with the guy at the magazine kiosk on the Place de la Mairie. He gives me his old magazines, with the covers torn off.”
Just when I’m thinking it can’t get worse, Jean-Claude appears at the bathroom door and sidles inside. And now he’s kissing my cheeks and saying he’s sorry he didn’t greet me in the kitchen but his hands were full of zucchini. And I’m trying hard to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go. Then he kisses Wendell’s cheeks, and Wendell bumps noses with him, too, and now the bathroom smells like
a suffocating mix of Jean-Claude’s cologne and Wendell’s cinnamon soap and the flowery pink toilet paper.
It’s just too much. Gasping for breath, I push my way out the door, praying that this evening will end soon.
It’s midnight, dark in Illusion’s apartment, only the yellow glow of some candles, lamplight tinted red from a silk scarf draped over the shade, and a tiny bulb above the stove. We’re four hours into dinner and there’s no end in sight. The courses just keep coming and coming. I tried to excuse myself after an hour, after the first course of melon wrapped in prosciutto.
“Don’t count on leaving before dawn,” Amandine warned, her eyes twinkling. So far we’ve had aperitifs with olives and crackers, cherry tomatoes stuffed with fresh basil and goat’s cheese, lemon sorbet to clean our palates, sautéed vegetables with herbes de Provence butter sauce, fish in béarnaise sauce, lamb chops basted in rosemary and olive oil.
The pattern became clear early on: each course lasts nearly an hour and gets its own plate. And each course comes with a splash of a particular wine that Julien has deemed appropriate—some white, some red, some rosé. The dinner lasts so long, and there’s so much endless food, that the alcohol barely affects me—just adds to the smoky, steamy, surreal haze of the evening.
Amandine and Jean-Claude are glowing, obviously in their element, taking turns hopping up to wash dishes or get the next course ready in the kitchen. As they cross paths, they bicker over what kind of oil to use or what type of cheese to serve or just ruffle each other’s hair. Now Amandine’s sitting down, listening to Wendell talk about how he wants to be a photographer for National Geographic Explorer. He has a new camera this year, a fancy digital one with lots of lenses, which he uses to snap photos of each course before digging in. Amandine looks appreciatively at pictures he’s already taken, admiring the angles. “Ah, ça, c’est génial!”
Meanwhile, I’m praying that the next course will be the last. Shouldn’t midnight be a dinner cutoff time? Won’t it spoil our appetites for breakfast after some point? It’s not that I’m not enjoying myself. The food might be the best I’ve ever had. And the company is interesting.
It’s just uncomfortable, the way Wendell and I left things undone. Actually, everything in my life feels as though it’s been shaken up and spun around, especially my beliefs about my father.
When Amandine talks with Wendell about art, I have no choice but to talk with Jean-Claude. He quotes poetry and talks about the surrealists, symbolists, romantics. I write the names of the poets he recommends in my notebook, and match his quotes with verses from some of Layla’s mystics. At one point, after the endives au gratin, I help him clear the table and prepare the next course, biting my lip when our elbows and hips graze each other in the small kitchen. When I’m holding a tray with a basket of sliced baguette and duck liver paté, he reaches over to move my hair behind my shoulder. On edge, I jump back, but he whispers, “Calme-toi, Zeeta. The tips of your hair were just falling into the paté.”
Around one a.m., Jean-Claude pulls out his accordion and plays a reel before the next course. Over the music, he asks, “Whatever happened with that CD someone gave you, Zeeta? Ever find out who it was?”
Wendell and I look at each other.
Sabina chimes in, “What CD?”
Jean-Claude explains to Sabina and Julien that it was slipped into my bag. Amandine keeps her eyes on mine, watching my reaction.
I try not to let my emotion show. “He left some other things too,” I say evenly. “Some letters. Turns out he’s my father.”
“Your father?” Sabina says.
“Oui,” I say. “And actually, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Amandine wrinkles her eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because I’m not exactly happy my father’s a weirdo who won’t even introduce himself.” I stop there. I’m flushing, starting to break out in a sweat.
“He could have a good reason,” Amandine points out.
“That’s what I said,” Wendell agrees.
I close my eyes, wishing I were anywhere but here.
Amandine goes on. “Maybe he wants to connect with you but he doesn’t know how.”
Jean-Claude jumps in. “I’m with Zeeta. Parents are overrated, anyway. Leave the past in the past.”
Amandine shoots him a knife-sharp look. “You’d feel differently if your parents were dead.”
“They are dead.”
“Oh, mon oeil!” she snaps. “They’re alive and living less than an hour away.”
Jean-Claude stands up, almost knocking his chair over backward, and goes into the kitchen.
Amandine takes her last bite of baguette spread with paté, then stands up and clears this round of dishes. I hear her and Jean-Claude arguing in whispers in the kitchen.
I’m just about to stand up to leave, when Amandine emerges with a bowl of cherries. “Sit down, Zeeta!” she commands.
Over her shoulder, I see Jean-Claude pulling a tart from the oven, releasing a wave of buttery sweetness. He appears to be fuming. Even through the steam, I see that the expression on his face is rigid and cold.
“He’ll get over it,” Amandine whispers, pushing the bowl in front of me. “Have some.”
I pluck a cherry from the pile and settle back in my chair for a few more rounds.
It’s two a.m. when we finally leave. I’m exhausted but jittery in the aftermath of two espressos—the eleventh and final course. Even though Wendell has a long trek ahead, all the way to the outskirts of town, he walks me home. The side streets are completely deserted except for a few random passersby coming back from clubs.
We’re quiet until Wendell asks under his breath, “What’s going on, Z?”
“What?” I say. “Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Z, you don’t even want to hold my hand.” His voice is shaking. “You don’t talk. You hardly even look at me.”
My heart stops. It’s like that moment when a glass slips from your fingers and you know it will be a split second before it hits the floor, not enough time to catch the glass, but enough time for that cringing, blood-rushing feeling of oh, no.
“Z, can I ask you something?”
I dig my fingernails into my palms, bracing myself. “Okay.”
“And you’ll be honest?”
The eleven courses of food are suddenly churning in my stomach. I nod.
“Is there something going on with you and Jean-Claude?” Wendell’s voice is vulnerable, something that could so easily be smashed.
“No,” I say automatically. Then, after a pause, I add, “Well, we’ve been hanging out. But it’s not just him.” And then, in one big, middle-of-the-night, espresso-fueled rush, all kinds of things tumble from my mouth. “I’m—I’m confused. About my fantôme father, about you, about me, about everything. I thought this summer would be like last summer. But it’s not. I’m not the same person. Nothing stays the same. Not even my taste in dresses. Not my favorite colors.” I’m rambling and I can’t stop. “And now, with my father’s letters, everything in my life is turned upside down.”
Wendell’s expression softens, tender with concern. “Z, of course you’re the same. You might change a little, but—”
“I’m not the same Zeeta who fell in love with you.” My eyes grow teary. “Everything’s different from how I imagined.”
He takes my hand. “I love you, no matter what Zeeta you are. I’m not worried about the future.”
I wipe my eyes. “H-have you seen something?”
He pauses. “I see what’s in front of me, here, now. You already know how I feel.” A shadow passes over his face. “So it’s up to you whether we stay together or not.”
Until he says it, the possibility of breaking up doesn’t seem real. But once it’s out there, once the words are said, I can see that’s where we’re headed. “I don’t—I don’t know,” I sputter. “I mean, I spent all year wanting to see you. And I love you. I do. But—I don’t know.” I look at him and whisper, “Nothing f
eels right.”
He tucks some stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He speaks in a low voice that crackles with emotion. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“I—I guess so.” I start crying again. “I’m so sorry, Wendell.”
He backs away from me. If we hadn’t just broken up, he’d be holding me now. Instead, he rubs his eyes and turns to go.
“Wendell?”
“Good night, Zeeta.” His voice is hoarse, full of pain, and he doesn’t look back.
The pitter-patter of rain on the roof rouses me. I open my eyes, taking in the pale, watery morning light. For a pinprick of a moment, I consider falling back asleep. And then all the events of the previous night rush back to me, and there’s no way I could go to sleep again, even though I’ve only slept for five hours. Groggy, with eyes puffy and red, I plop onto a kitchen chair and pick at some mille-feuilles on the table.
Layla wanders in and pours herself tea. “Hello, love.”
“Hey.”
She opens a jar of lavender honey and takes a deep sniff before spooning some into her tea. She splurged on the honey at the market, spent as much as I’d budgeted for an entire day’s meals. She insisted she’d use it sparingly. “I’ll smell it and look at it through sunshine a lot, Z,” she claimed. “Eating it’s only a little piece of the pleasure.”
As she’s stirring her tea, she must notice my misery, because she says with concern, “What’s wrong, Z? Are you still upset about J.C.’s letters?”
There’s no easy way to break the news. I stare at the steam over her cup, avoiding her eyes. “I broke up with him.”
Once she absorbs what I’ve said, she hugs me. “I’m so sorry, love.” She seems sad, but not exactly surprised. Then, hesitantly, she asks in a low voice, “Is there someone else?”
I stare at the rain streaming down the pane, tiny silver pathways. “I don’t know. I guess there could be.” I’m reluctant to admit he’s a nomadic street musician whose father figure is an eccentric clown. It would just be too in-your-face obvious that I’m following Layla’s well-trodden relationship path. “I’m just like you, aren’t I, Layla?”