by Laura Resau
Amandine’s eyes widen. “Violette Chevalier?”
“Ouais.”
“You’re friends with her?”
“Ouais.”
“She’s a famous painter. Hyper cool!” Amandine cries. “I studied her in school. Her paintings are in museums all over the world.” She nudges Wendell with her elbow. “You’d love her work. Your art teacher would be so impressed if you met her.”
She rambles for a while about Madame Chevalier as Wendell and I avoid each other’s eyes. When the clock chimes, Amandine jumps. “Oh! I have to meet the band to get ready for a show tonight. It’s in the basement club on Rue de la Verrerie. See you there, Wendell?”
He nods.
“You’re coming too, Zeeta?” she asks.
“Oh, no …” I stall. “I have other plans,” I lie.
She pecks us on the cheeks, does a cartwheel, and skips away.
Wendell and I are alone now. Stiffly, he asks, “Any more leads on your father?”
“Nothing.”
After a pause, he says, “So, can I meet this famous artist sometime?”
I bite my lip. “Wendell, there are things you need to know.” I hesitate, unsure where to begin. “She and Vincent know about your vision of me. The one in the wet red dress.”
“You told them?” he asks in disbelief.
“I—I’m sorry. It slipped.” I take a deep breath. “I had no idea they’d get you involved. They’re convinced that it’s our destiny to find the waters together.”
He tilts his head, confused.
“The supposedly magical waters I told you about,” I clarify. “Remember? One sip heals, frequent sips make you live forever.”
“Right,” he says, still looking mystified. “I remember.”
We step aside to let a group of tourists pass, and then I say, “I thought they were just two sweet old people playing this imaginary game, you know?” I pause, trying to keep my lip from quivering. “But now—” My eyes burn. I finish it quickly. “She’s dying, Wendell. She has cancer. Lymphoma. She thinks the waters can heal her.”
He blinks, then says, “Tell her I’ll help you.”
“Really?” I look at him more closely. “You don’t think this is crazy?”
“Whether it’s crazy or not, it means a lot to Madame Chevalier. It’s her dying wish. We have to do it.” He draws in a breath, looks over my shoulder. “But Zeeta, there’s something else. I had another vision.”
“What?”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to freak you out.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re—you’re in some kind of danger. You’re in that red dress. It’s wet and it’s nighttime. There’s a crowd of people around you. And there’s a bearded man yelling at you, threatening you. You look really scared.”
I take a moment to process this. “In this vision—where are we?”
He shrugs. “Outside at night. There might be firelight. I can’t make out anything else.”
“If it’s dangerous, then maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I say. “Madame Chevalier will understand.”
Some kids run by us, chasing a little dog. As their squeals and laughs fade, Wendell says, “I think we have to, Z. Both of us. I keep getting glimpses of something else, something …” His voice drifts off.
“Something you won’t tell me,” I finish.
“Right.” He nods sheepishly.
A wave of frustration sweeps over me, but after a moment, I calm down. After all, he’s agreed to help me. “Okay, I think we should meet with Madame Chevalier and Vincent together. When’s a good time?”
He pauses, thinking. “I spend Tuesday and Thursday afternoons with Amandine.”
I swallow hard. “Oh.”
“She’s doing all the art assignments alongside me—sketching the fountains, going to museums. And I’m teaching her what I learn every day.”
“Why?”
“She can’t afford art lessons, and she had to quit school to work.”
A prickly heat moves up my neck.
“She’s helping me with my French too.” He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Plus, she’s cool.”
“Hmm.” I feel nauseated. “Well, I have to go. I’m tutoring some lycée students soon.”
Wendell tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, adjusts his backpack strap over his shoulder. “How about we meet Friday afternoon?”
“Okay,” I say, disappointed that I’ll have to wait a few days. “Meet me here at three.”
“I’ll be here.”
There’s a clumsy moment when he looks on the verge of moving forward to kiss my cheeks, and I step toward him to meet him halfway. Then a big group of women walk by, making us step aside, and when we look at each other again, the moment is lost. So off we walk in our separate directions. Still, it’s something.
I peer into the courtyard of Les Secrets de Maude, looking for some sign of Vincent. Today the wrought-iron gate is shut, locked with a chain and padlock. He must be out. Too bad. I’ve just finished my tutoring session with the lycée students, and I’m craving Vincent’s company. Lately, I’ve been picking up random objects in his shop—a rhinestone-studded candlestick or a Japanese doll in a genuine silk kimono—and he tells me the story behind them. Each piece of junk—or treasure, depending on how you see it—is a doorway to another world, like the 1920s Paris social scene or the nineteenth-century underbelly of London.
I’m about to leave when I hear a few guitar notes floating from the shadows of the courtyard.
“Vincent!” I call, looking again through the wrought-iron bars. It’s hard to see past all the foliage and furniture.
“Bonjour!” a voice calls out. Not Vincent’s voice, but a younger one. And then a head pops up. It’s Vincent’s son, Jean-Christophe. He walks toward me, ducking beneath huge leaves and stepping over pigeons and half-broken chairs and tables. He’s holding a guitar.
“Bonjour, Jean-Christophe!” I say.
“Ah, it’s you, Mademoiselle Zeeta,” he says. “My father is away today, buying antiques in the villages.”
“Oh, well, could you just tell him I stopped by, then?”
“Of course.” He leans the guitar against the wall. “I’m headed to Marseille to sail off later today.”
“Where to?” I ask through the bars.
“Oh, who knows, wherever the wind takes me.”
“Bon voyage,” I say, turning to go.
“Wait, Zeeta!” he says, his hands clutching the iron bars. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better. You’re so kind to my father. And he adores you. I—I just want to thank you.”
“No problem,” I say. “Vincent’s great.”
“Really, Zeeta, it means so much to him. I’m his only child, you know. I feel bad I’ve never given him grandchildren. He’s always wished for them.” His shoulders slump. “I love my father very much, but I haven’t been a good son. I’m always leaving him. Perhaps I’m meant to be a solitary wanderer.”
He reaches his hand through the bars.
Unsure what to do, I shake it.
“Zeeta,” he says. “Thank you. I feel better leaving my father this time, knowing that you are here for him. It’s his birthday on Friday. You’ll give him good wishes, non?”
I don’t know what to make of this man’s speech, but I say, “Of course.” With a smile, I add, “He’d make an excellent grandfather, you know.” After wishing Jean-Christophe a good journey, I walk away, up the street as melancholy guitar notes drift along after me.
The antiques section of the sprawling outdoor market is just past the olive oil soap stands, in kind of a nook behind the cicada-print tabecloths. I wander through tables cluttered with crystal vases, doorknobs, gold-rimmed plates, lampshades, silver platters, marble busts, ceramic pitchers, old green bottles, paintings of flowers. Everything is worn, faded, rusted, and musty. It’s hard to pick out a present for Vincent, who already has piles of this stuff in his shop. But today’s his birthday, and when I meet hi
m at Les Secrets de Maude in a few hours, I want to have some gift for him.
I run my fingers over the textures of the antiques, rubbing a lace ribbon, holding pink glass rosary beads to the sky, considering a pair of pig-shaped salt and pepper shakers. This whole time, I’m keeping a close eye on my bag, since this seems like a perfect spot for my fantôme father to slip in another gift. I linger at a table filled with crates of old books—coffee-table art books, gilded fairy-tale books, local history books. This stuff might be up Vincent’s alley.
To the side of the table is a wooden box filled with old, plastic-wrapped maps that catch my eye. They’re mostly maps of Aix, some dated as old as the eighteen hundreds. I skim right over the ones that are priced over a hundred euros. The more recent maps—and the ones in worse shape—are much cheaper. My eyes scan the titles of the maps—Churches of Aix-en-Provence, Aixois Gardens, Hôtels Particuliers of Aix, Cézanne in Provence. The next title is harder to read. The paper is water-stained, torn in places, with faded script. I squint at the letters, and then freeze. Les Eaux Sacrées d’Aix-en–Provence. “The Sacred Waters of Aix-en-Provence.”
I take the map from the crate and hold it to the sunlight, rereading the title in disbelief. But yes, that’s what it says. The title appears to be handwritten onto the map in faint, old-fashioned ink. The map is about to fall apart, with holes and rips throughout. It looks as if it’s been through floods and rainstorms, with all its yellowed spots and wrinkles and wavy, rough texture. It’s in terrible condition, but perfect for Vincent.
On inspecting the map, I realize it doesn’t even show the parts of town built in the past two centuries. How old is this map, anyway? I can’t find a date on it. It’s not expensive compared to the other maps, but still a lot of money for me. Fifteen euros—twenty dollars—is what I make in one tutoring session.
Quickly, before I can change my mind, I hand my money to the woman behind the table. With a satisfied smile, I roll up the map and tuck it into my bag. Vincent will be over the moon.
Vincent and I are making faces in a dust-covered, gilded mirror at Les Secrets de Maude. I’m showing him how to form the r sound in the middle of his mouth rather than gagging out the r from the back of the throat. He falls apart with laughter, and I force a smile, feeling nervous about Wendell’s impending arrival. He should be here any minute. There’s a whole shelf full of old clocks, but each of them says a different time, so I don’t know how close to three it is.
If I thought the encounter with Wendell and Amandine on the square was awkward, my follow-up phone call yesterday was worse. When I found out Madame Chevalier had a home visit with her doctor this afternoon, I called Wendell to change our plans. I suggested he come to Les Secrets de Maude so that he could meet Vincent and celebrate his birthday. The phone conversation was going smoothly until Wendell agreed to pick up a lemon tart for the occasion. That’s when I heard Amandine’s voice in the background, recommending a good pâtisserie.
Now, every time one of the pigeons flutters up, my head snaps to the doorway to see if he’s come.
“Red,” I say to the mirror, exaggerating the r sound.
“Hed,” Vincent attempts, making a guttural noise that leaves beads of spittle on the mirror.
“Red,” I say again, waving away some pigeons so we can see our faces in the old glass.
“Hed,” he says, then collapses into giggles. “You’re making me act like Boofalo Beel!” He swirls an imaginary lasso over his head and makes some nonsense sounds, moving his mouth wide and making his lips slack and sticking out his tongue. He looks so ridiculous, I sputter out a small laugh. I’m guessing his idea of English comes mostly from old cowboy movies.
After ten minutes of practicing, Vincent still sounds as though he’s hacking up phlegm, but I say, “Good job!” in English, trying to sound sincere. “You’re improving!” It’s true; he’s moved from abysmal to just terrible.
“Zank you, Meez,” he says, pleased, smoothing Irène’s caramel-brown feathers. I can actually tell these pigeons apart now. I don’t see Maude anywhere, though. As I look around for her, I spot Wendell in the doorway, holding a white cardboard bakery box. He steps carefully between birds, nodding at me in greeting, and extending his hand to Vincent.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” His rs are perfect, subtle and slightly raspy. His host family and Amandine are teaching him well.
“Bonjour, bonjour!” Vincent says, then rambles for a bit about how grateful he is for Wendell’s assistance in our search.
When Vincent finishes his speech, I announce, “Bon anniversaire!” and on cue, Wendell opens the lid of the box, revealing a shiny yellow pie.
“Tarte au citron! My favorite!” Vincent clasps his hands together. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”
“Your son told me.”
A cloud passes over Vincent’s face. “My son is an expert at missing birthdays and holidays. He’s always flitting in and out of my life.” He shakes his head sadly.
Hoping to cheer him up, I pull my map from the bag and present it to him.
He puts his glasses back on. “Now, what is this, mademoiselle?”
“For you. I found it at the antiques market.”
He unrolls the map. Wendell and I help him hold it up, the three of us crowded around the map. In this small space, Wendell’s arm is just inches from mine.
“Mon Dieu!” Vincent cries. “Les Eaux Sacrées d’Aix-en-Provence!”
I turn to Wendell to translate, but he understands. “The sacred waters,” he murmurs. “Where did you get this, Zeeta?” He speaks in French to keep Vincent in the loop. And he does a pretty grammatically correct job of it too.
“In the antiques market,” I say, noting that Vincent is nearly bouncing out of his chair.
“Ça, c’est incroyable!” Vincent exclaims. Incredible! “What amazing luck!” Then, with a wink at me, he adds, “Or destiny.” He positions a lamp close and points to an area not far from my neighborhood. “This map must be old,” he says with reverence. “See? The walls are still intact around the city. And look! This map shows all the fountains, even the private ones, but you see, the nineteenth-century fountains hadn’t even been built yet.”
“What’s that?” Wendell asks, pointing to a long, meandering blue line, so faint you could almost overlook it.
I squint. “How could you see that?” I ask.
“Light and shadows,” he says. “I’m used to looking now.” As his finger moves along the line, my gaze follows. It’s a winding, haphazard path that crisscrosses the streets and goes right through houses.
“Oh, la la la la,” Vincent says, clucking with disapproval. “People can be so careless with valuable documents.” He pulls out a magnifying glass from a drawer and studies the line. “Attendez!” Wait! He moves his head closer to the lens. “The blue ink looks very old. Maybe as old as the map itself.”
“What do you think the line means?” I ask.
He puffs his cheeks with air, lets it out in a slow putter. “Alors, it’s in the oldest part of town, the quartier where we are now. There are many underground rivers here. Perhaps the line shows a hidden spring.”
Wendell reaches over again to the map, tapping at three separate spots. “Look at these. They’re doodles or something,” he says thoughtfully. “Symbols. Spirals.”
And with his words, the spirals leap out at me. “Triple spirals!” I say. “Like the ones Sirona wears around her neck.”
“Do they symbolize something?” Wendell asks.
“Triple spirals are special because they’re one continuous line.” I rack my brain for more details. “I think Sirona said they stand for eternal life.” I look at Wendell. “And water.”
“These markings are all deliberate,” Vincent says slowly, stroking Juliette’s milk-white feathers.
I nod, still staring at the map. Now that we’ve identified the spirals, I can’t understand how we missed them at first. There are three triple spirals total, at different places along the
line, and each one falls inside a courtyard of a different building, all in the oldest part of town. “I wonder what they refer to,” I say.
“You know,” Vincent says, his face growing red with excitement. “If the blue line shows an underground spring, perhaps the triple spirals show where the waters come aboveground. In the form of fountains.” He mops sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Now, over the years I’ve gone to all the fountains on the town registry. Even the private ones. The registry says nothing of fountains in those spots.” He’s headed toward a conclusion that, according to his bizarre logic, makes sense. “The blue line shows the sacred waters underground,” he says, “and the spirals must show where they rise into fountains!”
I look at Wendell, wondering what he really thinks of this. After all, I’m used to hearing about the sacred waters, but it’s the first time for Wendell. Still, he seems genuinely excited. “And we actually have addresses for these courtyards,” he says, flicking a stray feather off his knee. “The perfect places to begin our search.”
“Oui!” Vincent says, and then knits his eyebrows. “But how will you gain entrance into these private residences?”
Wendell gives a half-smile. “My art assignment is to draw the fountains of Aix. Extra credit for whoever gets the most sketches. Perfect excuse.”
“Ah! Excellent cover!” Vincent says, nearly bursting with giddy energy. His voice lowers. “Now, garçon, have you had any more visions of the waters?”
Wendell shifts in his chair. “No,” he says, looking at me. “Just that one of Zeeta in the water in a red dress.”
He must not want Vincent to know about the bearded man, the danger. Luckily, before Vincent can press further, Maude flies inside, landing on his shoulder. “Oh, we must tell Madame Chevalier about this map!” Vincent says, pulling a tissue-thin piece of paper from his pocket. He dips his fountain pen into a jar of ink, writes a message, and sends it off with Maude, as Wendell looks on, curious.
Afterward, we share the tarte au citron, and once we’ve had our fill of pie, Wendell and I say goodbye to Vincent, then wade outside through the pigeons.
