Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

  “We got in the wrong car,” I hissed. “This is first class, isn’t it?”

  “No first class on this train.”

  He didn’t even blink, while internally I was cheering our good fortune. I sat down in the direction of the train, and he sat across from me, a little table between us. It was surprisingly cozy.

  The train rolled out of the station and down the countryside without making a sound. I only felt my exhaustion when I sank into the blue seats of the TER, whizzing along the Provence countryside at a hundred miles an hour in a dizzying spread of greens. It was almost impossible to keep reading the letter, as the words kept getting tangled in my brain.

  “Pretty Provence castle,” I said, again, peering up from the letter. Someone had generously circled the clue three times in pencil, which wasn’t all that helpful since they didn’t share their findings with us.

  “Once again, you want me to solve it for you?” he asked, raising one of those gorgeous bushy eyebrows of his.

  “Well, you know the region,” I said, “so go on. Which castle is the prettiest one of them all?”

  “I don’t think it’s a contest,” he said, “I think it’s another word game.”

  “A word game?” it took me a second to untangle his meaning. “A play on words? A pun?”

  “Is that how you say it? I think it’s another mistranslation, like your father did with blackcurrant beach. Pretty Provence Castle would become Beau Chateau Provençal.”

  “And that means something to you?”

  “Well, I think he means the chateau of Les-Baux-de-Provence.”

  “Wait, you mean there literally is a town named ‘pretty’?” I wanted to laugh. French town names were ridiculously over the top.

  “Well, it comes from bauxite, I think,” he continued, “and this town is notoriously hard to get to if you don’t have a car.”

  The universe wanted me to find the clues, so that wasn’t about to stop me. Stop us, I should say. Valentin and I were a team now, even if he was only here for an autograph.

  “It has everything your father put in the letter,” he said, “It has the old castle - this one is almost a thousand years old, though it is ruins - and the Carrières des Lumières, the light show they went to see. Though it is very popular attraction now.”

  “I trust you on this,” I said, “but how do we get there? Can we take your scooter this time?”

  “No, it’s still too far. I will have to check,” he said, “But I think we take the train to Avignon… then we take the bus. But there are not many during the day. So we will have to be careful unless we will be… how you say… stranded.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t worried. The universe was on our side. It was perfect.

  I watched as the world flew by our window. Everything had changed today: I had seen a dragon, ridden the bus, a train, and discovered the Caribbean in France. The magic of it would not wear off soon.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, suddenly, “have I offended you?”

  “You? No,” I shook my head, “Why would you even ask that?”

  “You look tired,” he replied, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just a little… overwhelmed by all this. It’s so different from back home.”

  He broke out one of his patented grins. “It’s the train, isn’t it? If you think this is cool, you need to take a ride on the TGV.”

  “It’s not…” no, it wasn’t the train, although that was really cool, just as he said. It was everything else. Experiencing your world without you was just the beginning.

  “Look, if you want to ride the TGV, we’ll make it happen,” he said, “it’s so fast, and so nice, it’ll make this train look like an American train.”

  I nodded. It was better than telling him the truth. Some things I didn’t want to share just yet.

  We got off at St Charles station in Marseille, and immediately headed to the ticket booth. Even now, the entire station was full of people. Sunlight filtered in from the high iron roofs above, landing on the modern trains and basking them in a warm golden hue. It was made even more surreal when four armed soldiers walked by, brown beret, camo, weapons and everything.

  “Go take a photo,” said Valentin suddenly, breaking me out of my awestruck moment.

  “What?”

  “You need an ID photo for your card,” he said, pointing at a little photobooth marked photomaton. My mind jumped instantly to the scene from Amelie. Train station + photobooth = meeting a cute guy with one weird hobby. Irrefutable math. I wondered if Valentin had one: maybe he hid garden gnomes in other people’s gardens or created photo collages of tourists in wacky travel outfits.

  A minute later, I handed Valentin a very official looking page with five ID pics all arranged. He led me to the ticket sales counter, worked his magic with the man in uniform, and a few minutes later I came out, a few euros lighter, in possession of a funky looking red card.

  “Unlimited train and bus,” he exclaimed. “So tomorrow when we take the train, you won’t have to pay. At least, not as much.”

  I wanted to kiss him in that moment. Having someone on my side like this was more than my little heart could handle. Instead, I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him on instinct. He seemed taken aback by this. I took it the French were not big huggers.

  “Um, er, bus?”

  The next two hours passed in a blur, in which both of us were too exhausted to speak. I replayed the views of the calanques in my mind as we reached Aix again, only to hop right back onto yet another bus, practically nodding to sleep as we sped through Provence.

  When I finally got my bike back and made my way to Mamie’s, the sun was still high enough in the sky that I didn’t think anything of it. It felt good to not be melting into the gravel, and that light breeze swimming through the thick air to cool my burning skin felt like a dream. I marched up the driveway to the house, feeling confident.

  “Jammy!”

  Mamie practically flew into my arms. She held my head in both hands, kissing my forehead. Then her expression shifted. Whatever tears on her face shriveled up and dried as her frown stretched and grew.

  “Where?” She snapped. She held up her watch and stabbed it repeatedly with her index. “Iz late!”

  She must have been furious if she was yelling in English, making absolutely sure I knew why she was mad. She sputtered a few words in French out so quickly that they come out a tangled knot which I didn’t have the time or know-how to take apart.

  Jean Pascal stepped out of the kitchen then, arms crossing as he leaned against the doorjamb. He was a little too tall for it, his scalp brushing against the frame.

  “I called ze Faures,” she said, ignoring him, “and you not there.”

  “Valentin and I went to explore,” I rambled off to her, and when her brows knotted in confusion, I said it again, slower. “I wanted to see… Provence.”

  “And you did not tell me?” She spat, “J’étais inquiete pour toi. Worried, worried!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I did have my phone, you could have called.”

  “So could you.”

  She spun on her heels and stormed back into the house, past Jean Pascal as if he didn’t even exist. He watched her go into the depths of the house, then turned to me, shaking his head.

  “I am sorry,” I said, “I hope she knows that.”

  “Je suis désolé,” he replied. “I am sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? For what?”

  “Non,” he shook his head, stoically, “Je suis désolé. You say, to her.” And he left, too.

  I couldn’t do anything right, not even live with my own grandmother. I couldn’t talk to my Mamie, even if I wanted to. But there were some languages everyone could speak.

  I hit send, listening to that beautiful whoosh as the message left my inbox and landed in Jazz’s, six thousand miles away. Almost instantly, a notification popped up on my phone.

  Got it! She said, I have to go, we’re having drinks to celebrate t
he end of the camp. Can’t wait to read it, though!

  I turned off my data and stuffed my phone into the desk, so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. All the excitement I had had from finding the letter had dwindled to a tiny spark now.

  I was out like a light. Guilt be damned, the entire trip had exhausted me so much that I forgot to close my windows. Of course, I was covered in those all too familiar itchy bumps the next morning.

  Stupid Provence.

  I desperately wanted to tell Jazz about the treasure hunt, about Dad’s old letters, the clue that was still there, and the French boy who was helping me. She would have been all over Valentin. I probably would have been too, if I didn’t know about Chloë. But she was too busy for me, and I would just have to accept that.

  I was all ready for my hasty Nutella breakfast before heading off to Les Baux, until I ran into my Mamie in the kitchen.

  “J’ai un cadeau pour toi,” she said, a smile breaking out on her face. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “A what?”

  “Cadeau. Present!” She handed me a heavy brick wrapped in brown paper. “For you!”

  I took a seat at the kitchen table and got to work on the paper. Inside was a book, the words “English to French” printed in big bold letters on the cover. A dictionary.

  “Jean-Pascal helped,” she said.

  I nodded. A dictionary. The lovely gesture felt a little heavy handed.

  “Aujourd’hui, I want to know you,” she said, still not sitting. She beamed down at me like an angel from above. “We shall spend ze day together. Fun!”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Mamie actually wanted to spend time with me? I looked up from the book, all my energy going into keeping my jaw from dropping.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, and then, noting her disapproval, I added, “où?” like a monkey.

  “C’est une surprise,” she replied, grinning. Oh my god. How was her smile so terrifying? So many teeth. So pearly white. Never reaching her eyes.

  What’s the catch? I wanted to ask. Who are you, and what have you done with Colette Martin?

  Instead, the only thing I could ask was, “Are you driving?”

  She shook her head. “Dictionnaire, my puce.”

  Mamie pointed to the thick book, and I found myself groaning internally. She didn’t expect me to jump through all these hoops every time I wanted to ask a question, did she? She could very well have a dictionary of her own, too.

  “Driving… Conduire? Qui… conduire?”

  “Qui conduit,” she corrected, but her smile was genuine. “Jean-Pascal va conduire.”

  I wanted to rip my hair out by the roots. Stupid tenses. Nothing I could say would make her happy.

  “I’ll get dressed,” I said, watching as my plans for the day turned to ash before me. “in my room. Ma chambre.”

  She nodded. “Jean-Pascal arrive à dix heures.”

  I dragged myself back up the stairs, Nutella-less, day-less. I should have been excited: my Mamie wanted to spend time with me. Finally, I was going to get to know her. But instead I felt like someone had just told me we were going to the dentist to get teeth pulled.

  I grabbed my phone and pulled up Valentin’s texts. I had missed some from the night before: him spit balling some ideas for finding today’s clue, giving me suggestions of what to wear for the castle tour. It made it even harder to send him what I had to say.

  “We’re going to have to postpone,” I typed. “Mamie wants to take me out somewhere.”

  I hit send, grabbing my clothes to get myself ready for whatever day this was going to be. He replied before I could even start changing.

  “Have fun!”

  There. He didn’t sound disappointed. Did he sound happy, to cancel these plans with me? I couldn’t tell, so much meaning was lost over text. Everything about him was so confusing.

  I washed up and threw on my clothes, slipping the phone into my pocket as I stepped back into the kitchen. My grandmother instantly reacted by shaking her head.

  “Mais…” she rolled her eyes, defeated, deflated. “Mais habille toi comme il faut! Rho lala…”

  I had heard other girls say Ooh Lala back home, usually when talking about things that were better not said when parents were present. But this sound… not a word, not a moan, simultaneously neither and both, was enough to remind me how out of place I was once again.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, shrinking back, “Quoi?”

  She gestured at me with a sweep of her hand. Ah, so it was the clothes. I changed out of my pink gym shorts and put on knee length jeans, and a blouse my grandma had packed because she thought I might want to impress the local boys. It was cute, but not something I would buy myself, white with a scooped neck and ruffles around my arms. This time when I descended the stairs, I got a curt nod. I guess that was something.

  Jean-Pascal arrived moments later, and I climbed into his car as Mamie locked up the house. He turned back to give me a wide smile.

  “Road treep!” he exclaimed, beaming. “Iz good to see yoo, Jammy!”

  “Toi aussi, Jean-Pascal,” I managed to say. Somehow, he beamed even more at this.

  Mamie climbed into the car and exchanged quick bise cheek kisses with him, and soon we were driving out the gates, Mamie and Jean-Pascal chatting away in the front seat faster than I could even try to follow.

  I leaned back into the seats. The beautiful blue sky that had been so overwhelming yesterday was filling with clouds. The countryside looked as if someone had intensified the contrast, the trees sticking out harshly against the hills. It felt like a storm was coming.

  “Et toi, Jammy?” said Jean-Pascal, catching my gaze in the rear-view mirror, “Tu t’amuses en Provence?”

  “Uh…” Thanks for putting me on the spot, JP. It was like being on a quiz show and missing the questions every time.

  “Do you like eet ‘ere?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, trying not to offend anyone. “I like it. The cheese is really good.”

  “Essayes-en Français, Jammy,” said Mamie, eyes transfixed by something far, far ahead.

  “In French? Um, J’aime le fromage? I like the cheese?”

  “Lequel est ton préféré?” asked Jean-Pascal. “Your favorite?”

  “Le Chevre?” Just saying the name brought back memories of the creamy white spread, the fresh bread turning to crumbs between my teeth. “C’est très bon!”

  That would be my catch phase in France: it’s very good. The only three words I could say with a modicum of correctness, and it seemed like enough of a compliment to just swim by.

  We kept driving like this, the clouds getting thicker as we went along. Sometimes, Jean-Pascal would try to reel me into conversation, throwing me hooks so I could be included, at least a little bit. All the while, Mamie sat stiffly in the passenger side, her fingers drumming on the side of her seat.

  The first time I caught the color purple out the window, I thought it was a fluke: it was too vibrant to be natural. But then the road swerved, and I was met with an entire field of lavender, and the jaw I had been holding since this morning finally dropped.

  Fields and fields of Lavender stretched on either side of the road, as far as the eye could see. I was driving through the pictures on coffee table books, the actual image that came up every time anyone searched the word ‘Provence’.

  Jean Pascal rolled down my window, and I was hit with the fresh scent of clean sheets, the beautiful nasal hug of lavender wafting through my soul. Slowly, I began to relax: the tension I was carrying since our fight the night before started to melt away, basked by the smell of blooming lavender fields.

  Another type of flower was growing in the fields: colorfully dressed Instagrammers were taking selfies in and among the rows, some posing in outrageous gowns, shouting to people behind them to move. Others were taking family photos, all in matching white outfits. A woman in a muumuu was yelling for a guy named Sebastian to “take a picture already.”
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  The car slowed, if only because everyone in front of us was slowing as well. Armchair photographers were leaning out the window, while some had just stopped in the middle of the street, forgetting how to cross. Mamie grumbled from the front seat.

  We got going again, and the drive continued on. The lavender wasn’t our stop: we kept on the road, flanked on either side by the infinite fields, interrupted sometimes by rows of yellow sunflowers, which cast a beautiful contrast with the purple. A feeling stirred inside me, a call to clutch a pencil in my hand and capture the colors as I saw them.

  As we drove on, the fields of tourists faded to the background. Out here, the lavender was untouched by the visitors. Weeds grew up in between the rows of these slightly-less-than-picture-perfect fields. The air around us was quiet, smelling of magical flowers. Every once and a while I would spot an old stone farmhouse in a field, left untouched by man or nature. This was the image I had of Provence.

  “Tu aimes la lavande?” asked Jean-Pascal, ever the conversationalist, “Do you like ze lavender?”

  “I do, yes. Oui,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say. I simply basked in the magic of the beautiful purple.

  And still, we drove on. Soon we left the fields behind, much to my disappointment, and the world around us returned to its everyday green. Out of the distance grew a chain of cliffs, grey-and-white stone making an impressive wall of mountain. A tiny village appeared at the base, where a slash split the wall like a giant had taken their axe to it. This, it appeared, was where we were going.

  “Moustiers-Sainte-Marie,” said Mamie, pointing to the hill. “Tu vois l’étoile?”

  “Etoile?” I asked. Do you see the etoile, whatever that was.

  “Ze Star,” said Jean-Pascal, as the road became steeper. A series of zig-zag hairpin turns were leading us up the hill to the town itself. Newer homes grew up beside us, right along the road.

  “What star?” I asked, scanning the sky.

  “Between ze mountains.”

  I squinted as I looked out of the window, but I couldn’t see any star between any mountains. There was only one mountain here, and there were no stars out during the day.