Fruits, Vegetables, and a Motorcycle Guy
A dozen market vendors cram the town square in what feels like a small gastronomic festival. Baskets of fresh produce gleam on the tables alongside huge slabs of various meats, crusty loaves of bread, and bunches of lavender gathered from the fields of Provence.
It’s heaven. But today St. Peter let in some idiot who is zipping down the street in an old motorcycle with a sidecar. The roaring and crackling of the engine has no place among the sounds of voices and footsteps around me.
The bike turns at the end of the street and heads back in my direction. It’s not the rider who catches my eye but the white bulldog wearing aviator glasses who sits in the sidecar. His tongue flaps all over his face, making him look like he’s smiling.
I snicker in spite myself. Then I turn to give my undivided attention to the vegetables at hand.
Earth and damp saturate my sense of smell as I hold a porcini mushroom near my nose. I press its rubbery surface with my thumb, gently pushing down—checking for the right amount of bounce.
“It’s all the same!” Monsieur Barthélemy waves his arms in the air. “Pick one already. We’re both getting old here.” His French accent is so pronounced that when he spits, he sounds like he’s singing. He turns around to help another customer, but I hear him mumble something about the fille américaine—that’s what he calls me.
I’ve asked him to talk to me only in French so I can practice, but after a misunderstanding over a box of zucchini, he’s been pushing his English on me. I never knew my French was so bad until I came here. Even though Mom and I always spoke French around the house and I took classes in school, I’m not a native speaker. It makes me wonder if Lala lied to me about my Spanish too . . .
Sadly, my first language is English, where a champignon is just a mushroom. I add three more champignons to my basket and move to the tomatoes. These will take a while.
I dig around for a deep-colored tomato, firm but with a little give. As with the mushrooms, I bring them to my nose and sniff, this time searching for a sweet, woody smell.
For an instant, I’m transported to Lala’s kitchen and the herbal smell of her sofrito simmering as part of some guisado. A symphony of garlic, onions, and peppers play among the pots and pans, and I find myself longing for her arms tying an apron around my waist.
I was born to be a culinary artist. But the universe, with its messed-up sense of humor, thought it would be hilarious to give me a French grandma on my Mom’s side who would rather starve than cook her own dinner. And a Cuban abuela who knew nothing of classic French technique but who habitually grew (and killed) her own food.
A loud pop brings me back to the market. The black motorcycle parks across the street from Monsieur Barthélemy’s stand and the rider dismounts. I watch him check the exhaust pipe, which is making all kinds of crackling noises even though the motor has stopped running. That thing belongs in a museum. The rider then sets a bowl by the bike and pours a bottle of water into it. He unloads the dog and ties him next to the bike so he can drink.
At this exact moment, I should turn around to mind my own business. But no, instead I stand there in a daze as the rider takes off his helmet, his riding glasses, and his jacket to unveil the definition of crazy hot.
I drop the tomato.
This guy could melt the icing off a cake with one look. If his lips were fruit, they would be juicy pink plums. The kind you want to sink your teeth into.
I quickly bend down to pick the produce up before Monsieur Barthélemy chastises me for disrespecting his fruit. Motorcycle Guy leaves his white dog tied to the bike and swaggers to Monsieur Barthélemy’s booth. He grabs an orange and tosses it into the air like a ball.
That’s when he starts to lose me. If Monsieur Barthélemy and I agree on one thing, it’s that fruit shouldn’t be disrespected in that way. I don’t care how hot he is.
I go back to my search for the perfect tomato but find myself squeezing them a little too hard.
“A lot of people think tomatoes are vegetables, but they’re actually fruit,” someone says in broken French. My head turns to find Motorcycle Guy next to me, cleaning an apple against his shirt. I realize he is talking to me. “It’s because of the seeds,” he explains, biting into the skin.
I stare at his face for a moment—something about the way his eyebrows bunch up over his dark eyes makes it hard to look away. But then he opens his mouth again. “That one is no good,” he says, eyeing the tomato in my hand.
It takes me all of two seconds to decide this guy’s cockiness greatly outweighs his looks.
I ignore him and drop the tomato into my basket. I step aside and toss three different-colored peppers in as well. I don’t even smell them first. I check off my list and get ready to pay.
“Monsieur Barthélemy, s’il vous plaît,” I say, keeping my eyes on the old man.
“Oh, record time. Only one hour to pick. Only le best for ma fille américaine.”
I ignore his sarcasm. If he didn’t have the best vegetable and fruit stand in the whole market, I wouldn’t bother with him at all. He looks over my basket and adds the amount in his head. “Ten euros,” he declares from behind his stand. My hand digs through my purse, trying to find the right bill, though Monsieur Barthélemy has moved on to Motorcycle Guy, who is carrying a bag of fruit and an oversized bunch of flowers. “They’re for my mom,” he says—this time speaking English with an accent that reminds me of Lala’s singsong-y intonation. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s Spanish.
“I’m visiting for the summer,” he offers.
I nod but don’t say anything. I’m not sure what else I can do to make it clear I’m not interested. This guy reminds me of a flambé gone bad. A little too much alcohol in the pan, a flame that’s too hot and too high, and you can kiss your eyebrows goodbye.
“Are you American?” He cocks his head to the side and smiles.
“Um-hum.” I hold out the ten euro bill for Monsieur Barthélemy, but he gets called away by a woman confused about the weight of a melon.
“Are you here for the summer?” he asks.
Motorcycle Guy steps in closer and leans his shoulder against one of the wooden beams that hold up the stand. I roll my eyes, not that it likely makes a difference.
“I’ll be around all summer and have absolutely nothing to do,” he says, then licks his lower lip. The confidence in his voice leaves no doubt this guy is used to getting his way. I bet where he’s from, girls swoon over his flawless olive skin, broad shoulders, and the toned chest he’s probably hiding under that tight black T-shirt. But his arrogance makes me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron pan.
I’m not one of those swoony girls. And I’m definitely not a fan of the Rico Suave type.
“Right . . .” I say, searching for Monsieur Barthélemy over the boy’s shoulder. He is still dealing with the melon drama.
“I know a great cherry field down the road.” He plucks a cherry from one of the baskets, then casually places it in my hand. I’m too stunned by the exchange to pull away, so the ripe cherry sits on my open palm like a foreign object.
“I can take you there, if you wish. You can pick as many as you want.”
“Wow,” I scoff. “Sure. I would love to disappear into a backwoods field with a complete stranger . . .” To do who knows what. I look over his shoulder again, waving the bill at Monsieur Barthélemy to catch his attention. “That sounds amazing. Every girl’s dream.”
“Huh?” He frowns as if he could somehow read my lewd thoughts.
“Okay . . . I’m leaving now.” I push past him and drop the cherry back inside the display basket.
Monsieur Barthélemy is waving both arms in the air, emphatically defending the weight of his melons. I leave the ten euro note on the counter and walk away.
Sugar, butter, and flour are still on my list. And I may have to stop at the little baking supply shop that had some pretty cake pans in their window display.
I drop my things inside the basket of my bike, then swing my leg over the seat and put my foot on the pedal. I don’t intend to look back, but I do. Motorcycle Guy is standing on the street, leering in my direction and biting into his apple.
I make myself turn back around and push down hard on the pedals.
What a jerk. If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.
I hate taking the bike to the market. The flat road through town ends at the bottom of a hill, and from there it’s a steep climb up to Villa des Fleurs. The way down is no big deal, fun even if you consider the sun in your face and the wind in your hair. But as of right now, I’ve given up trying to pedal my way up the hill with a basket full of groceries and a bag slung over my shoulder.
Plus, I went a little off list and picked up some extras—a couple of cake pans and a few oval-shaped ramekins that will be perfect for a crème brûlée. I’m quickly regretting my purchases as they are beginning to feel like one-ton weights. By the time I get to Margo’s house at the top of the hill, I’m panting and sweating.
I stop to catch my breath when I notice the same black motorcycle and sidecar from the market, parked in front of our house.
My pulse instantly quickens.
Did that guy follow me here? How does he know where I live?
I grip the handlebar tighter, trying hard to think of what to do next.
No way this is a coincidence. Villa des Fleurs is as tucked away as it gets. It has its own private access road, and the closest house is a mile away. You’d have to know it’s here to find it. And what’s worse, if I scream, no one will hear me.
A cold chill runs down my spine as the first symptoms of panic set in. Under normal circumstances I’m not the panicky type. But I’m more than four thousand miles away from home, living in a villa in the middle of nowhere.
I search my bag for my cell phone and find it’s not there. Crap! I left it in the kitchen. I can almost see it sitting on the counter next to the oven gloves.
Should I turn around and go back into town? But what if he chases after me? My face will end up plastered on some missing girl poster. And let’s face it, the French probably don’t care much about missing American girls. And what’s more, the Americans don’t care much about missing Latina girls.
My hands grip the bike handles and I rack my brain for everything I learned in that self-defense boot camp Mom and I attended back in Chicago. In one day, we learned to fight off a rapist and escape a kidnapping. They told us that when in doubt, always call the police.
I need to get to a phone.
I walk the bike to the front door, which is unlocked. This could have been Papi and Margo’s doing; the doors of this house seem to be perpetually open. When I tried to protest, saying someone could break in, they both laughed at me. “We’re not in Chicago anymore, honey,” Papi said. Who’s laughing now?
Besides the normal old-house creaking, the hallway is eerily quiet. I slowly make my way to the kitchen. Once I find my cell phone I dial 112, the European equivalent of 911. I nervously whisper my name and address into the receiver, closing the kitchen door and jamming the door handle with a chair.
I tell the operator there’s an intruder in our house. She tells me to stay locked in the kitchen and wait for the police to arrive. I hang up and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants, then open the knife drawer and search for the most menacing blade we have. A vintage meat cleaver seems like a good choice. It’s a little rusty around the edges but that only adds to its Jack the Ripper vibe.
I call Papi’s cell—though, big shocker, it goes straight to voice mail. When he lived in Chicago, I used to complain about having to go through his secretary for everything. Little did I know, I should have been thankful I had a real person to take a message. I call Margo’s cell, but it also goes to voice mail. Why do these people even bother carrying their phones around?
I grip the meat cleaver tighter. This is why I hate the countryside. In Chicago, I could’ve gone to our neighbor’s house and waited for the cops.
I glance around the kitchen and realize the curtains are drawn back. This entire time, I’ve been a sitting duck. Motorcycle Stalker Guy could be out there watching me, waiting to strike. I move around the room, quickly closing the curtains. When I reach the sink, I gasp. He’s by the pool.
Only he’s lying down on one of the lounge chairs, wearing sunglasses and propping his feet up on the chair. The flowers he bought at the market lie on a side table beside him. Would a stalker do that?
I wait for him to move, but he doesn’t. Is he asleep?
I search for the white dog and don’t see him anywhere.
What the heck do I do?
a. The 112 lady told me to stay put until the cops arrive. But they aren’t here yet. Are they even coming? How long is the response time in France?
b. What if he needs medical assistance? Or what if he’s drunk? Or on drugs? Maybe he went to the wrong house.
c. Motorcycle Guy followed me here from the market. I mean, that whole invitation to a field was kind of creepy. Do I just wait and pray he doesn’t see me?
Ten long minutes pass.
The police are never coming. I glance out the window and watch him for a moment. He doesn’t even flinch. If he’s passed out, maybe I can surprise him.
I move the chair blocking the door and make my way to the pool.
Be like a mouse, I tell myself, unable to remember the French word for mouse.
I softly push open the double doors that lead to the patio, enough that I can squeeze myself out of the house.
Souris. The word for mouse comes to me as I step outside and am blinded by the sun. My hand automatically shoots up to my forehead to block the rays, though my vision remains blurry. All I can see is a big, white thing running in my direction. I want to scream, but my heart is pounding so hard I can’t form the sound. I turn around and try to open the double doors—the handle won’t turn. I’ve locked myself out of the house.
A scream comes out at the exact moment the white thing jumps onto me. I freeze against the door, the meat cleaver pressed up against my chest.
“Beluga! ¡Quitaté!” Motorcycle Stalker Guy yells in Spanish. When he finally looks at me, he chuckles. “Ah, of course. It’s the friendly American.”
I hold the cleaver out in front of me and blurt out, “I called the police!”
He stands there, silent, with his dog sitting by his side.
“They are on their way. Right. Now.” I press my back harder against the door, as if I could melt myself through it.
“You really should put that thing down. You may hurt yourself.” He turns around and walks back to the lounge chair. The dog follows his every move.
“Did you not hear me?” I scream after him. “The police are coming. You should leave.”
He lies back on the chair, intertwines his hands, and rests them over his chest.
“Wake me up when they get here.”
We don’t have to wait long. I shriek when someone taps on the door behind me. Two policemen are standing on the other side of the glass. One waves at me to step aside, then they both saunter onto the patio as if they were here for a pool party. Apparently the 112 lady forgot to relay my sense of emergency.
“I called you,” I say in French.
“Where is the intruder?” one of them asks, glancing at the meat cleaver in my hand. He frowns but doesn’t say anything.
I nod in the direction of Motorcycle Stalker Guy, who is walking toward us.
“J’habite ici,” he tells the cops. I’m about to say, “No, you don’t live here,” but then he turns to me and says, “I’m Diego, Margo’s stepson. Nice to meet you.”
The policemen glare at me, as if I’m somehow responsible for wasting an hour of their precious time. They should be glaring at our unwelcomed guest instead.
“I’ll be here all summer,” Diego adds, sidestepping me and heading inside the house, dog trailing behind.
I grip the meat cleaver a little harder. I can’t stand this guy.