shirt. I blew him a kiss, then left. It was the last time I saw that shirt. The last time I saw J.C.”
I’ve dropped my fork. I’m staring at Layla, practically speechless. “My father? He’s my
fantôme?
”
She looks at me, her eyebrows knitted together. “Zeeta, love. The odds of us being in the same place at the same time are minuscule. It can’t be the same T-shirt.”
My words tumble out. “My father could have been the first person who told you the troubadour story.”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Z.”
I keep talking. “The sand could be from the Greek beach.”
“Z. Let it go.” Her voice sounds almost desperate. “Please.”
“You’re the one who’s always talking about the universe making things happen.”
“I thought you’d let this father thing go, love.” She twirls her hair up in a knot, then loosens it again. “Why would we want some man coming in and complicating our lives?” She hands me back the T-shirt. “Hopefully, this is the last thing you’ll get. Let’s forget about it and just enjoy life here.” She scoops up a forkful of pasta, but as much as she tries to act casual, her hand is shaking.
The next morning, in the bus on the way to Entremont with Layla and Sirona, I clutch my bag tightly in my lap. I almost didn’t come today, but even though I’m still annoyed at Layla, I don’t want to miss Sirona’s tour of Entremont. And it will be good to get out of the city, walk in nature, distract myself from my confusion over my
fantôme
, Jean-Claude, Wendell.
I haven’t been e-mailing Wendell as much lately, but he’ll be here in two days. Thinking about his arrival ties my insides in knots, so I try to avoid it. I’ve also been pushing away any thoughts that the
fantôme
could be my father. Layla’s right, I’ve decided. It’s too unlikely.
Through the window, I watch the green hills and occasional farmhouses and red-tile-roofed houses outside of town. Meanwhile, Layla and Sirona are deep in conversation in the seats ahead of mine. Sirona is decked out in a blue raw cotton tunic, belted with silken, braided rope. She’s gotten afew stares from other passengers on the bus but doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least.
I pull out the book Vincent gave me.
Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence
. I take a moment to appreciate the book—its cover of deep red cloth, frayed at the corners. The lettering is gold, with a gilded border of swirls and vines. It smells ancient and musty, like an attic. The binding is loose, the pages uneven, coming unstitched at the center. Carefully, I flip to chapter nine.
In ornate script, the chapter title reads, “
Les Eaux Magiques.
” The Magical Waters.
It takes concentration to read, with the bus bumping along the highway. And the book’s written in old-fashioned French, somewhat stiff and convoluted, with unfamiliar conjugations. In Morocco, I learned to read and write French well, but I was only nine at the time, so we never reached old, formal French. I squint at the page, moving my finger along like a child, whispering the words.
One is certainly aware that the glorious Aix-en-Provence is notorious for its magnificent fountains and the ancient springs which feed them. Indeed, these are the very springs in which the barbaric tribes such as the Celts and Ligurians bathed, the very waters from which they drank, and at which they worshipped. Yet one may hear rumors of an enchanting secret that has flowed
underground for thousands of years, like the waters themselves. It is claimed that this bewitching secret offers the fantastical key to immortality, the fountain of youth, eternal life on earth
.
According to the tales, versions of which date back to pre-Roman times, if one drinks from a particular spring at frequent intervals, one will live forever. With but a single sip of these powerful waters, any illness shall be cured, any wound healed, no matter how dire. Legend says that for those already in robust health, these
I’ve dropped my fork. I’m staring at Layla, practically speechless. “My father? He’s my
fantôme?
”
She looks at me, her eyebrows knitted together. “Zeeta, love. The odds of us being in the same place at the same time are minuscule. It can’t be the same T-shirt.”
My words tumble out. “My father could have been the first person who told you the troubadour story.”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Z.”
I keep talking. “The sand could be from the Greek beach.”
“Z. Let it go.” Her voice sounds almost desperate. “Please.”
“You’re the one who’s always talking about the universe making things happen.”
“I thought you’d let this father thing go, love.” She twirls her hair up in a knot, then loosens it again. “Why would we want some man coming in and complicating our lives?” She hands me back the T-shirt. “Hopefully, this is the last thing you’ll get. Let’s forget about it and just enjoy life here.” She scoops up a forkful of pasta, but as much as she tries to act casual, her hand is shaking.
The next morning, in the bus on the way to Entremont with Layla and Sirona, I clutch my bag tightly in my lap. I almost didn’t come today, but even though I’m still annoyed at Layla, I don’t want to miss Sirona’s tour of Entremont. And it will be good to get out of the city, walk in nature, distract myself from my confusion over my
fantôme
, Jean-Claude, Wendell.
I haven’t been e-mailing Wendell as much lately, but he’ll be here in two days. Thinking about his arrival ties my insides in knots, so I try to avoid it. I’ve also been pushing away any thoughts that the
fantôme
could be my father. Layla’s right, I’ve decided. It’s too unlikely.
Through the window, I watch the green hills and occasional farmhouses and red-tile-roofed houses outside of town. Meanwhile, Layla and Sirona are deep in conversation in the seats ahead of mine. Sirona is decked out in a blue raw cotton tunic, belted with silken, braided rope. She’s gotten afew stares from other passengers on the bus but doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least.
I pull out the book Vincent gave me.
Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence
. I take a moment to appreciate the book—its cover of deep red cloth, frayed at the corners. The lettering is gold, with a gilded border of swirls and vines. It smells ancient and musty, like an attic. The binding is loose, the pages uneven, coming unstitched at the center. Carefully, I flip to chapter nine.
In ornate script, the chapter title reads, “
Les Eaux Magiques.
” The Magical Waters.
It takes concentration to read, with the bus bumping along the highway. And the book’s written in old-fashioned French, somewhat stiff and convoluted, with unfamiliar conjugations. In Morocco, I learned to read and write French well, but I was only nine at the time, so we never reached old, formal French. I squint at the page, moving my finger along like a child, whispering the words.
One is certainly aware that the glorious Aix-en-Provence is notorious for its magnificent fountains and the ancient springs which feed them. Indeed, these are the very springs in which the barbaric tribes such as the Celts and Ligurians bathed, the very waters from which they drank, and at which they worshipped. Yet one may hear rumors of an enchanting secret that has flowed
underground for thousands of years, like the waters themselves. It is claimed that this bewitching secret offers the fantastical key to immortality, the fountain of youth, eternal life on earth
.
According to the tales, versions of which date back to pre-Roman times, if one drinks from a particular spring at frequent intervals, one will live forever. With but a single sip of these powerful waters, any illness shall be cured, any wound healed, no matter how dire. Legend says that for those already in robust health, these
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