Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

We shook hands, even though we had just kissed. Somehow, this seemed weirdly more intimate. His hands were smooth and soft, except for his callused fingertips.

  “On est les premiers?” asked Valentin, scanning the room quickly. We stood in a kitchen much like my own grandmothers, but highly modernized, clashing with the outside façade of their old home. Big bundles of garlic hung from the ceiling, filling the room with their heavenly aroma. One of the walls was covered with the same insect made out of glazed pottery, dozens of them, painted in bright vibrant colors.

  “Chloë est dehors,” he replied, pointing out the back door, “Pierre et Charlotte arrivent dans cinq minutes. Ils viennent de m’envoyer un texto disant qu’ils partent. Oh. I am sorry. I do not speak English good.”

  “And I… mon Français est très mal.”

  “Mauvais,” said Valentin, turning to me, “your French is bad, not sick.”

  “Oh, thanks for that.”

  “Et toi, tu ne parles pas Anglais très well,” he said to Maxence.

  “Heh ben, Fuck you, mec.”

  He threw it out so casually, like it was just any other word. It seemed all the French would swear in English more readily than they ever did in their own tongue. Did swears have power, when they were not understood?

  “On met la table?” asked Valentin, as his laughter subsided.

  “Deja fait. Sors, y’a l’apero.”

  Maxence practically shoved us out the back door, where the table was already set under the shade of a willow tree. The cicadas out here were louder than anywhere I had ever been before. Out on the edge of the dining area, where gravel gave way to big bushes of laurel, blooming in pinks and reds, Chloë was on the phone, hanging up as she saw us.

  “C’est Jammy!” she exclaimed, beaming. “Comment ça va?”

  “Ça va!” I replied. “And you?”

  “Am good, am good.” She exchanged kisses with Valentin, then leaned towards me. I wondered how on earth the French could tolerate such a long and arduous greeting. Kisses here, kisses there, it was like it was never going to end.

  It got worse when two more guests arrived, one carrying a box of rosé wine, the other a bottle of limonade, and the kissing started all over again. Hi to Pierre, a tall, string bean of a man with a mop of black hair, like an elongated Harry Potter; and his sister, Charlotte, a petite, round girl with wavy hair. They didn’t look anything like siblings. She positioned herself by Chloë like she owned her, despite being half her size.

  “Apéro!” shouted Maxence as he came out of the kitchen, tray in hand. We made our way to the table, and then the kissing commenced again, as Maxence’s parents came out of the house.

  Oh crap. They told me their names again and I missed it and by reflex just nodded and smiled… It’s fine, I guess. I didn’t really need to know their names if I wasn’t going to be able to talk to them anyway. We have Maxence’s dad, the French guy lighting the tiny grill, and Maxence’s mother, who’s showing us the marinated meats, placing them next to the grill, saying something that makes everyone laugh. I laughed awkwardly along, not even sure why.

  At least, it seemed, that our barbecues were not all that different. There were sausages, one kind red like it was dumped in paprika, and there were skewers of peppers and pork, or lamb, it was hard to follow with Valentin missing a few words in translation, turning to me and throwing out French words and not realizing, saying things to Maxence’s mother in English, making her laugh when she realized he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

  He sat between Maxence and me, across from Chloë and Charlotte. The two were going on about something that was apparently both thrilling and not exciting at all, making them in deep conversation but quiet and contemplative at the same time. Maxence’s parents took the other side, putting me at the furthest point from Harry-Potter-Pierre, who seemed as out of it as I was.

  Now Chloë was serving us all rosé from the box, and Maxence’s parents weren’t saying anything about it. I couldn’t understand them – well, I already couldn’t understand the language, but the culture was ten times more confusing. Maybe the wine would help. Or… make it worse? I wasn’t quite sure.

  Oh. I wasn’t supposed to drink it yet. Everyone is toasting something. I throw in my own hand, but Valentin puts a hand on my shoulder before I can clink my first glass.

  “You do not cross arms,” he said, insistently, like I had just stepped on a landmine. “And you make eye contact. No crossing. Look them in the eyes.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Or seven years bad sex,” said Chloë, reaching out her glass to me. “Now look in my eyes…”

  I was blushing red as I did, but we clinked glassed properly, and she nudged me to reach out for the rest of the table.

  “Then you do not put down your glass until you take a sip,” Valentin added, “or again, bad luck.”

  “Bad sex!” Chloë insisted.

  “Do not tell her… eh… sotises,” said Maxence’s mom. “Valentin. C’est quoi le mot?”

  “Nonsense?”

  “Do not tell her ze nonsense.”

  I took a sip of the wine, smiling, pretending to like it. I wasn’t a wine drinker, and the rosé was cold and bittersweet, a little acidic, like grapefruit juice. It wasn’t as sweet as I had expected it to be, and somehow was weirdly refreshing. I could sorta see why people called it summer water. I filled my water glass with the lemonade instead and was slightly disappointed to see it was some kind of Sprite. Whatever: it still tasted comfortingly common.

  “Jammy, where are you from?” asked Maxence, leaning over the table. “In America?”

  “Philadelphia,” I replied. Charlotte nodded across the table, as if I were describing the weather. “It’s in Pennsylvania.”

  “Philadelphia, close to New York?” she asked.

  “It’s not that close, but I guess?”

  She nodded again, but this time, I don’t think she understood me. I guess I wasn’t the only one to nod and move on at the table.

  Luckily, Maxence started passing food around, and the awkward conversation was over. Valentin pulled a slice of cantaloupe off the plate, passing it along to me. Dried Parma ham and balsamic topped it off, like something at a fancy restaurant. This wasn’t at all the barbecue I had expected: a handful of friends sitting down and eating, with actual courses, wasn’t at all the meal I had in mind. But dang was that melon good.

  “What’s an Apéro, exactly?” I asked Valentin, as inconspicuously as I could.

  “Snack before the meal,” he explained, “chips, nuts, drinks.”

  “Melon?”

  “The entrée.”

  “Oh,” I said, confused. I thought the meat was the entrée. None of this made any sense. If you saw tears coming out of my eyes, I wasn’t crying: it was literally my brain melting in frustration.

  I needed a distraction. I listened to the conversation, picking up words here and there, as I ate my melon and nibbled at the snacks. There was a thick green olive paste which I spread over dried bread like hummus, so salty it was addicting. I was probably putting on fifteen pounds just by sitting at this table. Halfway through eating a jar of it all by myself I suddenly picked up words in English.

  “Does it make sense to you?” asked Chloë, sipping at her wine.

  “Does what do what now?”

  “Verlan,” explained Valentin, “when we speak à l’envers. Backwards: Ver-Lan.”

  “I already don’t understand French,” I sputtered, “if you started speaking backwards on me, I probably wouldn’t notice.”

  He relayed this to his friends, who seemed to find this hilarious.

  “So if we wanted to say bizarre, we say Zarbie,” he continued.

  “Why are you telling me all this? What did I miss?”

  His face fell. “You haven’t been following anything since we got here?”

  I shook my head. I wanted to bury my face in the wine glass. “Non.”

  “Oh,” he said, solemnly, forcing a smile, “we were
joking about how you didn’t pick the best place to come to learn French. In the south, we have our own languages. Provençal, the original tongue, isn’t spoken much, but there is an accent. And our vulgar words are different from Paris. And we have verlan, too.”

  “Here is my English,” said Pierre suddenly, from the other side of the table. He cleared his throat. “Where is Brian?”

  All at once, like a wave of sound, they answered in unison, “Brian is in the kitchen!”

  My eyes went wide in what could only be called terror. I needed to warn the Americans right away: France was brainwashing its people to know where some guy named Brian was currently standing. Or maybe there was a guy named Brian in their kitchen? I glanced over at the door. It didn’t look like anyone was in there.

  “Did you take French class in lycée?” asked Charlotte.

  “High School,” corrected Chloë, “like ze musical.”

  “I did,” I replied, “but it’s just my first year. Did you take English?”

  “We all take English,” Charlotte replied, “Since primary school. I take Spanish as my second. Did you have to pick French name for class?”

  I smiled at this. “I did! I am Amélie. Like the movie?”

  “Amélie Poulain?” she said perfectly, “I had to pick American name. Say hello to Stacy.”

  “I am Tracy!” Chloë raised her hand. “And I am pom-pom girl!”

  “You mean a cheerleader?”

  “We did a project where we had to pretend we were an American student,” said Valentin, “I was Josh.”

  He threw out the name like it was a wave crashing on the beach. Somehow, it sounded like the most angelic sound when it washed over his lips. I wanted to sink into it. He looked far too sophisticated for a simple Josh. No offence to any Joshes present.

  Instead, I unleashed the most un-sexy snort in the history of snorts. The idea of a classroom full of ‘Josh’s and ‘Tracy’s was so weirdly hilarious I couldn’t hold back my laughter. Golden age Americana invading the nation.

  “He and me, we write story how we are football players,” explained Maxence, “and we were, as you say, popular. We got very good mark.”

  “Qui veut des merguez?” asked Maxence’s father, pulling the reddish sausages off the flame. He passed the now overflowing plate to his wife, who slipped two onto her plate and passed them on.

  “Be careful, these have spice,” said Valentin, as the plate reached us. “They are hot.”

  “You no have merguez in America?” asked Pierre.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “They have burgers,” said Chloë, before turning to me, “Can you say Burger?”

  “Um, Burger, why?”

  Her grin exploded on her face. “Ha! Buuurger. I love it. Your accent is adorable.”

  Her comment didn’t exactly hurt: no, it was different from that, because part of me liked hearing her like something about me that I had no control over. But the other part, the one who lived with Mamie, tutted in the back of my brain.

  “And what about my accent, Chloë?” asked Valentin, wagging his eyebrows at her, “do you find it adorable too?”

  “I find it zarbie as hell,” she replied, and the table burst into laughter.

  “Le beau est toujours bizarre,” said Valentin proudly, “the beautiful is always weird.”

  “Baudelaire,” agreed Maxence’s mother.

  I realized in that moment that none of them cared how I spoke. I had never noticed Valentin’s accent or even Chloë’s when they spoke to me, I was just so relieved to understand them. Ok, that was a lie: I was in love with Valentin’s accent. Maybe that was too strong a word, but the more he spoke, the more I found I adored the sound of his voice. As he translated the conversation for me, bringing me in from the sidelines to include me; as he tripped and stumbled over words, or corrected me as I butchered his; as he repeated words to make sure he got them right, or I did, I realized that the words leaving his lips were more beautiful than any I had ever heard before.

  I didn’t think it was possible to fall in love with someone’s voice before. For an accent to be an actual accent, worn proudly like a golden pin. I found myself listening more to how he said the words, than the actual words he said, nodding and agreeing along until I was a living bobble head.

  But maybe I wasn’t in love with the voice. Or the words. Maybe, just maybe, I had fallen for the man who spoke them.

  Lunch in France wasn’t measured in minutes. It was measured in hours and bottles of wine.

  Meat after meat came off the grill, each more flavorful than the last, Maxence came out of the kitchen with a heaping plate of cheeses and an armful full of fresh bread. Around the table, we ripped off pieces of the crispy baguette, no cutting board required. Cheese was sliced and passed as wine glasses were refilled.

  It didn’t end there. We had somehow forgotten the salad, so out came a bowl of fresh green leaves topped with balsamic and olive oil, and another of the sliced tomatoes and basil. At this point, we barely had room for more, but Maxence’s mother came back out with bowls of fresh cut strawberries and whipped cream for dessert, and none of us could say no.

  By the time my glasses were empty, Maxence was bringing us tiny cups of coffee, shots of pure espresso. I was going to need it: the food had made me so tired, I felt like I was dozing off right then and there. A new equation entered my mind: wine + food coma = negative language skills. Even Valentin seemed to support that theory, drifting deeper and deeper into um’s and hein’s as the meal came to a close.

  “Ca vous dit une partie de Boules?” offered Maxence’s dad.

  “T’es pas serieux…” the son muttered, patting his belly.

  “C’est moi qui a fait toutes les grillades,” he insisted, getting to his feet. “Allez. Quatre equipes?”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, as everyone on their end of the table griped and groaned. Valentin looked a little dazed. More than a little: he kept patting his belly like it was a dog that needed reassurance.

  “It looks like we’re playing pétanque,” he said, “François insisted, since he did all the cooking.”

  Ah. François. I told myself to remember the name, but in my post-feast state, my thoughts were fading fast. How anyone in this country wasn’t fat I had no idea. We all had to waddle to the front side of the house, where the gravel path was spacious enough for cars to park, though none were here now.

  “And what exactly is pétanque?”

  “Iz for old people,” said Chloë. “Charlotte est dans mon équipe!”

  “Maxence!” Pierre nodded at his friend, who responded with an equally curt nod. “Gros!”

  Wait, I knew that word. Did he just call him a fatty?

  “My team?” asked Valentin, making my heart soar. I knew we were the only ones left not yet paired up, so of course we would make a team, but still there was something about hearing him ask that made me all warm on the inside. The Nutella crepe feeling returned.

  I nodded, maybe a little too eagerly, before realizing what I was getting into and forcing myself to stop.

  “I’ve never played before,” I said, “I’ll drag you down.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re only playing for butter.”

  “For what? Butter?”

  “He says the game is for no,” said Chloë.

  “Don’t you have a teammate to stand by?” he snapped at her playfully. “You already stole Charlotte, do not rub it in my face.”

  “Wow, you talk garbage in English,” she said, caught between awestruck and sarcastic.

  “You mean the trash-talk?”

  She turned around and trotted over to Maxence, who was pulling out pouches of shiny metal balls, checking them for who knows what before handing them out to the newly formed teams.

  “So what is this game?” I asked, feeling dizzy from the heavy meal and the gentle hint of alcohol I had ingested. Come on coffee, do your stuff.

  “It’s easy, in principle,” he said. “We throw a
little ball, the cochonet, out into the field. Then we take turns throwing the balls as close as we can to it. The team with the most closest wins.”

  “That does sound easy,” I said. It also didn’t sound like much fun, like a French corn-hole. It was fun for maybe one round, but then people always seemed to want to do the same thing for hours.

  Maxence handed me my metal balls, and I was shocked by how heavy they were. The shiny spheres had rings embossed around them, each set slightly different so they could be better told apart. The tiny yellow ball was thrown, landing about fifteen feet away, and the game began.

  It was astonishingly slow, but we were so full of food that it didn’t really matter. Time had somehow slowed down for all of us, even the beats between cicada chirps seemed to be stretching out. We took turns throwing our balls, trying to get close to the little cochonet. Maxence was amazingly good at this, somehow hitting opponents spheres so they busted out of the way.

  “So is this… um… some kind of national pastime?” I asked, my palm sweaty against the silver orb.

  “Maybe in the south,” said Valentin, “people joke it’s an old person’s game. But I learned it in primary school.”

  I tried imagining little Valentin and other kids, armed with heavy metal balls and instructed to throw as hard as they can. That couldn’t have ended well.

  After everyone had thrown, we scored points, and began again. Over, and over again. But it didn’t seem like the point was to play the game: we were all just standing there, together, chatting and laughing, though I only picked up half the words that were being said.

  Still, half of the words was better than where I was at when I first got here. I was slowly getting the gist of conversations, thanks to Valentin’s help.

  “Une dernière partie?” asked François, as he picked up the cochonet.

  “Allez,” said Maxence. Everybody nodded.

  “One last party?” I asked. Valentin smiled.

  “One last round,” he replied, “we’re one point behind with Maxence right now. What do you say we beat him?”

  “What? We’re second?” I couldn’t believe my ears. The scoring system was so confusing (why was there even rope involved?) that I hadn’t followed that part at all.