by Laura Resau
He doesn’t like when I ask him to tell the future. Call it what you will—fortune-telling, divination, prophecy. For years this power scared him, but last summer he found a teacher in Ecuador who showed him how to use it. And for a year Wendell’s been practicing. Some people would find this thrilling, but he insists it’s more a curse than a gift. He’s promised he’d warn me if he ever saw Layla or me in physical danger. But in relationships, he refuses to let his visions get involved. They’re more likely to screw things up, he says. I can’t help but wonder if he saw something in a vision that made him freak out and decide not to live with me and Layla.
Biting my lip, I add, Or visions of anything else this summer?
At home, Layla’s at the table making mobiles out of bits of glass and pebbles and old metallic chocolate wrappers. My fantôme’s guitar music is blasting so loud, Layla doesn’t even hear me come in. “Layla!” I shout.
“Z!” She looks up and turns down the music. “Did you find out who your admirer is?”
“If you mean the fantôme, then no.”
She twists a piece of wire with her pliers. “Hey, you know what this music reminds me of?”
“No idea.”
I’m expecting her to quote Rumi, or recount a weird dream, but instead she says, “The music your father played me that night on the beach.”
I blink. “Does the music jog your memory, Layla? Help you remember anything else? Like his name? What J.C. stands for?”
She snips a strand of wire with scissors and twists it around a pink pebble. “Mundane details like names didn’t seem to matter that night … with that music and the ocean. Remember, I was drunk on the moon’s reflection.”
“Right,” I sigh. “The moonlight-induced altered state of consciousness. I forgot.”
In Morocco and Chile and Laos, I was sure I’d run into my father any day on the street. I assumed he’d track me down and we’d all three live happily ever after. When I got older, I eventually accepted that it wouldn’t happen. Last summer’s search with Wendell gave me a renewed glimmer of hope. But at least Wendell knew the geographical region where he’d find his parents. My father, on the other hand, could be anywhere in the world, one of billions of men. So I’ve put the idea of a father into a coffin. Buried him. Mourned for him. Gone through all the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression—and accepted that it’s just me and Layla, forging our way in this world.
The few times I’ve brought up my father with Wendell, he says that what matters most is the people—in my case, person—who raised you and loved you … the ones you want when you’re scared or hurt or sad. It’s been a big role for Layla to fill, and she’s done the best she can, considering her flightiness. And I try, with my notebooks, with my friendships, to fill in all the gaps.
The CD ends and Layla pauses in her wire-twisting to press play. Again the music starts, and she smiles, as though she’s settling into a hot bath or biting into a steaming baguette. “You know what this music does, love? It opens the window in the center of your chest and lets the spirits fly in and out.”
“Tell Rumi my window’s stuck shut.”
“Oh, Z. That’s impossible.”
“Better yet, tell him the window’s not really there. It’s painted on, like those trompe l’oeils.” I saw one on a building earlier today at the edge of le centre-ville—downtown. From a distance the painting looks like a real window, but once you get close, you see it’s a mural, tricking your eyes into thinking there’s depth.
Layla holds her mobile to the window. “Ta-dah!” she announces. The light catches the foil and glass, bits of trash transformed into art. It makes me think of the glittering costumes of my new friends, Illusion. Of my invitation to the cave party. Of the poetry book in my bag. And of the boy who gave it to me, who knows nothing of Wendell.
After a late dinner of spinach quiche, I climb up the tiny staircase to a glass door that opens to a little rooftop patio. It’s dusk and the air smells like cinnamon and cumin, wafting up from the Moroccan restaurant down the street. Yellow lights flicker on one by one in the windows below. I open Jean-Claude’s book. It’s French poetry by Luca, who I’ve never heard of. I flip to a page marked with a gold string.
I transparent you
You half-darkness me
You translucent me
You empty castle me
And labyrinth me
It doesn’t make sense. Parts of speech are jumbled, with nouns and adjectives where verbs should be. I read the verse three times, at first wondering if my French is rustier than I thought. Finally, I begin to suspect that the words are supposed to confuse you, catch you off guard, make you feel the poetry more than think about it.
Each poem lasts for pages, nonsensical language that leaps over rules of grammar and flouts standard parts of speech. But the words give me a sense of something mysterious. A sense that life is a dream we drift through, no past, no memories. I read more and more and sink into this feeling as dusk turns into night and I can no longer see the words.
From inside, I hear snatches of starry guitar music. The notes drift through the open windows, melt into the night. My fantôme’s gift makes no sense either, but like the poetry, it gives me the feeling that I’m walking a dimly lit path at night, and before me is an empty castle, waiting to be explored.
I think back to Jean-Claude’s answer about the CD. You attract mystery.… Now that I think about it, he didn’t deny putting the CD in my bag. Maybe he is my fantôme.
Routines are essential to surviving in a new country each year. In Phuket, there were sunset volleyball games on the beach. In Marrakech, nightly drumming and dancing in the square. Here in Aix, there are my daily, tiny, sugary espressos at Café Cerise in the Place de la Mairie. Today, over my espresso, I’m reading more of the poetry book Jean-Claude lent me. I find myself glancing up from time to time, looking for Illusion.
Instead of Illusion, I catch a glimpse of Layla heading my way. She’s absorbed in conversation with a woman carrying a stringed wooden instrument unlike any I’ve seen before. It looks like a small harp, adorned with intricate carvings of Celtic knots. The woman is wearing a long tunic of red cloth, obviously hand-dyed and sewn with coarse, uneven stitches. Leather strings attached to homemade sandals climb her ankles like vines. A brass snake winds around her upper arm. From a cord at her neck hangs a brass pendant of three interconnected spirals.
In a city where nearly every woman is ultrachic, straight out of Vogue, dressed all in white or black or pale yellow or gray, Layla would find the one who treats life as a costume party.
She announces, “This is Sirona!”
“Enchantée,” I say. “I’m Zeeta.”
“Enchantée.” Her hand feels solid, with callouses at the fingertips. I have no idea how old she is. One moment she looks thirty, younger than Layla, the next she looks old enough to be Layla’s mom. Tiny laugh lines fan out from the corners of her eyes. I can tell right away she’s one of those people who always seems to be smiling.
Layla kisses my cheek and plops down. “Hello, love!” She turns to the woman. “Sit, sit, Sirona!” She waves her arm at the waiter, who rushes over. Layla has that effect on men. It took him ten whole minutes to notice me. This is why, with Layla around, it’s hard to determine whether my fantôme could be out there—because a half dozen men’s eyes are glued to our table. And she does look especially stunning today in a dress of raw pink silk from Thailand and a wreath of daisies on her head.
Layla beams at the woman in the odd tunic and says, “Sirona plays the lyre!”
“Hyper cool,” I say. It doesn’t take Layla long to sniff out the fringe elements in a new place. The only thing missing now is a clown boyfriend. Of the dozens, possibly hundreds, of boyfriends she’s been through, most have been travelers like us—bards, gyspies, troubadours—mostly penniless, usually musicians, artists, clowns, or some combination thereof. Layla’s a clown magnet. Someday I’d like to know how many clowns there are
in the world, because chances are, Layla’s had flings with the majority.
She drapes her arm over Sirona’s shoulder. “And Sirona’s named after a goddess of the hot springs in southern France!”
No wonder they’ve become instant friends. Layla has some kind of sacred water goddess radar that beeps in her head when she encounters a like-minded soul.
“Sirona knows everything about the history of this place.” Layla’s flushed pink with the elation that comes with making a new best friend in a new country. “Tell her, Sirona!”
“Eh bien,” Sirona begins. Her voice is low and calm, soothing to the ear. “Aix. It’s a sort of nickname for Aquae Sextius. Sextius was a Roman general.” She shudders. “Terrible man. Until him, a couple thousand years ago, the Celtic tribes in this area were holding their own against the Greeks and Romans. But he sweeps in and sets up an army camp and claims these springs are his. The Celts were fantastic warriors, but Sextius defeated us, the little worm.”
“You’re Celtic?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook, where I’m scribbling notes.
“My ancestors were the Salluvii—a Celtic Ligurian tribe that lived around here. Sextius and his warriors slaughtered our men. To escape slavery, the women killed their children, and then, themselves.” She winces and lowers her gaze to the lyre in her lap. “A horrible, sad, bloody time.”
“Then how are you here?” I ask.
Sirona looks at me, puzzled. “What?”
“I mean, how can you be a descendent if all the women and children died?”
“You’re sharp.” Her fingers glide over her bracelets, making a clinking sound. “A few of the Salluvii survived, hidden, preserving the ancient traditions of our people.” She plucks a few strings of her lyre. “Alors, a few centuries later, the Christians conquered the Romans. Over the centuries, people added new neighborhoods, new architecture, new art, layer after layer of civilization.”
I click my pen against the table. The city must feel tired, always reinventing itself, piling on new identities. “So what’s the thing that makes Aix, Aix?” I ask. “Has anything stayed the same over the millennia?”
Sirona doesn’t hesitate. “The springs. They are its essence, its soul, its timeless core. “People’s ideas about the waters have changed over time, of course.” She shakes her head. “These waters have survived a lot.”
“Like what?” I ask, my pen poised.
“Ouf! People were always fighting over the springs, trying to own them, making stupid rules. Those Romans built their fancy bathhouses two thousand years ago.” She makes a face. She obviously doesn’t think highly of Romans, as though they were bullies from elementary school she still resents. “And then,” she says, “when the Christians came along, they claimed the waters were the site of pagan rituals—‘diabolical activities,’ they said—and forbade the use of them.” She rolls her eyes. “And later on, during the prudish phase, the rulers decided that the waters encouraged debauchery, so they forbade women to use them. And when there were plagues and diseases, everyone blamed the waters.” She shakes her head.
Layla says, “Sounds like a dark time.”
“It was,” Sirona says, sighing. “It was. Luckily, there are those of us who’ve loved the waters through the years, non? We see past the fountains and wells and bathhouses and baptismal pools. We know that deep underneath all those layers is what truly counts. The source.” She sweeps her hand over the square, stopping at the huge fountain, where the pigeon man is standing amid a mass of feathers swirling and wings flapping.
“Here comes my family!” Sirona announces as a woman and two men arrive, toting a collection of odd instruments and wearing hand-dyed tunics and rough-hewn leather sandals like Sirona’s. “We’re also a band. We’re called Salluvii.”
“After your ancestors’ tribe?” I ask.
She smiles. “You pay attention, don’t you?” She introduces the man with the silver-flecked beard as Grannos, and the younger one, her son, Bormanus. His girlfriend is Damona, whose brass bracelet snakes up her arm like Sirona’s, and blond hair encircles her head in a braided rope.
They say “Enchanté” and “How do you like France?” and the basic pleasantries, and then go off to start playing. Sirona picks out a few notes on her lyre; then Damona starts blowing on a long, oval instrument, curved like a mountain sheep’s horn, with a bar across it that rests on her shoulder. Next, Grannos comes in with a bone flute, and finally, Bormanus with an instrument that looks like a long trumpet.
In the next song, Sirona and Damona shake tiny bird-shaped clay bells as the men play. The ancient melodies sound almost eerie, entirely unlike anything I’ve heard before. It’s an unexpected combination of sounds, almost jarring. It’s not until I’ve heard a few songs that I begin to understand the rhythms, the patterns of notes. The band is obviously well practiced, with each person coming in at just the right time, without even any eye contact, as though they’ve been playing together forever.
While Salluvii is in their second set, Layla leans across the table. “Hey, Z, you think your fantôme is out there somewhere?”
I shrug. “No sign of him.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He has phenomenal taste in music. I wouldn’t mind a few more albums of that instrumental guitar.”
My eyes skim over the square, searching for fantôme suspects. My gaze lands on the old woman in the window above Café Cerise. Her binoculars are aimed at me. She raises her hand in greeting, as if we’re old friends now. If she were in the square, I’d definitely ask her whether she’s seen my fantôme and interview her for my notebook. But she’s always up in that window. She’s a spectator of life rather than another actor onstage like the rest of us. I simply raise a hand, mirroring her greeting.
My gaze continues to sweep across the square. There’s a group of grinning German tourists, the mime frozen and leaning against the tree, a bunch of children playing tag, a violinist performing classical music, and finally, the pigeon man. My gaze rests on this eccentric old man, another fixture in the square who might impart valuable information. If I can barrel my way through the horde of pigeons to reach him. Somehow he notices me through the chaos of birds around him and waves.
I wave back and write down, Plan to find my fantôme—ask the binoculars lady and the pigeon man if they’ve seen anything.
I consider asking the mime, too, but I doubt he’d be helpful. He seems lost in his own silent, still world. He’s just a few meters from our table, so I can clearly see his eyes, the only part of his body that’s moving. When his gaze lands on mine, I smile. His eyes dart away and fix on a point in the distance.
I move my head toward Layla’s and whisper, “You must be turning over a new leaf, Layla. It’s the second time we’ve seen the mime and you haven’t seduced him yet.”
I shouldn’t have said anything. Layla flashes a devilish smile in the mime’s direction.
“Layla!” I roll my eyes. “I was kidding! Can we please get through one country without a clown? Please?”
She winks at him, trying to get some response.
The mime stays still as a statue. Now even his eyes are unmoving. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.
Layla murmurs, “Don’t worry, love. Not my type of clown. No spontaneity. No playfulness.”
We listen to a few more songs, and when I look up again, the mime has disappeared.
“Nice work, Layla,” I say, grinning. “You scared him off. And I was going to ask him about my fantôme.”
She sighs. “You don’t give my clowns enough credit, Z. There’s more to clowns than meets the eye. They’re psychologically complex. All over the world, they’re mixed in with the sacred. Nonsense is one road to wisdom, you know. There’s the Sufi concept of the wandering wise fool, intoxicated by the ecstasy of the Absolute …”
I’ve heard all this before, every time she brings home a new clown. I interrupt. “I’m going to interview the pigeon man now, Layla. See if he knows anything about my
fantôme.” But when I look again toward the fountain, the old man is gone. Only a flock of pigeons remain, pecking at birdseed he must have left for them on the ground.
“Wendell!” I say suddenly.
“What about him?” Layla asks, sipping her third espresso.
“I haven’t e-mailed him yet today!” Usually, it’s one of the first things I do in the morning. And now the sun’s overhead, which means it’s already noon. Layla and I must have been idling here at the café for a couple of hours now. I have no excuse for forgetting about my boyfriend. I drop some coins by my empty espresso cup, say goodbye to Layla, and hurry toward Nirvana.
As I enter the dim room, the bells jingling, Ahmed glances up from the computer. “Oh, I’m glad you’re all right, Zeeta.” He sips his sweating can of Coke with a bendy straw. “You’re normally here much earlier. What will the love of your life think?”
I give a friendly shrug, then settle into my chair, which reeks of old cigarette smoke. Three e-mails from Wendell. I skim them. He’s obviously trying to smooth things over, keeping his responses to my questions light and sweet. His hair is four to four and a half inches longer, depending which side you measure, due to a crooked trim at Econo-Hair. He’s cut back to a half-tin of Altoids per week, down from a full tin during final exams.
And then, to my amazement, in the third e-mail, he tells me about a vision. Maybe as a peace offering. I slow down and read more carefully.
I haven’t seen any CDs, Z. Just a vision that makes no sense. It’s dark and we’re both soaking wet, like we’ve been swimming. But it’s weird because we’re in our clothes. And I’m not completely sure it’s you, since it’s so dark, and the dress you’re wearing isn’t your style.
I send him a short reply. Well, let’s hope the girl’s me. I stick a smiley face in so he won’t think I’m jealous or mad. Then I write, And by the way, my style changes from country to country. You’ve only known the Ecuador Zeeta. After I reread it, I toss in another smiley face for good measure. I end with, Can’t wait for you to come!!! Love you!!! with an excess of exclamation points to drive home the point that I’m not holding a grudge.
