Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

  As the brick came out in my hand without resistance, I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t happy, or sad, or relieved: I was past that now. I was calm, resting in a place beyond emotion, too exhausted to really care. Because even if I did find it, it would change nothing. But there it was, hope or no hope: Wrapped around that brick, folded over a million times, was the letter I knew would be there.

  Mon Amour,

  Woah, you’re halfway there - wo-oah, living on a prayer! That’s not part of the clue. I just wanted to let you know you’re doing great, my darling!

  Anyway, back to the adventure on hand. Your next clue is: ‘X’ marks the spot.

  It was so hard to pick a hiding place for this clue. I mean, every street corner here holds a dear memory. Remember the day we came home, drunk as skunks from the end of exam party, and we took off our shoes and climbed into the Four Dolphins to cool down? Or the time we were exploring the cloister at the cathedral, and they accidentally locked us in? That poor priest was terrified when we showed up at his office and asked to be let out of the place!

  But I wanted to give you a real challenge, and, in turn, gave myself the challenge of finding our most memorable day there. And I think I found it: it was that concert, right?

  Let me set the scene: Manu’s little sister, the cello prodigy, is about to have a concert. Nobody wants to go since we’ve never met her before in our lives, but Manu has promised us all pizza and drinks if we show up to support her. Free food is always good, so we show up like the good friends we are.

  The conservatory is in an old, old building. It’s got this smell so many other local buildings do, like most of our classrooms, of old wood and earth, a little churchy. It’s already dark out, and we’re all lamenting how early the sun sets now that it’s winter - though it has been winter for literal months already - when a woman lunges at us.

  She demands our tickets. We don’t have them, Manu does, and she’s telling us to turn around, to go away, that we need to stop trespassing. Finally Manu comes down with the tickets, and then she starts railing on him, telling him that they are not a tourist beach for people to come and go as they please.

  She eventually lets us go up, but she’s still mumbling under her breath in the corner. She lights up a cigarette. Seb needs a smoke, but he isn’t about to ask her, so he turns to the closest smoker in the room, who just happens to be Manu’s little sister. Manu is stunned. He had no idea she had picked up on the habit. He starts railing on her now, and she’s shouting back, telling him it’s her life, and she can live it however she wants to. Her professor breaks them up, so the concert can begin.

  And it’s true, that girl is talented. She played a piece so lovely that time itself stood still. We sat and listened, hands intertwined between our seats, feeling like we were part of the haute-culture by being here tonight.

  That’s when Seb yells “Au feu!” and we see the smoke.

  Not sure who dropped their cig - I think everyone was smoking in that room - but one of the old carpets was on fire. The sister flies from her cello. The professor runs to the window, throws it open. Five people are stomping out the flame.

  There’s a moment of calm as we all realize the danger has passed. People are looking at each other, wondering if this means the concert is over, or…

  And then a pigeon flies in through the open window.

  It perches happily on the old brown desk in the corner of the room. Well, I say happily: it’s hard to tell with pigeons. But now the entire room is staring at it, and none of us know what to do.

  That was the evening we witnessed an entire group of well-dressed people chase an uncooperative pigeon around a fancy antique room. Refusing to talk to each other, each trying to be the hero, they would lunge and send the bird flying to the other side of the room, confused, and nowhere near the window. Around and around and around they chased it, so Manu’s sister got bored and started to play the rest of her concert. A few people sat back down, while at least five guys kept chasing, determined to flush the bird out.

  So she plays the Benny Hill theme. Of course.

  I had never been so impressed with a sixteen-year-old before. I snorted out laughing so hard that I had to cover my mouth. I had to walk away, just to get it all out. Which is when I spotted the bird poo on the Victorian desk, looked up, and got another dose of it smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

  So I hid the next clue in that brown desk. Ask for Monsieur Henri, Manu’s sister’s teacher, I warned him you were coming. I didn’t tell him where I hid the clue, and be warned, he teased about having to quiz you before letting you through to find it anyway. Be warned. Come prepared. Maybe a nice bottle of rosé.

  Good luck,

  So much Love,

  The Pigeon hater,

  Your Crepe a Go Go.

  Valentin stood outside the visitor’s center, leaning against the wall. He dropped the phone from his ear as I approached, making mine go silent. To my right, I could see the city’s amphitheater, a tiny version of the colosseum that was astonishingly still in use. Valentin’s words came back to me: my family had been there when it had been built. My ancestors belonged to this city as much as I did. I might not have deserved to be here, but part of me was still allowed to call this place home.

  I didn’t want to talk to him. The look on his face was hard to decipher: his eyebrows were light, his lips neither smiling nor frowning, as if he were caught between any and all emotions. I could very well have turned and gone back to the bus station by myself, fuming silently.

  But I was scared. Scared of being alone. Scared of losing the one person who I could speak to, here. Maybe everywhere. Jazz still hadn’t called back, or even attempted to. I guess that was over as well.

  “You didn’t get in too much trouble, did you?” I said.

  “Well, I cannot see any other ruins today,” He said, full body shrug on cue. “So that is disappointing.”

  “I guessed the next clue by myself,” I continued, “So I’m going there next, and you’re free to join me if you feel like it. But just because I’m American, don’t think I’m entitled to your presence, you know.”

  The lips curled into a light smile. It wasn’t strong, but it was a start.

  “Sure,” he said, “though I guess it depends where it is.”

  “It’s in Aix-en-Provence,” I replied, “it’s the city where my parents met. Where they fell in love. And Dad told me exactly where to go.”

  His eyes went wide, but still, no smile. He reached for the letter, but I clutched it tight, unwilling to let it go. It was my letter. It wasn’t for sharing.

  “Are you… are you sure?” He asked.

  “What do you want me to say? That I need you to double check it? Because I don’t need you, Valentin. I’m not trying to manipulate you into spending time with me, though I guess the autograph kinda was a… crap. I’m doing exactly what Americans do. I’m coming here, and I’m taking over, I’m speaking English and stealing their French men…”

  “Ho-oh-la, wait?” Valentin threw up a hand, eyes going wide, “what the hell are you talking about? This isn’t about what I said back there, is it? Because I didn’t mean it against you, not at all. I meant it against…”

  I couldn’t hold them back any longer. I burst into tears, exhaustion and shame flowing freely down my cheeks. There was just no winning with these people. Kicked out of America, rejected from France like a bad transplant. I would never belong. I was cursed to ruin lives and stand out like a sore thumb everywhere I went.

  Valentin wrapped his arms around me, and I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I sobbed into his shirt, salty tears mixing with his musky cologne, letting his heartbeat try and calm me. He hushed me soothingly, stroking my hair, calming and warm.

  “What did I say?” He asked, his voice gentle and low, “what happened?”

  “I’m awful,” I blubbered, “despicable. The scum of the earth.”

  “Jamie.”

  His hands retracted from
the hug, only to grasp my shoulders. He held me there, tightly, grounding me into the ancient earth.

  “Jamie, you are not any of those things. You are one of the bravest people I have ever met. One of the maddest, certainly. Who else would follow a treasure hunt older than they are, and manage to actually find the clues?”

  I shook my head. “That’s not bravery. That’s… stupid. I’m a dumb, naïve girl who thinks the universe is magically going to heal her mom when she finds these stupid clues. Talk about stupidity, I’m the dumbest girl on the planet if I thought for a second that would actually work.”

  “Not stupid,” he insisted. “Maybe a little… weird, granted. Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas. The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of. Pascal.”

  “You’re quoting poetry at a time like this?”

  “Poetry from a scientist, sure. You really care about your mom; you love her. Her injury is out of your control, so you try to make it something you can manage. That’s not stupid. That’s just human.”

  “But I broke her,” I muttered, “I’m the reason she’s hurt. If I wasn’t so stupid, she would be here with me right now. Instead, I’ve been kicked out of the home of the only family I have left, because I…”

  “You got kicked out?” Valentin stammered. “Jamie, this is serious! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know you,” I shook my head. His hands crisped against my shoulders, his sweaty palms sticking to my shirt. “I like you, so, so much. But I don’t know you. I don’t want to… I didn’t want to… I already ruin everything; I didn’t want to ruin… this.”

  “You are staying with me tonight.” He dropped his hands, staring intently into my eyes, and there it was, exactly what I didn’t want to see looking back at me: pity. I didn’t need pity. I needed to get out of here. I needed to fix myself so I didn’t break everything I touched. And this was going to break something: my heart, his heart, or maybe both, I didn’t know.

  “I can’t ask that of you,” I said, my voice so low I didn’t know if I even managed to say them. “What would you mother say? And didn’t we just talk about entitled…”

  “There’s a difference between being entitled and being in need,” he said, shaking his head, “I was just angry at the tourists for being loud, alright? I don’t even mind American tourists: to be honest, Parisians are worse. But you need to have a place to stay. Please. I have a couch. And my mother? She will be happy for the company.”

  “Are you sure?” My body didn’t know if it needed to stop crying, or double down. I was caught between a sniffle and a sob, like a sneeze that didn’t want to leave.

  “No question. There is no way you’re going back there. She’s your grandmother, she has no right to kick you out.”

  I nodded, slowly. She did have good reason to hate me, seeing what I did to her family, though I wasn’t going to tell him that. The thought of having someplace warm to sleep tonight was already lifting my spirits.

  “We should wait and go to Aix tomorrow,” he said, “the day is already half gone, and you want to be able to see more than just the clue.”

  “If you say so.” I extracted myself from his arms, wiping my soaking wet face on the edge of my shirt. The air was a relief on my sweaty skin. “Let’s go home.”

  “Not just yet. I have a place I want to take you first. To cheer you up.”

  “I’m fine, Valentin.”

  “No, you’re not. Come with me. I promise you’ll like it.”

  “Is it food?”

  He laughed. “It’s not food. But it’s better.”

  “That’s a lofty promise, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Lofty? I don’t even know the word.”

  Whether he did or not, it did not matter. He took my hand and slowly we set off, heading away from the roman ruins and further into the heart of the town. The roads were thin, the old buildings so close together that I probably could have touched both walls if I stretched my arms far enough. When it widened, it was to reveal medieval houses and strangely modern cars.

  The town was a labyrinth of these streets, worse than Lourmarin. At least there you didn’t really have to share the road with cars. It was as if the sidewalks here were completely arbitrary. But finally we turned to face a modern glass building, oddly out of place in the midst of the ancient stone, and Valentin was right: I liked the surprise.

  “You said you liked art,” he explained, “but you haven’t been to a single museum here yet. I hope you like Van Gogh.”

  The first time I had seen starry night, I had been probably eight years old. You were hanging it in the doorway of our new suburban home, giving our new stairway a welcoming, elegant look.

  You didn’t know this, but you had just changed my life forever. I stood before the painting for hours, mesmerized by the swirls of light and color. I was transported across the globe, to a little Provençal hillside in the dead of night, watching the stars swirl above me.

  “I’ve been there,” you said, coming back to straighten it again. You were never happy with how it hung there, it was never perfect.

  “You have?” I had asked you, wide eyed and impressed. “Does it really look like this?”

  “A little,” you replied, “Van Gogh – the man who painted it – could see things we can’t. He painted the night sky as he saw it. I saw it during daytime, and it’s different now.”

  I nodded, pretending to understand. “But why didn’t he paint it the way it really is?”

  “You would have had to ask him that, Jamie,” she said, ruffling my hair, “But I like the way he sees the world. It’s more beautiful than how I do.”

  That had been the day I had picked up my first colored pencil with a purpose. Before then, I had only scribbled. But that day, I wanted to show people how I saw my home. How I saw the plants and the trees and my goldfish.

  I drew every day since that moment, filling sketchbook after sketchbook with glorified doodles until I could confidently draw what I wanted to draw. It wasn’t perfect, it never was: I was still learning, and I kept wanting to do more.

  Jasmine had been with me since the beginning. We had met in art class in third grade, when the art teacher had paired us together for an portrait challenge. We realized we both loved drawing over anything else in the world, and soon, the only thing we loved more was each other.

  It took me years to learn how to draw what was in my head, and only seconds to lose it. Since the accident, nothing I tried to draw came even close to how I saw it. My hand would cramp before an image was even close to be finished, and worse, most days I couldn’t even sketch at all.

  I tried not to think about Jazz as I stood in the museum, staring at a Van Gogh I had never seen before. A snow-white field with a city in the distance, an abandoned plow in the middle, crows gathering above. Every brushstroke was deliberate, making the image so alive despite the frozen winter setting. I ran my thumb over my ticket stub, thinking of you, wondering if you had ever seen this picture too.

  “He painted this in Provence, in St Remy,” said Valentin. It was the first time he had talked since we had paid for our entrance. “We passed it on the way to Les-Baux, in a bus.”

  “I would never have guessed.” My voice was barely higher than a whisper.

  “You probably know all this,” he continued, “but when he was alive, people didn’t really like him.”

  I scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”

  “He ended up being institutionalized in St Rémy as well. They now offer art therapy classes there. But we have to go visit the village, you would love it. They have signs telling you where everything was painted. Former fields are now playgrounds. Some things have changed, but the others…”

  “I would never recognize them either,” I said, moving on to a painting of a wheat field lines with purple irises. It was hard to imagine Van-freaking-Gogh was the one to put those strokes on Canvas. “He saw the world so differently than I do. The landscapes would never be the
same.”

  I loved this awestruck version of Valentin. Going to massive cliffs, old castles, and ancient ruins were just his every day, but Van Gogh could still blow his mind.

  “It’s incredible to see how he could take all that pain, all that confusion, and create something so beautiful with it.”

  “He’s my favorite artist,” I said. I didn’t need him to tell me anything about him, but hearing his voice, his enthusiasm… he could have kept talking for years and I wouldn’t have stopped him. “Some days I wish I could travel back in time and tell him it’s going to be ok. See how much more art he could create. But how much beauty he could bring into the world.”

  “Like that Doctor Who episode,” said Valentin.

  “You know Doctor Who?”

  “Part of why my English is so good,” he replied, winking. “But you’re right: I wish I could do that, travel back in time and tell our past selves that it’s all going to be ok.”

  “Too bad we’re stuck in the present,” I replied, “roughing it out.”

  We moved onto another room, finding the man himself: Van Gogh’s self-portrait hanging on the wall, though smaller than I had expected. He wore his hat, his rough blue jacket, his cropped orange beard. I wanted to laugh: it was the same hat that Jean-Pascal cherished.

  It hit me in that instant that I was actually here. Two different men in Provence, two heads, a century apart, bound by the love of the same hat. I tried to imagine Van Gogh walking through Arles, the same city I was in now, easel on his back. In that moment everything became real, the world exploding into technicolor, full of color and depth. Because this was the place: this was where the artists I loved painted their art, real landscapes around them.

  “The say the sky in Provence is what brought all the artists here,” said Valentin, as if reading my mind. “It’s a shade of blue you never see in nature. It creates a contrast with the colors they all wanted to capture. Some managed better than others.”