by Amy Maroney
28
November, 2016
Bayonne, France
Zari
The compact airplane banked over the Atlantic and turned neatly to line up for its landing. Out the window, Zari saw turquoise waters sparkling beneath her. Ribbons of foam made lacy patterns along a curving beach. Homes with red tile rooftops dotted the lush hills along the coast. Further south, the steep ridges of the Pyrenees pierced the sky.
Zari disembarked on the runway in Biarritz, blinking in the bright sunshine. Her breath spooled ahead of her in small white puffs. She pulled her roll-aboard over the tarmac to the airport complex and exited the security doors to the general arrivals area where people clustered, waiting for travelers.
A family group chattered loudly, holding a handmade sign welcoming someone named Isabelle back from Brazil. A young mother with three little girls crowded around her looked vacantly at Zari, her blank expression evidence of too many nights’ missed sleep. A bird fluttered through the rafters, its wings dark against the white metal ceiling.
Zari raked her gaze over the crowd, searching for a familiar face.
There was a tap on her shoulder.
“Zari!” Laurence enfolded her in an embrace. “I knew you would be back.”
Zari returned her friend’s hug, her throat swelling with emotion. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Your mother?” Laurence asked. “She is well?”
“Everything is fine,” Zari assured her. “She made me promise not to come back to California until I find Mira.”
“I think we can arrange that.”
They walked outside to the parking lot.
“Are you tired?” Laurence asked, popping open the trunk of her grey Renault.
Zari deposited her suitcase inside. “No.”
“Then you won’t object to a detour before we go to Pau?”
“Not at all. Where to?”
“You will see.” Laurence smiled a small, secretive smile.
Zari narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Should I be worried or excited?”
“You will just have to wait,” Laurence declared. “I know it’s hard. Americans, and you especially, are terrible at waiting. Sorry.”
Grinning, she slipped the car into reverse.
Traffic was light on the D-810 route heading north and it seemed they had only been on the road for a few minutes when Laurence signaled to exit. Zari caught sight of a sign that read ‘Bayonne.’ A wave of anticipation swept through her.
“Ah ha!” she crowed. “Do we have an appointment at the archives?”
Laurence said nothing, just slowed for a red light.
Zari had been waiting for this moment far too long. Arnaud de Luz, Mira’s husband, was known to have lived here in the early sixteenth century. He was a member of the cabinetmakers’ guild and a furniture craftsman. He also made the wooden panels for all of the paintings that Zari believed were Mira’s work, and stamped them with his mark: ‘ADL.’ Last fall, she had hoped to dig into the archives of Bayonne and have a proper look at the records. But a flood at the archives dashed her hopes, and she never got the opportunity.
She realized she was tapping her feet in a nervous, staccato rhythm.
“I am driving as fast as I can,” Laurence remarked, signaling to switch lanes.
She navigated a roundabout and turned onto a broad boulevard whose center meridian was planted with palm trees. Entering a narrow road that passed through remnants of the original city walls, she parked in a small lot.
“You have no respect for my blood pressure,” Zari said, emerging from the car.
Laurence slid out of her seat. “French people like to savor suspense. Try to be more French,” she advised. “Or do some of that yoga breathing your mother taught you.”
“Believe me, I’ve been doing it for the past ten minutes,” Zari said tartly.
She followed Laurence out of the parking lot onto a tree-lined street that bordered the old brick fortifications surrounding the medieval core of the city.
They entered the Rue d’Espagne, passing a half-timbered building with a restaurant on the ground floor. The remains of an ancient stone rampart had been incorporated into the outer wall of the building, the partial curve of a Roman arch jutting out from its west-facing side. Zari slowed her pace, admiring it.
Laurence walked briskly ahead on the cobbled street, her black leather handbag swinging from one shoulder. As usual, she was garbed in effortlessly chic clothing, a tan wool coat over dark jeans and wooden-heeled black boots. Her silver-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a loose bun.
Zari hurried to catch up, suddenly chilled. Despite the sunshine and the palm trees, the cold breeze carried the scent of the winter sea.
They sat on the terrace of a small cafe by a building that directly abutted the Bayonne cathedral. Most of the patrons huddled outside under heat lamps so they could smoke. Laurence lit a cigarette, avoiding Zari’s gaze. Last year, Zari had tried to help her quit smoking. For a period of a few months, Laurence had been mostly successful, substituting gum and running for her nicotine habit. But since Zari returned to California last summer, it seemed Laurence had taken up her old habit again.
Zari looked away, fixing her eyes on the cathedral. Its sand-colored stone was etched with stains and grooves, and its massive bell tower soared to a dizzying height.
When the server came, they both ordered coffee. Though Zari never drank black coffee at home in California, nor did she ever add sweetener to it, she automatically emptied a packet of sugar into the brew and stirred briskly, following Laurence’s lead.
Not until they finished their coffee and scraped the last sweet drops from the bottom of their cups with tiny spoons did Laurence speak.
“Now,” she said, reaching into her handbag and retrieving a plastic folder secured with a bright blue string tie. She placed it on the table between them. “We are sitting here, across from the cathedral, because I thought you might like to know that Mira has walked on these very cobblestones.”
Zari stared at her in amazement.
Laurence opened the folder and slid out a photocopy of a document written in old script.
“I visited the archives without you, Zari.” She laughed at Zari’s crestfallen look. “In my defense, I did not know if—or when—you would be back.”
Zari leaned forward, staring hungrily at the page. “What does it say?”
“In 1506 there was an event at the bishop’s residence, which used to be part of the cathedral compound you see here, but no longer exists. All of the guests were required to tithe to the church and pay a fee to the city. A municipal notary recorded their names and the amounts paid. Miramonde de Oto was among the guests. She was accompanied by—”
“Arnaud de Luz?” Zari interrupted hopefully.
Laurence shook her head. “A man called Sebastian de Scolna.”
Zari frowned. “I know that name. But I can’t think why.”
“He was a painter from Flanders. Quite successful in his day, with many wealthy patrons.”
Zari stared at Laurence, grappling with the news. “Why was she with a Flemish painter and not Arnaud?”
Laurence shrugged. “An archivist is continuing to search for Mira and Arnaud in church records, notary register books, and civic records. She hopes to write an article about them based on the research you have done and what she is doing now. We may find out the answer to your question and more.”
Zari sat back weakly in her chair, dumbfounded. “All the work you’ve done to keep Mira’s star blazing. Work I should have been doing...”
“No, Zari. I cannot take credit.”
Zari focused her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“The effort you have made on social media to create interest in Mira? It’s working. Really working. I have colleagues all around Europe looking f
or clues about her. This archivist in Bayonne learned about Mira from your posts on Twitter and Instagram. She is the one who found this—” Laurence brandished the paper again. “And she did it because of you.”
29
November, 2016
Pau, France
Zari
Zari stared into the darkness. She shut her eyes again, burrowing into the duvet, longing for sleep. Laurence’s guest bed was comfortable and the cool air in the room was perfect for sleeping. As usual, she’d had no trouble drifting off. It was staying asleep that proved tricky.
The shutters rattled faintly, straining against their hinges in the wind that surged off the mountains. Zari was comforted by the idea of those massive granite peaks, stalwart against storms brewing in the autumn sky. She ached to return to the high country, to slip on a backpack and traverse ancient trails worn into the earth by pilgrims, traders, smugglers...by every stripe of traveler.
Thoughts of the mountains led her, as they usually did, to Wil. During their week of hiking and camping under the stars in the Pyrenees, she had reveled in the absolute joy he derived from adventure. I want to go where he’s going, she remembered thinking as she walked in his footsteps, watching his loping stride. He charged up steep slopes with agility and grace, gripping his hiking poles with easy confidence. He spun out an invisible thread of courage to Zari, inspiring her to push past fear and revel in the wilderness around them.
She still wanted to go where Wil was going, Zari admitted to herself. Even though they were straddling yet another separation, she never stopped wishing for his presence in her life, dreaming about the day when they could cohabitate and learn what it was to share the small pleasures and mundane tasks of domestic life. When? How? The necessary details floated just out of reach, maddening her.
She reached for her mobile on the nightstand and tapped out a quick message to him. No response came, not that she was expecting one at this hour. Instead, the device’s dark screen intensified her loneliness. Would there ever come a time when she could just roll over in bed and take comfort from the outline of his sleeping form in the night? When she could place her palm flat against his warm back and feel the rise and fall of his breathing?
Groaning, she slid out of bed and switched on the light.
The Mendieta family lore was in her roll-aboard, untouched since she had skimmed through it during her first night in Geneva. It was better to read for a while than listen to her brain prattle on.
She spread it all out on the bed, rubbing her eyes blearily. The faint rumble of thunder penetrated the windows. She glanced up, saw the silvery ping of raindrops against the glass. Wrapping her duvet around her shoulders like a cloak, Zari crossed her legs and stared at the photocopied pages.
The originals were in a locked safe in her brother Gus’s house with all the other critical documents of her family’s life. Birth certificates, wills, passports. And now the mysterious scribblings of Lena Mendieta, a capsule glimpse into the shadowy history of her mother’s Basque ancestors.
They’re my ancestors, too, Zari reminded herself. Why she had so much trouble embracing the concept of ancestral roots was a mystery. Or maybe not. Her childhood had been clouded by the turmoil of her parents’ unhappy marriage, by the abrupt disappearance of her father from their lives before she reached adolescence. Her relationship with him, shaky at best, had essentially vaporized when he left.
After much deliberation, she’d contacted him this summer when she was tracking down information about the Mendietas. Her mother had recalled that in the early days of their marriage, it was he who showed interest in family lore. At gatherings with her extended family, he had amassed a small folder of genealogical information. But rather than return Zari’s call and God forbid, speak to his daughter, he e-mailed her. A short, businesslike e-mail claiming he knew nothing of her mother’s family history, erasing the idea that he had ever been interested in their ancestry at all.
Whether her mother had remembered wrong or her father’s memory was failing—or if he preferred not to get involved in anything regarding his first family—the curt formality of his e-mail stung. Upon reading it, Zari was overcome with a swelling wave of anger that took hours to dispel. Only by running for five miles without stopping did she corral her rage and fold it back up into a neat little box somewhere in the very back of her mind.
Now she felt the box begin to buckle and twist, her anger threatening to explode again at the memory. She shook her head, resolved to put her father out of her mind. There was no need to reopen the wound of his indifference.
In truth, she was probably envious of the life he had built with his new wife after he left her mother. They had two teenaged daughters whom Zari and Gus scarcely knew. And her father was so disinterested in Jasper and Eva that he rarely acknowledged their birthdays or other special events. Not that this was out of character. Back when Gus was navigating the throes of addiction to drugs and alcohol in early adulthood, their father was nowhere to be found. Zari had been the rock Gus needed to survive those years. As much as their mother wanted to support her son, she worked an endless series of jobs to survive and simply did not have the luxury of time to spend helping him cope.
Zari put her face in her hands. Tears burned behind her eyelids. She took several deep breaths, holding them each for a count of four, and slowly let the air leak from her lungs.
Finally she was ready to focus on the documents Lena Mendieta had given her that scorching August day in Oregon.
She shuffled through the pages, pausing to study some sketches inked in ballpoint pen—designs that looked vaguely Celtic, she thought. One of them was particularly compelling, a composition of intersecting lines that curled in endless loops. Under it were the words ‘Mendieta mark.’ Next, she examined a piece of lined notepaper covered with a pencil sketch of a house. It was broad, its windows framed with shutters, its low-pitched roof made of curved tiles.
Zari collected all the pages that contained images, fanning them out at intervals on the bed. She then focused on a list of names. A wall of fatigue hit her as she stared at each name in turn. Itzel. Berat. Arai. Basque looked nothing like any of the European languages she was familiar with.
She lay back with the papers radiating out from her body like the translucent petals of a desiccated flower. Slowly her eyelids fluttered shut.
The image of a green meadow teeming with wildflowers materialized in her mind. On the edge of the meadow was a blocky whitewashed house with a red ceramic-tile roof, its windows framed with red-painted shutters. A typical Basque home. Nearby was an orchard of fruit trees. She let the scene dominate her thoughts, her body relaxing into the soft duvet. As if from a great distance she heard the crinkling of paper under her legs and arms.
I should really gather those pages up, she told herself.
But then golden light drifted over the house in her imagination, reflecting off the whitewashed walls with harsh intensity. The sun was hot on her face, penetrating her skin.
She was barely conscious now. In the wild place where logical thought ended and dreams began.
That’s it, she thought, letting out a contented sigh. Sleep has come to claim me.
Outside, the rain grew fierce.
30
Winter, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira awoke to the sounds of Arnaud getting dressed for work and lighting a fire in the hearth. Outside, the dull thwack of an icepick echoed in the square. The fountain must have frozen overnight again.
She stretched languidly, heart pounding with anticipation. Tristan slept curled at her side, his puckered mouth slightly open. His flushed cheeks were so enticing she could barely resist smothering them with kisses.
A sigh of happiness rippled through her. Today Nekane would watch the baby and Mira would take up the threads of her old life—the artist’s life—once more. She turned h
er head and eyed the stack of oak panels in the sitting room. There was so much she still needed—pigments and brushes, for a start. And there was a bigger problem: she possessed not one scrap of evidence that she could, in fact, paint at all.
The portrait she made of her mother at Castle Oto was gone, stolen by a bandit in the mountains soon after she and Arnaud left Ronzal for Béarn. Where was it now? Rotting at the bottom of a ravine, perhaps—or chopped up into kindling for a winter fire. The thought struck her heart like a sharp blade.
Mira forced her mind to the day ahead. She planned to knock on the door of every merchant and sea captain in the city, seeking a commission. But she had no portraits to show off, no letter of recommendation from a venerated master, nothing but her own words to sell her work. And what were the words of a woman artist worth?
Arnaud sat on the bed, a welcome distraction from her worries. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped parcel.
“I thought this might come in handy today,” he said softly, unwrapping it. Inside was a rectangular piece of Venetian glass painted black on one side. He held it out.
Mira sat up, stared at her reflection in the glass.
The face looking back at her was paler than she remembered, a bit gaunt, the cheekbones jutting out too sharply. Her gray-green eyes looked different, too. They were eyes that had witnessed enough sorrow for a lifetime, with faint shadows lurking underneath.
“Why do you give me a looking glass?” she asked, glancing up at him in confusion. “There are so many other things we need.”
Arnaud traced his fingertip over the edge of the glass. “You said you need an example of your work to show merchants, so they can see your talents. Now you’ve a subject to practice on.”
She gave him a blank look.
“Paint yourself, Mira,” he said.
“But I have no pigments, my love.”
He rummaged in the satchel again.