and little metal gears. So I got out my magnifying glass and headlamp and music box manual and fixed it. And wouldn’t you know it, it played
‘La Vie en Rose!’
”
He hands me the box. I lift the lid. The melody starts and spirals out of the red velvet, like a rose unfurling, like a thousand petals bursting out. I close my eyes and listen as he sings along in a raspy, earnest voice. “
C’est lui pour moi. Moi pour lui …
” He’s for me, I’m for him …
“LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA …
”
The song ends and I close the box. “
Super cool,
” I say, really meaning it.
“
Oui! Imagine!
I discovered this music hiding inside! This, after years of looking at it!” He clucks. “No, Zeeta, the things I choose have lifetimes of hidden mysteries.”
I hand it back to him.
There’s a flap of wings and he says, “Oh, look, here she comes!” Maude darts back into the store and lands on Vincent’s shoulder. The expression on his face is truly one of
le grand amour
.
“M mm. Your
pistou
is extraordinaire, Z,” Layla says, twirling the green-flecked pasta into her mouth. The evening sunlight illuminates the feast I’ve made, spread out on the table on the roof patio
—pistou
, endive salad, and potatoes au gratin.
“
Merci,
” I say, pleased. There’s still a thin coat of sweat on my face from rushing around the kitchen and darting up and down the stairs carrying the dishes. My hand’s still aching from smashing the basil in the mortar and pestle. Deliciousness comes at a price.
Beyond our patio table, patchworks of red tile roofs stretch far into the rosy orange sky. Treetops rise from hidden courtyards, little islands of translucent green. It’s golden andcomfortable up here above the city, the slightest breeze whispering through my hair.
“Hey, are we on for the Entremont tour with Sirona tomorrow?” Layla asks, spooning more
pistou
onto her plate.
“Sure,” I say, remembering how pleased Vincent was at this news.
My eyes rest on the jar of sand from my
fantôme
, which I’ve stuck a candle in to form a centerpiece. The flame whips in the breeze but is protected enough by the glass that it stays lit. “Oh!” I blurt out, suddenly remembering my latest gift. I forgot about it in my rush to make the
pistou
. “Layla, my
fantôme
left me something new!”
Her eyes widen. “Let’s see it!”
I jog downstairs and grab the T-shirt from my bag. Back up on the patio, I hand it to Layla, breathless, and settle back down in front of my
pistou
. “I found it after you left me at the café.”
Layla takes the T-shirt, stares at it, and pokes her fingers through its many holes. Held up to the light, it looks practically transparent. “This is weird, Z.”
“I know. Why would someone give me a grubby old T-shirt? It’s kind of icky. But at least he washed it first.”
Layla has a strange look on her face. “That’s not what I mean, Z. It’s that—I had a shirt exactly like this … years ago.” She rubs the fabric against her cheek. She seems to have forgotten her
pistou
. “I’ll never forget it. When I was backpacking around Europe, I only had three shirts and apair of old jeans and a skirt and cut-off khakis. I hardly ever washed the clothes. They were like a second skin. I was so bummed when I lost my Jimi shirt.”
I take another bite of
pistou
. “Where’d you lose it?”
She closes her eyes, thinking, and then, with surprising certainty, she says, “Greece.” For a moment she strokes the worn fabric, lingering in some memory. Suddenly, her eyes fly open. “I gave it away. To J.C.” She pauses, her face pale, and then speaks again, in a bewildered voice. “That night, he came out of the water and pulled a guitar from a nook in the rocks. He played for me, and we talked, and … you know. At some point, he was cold. I searched in my bag and gave him my Jimi Hendrix shirt. It was nearly sunrise. He fell asleep on the sand, wearing my
‘La Vie en Rose!’
”
He hands me the box. I lift the lid. The melody starts and spirals out of the red velvet, like a rose unfurling, like a thousand petals bursting out. I close my eyes and listen as he sings along in a raspy, earnest voice. “
C’est lui pour moi. Moi pour lui …
” He’s for me, I’m for him …
“LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA …
”
The song ends and I close the box. “
Super cool,
” I say, really meaning it.
“
Oui! Imagine!
I discovered this music hiding inside! This, after years of looking at it!” He clucks. “No, Zeeta, the things I choose have lifetimes of hidden mysteries.”
I hand it back to him.
There’s a flap of wings and he says, “Oh, look, here she comes!” Maude darts back into the store and lands on Vincent’s shoulder. The expression on his face is truly one of
le grand amour
.
“M mm. Your
pistou
is extraordinaire, Z,” Layla says, twirling the green-flecked pasta into her mouth. The evening sunlight illuminates the feast I’ve made, spread out on the table on the roof patio
—pistou
, endive salad, and potatoes au gratin.
“
Merci,
” I say, pleased. There’s still a thin coat of sweat on my face from rushing around the kitchen and darting up and down the stairs carrying the dishes. My hand’s still aching from smashing the basil in the mortar and pestle. Deliciousness comes at a price.
Beyond our patio table, patchworks of red tile roofs stretch far into the rosy orange sky. Treetops rise from hidden courtyards, little islands of translucent green. It’s golden andcomfortable up here above the city, the slightest breeze whispering through my hair.
“Hey, are we on for the Entremont tour with Sirona tomorrow?” Layla asks, spooning more
pistou
onto her plate.
“Sure,” I say, remembering how pleased Vincent was at this news.
My eyes rest on the jar of sand from my
fantôme
, which I’ve stuck a candle in to form a centerpiece. The flame whips in the breeze but is protected enough by the glass that it stays lit. “Oh!” I blurt out, suddenly remembering my latest gift. I forgot about it in my rush to make the
pistou
. “Layla, my
fantôme
left me something new!”
Her eyes widen. “Let’s see it!”
I jog downstairs and grab the T-shirt from my bag. Back up on the patio, I hand it to Layla, breathless, and settle back down in front of my
pistou
. “I found it after you left me at the café.”
Layla takes the T-shirt, stares at it, and pokes her fingers through its many holes. Held up to the light, it looks practically transparent. “This is weird, Z.”
“I know. Why would someone give me a grubby old T-shirt? It’s kind of icky. But at least he washed it first.”
Layla has a strange look on her face. “That’s not what I mean, Z. It’s that—I had a shirt exactly like this … years ago.” She rubs the fabric against her cheek. She seems to have forgotten her
pistou
. “I’ll never forget it. When I was backpacking around Europe, I only had three shirts and apair of old jeans and a skirt and cut-off khakis. I hardly ever washed the clothes. They were like a second skin. I was so bummed when I lost my Jimi shirt.”
I take another bite of
pistou
. “Where’d you lose it?”
She closes her eyes, thinking, and then, with surprising certainty, she says, “Greece.” For a moment she strokes the worn fabric, lingering in some memory. Suddenly, her eyes fly open. “I gave it away. To J.C.” She pauses, her face pale, and then speaks again, in a bewildered voice. “That night, he came out of the water and pulled a guitar from a nook in the rocks. He played for me, and we talked, and … you know. At some point, he was cold. I searched in my bag and gave him my Jimi Hendrix shirt. It was nearly sunrise. He fell asleep on the sand, wearing my
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