“Art? I thought it was a light show?”
“It is. Just come on.”
He led me away from the parking and the crowd, towards the quarry I had seen earlier. The rocks around us were chiseled and angular, reaching high above the road, as if some large giant had sliced his way through. It wasn’t hard to see where we were going: a long line had formed leading down the road and into a cut out section of the rock.
“Dad said it was empty when they went,” I said, a little aghast at the crowd.
“It was off season,” said Valentin, “and it has grown a lot in the past few years. It’s still good, though. Better.”
With so many people, it was hard to picture my parents stumbling into this place, the only ones to admire the sharp rocks and the light show inside. The girls from earlier were snapping selfies while waiting in the queue, laughing and having the time of their lives. I wondered why it made me feel a knot in my stomach.
The tickets Valentin had purchased for us at the castle were valid here too, and we flashed them on the turnstile and slipped through the heavy drapes. I didn’t know what I had expected, but it sure wasn’t this: the second I stepped inside, instrumental music overwhelmed me, and I was walking through a cathedral of larger than life paintings projected on the walls of an ancient cavern.
The paintings moved and changed to the music, a dramatic choreography dancing on the walls. I didn’t have the words to describe the feelings washing over me: I was overwhelmed and awed, completely basked in the pure majesty of light and color.
“I have not seen the show this year,” Valentin said, making me jump. I was so absorbed by the artwork that I hadn’t seen him approach. His voice was low, like one would talk in a church. He too seemed transported by the display. “But if it’s anything like the past ones… it’s like nothing else I can describe.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t: my jaw was too busy hanging off my face, unable to move as awestruck as I was.
“Pardon,” said a woman with a strong German accent, and I practically jumped out of my skin. It was hard to imagine anyone else was in this place with us, but apparently, we hadn’t even left the doorway. My trembling knees were making me block the entire entrance.
“There’s a good place to watch, over here,” said Valentin, and in the near darkness I could see him waving me over.
As we walked, the artwork moved. It spun around the walls in a dizzying waltz, only to settle on a piece, sometimes a single piece repeated across the entire cavern, the music swelling and perfectly matched. Picasso, larger than life, paintings I had seen in books now towering over me. I clutched my hands to my chest, shaking.
“Are you crying?” asked Valentin. I shook my head, but my eyes were hot and full of tears. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit?”
I did. I clutched Valentin’s hand for support as we found a stone bench carved into the wall, and sat, becoming pieces of the art as the light settled on us. There wasn’t a single corner in this cavernous room that wasn’t part of the show. Even the floor was a masterpiece.
I watched the artwork change and move, feeling the music deep inside my bones, feeling… there weren’t words for the feeling. But in that moment, I didn’t think I had ever known anything more beautiful in my life.
I didn’t know when I realized that I hadn’t let go of Valentin’s hand, but even when I did, it changed nothing. I was sharing the entire right side of my body with him, my leg against his leg, shoulder to his shoulder. His warmth wrapped into mine as we immersed ourselves in the light and sound, no longer confined by frail human bodies. Right now, we were music, we were art. And together, we transcended.
I must have watched the show five times through.
Every time the sequence ended, there was a smattering of applause from the dark people lurking in the cavern, and a short film was projected, more modern and experimental. It was kinda cute, with classic rock and pop art.
Valentin and I picked different vantage points to view. We stood above, behind the railing, seeing down the length of the quarry. We stood below, and let the sheer height overwhelm us. Sometimes we stood, others we sat, and when we got comfortable in the rhythm of the show and music, we walked, trying to find angles we hadn’t seen before. From every angle, the experience changed.
When we finally called it quits - I think my heart was just overflowing, I could hardly feel it anymore - my eyes took ages to readjust to natural light. The blue sky from earlier was now cloudy and grey, and the air was hot and sticky. Valentin didn’t seem all that happy about this. He looked exhausted, now that we were out: knowing how drained I felt, I could only imagine he was feeling the same too.
I might have been tired, but I felt… good. Like I was the Nutella crepe from earlier, all gooey and warm on the inside. I had melted into something calm, cradeled by music and art and sunshine – though the later was sorely missing now.
We walked back to the village; the parking lot was now empty. Finally, I would be able to go hunting for the clue. Guilt gnawed at my stomach again as I reminded myself that I couldn’t lose track of the target: I wasn’t here to explore old castle ruins or run around discovering light shows. No, I was here to fix my mistake.
Falling for the French boy wasn’t on the list either, but that was happening whether I liked it or not. And I think it fell squarely into the ‘liked it’ category.
“Water?” Asked Valentin.
“Oui, Merci,” I replied, my eyes on the prize.
I felt a drop on my arm. Rain.
He walked off to the vending machine as I started towards the now empty parking lot. The thing was surprisingly large for such a tiny town: it covered an entire slope of the mountain, going up and up so steeply I wondered how people could actually park there. It was exhausting just to walk.
“Follow the signs… follow the signs…” I muttered to myself, scanning the lot. There weren’t any signs, neither literal nor figurative. The only ones there seemed to be incredibly recent. As in, less than a year or so old.
“Une bouteille d’eau?”
Valentin handed me the bottle, and I took it greedily. The water was crisp and cold against my sweltering skin.
“On dit merci qui?” he asked.
“What now?”
“What do you say when a handsome Frenchman gives you water?”
“Um, Merci Valentin?”
“De rien, Jammy, you are welcome.”
I finished off my bottle in one go. I wasn’t being very smart, drinking as little as I did, but I had bigger fish to fry. Not to mention there was another rain drop, this time on my shoulder. Two storms in two days: and I thought this place was supposed to always be sunny. Maybe I had brought the storm clouds with me from America: the universe punishing me for not staying on target.
“Where do we even start?” I asked him. He could only shrug. “They said follow the signs. But I don’t see any.”
“It’s been seventeen years,” he said, “it’s possible a lot has changed. I don’t remember how the parking used to look.”
“Think back, Valentin, think,” I said, “we found the last clue. If that one was still there, this one will be too.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even try his usual smile. This was bad news. Raindrops were falling more ferociously now, not singular occurrences but a full-blown event.
“Don’t shut down on me now. We need to solve the clue. What would have stood here the longest? Where would dad have put the clue that he was sure no one would touch?”
“Jaime,” he said, glancing over my shoulder. I spun around, staring over the edge of the parking lot onto the road below.
Where a bus was filling up.
Our bus.
“Shit.” I couldn’t help but swear. I threw up my watch and nearly had a heart attack. “We stayed three hours in the show?”
“We need to get on that bus, now,” he urged, making towards the stairs, “we’ll come back another time. We’ll make a plan.”
“No, no,” I stammered, and for the second time today tears of being overwhelmed started to trickle down my face. Only this time, it was an anxious thing, a raw and painful thing. “No, we have to find the clue. The universe wants us to find the clue.”
“Jamie, it’s just a game,” he said, walking faster, throwing his head over his shoulder. The rain was coming down harder now, and I could feel it soaking through my shirt, the raindrops larger and fatter than any rain I had ever felt. “Your father never planned for it to go so long. The clue is probably gone.”
“Why are you giving up?” I had to practically shout now. He was getting so far away. “You were there in the cave! You saw the other clue! Why would this be any different?”
“Because! The parking is new!” He practically spat. He had reached the stairs, grasping the railing with a hand, and through the thick raindrops he seemed to be glaring at me. “Sometimes, you just have to go home. Get on the bus and go.”
“You don’t ever try, do you?” I spat right back at him, “as soon as things get hard, you what, just leave?”
“We miss this bus, and we have to find our way home in the rain.”
“Fine. I’d rather find the clue.”
“Ok. Enjoy the weather, Jammy.”
And he left.
Whatever feelings for him I had, evaporated in that moment. Poof. The rain washed them clear off me. I spun on my heels, not even wanting to look in the direction of that French coward. Maybe the stereotype was right about these people. It explained why so many of them wore those stupid white shirts.
I tried to forget about him as I went to every sign in the parking lot. The rain pummeled down on me as I turned every no parking, handicapped only, and no right turn sign upside down. Up and up the hill I climbed, stopping every meter to check anything that might be of interest.
Nothing.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” said a man in a very official looking tan uniform, holding an umbrella to keep the rain off, “mais… je peux vous aider?”
I blinked my confusion at him. Oh crap: the way I was wandering around, lurking, he must have thought I was casing the place. A tiny teenage car thief.
“Mon Français is tres… mal,” I said. At this, he rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He was waiting for me to continue. “Chasse au trésor?”
“Comment?”
In my limited French, I told him. I was looking for signs. He looked as confused as I felt. But when I pointed to my backpack, he put the umbrella over me, so that I could pull out the letter.
“Lettre… secret? Hidden?” I pointed to it, then to the parking lot at large.
“Caché?” he made the sign with his hands, of things being under things. I nodded: now we were getting somewhere.
“Où est…” I struggled to find the words, per usual. “Oldest sign? Old?”
I imitated walking with a cane, much to his confusion. But he got the picture. He held the umbrella over my head and pointed up the hill.
Without another word, he led me up towards the cliffs. I probably should have been worried: it was naive as heck of me to follow him in the first place. But there, at the very top of the hill, the castle ruins melded with the parking lot. I couldn’t tell if it was rock or if it was a wall. We didn’t go there: instead, we turned towards the lower end of the castle, towards a single no parking sign.
“C’est le plus vieux,” he said, pointing at it. “Ze oldest!”
I was shaking - again - as I approached the old sign. It was dented and faded, seemingly older than I was, maybe even older than the man who had led me here. It was bolted to the wall with a single lead pipe, closed at the top, and…
My fingers fumbled. Open at the bottom. My heart nearly stopped when I felt the smooth film of plastic inside.
The letter was still here.
Mon Amour,
You should have seen the look on the parking guardian’s face when he found me snooping around looking at all his signs! I told him I was doing an art project, and he seemed to buy it. Filled up a whole roll of film with pictures of stop signs from odd angles just to cover my tracks. I know you’re going to find them, somehow, you snoop, but I have time to come up with a compelling lie. Maybe a dog took my camera.
But I digress: it’s time for your third clue. You’ve signed up for a treasure to hunt, and so a treasure you will find. Your next clue: the most Romantic theater.
You’ll remember it when I tell you it’s where we had our first fight.
We had only been dating two months at this point, and the end of the semester was fast approaching. We needed a day off, so the plan was to get out of town, take the train, and visit all the roman ruins of the city. The new museum had an incredible collection and we took pictures of ourselves standing behind the crumbling statues, as if we ourselves were roman nobles. We ate lunch near the arena, starting to feel the chill of winter, and we talked about the bull fights and concerts that were still held here, two thousand years after the structure was built.
You asked if our relationship would last that long. If we would still be together after a hundred years, if people would talk about us in a thousand. Your way of gaging if I felt the same way about us as you do.
And I panicked.
We spent the afternoon exploring the theater, but the entire time we were arguing. Every hiccup in our relationship was dug up, turned over, and put on display, like the marble chunks that lined the park. I brought up how your mother hated me, and you threw it back in my face, saying that I hadn’t even told mine about you. It was true. I was afraid of what she would say. She never liked foreigners.
We ended up getting so loud that we had to go to the back of the park, where the grass met the wall, where our ancestors would have stood if they too were booed out of the theater for making too much noise. The argument boiled down to the biggest hurdle we had faced: our lives were just too different. Everything was against us: the Atlantic Ocean, the end of the year fast approaching, parents, and those deathly annoying tropes on television. We were simultaneously living stereotypes and avid deniers that those same stereotypes even existed.
“We like the same cheese,” you said, and I laughed so hard I fell back, hitting the wall. A brick fell out.
“Oh, look at you, destroying cultural heritage,” you said, petting my shoulder in a soft mock-slap. “Shame, shame!”
And all at once, the fight was over. We put the brick back in the wall and left the theater hand in hand. It didn’t matter that our worlds were so different. We both wanted the same thing.
Find the brick we put back. Your next clue is there. I swear I didn’t purposefully destroy any more nationally valuable property.
Love you,
Your Brioche
Valentin was waiting for me at the bottom of the parking lot, taking shelter near the vending machines. The rain was already coming to an end, turning into a hot drizzle. The man in the uniform - the parking guardian who played coy when dad came to hide the letter - was going on and on in French, still completely befuddled. I couldn’t blame him. I was awestruck too.
Valentin, however, looked disappointed and drenched.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, “weren’t you going to take the bus?”
“It was full,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I shouldn’t have expected any less.”
“Well, now we’re both stuck,” I said, “but I at least have the letter.”
Valentin snorted so loudly something shot out his nose. The rain washed it away.
“C’est un ami à vous?” asked the guardian.
“He asks if I’m your friend,” translated Valentin, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think, am I?”
“The man who ran off and was fully intending on leaving me here asks if he’s a friend?” I crossed my arms over my chest. What he was playing at, I had no idea.
“Look, I’m sorry, I really believed that you would follow.”
“Yeah. You just wanted to get home.”
“Exactly,” he replied. Obviously not the reaction I was hoping for. He seemed to realize this, frowning. “What?”
“Bon, je vous laisse, les enfants,” said the guardian, “rentrez bien.”
“Attendez!” Valentin shot right past me, planting himself in front of the man and spit balling in rapid French. I couldn’t follow the sounds coming out of his mouth, let alone the words. All I could do was wait, arms crossed, feeling the rain fall, making my clothes cling to my skin.
When he finally turned back to me, he had the most neutral expression on his face. Oh my god, Valentin had a resting bitch face.
“He says he knows someone who can give us a ride to St Remy, and then we can take a bus to the station from there.”
“Seriously?” Relief was an understatement at this point. Having a way home suddenly took the weight of the world off my shoulders. Even though it meant basically hitchhiking with a stranger.
He let us wait out the rain in his little station, though it was much too small for the three of us. He kept an eye on people who came to pay their parking, and we stood in the corner - though it was more like we took up the other half of the room - reading Dad’s letter over and over again.
“This one is easy,” Valentin kept repeating, “it’s not even a challenge. It’s Arles. That town has really cool Roman ruins. The theater is still used for concerts and shows, believe it or not. We can go there Monday.”
“Because tomorrow’s…”
“Sunday. Everything is closed Sunday.”
Which meant I had to spend an entire day with my Mamie, or more likely, without her. Being in her home without being in her presence. Lovely.
Finally, the parking man’s friend knocked on the door of the tiny office. Imagine my shock when I realized I recognized her: long dreadlocks, bandana artfully holding them back, baggy shirt and pants - even though I was too tired to really notice her on my first day in France, there were only so many people who could pull off that look.
Aix Marks the Spot Page 12
