by Laura Resau
Vincent smiles at Madame Chevalier.
She nods, beaming, as if I’ve passed some test. “Oui,” she says, “just like Maude here.”
“What?”
“Remember when I told you that Maude takes occasional detours to her secret places?” Vincent says, his eyes twinkling.
Madame Chevalier’s eyes grow starry too. “We suspect she’s sipping from the waters. How else could a pigeon live for fifty years in perfect health? Most pigeons barely make it to thirty-five.”
These two really, truly believe in a fountain of youth. Right here in this town. For years, they’ve been encouraging each other, playing this game together, until they’ve begun to believe it in their hearts. It’s undeniably weird. But they’re both so eager, so genuine, and they light up when they talk about these sacred waters.
I can’t help indulging them. And it does make great ruby notebook material. So I press my lips together, holding in my smile, and ask, “And how do I fit in?”
Vincent puffs up his chest like a pigeon. “Madame Chevalier and I have decided we can trust you.” From his bag, he pulls a small album with the word SALLUVII embossed on the leather cover, opens it, and says, “Regarde.”
There are a series of paintings of two men and two women who wear clothes and hairstyles similar to Sirona, Damona, Grannos, and Bormanus.
Vincent taps the album with his fingers, flipping through the pages, letting me look at each one. Finally, he says, “We’re seventy, born and raised here in Aix. Those people in the band Salluvii—they’ve been coming to town since we were children. The same necklaces. The same people. They never grow older. They look exactly as they did sixty years ago.”
I study the album. Each painting is dated, the oldest from 1956. It’s true, the people in the paintings look similar, especially the jewelry, tunics, and hair, but then again, these are quick sketches, just splashes of color, not detailed enough for me to make out facial features.
Madame Chevalier peers at the album over my shoulder. “The members of Salluvii keep to themselves, mostly. They must think that no one will remember their faces, but we do.”
“So,” I say, “these sacred waters—where do you think they are?”
Vincent smiles. “That’s where you come in, mademoiselle.”
“We’d like you to find them,” Madame Chevalier says, as though she’s just awarded me a prestigious, highly coveted job.
I blink, searching for words. “If you’ve spent your lives searching, what makes you think I can find them?”
“Well,” Vincent says, “we weren’t serious about the search until now. It was a game for us.” He takes a long look at Madame Chevalier. “But now, circumstances have changed.” He lifts his palms to the sky, a pleading gesture. “And now we’re too old to search. We need your help.”
My doubt must be written on my face, because he adds, “You must wonder if we’re fous, mademoiselle. Going on about eternal life. But trust me, we’re not crazy.”
I bite my lip. “Why me? Why did you choose me?”
Madame Chevalier answers. “You notice things. You have a connection with Salluvii. And now, what you’ve told me about your boyfriend! Well, this makes it even better.” She nods. “You’re a seeker, that’s clear.”
“Seeker.” That’s what my name means. But right now I’m up to my ears in unsuccessful seeking. Seeking the real Zeeta, seeking the fantôme, seeking the reason for my creeping anxiety around Wendell’s arrival. Now doesn’t seem the time to get entangled in a search with two sweet but slightly deluded old people. I try to let them down easy. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”
“Pas de problème,” Vincent says. No problem. “For the moment, you must simply gather information from Sirona and report to us.”
Madame Chevalier turns to him and murmurs, “Her boyfriend has powers of divination. And he saw Zeeta and himself in a vision, here in Aix, soaking wet.” She gives Vincent a meaningful look.
His eyes widen. “Soaking wet,” he murmurs. “As if they’ve just discovered the magical waters!” he says.
“What?” I say, bewildered at how he leapt to this conclusion.
“This is perfect!” Vincent cries.
“Isn’t it?” Madame Chevalier agrees.
I try to get a word in. “Wendell can’t exactly control his powers,” I say. “He doesn’t even like talking about them.”
Madame Chevalier smiles. “Oh, when he hears of our quest, he’ll be glad to help you.” She speaks with a childlike faith, certain Wendell will be her knight galloping in on a white horse.
I look at their hopeful faces and say reluctantly, “He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Magnifique!” Vincent exclaims. “We can’t wait to meet him!” He raises his teacup in a toast. Madame Chevalier raises her own cup and looks at me expectantly.
I swallow my misgivings and clink my teacup against theirs.
When they’re really into a song, Illusion seems to transform into fire, flames leaping, sparks shooting, sweat flying, sunlight glinting off the odd, tiny ornaments sewn to their outfits. They’re in this fiery state when I leave Madame Chevalier’s apartment and encounter them in the square. I sit down at a nearby table, where the music is so loud I can feel its heat.
After the song ends, Amandine leaps up from her cross-legged position behind the bongo drums and calls out through the applause, “We. Are. Illusion!” Then she skips through the crowd with her red hat, headed toward me. When she reaches my table, I toss in some coins, noticing that the hat is halfway full of money. Illusion does well. She kisses my cheeks, breathless. She smells like cherries, tart and sweet, and her lips appear stained red, not with lipstick but with something like berry juice.
“Sit for a minute, Amandine,” I say, offering her a chair and pushing my untouched glass of water toward her. “Help yourself.”
She perches on the seat, tucking one leg under the other. Her natural state is movement. She seems restless sitting still, even for a minute.
I pull the T-shirt from my bag. “Recognize this?” I ask, studying her reaction, just in case Madame Chevalier is right about her.
Amandine raises her eyebrows, surprised, and reaches for the shirt. She holds it up and asks, “Where did you get it?”
“Someone put it in my bag. Do you know who?”
She shakes her head.
“I think whoever it was left me a jar of sand too. And a CD of guitar music.”
“Bizarre,” she says.
We’re at a standstill. And really, what would be her motivation for putting this stuff in my bag anyway? What I want to do, I realize, is confide in her. She’s the closest thing I have to a girlfriend my age here. “Amandine. I think it might be from my father.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “Your father? Why?”
I tell her the story of Layla’s night in Greece, and the few bits of things I know about my father.
She listens closely to my rambling. Afterward, she stares at me for a while, and finally, she says, “If you’re right, at least your father is alive and out there. Just be happy knowing that.”
“It’s not that easy. It’s hard not having a father—” I catch myself, remembering too late that Amandine lost her parents. “I’m sorry. I forgot—” And I stop, embarrassed.
“I do have a father,” she says. “Tortue’s like my father.”
I nod, wishing I could take my foot out of my mouth.
“They died four years ago,” she says. “When I was twelve and Julien was eighteen. We only had distant relatives, so Julien became my guardian. I was really into ballet and gymnastics, and his passion was music. So we started doing street performances, first in Paris, then all around France. We hooked up with Tortue in Marseille, and it felt like I had a father again. Someone wise, someone who cared about me, gave me advice. Someone who made sure we were organized and had a place to live and food to eat and gigs lined up.”
“Really?” I’ve thought of the mime as silen
t and frozen, always leaning against the tree. “He doesn’t seem the type.”
She tilts her head. “What has Jean-Claude told you about Tortue?”
“All he said was something about wet wood.”
She giggles, a tinkling bell sound. “Jean-Claude’s a nut.”
It’s funny that she says it so matter-of-factly. I laugh too.
“Tortue has bipolar disorder.” She looks at me, waiting for a reaction.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s basically manic depression,” she says. “Sometimes Tortue gets in a supercreative phase, helping us come up with new routines, new songs. He plays music with us—brass, strings, keyboard, you name it. At those times, he’s a whirlwind of energy. He books our shows and sets up recording sessions and plasters Illusion posters all over. Other times, there are weeks when he can barely get out of bed. He doesn’t talk and hardly eats. This month he’s pretty down, but I’ve been able to convince him to at least get in his clown costume and come out with us. All he has to do is stand there, I tell him. We try to take care of him. He’s so good to us, when he’s able.”
“Does he take medicine?” I ask.
“Well, sometimes he decides he doesn’t need it. Especially when he’s feeling good.” She sips the water, studying its transparent shadow.
We’re quiet for a moment as I jot down the notes about Tortue.
When I look back up, Jean-Claude has come over. “And what are you ladies gossiping about?” He asks it casually but looks the tiniest bit worried. He thinks we’re talking about him, I realize.
“Not about you, Narcissus,” Amandine snaps, sitting up a little straighter. “We happen to be discussing Tortue’s bipolar disorder.”
Jean-Claude grins. “Ah, what limitless talent contained in such a small girl. The acrobat psychologist can diagnose us all, can’t she?”
“The doctors diagnosed him,” she slings back with a glare. “I just do Internet research to figure it all out. Unlike some of us, who just ramble incoherently about wet wood.”
Jean-Claude smiles. “Amandine is Illusion’s personal, on-the-road psychologist.”
She flips her braid, whacking him in the face. “Only I don’t get paid or appreciated.”
“Come on!” He grabs her braid and tugs. “We’re about to play another set.”
Lifting her chin, she says, “I think I’ll sit this one out, actually.”
With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated ppppttt, Jean-Claude goes to join the other band members.
Once Illusion starts playing, Amandine leans in and says bluntly, “You like him, don’t you?”
“Who?” I ask, knowing very well who.
She motions toward Jean-Claude with her chin.
I will myself not to blush. “I have a boyfriend.”
“I know. Jean-Claude told me.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow.” Why is my stomach clenching?
She nods. “I’d understand if you like Jean-Claude.”
I look at my espresso cup.
“I mean, he’s pretty seductive,” she says.
I lift a shoulder, trying very hard to seem nonchalant. “Even though he’s a nut?”
“Especially because he’s a nut.” She grabs her toes, extends her foot toward the sky. “Try to keep a cool head around him.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I know. But he kind of has a … reputation, especially with girls like you.”
My head snaps up. “Girls like me?”
Sunlight dances over her red hair. “Hyper cool girls.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to think about this. “Do you warn all the girls about him?”
“No. Just you.”
When in doubt of what to say, turn the tables. “What about you, Amandine? Do you have a boyfriend?”
She shifts, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
I wait, sort of enjoying her discomfort.
“It’s impossible,” she says. “Jean-Claude and Julien think I’m a little girl. Tortue’s the only one who treats me like an adult. Which is funny, since he’s the one who’s most like a father.” She takes a sip of water. “Try being on your own from age twelve. It drives me crazy when people look at me and see a little girl.”
In a way, I can relate. I’ve always been the responsible one, making sure Layla and I have food and shelter and clothes and savings. But at least she treats me as an equal. I study Amandine’s face, her copper hair, the freckles scattered across her nose. A cute elfin creature sitting across from me, a child who leaps and flips and dances. It’s not until you talk to her that you see she’s lived a more intense life than many adults. She’s complicated, smart. Madame Chevalier was right about that much.
There’s a rustling in the leaves above us. We both glance up.
Tortue is perched in the branches, still and staring, his foot paused midswing.
Amandine smiles, hops onto her chair, and springs up a full meter, grabbing onto the tree limb and perching beside the mime. He’s trying to stay frozen, but she grabs a leaf and tickles his nose. He bursts out laughing. And I can see it clearly. Tortue melts in her presence. The cold, snowy mask dissolves and he is indeed an adoring father.
It’s here. The big day. The day of Wendell’s arrival. I barely slept last night.
On the way to the stop for the navettes—shuttle buses—I’m so distracted I trip or stub my toe a few times every block. Maybe it’s from guilt. I’ve only sent Wendell one e-mail a day over the past few days, a big change from our usual five a day. Ahmed mentioned it last night, and I got defensive. I argued that too much has been going on here for me to keep Wendell in the loop.
The quick e-mails I’ve sent have barely filled him in on the Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, Vincent, Maude, Madame Chevalier, Sirona, and our trip to the ruins of Entremont. I haven’t told him much about Illusion. And nothing about Jean-Claude.
The navette ride to the airport is less than an hour. And Wendell’s plane gets here in less than two hours. I catch my reflection in the shop windows. My shoulders are hunched and tense, my eyebrows furrowed. My lemon-yellow sundress is rumpled already, even though I ironed it this morning. I hardly ever wear makeup, but I’ve put a little on today. My nail polish has already chipped and I suspect my mascara has gotten smudged from sweat. Already, this is not going well.
Even in their sparkling red outfits, I don’t notice Illusion coming down the street until they’ve spotted me. Amandine reaches me first, bounding ahead of the others, doing a cartwheel and landing smack in front of me.
I gasp. A few passersby applaud.
About ten meters behind her, Jean-Claude catches my eye and smiles. Sabina and Julien are in their own little whispery, kissy world and don’t seem to notice me.
“Hey, Zeeta!” Amandine gives me a quick peck on each cheek. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Not here yet. I’m meeting him at the airport now.”
“C’est excellent! You should bring him to eat over at our place tonight.”
“Merci, mais—” The thought of Wendell and Jean-Claude in the same room makes me break into a sweat. “He’ll probably be too jet-lagged.”
“Then how about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I stall, wracking my brain for an excuse. Why does the prospect of Wendell and Jean-Claude meeting seem so uncomfortable? “He’ll probably have to hang with his host family then.”
“All right. Then Saturday.”
I hesitate, wondering why Amandine is so set on Wendell and me coming to dinner.
“The dinner will be trop top,” Amandine assures me, as if that’s the problem.
“Well, all right. Thanks.”
By now Jean-Claude has reached us. He plants two kisses on each cheek. As Sabina and Julien briefly tear apart from each other to give me air kisses, Amandine announces, “Zeeta and her boyfriend are coming to eat with us on Saturday.”
Jean-Claude doesn’t blink. He just smiles and says, “Your tongue will me
lt into our food. We are all gourmands.”
Gourmands. People who love to eat. It’s a word I’ve heard often during my short time in France. We don’t have a single, everyday word in English that really captures the meaning. Definitely not pigs. More like people who engage in eating as a hobby, eating experts.
“Well, I’ll be on my way.” And without going through the whole ritual of kissing goodbye, I give a quick wave and half-run away.
“See you Saturday!” Amandine calls. “Seven o’clock!”
Now, at this moment, Wendell is somewhere in this airport. Maybe passing through customs. Maybe just behind that wall, less that fifty meters from me. It’s no longer a matter of days but minutes. Every time I glimpse anyone with dark skin or long black hair, I jump.
I sit on the edge of the baggage conveyor belt. This is ridiculous. I fling open my notebook and write, Why am I a nervous wreck? I can’t think of anything else to write. I slam the notebook shut, stuff it in my bag, and pull out Jean-Claude’s book of poetry. I read a few pages, and when I look up, there’s Wendell, coming out of customs.
He’s already spotted me. I fix my gaze on his face through the crowd, and he walks closer. My heart is pounding, and now the sweat is dripping down my torso. He’s got his backpack on, the same worn blue one from Ecuador. I wipe my hands on my dress. In my fantasies, I’ve thrown myself into his arms, planted a long kiss on his mouth, pressed my body into his, clung to him, his arm, his back, his broad shoulders, and walked arm in arm with him through the airport, stopping to kiss every few seconds.
But now I feel suddenly shy. Shy, with this boy I’ve been e-mailing five times a day. Well, except for the past few days. He knows practically every thought I’ve had over the past nine months. And now I feel shy. He’s moving closer. The corner of his mouth is turned up in a half-smile. You can tell there’s a much bigger smile underneath.
He wraps his arms around me and I wrap mine around his waist and breathe in his smell. It’s the same, cinnamon soap and Altoids. It’s so familiar and good. I sink into it. I don’t lift my face to look at his. I just bury mine in his shoulder. I’m afraid he’ll see something different in my eyes. I’m afraid he’ll ask me what book I was reading. Finally, he pulls away and takes my chin in his hand and kisses me. Part of me feels like melting into him, but I step back.
