by Laura Resau
We’re quiet for a while. Finally, I say, “That person is still inside of you.” I look at him, sunk into the sofa, so vulnerable, his glimmery façade stripped away. If I’ll ever reach him, now’s the moment. I choose my words carefully. “Your parents forgave that person. Now you have to.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “That’s what Amandine tells me.” He pauses, thinking. “When I saw her and Wendell together, I wanted to scream. To punch something. To cry. To run to her and pick her up and just carry her away with me. To kiss her. An explosion of feelings I hadn’t felt for years.” He rubs his eyes. “Zeeta, she’s everything to me. I don’t want her to be with someone else. I don’t want her to be my little sister. But she sees me as a messed-up, annoying older brother.” He closes his eyes. “And she’s with Wendell now. It’s too late.”
I shake my head. “I think you’ve been too wrapped up in yourself to see things clearly. To see how Amandine feels about you. Talk to her, Jean-Claude.”
I’m not sure if he’s heard me, or taken in a thing I’ve said, but soon he stands up. “Merci, Zeeta. I’m going now. I’m sorry for waking you.” And he’s gone, leaving his cup of tea untouched and steaming in the lamplight.
I stare at the two cups of mint tea sitting in front of me. I’m too awake to go back to bed now but not quite sure what else to do. Layla emerges from the bedroom in her pink robe and sits down beside me without a word. She sips Jean-Claude’s tea, then adds a spoonful of lavender honey—smelling it first, of course. She tucks her legs under her and curls into the sofa cushions, looking cozy in the steamy golden lamplight. Together, in silence, we drink tea.
I think of my advice to Jean-Claude. And my advice to Madame Chevalier about Vincent. And her advice to me about Wendell. And even Tortue’s advice. So much of the same advice floating around, and no one acting on it. It seems easier to do nothing, to just stay in the rut.
Halfway through my cup of tea, I whisper, “I’m not sure how to fix things with Wendell.” I look at Layla. “I’m not sure it’s even possible.”
Her eyelids lower, her brows rise, and she says, “Remember what Rumi says.”
“Walk out the prison door,” I say in a glum monotone. “Well, I tried and it was locked.”
“No, love. I’m thinking of this one: Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
I forgot about that one. It’s nice enough, but doesn’t exactly give me direction. At least it’s a short one and doesn’t induce reflexive eye-rolling. “So who’s the lucky lover hidden inside you all these years?” I ask.
She laughs softly. “I wish I knew.”
“Well. We know he’s probably a penniless clown.” I sit up straight, inspired. “Hey, how about the mime?”
“You don’t think he’s creepy anymore?”
“Tortue’s actually pretty nice. He’s even changed my mind about clowns. See, I think you need a Pierrot clown instead of all the Harlequins you’ve been with.”
She gives me a sideways look. “Are you trying to set me up with a clown, Z?”
“Maybe you have to go through all the clowns in the world before you find the right one, Layla. The one who’s meant to be.”
Late the next morning, my feet are dragging as I walk through the market stalls, past rows of truffle oil, vaguely wondering exactly what truffles are. Don’t they have something to do with pigs? I’m moving on to the bins of olives, a dozen shiny shades of brownish green, when I glimpse a flash of sparkling red.
It’s Amandine. Just on the other side of the olives. When she sees that I see her, she skips over and says, “Salut!” Her voice reminds me of wind chimes, and she shows no signs of sleep deprivation even though she was out all night with Wendell. She looks vibrant in a silky orange skirt and red top, with her hair in a braid that reaches down to the small of her back.
I let my knotted hair fall in my face, hopefully hiding the puffy circles under my own eyes. This morning there was nothing for breakfast, so I threw on some clothes, not bothering to brush my hair or my teeth, deliberately avoiding a mirror, and grabbed a market bag.
Amandine is holding a carton of strawberries. Of course, she doesn’t eat them like a normal person. She plucks off the green part then throws the berry high in the air, several feet, and positions her mouth underneath, so that it lands on her perfect tongue. I can see why Wendell and Jean-Claude are smitten.
“Salut, Amandine,” I say, keeping a distance.
“Have a strawberry, Zeeta.”
I take one, accepting what might be a peace offering.
She smiles. “After I got home from my art thing with Wendell, Jean-Claude and I had a long talk.”
“You did?”
“Merci, Zeeta!”
“For what?”
“For whatever magic you worked on him last night.” She blushes. “When I came home at dawn, he was waiting for me. He told me he wanted to spend the day together. And he asked me to go to Marseille with him tomorrow!”
“Wow.”
“We’re going to visit his mother, then have a picnic on an island he used to go to with his family when he was little. I’m buying the ingredients for it now!”
Jean-Claude did it. He actually did it.
She steps toward me. “And Zeeta, I have to tell you something. About kissing Wendell yesterday. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend anymore. He’s free—”
“Ecoute, Zeeta. Here’s what happened. Wendell and I—we were sketching together, and then I saw Jean-Claude and you coming down the street. I felt jealous. I wanted Jean-Claude to feel jealous too. So I picked that moment to kiss Wendell. He was surprised, but went along with it. Afterward, I felt bad, apologized to him.”
This is a twist. “And what did he say?”
“That he just likes me as a friend. That his heart feels too raw right now.” She looks at me, hard. “You know what we talk about most of the time, Zeeta?”
I shake my head.
“How we’re really in love with other people.”
I let this fact sink in.
She offers me another strawberry, then says, “I should get going. I just wanted to thank you. And apologize.”
“Merci, Amandine,” I say, taking a strawberry.
The berry’s tart sweetness is startling. I watch Amandine skip away. She always seems to defy gravity, but today, she’s positively flying.
With a sudden urgency, I half run toward Nirvana.
A faint stubble is growing on Ahmed’s usually smooth-shaven face. His eyes are relaxed, happy, his skin tanned to a deep nut-brown, his hair pleasingly mussed, lacking its usual armor of hardened gel.
“Zeeta!” he calls out as I walk to the counter. “How is your lovely mother?”
“Fine,” I say. “Welcome back. How was your vacation?”
“Refreshing! First Italy, then Greece.” He rubs his stubble. “Look, I didn’t shave. I thought your mother might like this look. Remember how you told me I’m too well groomed for her taste?”
I make a face, then say, “Well, glad you had fun.”
“Oh, yes.” He smiles broadly. “And how are you and l’homme de ta vie?”
“Actually, I broke up with him. But maybe we’ll get back together.”
“Really? So much happened while I was gone!”
“I’m going to ask him out tonight,” I say, trying to sound confident. “To try to fix the mess I made.” I stop. Something’s strange about Ahmed, and I can’t figure out what it is. Something more than his stubble, something about his eye contact, or … “Hey!” I say. “You’re not playing KnightQuest.”
He swivels around in his chair and pulls out a guitar. “Maybe I have you and your lovely mother to thank for that, Zeeta. You’ve reminded me of the free spirit I once was. So I took the holiday you suggested. Making music and traveling. There I was, on the beach, staring at the water, thinking of you two. And I decided maybe my young a
nd crazy years aren’t all behind me. Maybe life is short and I should spend it doing what I love.” He plucks a few notes on his guitar and smiles.
A grin escapes me. Before sitting down at the computer, I say, “I’ll tell Layla about your stubble, Ahmed.”
I write an e-mail to Wendell. I know he’s at class now, but I think he always checks his e-mail first thing when he gets home. Can you meet me at Chez Gilles at seven tonight? I quickly calculate how much tutoring money I’ve accumulated, then write, My treat.
Giddy and hopeful, I rush back home and spend the afternoon poring over last year’s indigo notebooks, making something special to give to Wendell tonight.
The clock tower chimes seven times just as I’m walking down Rue Matheron toward the side street where Chez Gilles is tucked away in a romantic, ivy-covered hole in the wall. The fabric of my red dress soaks up the evening sunlight, nearly glowing. After trying on a dozen outfits, I settled on this one. My only real date dress.
Date. So I do think I’m going on a date with Wendell. I didn’t use the word in my e-mail. In fact, I’m not even sure he got my e-mail in time. I’d intended to check back to see if he responded, but I spent all afternoon making his present. I went through my indigo notebooks, finding bits and pieces of notes on what I love about him. Then I copied the quotes onto small pieces of paper and bound them together with a red ribbon.
It took a long time. There are so many things, from how he sang “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” to our little kid friends in Ecuador, to how he used to trace the contours of my face, as though it was a landscape to explore.
I’ve put on lip gloss and blush, and twirled my hair up into a twist and put on dangling garnet earrings from Thailand. Walking past a used-book store, I spot Sirona. She looks more stunning than usual tonight, dressed in a long white tunic made of silky, flowing fabric, belted with a satiny red sash. She’s carrying a large covered platter.
“Salut, Sirona!”
“Salut, Zeeta.” She seems a bit flustered, or maybe she’s just breathless.
“What’s in there?” I ask, peeking under the lid. There’s a heap of spiral cookies, hundreds of cookies.
“Have one,” she says.
I bite into one. “Mmm. Good.” But really they’re too healthy-tasting, lacking sugar.
“They’re made with honey and figs and nuts,” she says.
That explains it. “Are you having a party?”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes dart around. “Just, well, a little gathering. Nothing big.”
Maybe she feels bad for not inviting Layla. I left her at home on the sofa reading. She said she might swing by Nirvana and hang out with Ahmed a bit, then go to sleep early. She hasn’t mentioned anything about a party tonight.
Skilled at changing the subject, Sirona eyes my dress and says, “You look gorgeous, Zeeta. What’s the occasion?”
“A date with Wendell.” I grin.
“Oh! C’est chouette, ça!” She looks genuinely happy for me. “Have fun, Zeeta.”
I watch Sirona hurry down the street and turn onto Rue Epinaux. Then I flip back through my ruby notebook and locate the list of Celtic holidays she described weeks ago. The holiday after the summer solstice is the festival of light, which falls on August first. That’s today. I look at the notes I’ve jotted down beside it. Harvest festival, music, dancing, food, flowers, handfasting. I can’t remember what handfasting means.
Wendell and I might have to skip dinner. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up, a secret party with Sirona—and a big one, judging by the quantity of cookies. I slam my notebook shut, shove it in my bag, and sprint the last block to Chez Gilles.
At Chez Gilles, tables with white lilies and candles and tablecloths spill out from the tiny restaurant, onto the narrow cobblestoned side street. A blackboard easel lists tonight’s menu in flowery cursive: roasted rabbit with rosemary and olives, tomato soup with goat cheese, eggplant au gratin, grilled asparagus with herbes de Provence, and strawberry mousse. Among pots of fragrant jasmine bushes, nearly each table contains a couple gazing at each other over elegant glasses of pink rosé.
I scan the faces for Wendell. There he is, tentatively sipping a glass of bubbly water topped with a wedge of lime. As I walk toward him, he sees me and smiles. A natural, happy-to-see-you smile with maybe the tiniest hint of nervousness. Still, a smile that sends warmth through me.
“Hey, Z.”
I wish we could sit here and have a real date with a romantic five-course meal topped with strawberry mousse. I wish we could sit here together and forget everything that happened this summer and just gaze at each other. But we can’t miss this opportunity.
“Hey, Wendell,” I begin. “Listen, I ran into Sirona on the way over. Something’s going on—I think it might be a big, secret party for the festival of light. We might be able to get important information there.”
“Where is it?” he asks, looking excited.
“I don’t know. But I saw which way she was headed. We’ll have to leave now to catch her.”
“Let’s go,” Wendell says, dropping a few euros onto the table.
As we hurry away, down Rue Loubon, I glance longingly back at Chez Gilles, taking one last whiff of its atmosphere of pure romance, hoping I didn’t just make a mistake dragging Wendell away from there.
We run back up the street and turn onto Rue Epinaux, where Sirona was headed. We’re in the oldest part of town, the quartier where the spirals were marked on the map. We’re nearly to the place with the impish devil face, when that very door swings open. I look at Wendell and we slow down, alert, our eyes glued to the door. We’ve spent hours watching that door over the past weeks, never seeing a soul coming in or out. But now, three women emerge, all wearing long tunics and bracelets on their upper arms, their hair in intricate braided knots, topped with flower crowns. They turn right, away from us. The door starts swinging closed behind them.
I leap to the doorway, reaching out my arm just in time for my hand to stop the door. I hold my breath, watching the women. They show no sign of noticing. They simply keep walking, lost in conversation. In Gaelic, I note.
Quickly, I slip inside, and Wendell follows.
“We have to be fast, Wendell.”
He nods. “Let’s check the courtyard and then catch up with those ladies.”
We run down the dark corridor into the courtyard, a walled, square, grassy garden with a circular fountain in the center. It’s made of worn stone, with a wide column jutting up from the middle. On one side of the column is a large brass disc—about a half-meter in diameter—and in its center is a snake with an open mouth, containing a spout where the water would come out. But, like the other two fountains we’ve seen, this one is dry.
I race around the edges of the courtyard to check for signs of water or anything unusual. Wendell, meanwhile, is standing motionless, close to the fountain, studying it. A look of intense concentration has come over his face, the same look he gets when he’s sketching.
“Hey, Z,” he says. “Have you ever seen a fountain with such a big metal plaque? Usually they’re smaller, right?”
I consider his question. “I guess so.”
He steps into the dry fountain and moves his face close to the snake plaque. Running his fingers over it, he says, “Feel this. There’s a faint spiral pattern. Light indentations.”
I climb into the fountain beside him and skim my fingertips over the plaque. “It’s the triple spiral,” I say, a thrill running through me. “With the snake right at its center.”
Wendell points to the top of the circle. “And what’s this?”
I move my fingers over it. “Seems like hinges,” I murmur, my eyes wide.
“That’s what I think,” he says, pulling on the snake head, hard enough that he turns red with the effort. “Won’t budge. Maybe it needs some oil.” He takes a step back, staring some more.
“It could have some kind of latch,” I say, feeling the cool copper with my hands, tracing the
carvings in the snake’s head. I try wiggling the snake from side to side. Nothing. Then I push it downward. There’s a little resistance, but it creaks and moves a few centimeters, making a distinct click. Some mechanism inside has unlatched. Now the disc has separated at its base from the column. I push the disc upward.
That’s when I realize what it is—a small, circular door, hinged on the top, and just big enough for a person to fit through. Wendell and I peer inside. A patch of daylight shines into the steamy darkness, illuminating a steep, spiraling stone staircase. The bottom isn’t visible through the thick mist.
My mouth dropped open, I turn to Wendell.
A look of sudden comprehension sweeps over his face. “Zeeta. I finally understand a vision I had. It’s darkness, with a fuzzy circle of white light in the middle.”
“Like a circle of daylight?”
“No,” he says slowly. “It’s dark above. The light’s from the moon, I think. A full moon.”
“Tonight’s a full moon,” I note.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the circle of light. We’re underground, looking up a tunnel. Like a well. It’s fuzzy because of steam. I didn’t understand it before—we’re underground. We’re in the waters underground.”
“And I’m wearing the red dress,” I say, peering back into the musty, damp darkness. “Tonight’s the night, Wendell. Let’s go.”
Wendell grabs a fallen tree branch from just outside the fountain. “I’ll stick this in the door to make sure it doesn’t click shut.”
I climb in first—a bit of a challenge in a short dress—and pull my bag inside after me. Wendell follows, then turns to adjust the branch and carefully lower the circular door. Now it’s nearly pitch black, with only a sliver of daylight shining through.
I hear Wendell fumbling around in his backpack. Suddenly, there’s the beam of a flashlight, a little LED light on the end of a key chain.