Ani was appalled. She glanced at Van to see his response, but Van’s eyes were on the rutted mud at their feet. His eyes flickered up briefly to meet hers with a sharp warning. She pressed her lips into a line and stared into the distance.
In less than five minutes they were on the road again, but Ani was jittery with rage.
“That racist pig,” she said. “I can’t believe he said that!”
Van’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Ani, next time, if there is a next time, don’t wise off to the cops. Sarcasm can land you in jail.” His voice was honed to a fine edge.
“What was that all about anyway?”
“Stupidity on my part. I should have shaved,” he said.
“What? That asshole said it was because we smelled like Arabs.”
“No. They pulled us over because I smelled like an Arab. And if I had shaved, the smell wouldn’t have been so strong.”
“What kind of weird thing is that to say?” Ani asked.
“Ani, understanding their racist ideology doesn’t mean that I agree with it.”
They drove in silence for a long time. Van’s face was expressionless. Ani wondered if this counted as their first official fight. Their first official fight as friends.
By the time they reached Marseille the tension had ebbed. They decided to have a meal of fish and chips at a sidewalk restaurant in the Vieux Port. Van said he wanted to pick up a few things for the trip. He left Ani sitting in a café reading and writing in her journal. When he returned he was beardless.
“Well, you certainly smell better,” Ani said. “Quick visit to the barber?”
“Stopped by a friend’s apartment.”
“You have friends in Marseille?”
“An Armenian has friends everyplace,” he said.
The ferry was called the Cyrnos. After leaving the car in the hold they climbed to the passenger deck and installed themselves on a banquette upholstered in green vinyl. As the boat trundled out to sea, Ani dozed while Van read some Armenian newspapers he had picked up in Marseille.
Ani slumbered fitfully through the night, falling in and out of dreams. Asa and Ani sped down a rural pine-lined highway on a motorcycle. No helmets, just the wind on her face and through her hair, faster and faster as she held tightly to his waist. They crashed into a massive tree in a tangle of limbs and metal. She started awake. Van was still absorbed in his newspapers. She drowsed again.
In the morning as land appeared on the horizon, Van was sleeping. Ani went to the exterior deck. A dark-haired guy wearing a thick woolen sweater stood next to her at the railing staring over the water toward the island.
“Can you smell it?” he asked in French.
“Smell what?” Ani asked suspiciously.
“The maquis.”
Ani sniffed the air. “No.”
“If you came here in May you would notice it. The flowers are all over: yellow broom, rock rose, heather. It’s the perfume of the island. When I smell it I know I’m home.”
Ani returned to her seat. Van’s head was tipped to one side, exposing his Adam’s apple and a line of neck that Ani yearned to touch. His sleeping face was vulnerable and approachable. A longing radiated from the center of her body and pushed against all its borders.
Just then a voice from the loudspeakers announced that drivers should descend to their cars. The ship was arriving at the dock. Van snapped awake.
They parked near the center of Bastia and wandered through the flea market on the place Saint-Nicholas. At the terrace cafés old men were drinking coffee, playing cards, and arguing in a language that sounded to Ani’s ears to be somewhere between Italian and French. As they walked around town Ani noticed the letters FLNC spray-painted in black on the facades of several buildings. She pointed them out to Van and asked if he knew what the initials stood for.
“Front de Libération Nationale de la Corse,” he said.
“Nice accent,” she said. “What exactly is this party?”
“In Corsu they call themselves Frontu di Liberazione Naziunalista Corsu. Corsican separatists. They want an end to French occupation of the island.”
“How come you’re so well informed?”
“It’s my line. I know a lot about national liberation struggles.”
“And my ignorance is as vast as a continent,” Ani said.
“But you’re willing to learn, aren’t you?” Van asked.
“Always. Self-improvement is my line,” she replied.
The sky was overcast as they made their way along the main highway. Ani held a map of the island on her lap, tracing with her finger the route they were following. A few kilometers from Saint-Florent, Van turned onto a dirt road that didn’t appear on the map. The road grew bumpier and more rutted as they drove through scrub toward the water. When they stopped by the shore, Ani opened the car door to the scent of broom, resin, and ocean.
“I smell it,” Ani said.
“What?” Van asked.
“The maquis. The perfume of Corsica,” Ani said.
Van gestured toward the white mountain peaks in the distance and the hills dropping to the sea. “Beautiful, huh?”
They walked to the water’s edge, where sea anemones clung to rocks. Shells and plastic debris dotted the shoreline. Ani kicked a pink tampon applicator aside.
“The French flush their toilets and it washes up here,” Van commented. “We should get going. Pascal’s expecting us for dinner.”
Van’s friends lived in an old stone farmhouse by the side of the road just north of Ponte-Leccia. Pascal Centuri had dark curly hair and a gap between his two front teeth. His wife Isabelle, her wavy chestnut hair tied up with a scarf, was visibly pregnant.
In French, Pascal said, “Let me show you the caravan. Bring your stuff out back.”
Pascal led them through a rocky meadow where a donkey grazed on a patch of tufted grass beside a stream. Pascal gestured that they should enter and they stepped into a mini-camper, which had a foldout bed, a small kitchen table, and a sink with no water. The bed was a little wider than a single, but not much.
After Pascal returned to the house, Ani and Van moved gingerly around the camper, trying not to bump into each other. Van crouched low over his pack. His back was to Ani as he said, “You take the bed. I’ll unroll my pad and bag right here on the floor.”
At dinner, Pascal and Isabelle sat at either end of the long wooden table. The benches were crowded with their friends, Louis and Flore from Aléria, and neighbors whose names Ani didn’t remember. She and Van were seated across from each other in the middle. The Centuris served lamb stew with beans, a delicious sheep cheese, fresh bread, olives, and lots of red wine. Pascal, who was proud of the Corsican cheese and wine, refilled everyone’s glasses assiduously.
Van put his palm over his glass, shaking his head.
“You can trust a woman who doesn’t drink, Ardavanian. But a man who won’t drink? Who can trust him?” Pascal protested.
“Do you trust me?” Van asked.
Pascal smiled. “With my life.”
“Then take that bottle away, my friend.”
After the meal, pear brandy and cognac were passed around. Pascal insisted that Ani try both. When Pascal recited Corsican poetry, Ani countered with an Elizabeth Bishop villanelle. Several more rounds of brandy followed. Liberal toasts to the Armenian cause and Corsican liberation were made. The Corsicans sang what seemed to be nationalist standards; Van rejoined with a few Armenian patriotic tunes Ani had never heard before. Pascal appeared to be singing along in Armenian, which made perfect sense to Ani at the time. She herself joined the choruses in both languages with gusto.
At about three o’clock in the morning when Van steered Ani through the moonlit meadow toward the caravan she was tipsier than she had ever been.
“Van, have you noticed that I talk a lot more than you do?” Ani stumbled over a stone.
Grabbing for her arm, Van steadied her. “I have.”
“Do I get on your nerves?”
“You don’t get on my nerves.” He opened the caravan door, helping her up the steps.
“Sometimes it bugs me that I rarely know what you’re thinking. Do you ever say what you’re feeling?”
Van led her over to the bed and sat down next to her. “I’m feeling that you had too much to drink.”
“I have this incredible urge to put my nose right up against your neck.” Here Ani leaned into him and inhaled the fragrance of his skin, the scent of Van Ardavanian.
She felt his fingers stroking the hair at the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and saw a spinning black pinwheel. Then there were two black pinwheels, and four.
Ani groaned. “Oh, no, I’m going to be sick. We better go outside. . . .”
Van jumped, hustling her out of the caravan and toward the stream. As they reached the bank Ani doubled over and dinner came churning up. Most of it landed in the rushing water but Van’s running shoe took the rest. Ani vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach.
“I am so sorry, Van. Your sneaker. I’ll buy you a new pair. I have never done this before. Have you ever been sick like this?”
“In high school.”
“I didn’t taste beer until college and I still don’t like it. The only alcohol in our house was in the vanilla extract. Oh, no, I’m going to be sick again. Sorry.”
Ani heaved again, but all that came up was bile that burned the back of her throat.
Ani woke the next afternoon wearing her nightgown in the caravan’s bed. Van must have removed her clothes. She checked: her bra was gone and her underpants were on. Every molecule in her body had been poisoned and her head throbbed like a thumb that had been hit with a hammer.
There was a note on the table reading, Gone kayaking with Pascal. Hope you’re feeling better. See you later. V.
After a half hour of staring at the rust-spotted ceiling, Ani decided to trek to the house for a shower. When she opened the door the donkey stuck its gray bristly head into the caravan and brayed loudly.
“Shoo,” Ani admonished. “Move, eshek.”
The donkey grabbed at Ani’s nightgown with its big yellow teeth. Ani jumped back and slammed the screen door. The donkey blinked at her through the screen. Defeated and exhausted, Ani climbed back into bed.
About an hour later when Van smacked the donkey’s rump it ambled away. Van entered the caravan with a cup of tea and two slices of toast.
“I thought you might want this.” He sat on the edge of the bed.
“Just tea.”
“It’s some herbal mix Isabelle swears by,” Van said. “How you feeling?”
“Let’s not talk about it. How’s your shoe?” That was one detail Ani remembered clearly.
“A little stinky, but otherwise unharmed.”
“Great,” she said. “I didn’t know you kayaked.”
“One of my many hidden talents,” he said.
“Was I hallucinating or was Pascal singing in Armenian last night?’
“His mother’s Armenian.”
“Those Armenians sure get around.” Ani nibbled at the toast’s crust, then dropped it on the plate. “I feel like shit.”
He ruffled her hair sympathetically. “Pascal and I are driving into town this afternoon. We’ll be back by supper. Isabelle’s expecting you at the house when you’re up to it.”
The hangover’s nasty film rinsed off in the shower, although the headache was still lodged behind her left eye. When Ani sat down at the kitchen table, Isabelle gave her a couple of aspirin and a glass of mineral water. She also set a bowl of potatoes in front of Ani and thrust a peeler into her hand.
“That was a big one,” Isabelle said, placing her palm on her belly. “Probably a knee. Six more weeks and we get to meet this new family member.”
“Do you think the baby’s a boy or a girl?”
Isabelle shrugged. “No idea. My mother is certain it’s a girl, and my mother-in-law is predicting a boy. We’ll be happy either way.”
Ani turned the potatoes onto the table and began to peel the first one into the bowl. As Isabelle chopped onions, the knife clacking against the wooden board, Ani wondered how old Isabelle was and how long she and Pascal had been married. How many years would it be before Ani should be married and carrying a child? Whom would she marry?
“How do you know Van?” Ani asked.
“Pascal met him in Lebanon,” Isabelle replied.
“What was Pascal doing in Lebanon?”
Isabelle pushed back a wisp of hair with her forearm, waving the knife in her hand. “He was there for a couple of months doing this and that. Van told us you knew each other when you were kids.”
“He came to my fifth birthday party.”
“He must have been a cute little boy.”
“When I was ten, half the girls in my class wanted to kiss him,” Ani said wryly.
“And what about the other half?” Isabelle asked.
“They were still playing with dolls.”
“And you?”
“Me? I was playing with dolls and pretending I didn’t want to kiss him,” Ani answered.
“You two are driving to Ajaccio tomorrow?” Isabelle asked.
“That’s the plan. Then Van wanted to go to Bastia.”
“But you’ll come back to us before you leave,” Isabelle said.
When Van and Pascal returned, the four of them sat down to dinner. Ani didn’t touch her glass of wine.
“You Armenians don’t know how to carry your liquor,” Pascal ribbed her.
“You’re as Armenian as I am,” Ani reminded him.
“Yes, but I’m also a Corsican, and we know how to drink,” he replied.
After the dishes were washed, Van and Pascal fitted together with wooden pegs the pieces of a cradle that Pascal had carved. Isabelle sat by the window working fine white wool on silver needles. Ani wished she had something practical to do with her hands. She thought of centuries of Armenian women who had embroidered towels, crocheted lace doilies, and woven carpets. They had shorn the sheep, carded and spun the wool, gathered plants to dye the wool, and put it to the loom.
Ani worried that if a nuclear war threw humanity back to the time before the Industrial Revolution she would have no handy skills whatsoever. She had come to rely on machines—airplane, radio, hair dryer—that she would never be able to repair, let alone reinvent. Awful to imagine a world without flush toilets and tampons. She would plant a garden and snare small animals. She would have to get over her squeamishness about animal parts. By necessity she would learn to pluck steaming entrails from a rabbit.
It was late when Ani and Van walked silently through the field to the caravan. She heard the stream rolling over stones. She smelled the olive trees and maquis and felt the firmness of the rocky earth beneath her feet. Ani looked up at the cloudless sky and thought the moon looked like a white melon on a black platter. The stars were a scattering of seeds. She wanted to tell this to Van, but he seemed preoccupied.
Inside the caravan, Van silently prepared his pallet on the floor. He was focused and efficient. In the dark with her back to him Ani removed her blouse, quickly pulling on an oversized T-shirt and stepping into a pair of baggy sweats. Not exactly sexy sleepwear, but there didn’t seem to be much call for lace and satin or a pink feather boa with matching mules.
“Night, Ani,” Van said. The zip of his sleeping bag was emphatic.
“Good night, Jim-Bob.”
“What?” he asked.
“Remember the end of The Waltons, how they all say ‘Good night, John-Boy
, Good night, Mary Ellen’?”
“Never watched that show.”
Of course he had never watched that show. Ani lay down on the mattress and dragged her bag up over her. Their second night in this caravan and he still hadn’t tried to kiss her. What was all this pathetic hankering for his touch? It would be weird to kiss somebody whom she had known since kindergarten and who was practically a cousin. Although, according to Grandma, in Armenia in the old days people married their cousins frequently. That was why Digin Pauline had crossed eyes: her parents were first cousins.
Well, we’re not in Armenia, Ani, and he’s your fourth cousin thrice removed, or something even more distant, but it doesn’t matter at all because he’s not interested in you.
“What’s the matter, Ani?” Van asked. “You’re sighing.”
Ani blurted, “You forgot something.”
“What did I forget?”
“To kiss me good night.”
When he laughed, Ani winced. Why had she said that? A wave of crushing embarrassment tumbled her under. It was like the time when she was eight and someone tapped her on the shoulder at the public pool to tell her there was a rip in the back seam of her bathing suit.
His sleeping bag rustled, the zipper whisked open, and he was standing at the side of the bed.
Ani turned onto her side to make room for him. “Squeeze over, squeezebox.”
“What’s that?” He lay on his side with his head on her pillow.
Ani talked fast. “I think it’s from Ma and Pa Kettle. There was this series of movies: Ma and Pa Kettle Go to Town, Ma and Pa Kettle on Vacation, Ma and Pa Kettle at Waikiki. I watched a lot of old movies with my mother. They used to say ‘Squeeze over, squeezebox.’ About ten of them slept in the same bed.”
He kissed Ani, stopping the torrent of words. Needles of light shot down Ani’s spine and raced along her limbs. He tasted like cumin and apples; he smelled like cumin and apples and the black earth in the back garden.
Van slipped his hand under her shirt and ran a finger along the curve of her breast.
“Is this okay with you, Ani?” Van asked.
“It’s okay.” She breathed in his scent again. The traces of his fingerprints on her skin, his voice in her ear. His mouth was molasses on moleskin in the blackest night.
Dreams of Bread and Fire Page 12