Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

  “No,” I insisted, shaking my head. “We go today. I’m not here as a tourist: I need the clue. It’s more important.”

  “The clue has been there for seventeen years; can’t it wait another day?”

  “No.”

  He opened his mouth as if to ask why, then snapped it shut again. I was rather relieved he wasn’t pushing the question: if he had, I don’t know what would have spilled out of my mouth.

  We paid for the drinks, him grabbing a paperback for the train on the way out. Outside the door the weather was sweltering hot, and the soothing effect of the books lost their magic. I was alone again, and mad.

  And so, we made our way to the train station, bought our tickets, and rolled out towards the mysterious Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, my hand clutching the little desk printout the entire time.

  Valentin said nothing. He stared out the window along with me, in silence. Was he waiting for me to speak first? If so, this was going to be a long ride. He was actually quite terrible at speaking, come to think about it: he hadn’t brought up our kiss yet, at all. So even if I did want to know where we stood – which I no longer did, no, I had to stay focused on the mission – he wasn’t going to be the one to tell me.

  I watched the scenery out the window instead. I was starting to get used to the typical Provençal village. To the old homes with their bright shutters and terra cotta roofs. The narrow-cobbled roads with plants shooting up this way and that. But nothing had prepared me for Isle-sur-la-Sorgue.

  I had never been to Holland, but I could imagine this is what Dutch cities would look like if I had. Canals running through the streets, great massive water wheels turning and spraying droplets on bright flowers. Rushing water spewing down, stairs leading to the edge so that locals could drop their feet in - or wash their clothes, at one time, I suppose. Even this late in the day people were sitting with their feet in the current, washing their cares away.

  I also hadn’t expected the number of antique dealers. Every store was either selling antiques or fancy interior design, modern and ancient beside each other in the same displays.

  “Hurry, they’re going to close soon,” said Valentin, the first words he had said to me since we had boarded the train, leading me away from the water and into a small courtyard. It was a place dropped out of time: a gravel square surrounded by old stores on all sides, elaborate antique statues sitting next to hundred-year-old trunks and uniforms from another century. I wanted to step into every store, be whipped away to another time. But time was the one thing we were lacking.

  Valentin spun around on his heels, his eyes darting from door to door. He held the paper up, then put it down, then lifted it up again.

  “Merde,” he swore, “Where is she?”

  I ripped the paper from his hands and darted to the café. One of the waiters was picking glasses up off the table, placing them on a precariously large tray which he held over his shoulder.

  “Excusez-moi,” I said, probably butchering the pronunciation, “pourriez-vous m’aider?”

  He turned, still balancing his tray, a smile flashing on his lips. I held out the paper, pointing at the name, struggling to hold it steady as I trembled.

  “American?” he asked. He glanced over the paper, squinting slightly. I could see the exact moment when his face fell. “I’m sorry. So sad.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Go talk to ze woman over zere,” he said, pointing at a white tent with his free hand. “She speak better English.”

  “Merci,” I replied, but my nerves were shot now. Sorry meant bad news. Sad? Worse news.

  Valentin looked about how I felt: pale, exhausted. But he said nothing as we made our way to the white tent. Every step felt like forcing my way through thick water: slow motion cast upon me, though my heart beat faster and louder than ever before.

  The woman at the white tent was sitting smartly in the shade of her tiny antique stand, fanning herself with a piece of her own brochure. She was surrounded by stools of all shapes and sizes: some dark and in terrible shape, in serious need of some love; while others were metallic and stark, clean and new. She nodded at us as we approached.

  “Messieurs - dames,” she said, “que puis-je pour vous?”

  “Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked.

  “A little bit,” she replied, “how can I help you?”

  “We are looking for this woman,” I said, holding out the piece of paper and pointing to the name beside the desk, “can you help us find her?”

  “Oh, Joelle.”

  Like the waiter before her, her face fell. What had been a professional customer service smile was now replaced with heartfelt chagrin. She stood, and I realized she was much taller than I had pegged her for. Her blonde hair almost touched the roof of her tent.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, “but Joelle died last year.”

  My heart shattered. I felt it happen through my chest, the millions of tiny shards flying everywhere and lodging themselves into my soft tissues. Dead. So blunt, so final.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, unsure of how to react. The way the woman looked, it seemed as though she had lost a dear friend.

  “I’m sorry I could not bring you good news,” she replied. “May I ask, why are you looking for her?”

  I unfolded the paper and handed it to her completely. She looked at the desk and shook her head.

  “I have not seen this piece,” she said, “We have been helping her family sell her stock, but I do not remember seeing it here. It must have been sold before she passed.”

  “Can you help us find who bought it?” I urged, “please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  I regretted the words when they came out of my mouth. For me, the letter meant the world. Finding the clue and completing the hunt would save you, would put you back on your feet. If I could save you, maybe I stood a chance myself.

  But this woman had actually lost her friend: dead had already been a fact, here. Even so, she did not react to my poor choice in words.

  “I’m sorry, I do not have access to her records,” she handed the paper back to me, unfazed. “But if you go inside, there are many other desks similar to this one. I am sure we can help you.”

  “No,” I snapped, “it has to be this one.”

  “Jamie,” said Valentin, reaching for my shoulder. I shook him off. “It’s over. We need to go.”

  “No!” I felt the heat in my face, the rush of blood through my veins. “No! I need to find this desk! You have to help me!”

  “There is nothing I can do,” said the woman.

  “Please!” I fell to my knees, unable to hold myself up any longer. “Please, it’s for my mother. Please. It could save her life.”

  “I do not know what to say,” the woman replied, curling her lip in disgust. She glanced at Valentin, practically begging him to drag me away. “I cannot do more. Now please. It is time for me to close.”

  “Please,” I said, “S’il vous plait. Help me. Help me!”

  Valentin took my hand, stepping away from the tent, hoping I would follow. But the day was hot and I slipped my sweaty hand from his, rushing at the antiques dealer again.

  “S’il vous plait madame!” I pleaded, “Aidez-moi!”

  “C’est fini, Jamie,” said Valentin, interposing himself between me and the now terrified stall owner. “It’s over. We have to go.”

  “And you!” I snapped, placing my hands squarely on his chest and shoving him back. “You’re such a defeatist. No wonder they say all French men are cowards: you never try anything. You never do anything.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, righting himself. “Look, can we talk in the train? We need to go. You are causing a scene.”

  “Me?” I stammered. It was hard to see anything other than Valentin’s stupid face through the tears that were streaming out of my eyes. “Everyone should be causing a scene in this fucking country! Nobody does anything! Oh, you need to find a desk? A simple freaking desk? No one even li
fts a finger!”

  “Enough, Jamie,” he said, stepping forward. I had never been afraid of him before, but in this moment, there was something in his voice that made me want to cower back. And maybe I should have: maybe, the rational part of myself said, maybe you need to get a grip. But the rational part of my brain was still impaled by the shards of my now shattered heart, and it wasn’t having any of it.

  “Whenever things get hard, you give up,” I snarled, poking him in the chest pointedly, “You never do anything. Every time we got close to finding a clue, who was the one who ran away? You. If I had listened to you, I would never have come this far in the first place. So shut up and help me!”

  “Bon, ca suffit!” The woman was suddenly between us. “Dehors! Out! Both of you!”

  The entire square was silent as we left. The only thing I could hear was the ringing in my ears, the pulsing anger I had towards them all. A country of whiny quitters.

  I would not give up.

  I couldn’t give up.

  But the rational part of my brain said it was over, nonetheless.

  And then, the only thing that could ever make this worse came crashing into us, quite literally. Valentin shoved me into one of the warehouses, my nose instantly overwhelmed with the smell of old wood and musty attics. He stared out the door, eyes wide in terror, as a group of men in suits, dressed far too hot for this weather, walked by. They didn’t see us, laughing as they passed. His face turned red.

  “What the hell, Valentin?” I stammered, shoving his hands off me. He had pushed so hard I half expected there to be a hand-shaped bruise on my chest.

  “Chut!” he snapped, fingers to his lips.

  “Don’t shush me in freaking French,” I said, stepping away. “What just happened?”

  “Will you be quiet for a second of your life?”

  I had never seen him so mad before. Even in the dim light of the antique warehouse, I could see his face, red and hot. But definitely not in the attractive way, no, far from it. His hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I insisted.

  “Because you’re actually going to listen for once?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I snapped, putting my hands on my hips. Not that it made me feel any better. “Is that a quip about my country again? Look, I’m sorry I got loud, ok? I guess it’s my American genes. You think I’m different because my dad is French? Because my grandmother is some kind of icon to you? Let me make this very clear: I’m not French. I’m American, just like those girls you openly mock. And I’m mad because I’m angry, not because of some stupid cultural stereotype!”

  “Just shut up!” he said, “you are starting this again!”

  “Starting what? A scene?”

  “You just have to always make it about you, don’t you?” A salesman walked passed us, staring, but did nothing to step in. “For once, can you just please do as I say and be quiet? Because that’s my father who just walked by out there, and I’m trying not to let him see me, d’accord?”

  “Your father?”

  I stared out the door at the courtyard behind, trying to find which of the tall, dark haired men could have been the man I had heard oh-so-little about. I thought he was meant to be in Paris: what he was doing here, down south, at a random antiques fair, I didn’t know.

  Was that really your dad? Why was he here? Didn’t he tell you he was coming? I wanted to understand what was going on, but it didn’t feel like the time – or place. I did what he asked and kept my mouth shut, as we watched the men leave the courtyard.

  “Didn’t you want to say hi?” I asked; no, squeaked.

  “He didn’t,” Valentin shrugged, “or he would have called. Come, we have a train.”

  “Hold on,” I said, as he turned to the other exit to the warehouse, heading towards the station, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Talk about fuming, I could practically feel the frustrated heat that radiated off of him.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want us to be quiet, ok?”

  “Not ok,” I replied, trying to catch up but practically having to run. His stride was so long when he wasn’t adjusting for me. “You can’t just shove me in the dark and expect me to be ok with it. What happened back there?”

  “What happened?” Still, no eye contact. We crossed the street, waving at the cars to stop and let us by. “What happened is that you made a scene. That my father saw. And maybe, he saw me there, with you.”

  “So you don’t want to see him, and you don’t want him to see you, but you also want him to call you and see you? What?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He didn’t say another word to me as we took our seats across from each other. Our train pulled out, and we once again silently stared out our windows.

  The countryside rolled past our windows. Green fields stretching out along the horizon, capped by stubby mountains. I watched them with an intentness rivaled only by my need to not look Valentin in the eyes.

  “It is a shame you did not get to see the town,” he said, suddenly.

  “Hold on, aren’t we going to talk about what just happened?” I asked, staring out the train window, still avoiding eye contact, even between our reflections.

  “You mean, you screaming in the middle of the antique market?”

  “No! About you casually avoiding your dad!”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”

  I’ve heard it said sometimes that tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, but right now a knife wasn’t enough. Maybe a sword would do, but I wouldn’t count on it.

  “My father lives in Paris,” he said, shrugging, “he sells antiques to rich Americans who want to furnish their New York apartments. Sometimes he comes to the south for a good find. It’s nothing to talk about.”

  “So, you hide.”

  “When the girl I am standing with is screaming and scaring me? Yes, yes I hide.”

  “I was scaring you? You were terrifying! That hurt, you know!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you though?” I scoffed, “I’m not just talking about a bruised collarbone. What you said… You blame me for not listening, but you never say anything! You never told me about your dad. And then our kiss, our night, and… you never spoke of them again. It’s like none of it even happened.”

  He said nothing. Like always. Hallmark of his life.

  “I came here because my parents kicked me out,” I continued, staring at my knees. My voice came out so shaky all of a sudden. “and I’m not wanted here either. No country wants me. Nobody wants me. So if you’re just trying to mess with me, stop. Just stop right now and never talk to me again.”

  The silence in the train was deafening as I shut my mouth. Valentin’s eyes were wide, fixed on me in a way no one had ever looked at me before. His mouth, perched somewhere between open and closed, didn’t seem able to make a sound. But he didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. He watched as I wiped my eyes with the edge of my palms.

  “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice low.

  “But it’s true.”

  “Your parents kicked you out?”

  I nodded, slowly. The tears were pushing their way back through again.

  “Of the whole country?”

  I nodded again.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I took a deep breath, steadying myself. The words I was about to utter I had never admitted to anyone but myself.

  “Because, I almost killed my mom.”

  My fist met with the ground before it met with Charlie’s face. Though I had been aiming to take a swing at the jerk, I had only managed to find thin air, and kept going, collapsing on the floor face first.

  The worst part now was that the asshole was laughing. I couldn’t tell up from down the way my head was spinning and gripped the fibers of the carpe
t to keep the dizziness from making me sick. Each guffaw hit my head like a jackhammer.

  “Don’t even look at her, you douchecanoe,” said Jazz, her arms taking my shoulders and helping me back up to a seat. The light was blinding up here. “Jamie, honey, are you ok?”

  I tried to tell her that I was, but all that came out of my mouth was a single, thick sob. She wrapped her arms tighter around me. Charlie was nowhere to be seen, but then again, the fog around my eyes made it difficult to see anything.

  “What an asshole,” she said, and I nodded, hiccupping another sob. I leaned into her chest, inhaling her scent, equal parts rose perfume and cheap beer.

  “I’m going home,” I blurted out.

  “You sure? The night can still get better!”

  “No, no,” I pushed myself up off the floor, leaning on her for support. Teetering on my wobbly knees, I focused on getting the room to stop spinning. I was fine. I was alright. I was good.

  “You’re not good,” said Jazz. I hadn’t realized I had said any of this out loud. “I should get you some water…”

  “It’s ok, it’s fine, I’m fine…”

  I found myself with my head in a bush, somehow outside, alone. Where Jazz had gone, I had no idea. How I had gotten outside, I had no idea. My mind was still spinning. Charlie’s crass grin swam into my vision.

  I had to go home.

  I dunked my fingers in my pocket and fished for the keys, but the pocket was empty and I came up dry. Panic started to rise in my chest. The car had been my sweet sixteen gift: dad’s first purchase in the US, sixteen years ago, bought off somebody’s front yard when his broke down on the way to the hospital to meet newborn me. I had promised to take care of it. Losing the keys was not part of the deal.

  I fell to the ground again, dizzy and disoriented. Dad was going to kill me when he found out. I couldn’t let him know. I would have to walk home, but that wasn’t possible, it was clear across town. And I didn’t want anybody here to see me like this, not even Jazz. Where was she?

  “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed,” dad was saying, lights flashing by the windows wildly. Somehow, I was now in his car, a bag in my hand stuffed there hastily by mom in case I had an accident. I knew that much, I could remembered the feeling of plastic pushing past numb fingers, the touch of mom’s hand on my shoulder, as she helped me into the back.