Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

  The shepherd. The one who had barked at Jean-Pascal.

  “Valentin?” she said, her eyes falling on Valentin, “Qu’es-ce que tu fais la?”

  The two launched off into excited chatter, losing me before I could even try to pick up on their words. Valentin’s hands were flying around the room like crazed birds let out of their cage. Even the guard had to take a step back, not that there was anywhere for him to go.

  “This is Jamie,” he said, pointing to me, “she does not speak French, yet.”

  “Maëlle, enchanté,” she replied, “nice to meet you!”

  I reached a hand out to shake hers and was pulled into the bizarre kissing dance of the French.

  “Jamie,” I replied, “enchanté.”

  “I love your accent,” she said, grinning sheepishly.

  “I do, too. Yours, I mean.”

  We laughed. There was something about this girl that made you instantly want to be friends with her, something about her laugh that pulled you right in. My worry about missing the bus and needing a way home melted right away.

  “Maëlle will bring us to the train station, so we can pick up my scooter,” said Valentin, “since she’s also going that way.”

  Even better. I silently thanked the universe for once again being on our side. “Oh my gosh, thank you. Merci… how do you say thank you a lot?”

  “Merci beaucoup,” said Valentin, and Maëlle waved us off.

  “Please. It’s my pleasure.”

  Her car was ridiculous: we had to fold down the front seat, so I could clamber into the back, and when I was there the seat was covered with muddy hiking boots and old clothes. Maëlle had quickly pushed them aside to make room for me to sit, but nothing could be done about the state of the seat itself.

  The sun was already low on the horizon as Maëlle drove us down the hill, careful to avoid the massive tourist vans. I looked back behind us at the fortress as it shrank in the distance, a castle literally standing - in states of disrepair, but still - a thousand years. It seemed like so much in Provence was built to never change. Maybe time itself stood still in some pockets of this place.

  Time. Oh shit.

  “Valentin,” I said, “can you translate for me, for a sec? I just need to call my Mamie. Tell her I’m going to be late.”

  It was probably the most nerve-wracking experience of the entire day, and I’m counting watching the bus drive away - seemingly with Valentin on it - in the middle of the rain as I was searching for a long-lost clue. Every ring was another twist of a vice around my gut. Finally, she picked up.

  “Allo?”

  “Mamie?” I said, putting the phone on speaker. “Je suis désolée…”

  I told her I was going to be late tonight. To not wait up on dinner (though I knew I was going to be hungry), to save any punishment she wanted for me, but I was going to be home tonight, just late. No, I had not been drinking. Like I would ever, ever again. No, I had not been doing drugs. She seemed more worried about the drugs than all the drinking, but overall, she didn’t seem to care.

  When she finally hung up, Valentin’s eyes were wide, and he was smiling the least reassuring smile I had ever seen. Holding his gaze was like soaking up an apology.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m having a barbeque with friends, tomorrow, if you want,” he said, so much pity in his voice it was dripping out into the car, “You should meet them. They do not speak English, but they are good friends. You will like them.”

  “Really?”

  Being invited to Valentin’s, to meet his friends? Sounded like perfection. Better than dealing with my sullen Mamie all day, by far. I hadn’t seen anyone my own age except Jazz and Valentin since the accident.

  And maybe… if it wasn’t for the pitiful look in Valentin’s eyes, I could have imagined he wanted me there for more than just raising my spirits.

  “So good for you!” I watched Maëlle grin through the rear-view mirror. “Is good way to make friends in the corner.”

  “Area, not corner,” Valentin let out a laugh, “though Jamie should be the one correcting you!”

  “Oh yes,” she nodded eagerly, “please correct me. I want to learn to speak better.”

  “Me?” I scoffed, awestruck she’d even ask. “You should hear my French! I have no right to comment.”

  “But how else will I learn?”

  The rest of the way home, she made herself speak English. But not for my benefit: for hers. It was astonishing how good it felt to be better than someone at something for once. I forgot all about my awful French, and instead wowed them with my use of English, a good old turn of phrase, some fun idioms and expressions.

  “Here we say ‘mêle toi de tes onions,’ but I don’t think ‘mess with your own onions’ is the right saying?” she asked. Valentin nodded enthusiastically, looking back at me.

  “It means to look at your own problems,” he said. This one took a minute to catch.

  “Oh! Mind your own business?”

  “That’s how you say it!” Said Maëlle, slapping her leg. The car shuddered for a second. “This is your stop, Valentin.”

  “Merci pour tout, Maëlle,” he said, as she pulled up to the station. I hadn’t recognized the trip since we were riding in the car instead of the train. It didn’t help with how dark it was getting, either. The sun was so low, the shadows made it look like it had already set.

  “Jamie, you come up front, I drive you home,” she said, patting the now free passenger seat, unhooking the latch that held it down. Valentin was already making his way towards his scooter in the dark: when had I missed this conversation?

  “Really?”

  “Iz on the way. Come.”

  I stepped out of the car only to get right back in. The front seat was almost as bad as the back, with mud cracking the carpets under my feet. Now long dry, the dust covered my once black sneakers.

  “So…” I asked, as we pulled away from the station, my hands poised on the seat, “Woof?”

  “Oh! You know WHOOPH?” I shook my head. “I am doing internship. I am apprentice with farmer. I take care of sheep and I get free bed and breakfast. Iz fun!”

  Well, that explained the barking part. She fixed her eyes on the darkening road ahead, hands getting so tight on the steering wheel that her knuckles started to turn white.

  “Jamie,” she said, suddenly stoic and low, “you need to be careful with Valentin.”

  “What?” the way she had said it, her voice… it was like a whole different person was suddenly in the car with me. My hands dug into the old foam of the seat, unsure of anything that was going on now.

  Already, we were reaching the driveway of Mamie’s house. All too soon. She parked the car off the side of the road, so I could get out, but issued a last warning before I did.

  “You will leave France soon: before, do not get too… close. It will hurt him.” She ran a tongue over her suddenly dry lips.

  “Um, sure,” I said, nodding slowly. Every word out of her mouth was English, but I couldn’t understand a thing.

  I walked home even more confused than when I started. Mamie was waiting for me in the kitchen, a plate of now cold chicken before her. I knew this was a serious when I saw the French to English dictionary under her fist.

  “Jamie, we must talk,” She said, pushing the plate towards me. The smell of feta and green bean salad filled my nostrils, turning my stomach.

  “Pas faim,” I said. Not hungry. She nodded, took the plate, and put it in the fridge. The glass of water, though, I took eagerly, drinking as much as I could.

  “Two days now, you gone until late,” she said, carefully enunciating every word. “I am worried. Your parents warned me…”

  “Oh.” I realized what this was right away. This was meant to be a punishment, after all. Sending me away so I could not hurt you again. The exile of Jamie: fun was not part of the package.

  And the fact that Mamie was suddenly speaking English was a worse sign than everything els
e combined.

  “I called ze mozer of Valentin. She say she never see you.”

  “Yeah, because we’ve been having my French class outside,” I said, then realized there was no way she could follow. Indignant, backpedaling Jamie spoke too fast for her own good. That was ten times too fast for someone who didn’t follow English. “We are outside. All day.”

  “I am worried,” she continued, seemingly not hearing, “zat you are hurting yourself.”

  “Me?” I stammered. “Hurting myself?”

  Her eyes were wide, and she tightened her grip on the big fat book. I took the glass of water, swinging it back like a shot, forcing it down, trying to remain calm. I don’t know what game she was playing, but it wasn’t one I wanted to be a part of.

  “Mamie, I am fine,” I said, “J’apprends le Français. Je fais amis.”

  Her eyes sparkled: either at the announcement I had just made (two new friends really hardly counted at all, and my French classes were more of just overhearing others speaking French) or the fact that it had been in actual French.

  “I want you to be ok,” she said, “I want you to be… happy.”

  “Well, that’s pretty hard if you don’t fucking talk to me.”

  The word slipped out before I could think. My hands flew to my mouth, trying to stuff it back in, but it was too late. At home, dropping the f-bomb in front of my mother meant no phone privileges for at least a week. In front of my dad? Grounded for a month. But Mamie just blinked.

  “Bon,” she shrugged, whatever sparkle she had gained from my French fading just as fast. “C’est ta putain de vie.”

  I didn’t know there was a p-bomb until today, but I sure didn’t like being on the receiving end of it.

  That night I crashed in bed without opening my windows, but I was tired enough to sleep through the stuffy night nonetheless. It was only when I woke up the next morning that I realized I was suffocating.

  When I finally made it down to the kitchen, my English to French dictionary out on the table, waiting patiently for me to put it to use. I poured myself a cup of coffee from Mamie’s press and sat down in front of it. There had always been one of these in my parent’s house – well, French to English - but I had never used it. It was for translating obscure French poetry and old paperback novels about depressed women that I never had the urge to read either.

  Not to mention I had an entire wealth of knowledge in the phone in my back pocket. Which I pulled out now, remembering excitedly that today was the day I would finally meet other human beings I could – potentially – talk to.

  I missed talking to people.

  “Salut, ça va?” I texted. Hi, how are you. Not too intimate, not too aloof, right? How were girls supposed to text in France? Oh god, please don’t let me have just accidentally booty called my only friend in the entire country.

  “I’m good. Coffeeeee.” He replied, almost instantly, way too many ‘e’s at coffee just to emphasize how tired he was.

  “Tu ne vas pas te baigner?” Mamie stood at the doorway, coffee cup in one hand, iPad in the other.

  “J’ai pas…” I flipped to the page for want. “Envie?”

  “Allez, ça te feras du bien.” She sounded disappointed.

  The dictionary was taking too long. I opened up a translator app on my phone and started typing, trying to get the spelling right. At least she spoke slowly enough for me to make out the individual words. Apparently, swimming would make me feel good.

  “Tout à l’heure,” I said. Later. She nodded.

  “Practique, ton truc,” she replied, glancing over my shoulder at the translator app. “Quel appli?”

  I never thought I would bond with my grandmother over phone applications. I never thought my grandmother would own an iPad, either. Maybe it was this whole view of France I clung to in my head, this idyllic world caught in the past, unchanging, or maybe it was just how un-tech savvy my other grandma was but downloading apps with my Mamie in the cool of her stone kitchen had never even crossed my mind.

  As she watched me play around with the app, my phone buzzed. A new text from Valentin. I didn’t have time to hide it before Mamie caught a glimpse.

  “C’est ton copain?” she asked. Is it your… I didn’t know the last word, so I ran it through the app. Two translations came up for it: friend, and boyfriend. My face went red.

  “Valentin,” I answered, trying to avert the question. “I am going… je vais… manger? To eat? Barbecue.”

  “Oh…” she replied. Just like that, our moment was over. She took her coffee and turned around, heading back up the stairs. To her tower, I assumed. She was a paradox: she neither wanted me, nor wanted anyone else to have me.

  I wish she would just talk. Tell me what she wanted from me. How I could be the granddaughter she wanted me to be. I could only guess that speaking French was on the list of criteria, but what else could have been on there, I didn’t know unless she told me. And she told me nothing.

  I opened Valentin’s text. The prospect of getting away from here, from her, made me smile: though I was terrified of having to speak French to his friends. So long as there was food, I think I could make the most of it.

  “Come to my home at 11:30,” he said, “Maman will drive us both.”

  My mouth watered: hot dogs and burgers, dripping with cheese and ketchup and relish. Lemonade and iced tea. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to leave right away.

  I wasted my morning by trying to draw again. I took my sketchbook out onto the patio, and tried to draw the house, to no avail. Every time I put down a line, it seemed disjointed and out of place. The straight ones were all crooked, the climbing vines too large. Whatever artistic skill I’d had had – or thought I’d had – before the accident, it was all gone now. It took everything in my power not to toss my sketchbook into the pool.

  So it was with relief and relish that I watched the clock strike 11:15 and that I got on Mamie’s old bike. It felt like routine, biking to Valentin’s, kissing him on both cheeks - forcing my blushing back down as I did so - and parking my bike in the back garden as his fat cat watched me with judgy eyes. What wasn’t routine was getting right into his mother’s car, sitting in the back as she excitedly drove us away from the village of Lourmarin.

  “Valentin tells me you two went to the Carrières des Lumières yesterday,” said Mathilde, “Did you like?”

  “It was amazing,” I replied honestly, “we spent hours there.”

  “Last year’s was better,” she said, “but every year is spectacular. I’m glad you are getting ‘im out of ze ‘ouse.”

  “Maman,” Valentin hissed.

  “’ave you met Maxence yet?” she asked me, ignoring him. “Valentin and ‘im have been friends since they were babies. ‘is mozer makes ze best beans. She is from Madagascar. Have you been?”

  “To Madagascar? No.”

  “Maman,” Valentin insisted, “pourquoi tu la poses toutes ces questions?”

  “My son thinks I ask too many questions,” she said, “you tell me if I do, yes?”

  “Sure?”

  “Oh, I am sorry, zen.”

  “Wait, no, I didn’t mean…”

  Crap. Even when I wasn’t talking, I was managing to screw up conversation. I didn’t even have time to correct myself, because it was then that she pulled the car into a small side road, and all words were ripped from my mouth.

  We drove through an open gate to the largest house I had ever seen. It wasn’t a mansion, or a castle: maybe something in between. An imposing block of a home, somehow older looking than Mamie’s, all old brown stone and red shutters. Large trees like the ones that shaded the roads led our way to their front door, ushering us to rugged luxury.

  Mathilde parked long enough for us to get out, then drove off again, not staying for lunch. I wondered suddenly if I should have brought something: back home I would have figured out something with the drinks, but here, I hadn’t even asked.

  “Relax, Jammy,” said Valentin, catching
my gaze, “you look stressed.”

  “I may have seriously overestimated my readiness for this,” I muttered in reply, but my stomach’s rumble drowned it out. Valentin laughed.

  “Food will make all things better,” he said.

  “True. I haven’t had a burger for ages. I can’t wait.”

  “Burger?” He tilted his head to the side, like a confused puppy, “we are having barbecue, not burger.”

  “Are you telling me that barbecue doesn’t mean the same in French?” I had been so excited to scoff down meat ever since he I had gotten the invitation last night. I felt my heart sink to a new low.

  “The French invented barbecue,” said Valentin, somehow smug through all this.

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Ever wonder where the word came from?” He asked. I shook my head. “Well, I tell you. It was from the roast pig. You know, the one that turns?”

  “You mean, a pig on a spit?” I made the gesture of rotating the meat, and he nodded.

  “The stick went from the barbe of the pig, the beard…” he pointed to his chin, “to the cul.”

  He pointed to his rear, and I didn’t need a translation for that. I burst out laughing.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Ho! Mais vous attendez quoi là? Je ne suis pas votre valet!” A guy about Valentin’s age appeared at the doorway of the majestic home, shaking his head at us. “Mais rentrez, m’enfin, il fait trop chaud pour être au soleil.”

  Valentin darted inside the house, so I followed, not sure of what exactly was going on. But they were embracing before I could even ask, kissing both cheeks, laughing about something incomprehensibly French. The guy turned to me, and I was struck by how handsome he was: his dark skin was sharp against his bright blue eyes, and oh my gosh, now he’s kissing my cheek, and I need to kiss him back, and I…

  “You are ze American?” He said, enunciating every syllable, “My name is Maxence. What is your name?” He sounded like he was reading out of a textbook.

  “Hi, um, I’m Jamie,” I replied.

  “Hello Jamie, nice you meet you.”