Eleven
As we dined at a nearby Italian bistro, I recounted the incident at the post office to my aunt.
She twirled her fork into her cacio e pepe. “We deal with this all the time, Vanessa. Sadly, it’s everywhere. We will be fine. No one can deny what we have to offer. My shipments have arrived, and I’m on schedule.”
I was more upset about the exchange than she. Aunt Evelyn was from the previous generation: they bore the societal injustices of misogyny and racism. But they raised their daughters to not accept the world’s limitations. They fought for us and taught us to fight. These were women I wanted to be. As a pack, my aunties could conquer a small country.
“I heard from Michael,” my aunt continued, placing a considerable heap of her pasta onto my plate, while plucking two slices off my arugula and prosciutto thin-crust pizza. “He hopes to visit within the next couple of weeks. Your mother also called. You missed your twelve-hour check-in.”
Absorbed in my walk with Marc, I had missed the buzz of my phone. Ma would appreciate my spending time with him rather than taking her call and killing the mood. I’d return her call after dinner.
“Where are you headed tomorrow?” my aunt asked.
“Marc mentioned Versailles. Monet’s garden at Giverny the day after.”
My aunt opened her mouth, but I stopped her.
“I don’t want any spoilers, Auntie.”
She winked, and pressed her finger against her lips.
“Today was fun, but I can’t get too excited. It can’t mean anything. A prophecy will eventually ambush me and that will be the end.”
Wanting something I couldn’t have was a form of self-torture—one I had inflicted for years.
“There isn’t anything wrong with knowing that something will expire. It focuses you: treasure the time you have together.” She paused and then changed subjects. “What do you think of the pasta?”
Cacio e pepe contains three main ingredients: noodles, cheese, and pepper. The chef’s execution elevated the elements into a delicious blend of cheeses (in this case, pecorino and Grana Padano) with a spicy bite from the cracked peppercorns. The tagliolini was made fresh in the kitchen.
“As amazing as the pizza,” I replied.
Aunt Evelyn nodded.
The arugula and prosciutto pizza had a simple yet tasty tomato sauce as the first layer on the crispy crust. Strips of translucent Italian ham interlaced with a pile of rocket greens on top. My aunt and I agreed to douse it with the provided house blend of chili oil.
“The food has been a revelation,” I said, “and I’ve only been here for two and a half days.”
“Yes.” My aunt sipped her glass of Casavecchia. “Paris has its charms: the food, the sights, the people. Anyone can imagine themselves living here.”
The way she spoke, I felt she was talking about herself. Aunt Evelyn was selling her home in San Francisco. The rest of the family couldn’t have known, otherwise the pageantry and procession at the airport would have been bigger.
“I couldn’t live here,” I said. “It’s beautiful, but our family is back home. I’d miss too many things about California, like the convenience of driving my car.”
“You’re already tired from walking?” Aunt Evelyn asked.
My feet were sore, but not painful after a day out sightseeing. However, switching to more comfortable flats for the next two days would be best.
“Not quite,” I admitted with a laugh.
“As long as the company is good,” my aunt said with a smile, “I’m sure your feet will feel fine.”
After dinner, I called Ma and asked if she knew that Aunt Evelyn was selling her house. The gasp from the phone indicated she didn’t. She promised to use the auntie network to find out more details, before reminding me to call the next day.
Deep sleep enveloped me as I dreamed. A scarf. A chase. Lovers in an embrace.
Marc was waiting for me at the top of the stairs leading down to Rue du Bac Station. He wore a tan leather jacket, dark denim, and the same messenger bag from yesterday. I didn’t think it possible, but he appeared even more handsome.
His eyes brightened when he saw me, followed by that dazzling smile.
“Are you ready for today’s adventure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His phone beeped. He ignored it. The beeping persisted until it escalated into rings. He sighed and checked the screen.
“Work?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can take the call.”
Marc rolled his eyes while the ringtone trilled on. “Yes, it’s work. I’m sorry. Please excuse me.”
Brief pauses in the ensuing conversation were interrupted with rapid French.
I’d been hoping to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t understand any of it. Judging by his tone and body language, I could see that whatever was happening at work was stressful. I ruled out a few more careers in my list of his possible vocations.
Marc hung up three minutes later. “I’m really sorry. I told them not to call again.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
He tilted his head and admired my cap-sleeved dress. “You certainly dressed for the palace. You’re the embodiment of spring.”
I twirled in one of the new items I had picked up while shopping with my aunt. The movement of the knee-length skirt highlighted the colorful butterfly appliqués pressed against a sheer lace overlay. The garment was a decadent, romantic confection of embroidery. Aunt Evelyn suggested the outfit this morning because of Marc’s plans for the day.
“Thank you.” I smiled.
The tension in his shoulders disappeared and his dimpled smile returned. “It’s less crowded at this time. We can afford to grab some breakfast before taking the RER to Versailles. Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I’d love breakfast.”
We walked to a boulangerie near the Musée d’Orsay. He went inside while I selected an unoccupied table outside in the sun. Marc emerged with a baguette and two coffees. Reaching inside his bag, he took out three small jars along with a cloth-wrapped parcel.
“This,” he said, leaning over the table to showcase the bread, “is important for your foodie encyclopedia.” The crinkle of the paper reminded me of opening presents on Christmas morning with the same levels of nervous excitement and anticipation.
Unraveling the cloth, he revealed a small, serrated bread knife and three metal teaspoons. Marc cut the baguette into a stack of slim slices. “Most locals don’t often eat decadent breakfasts. They love spreads and preserves—especially Nutella. I didn’t bring that, though, because you have it back home.”
I reached for the jars and unscrewed the tops. “So this is jam and toast?”
“Yes. Carrot and ginger, raspberry rhubarb, and blackberry vanilla,” he said, placing the spoons in each one.
Marc planned our breakfast like he had planned our day. Thoughtfulness like this did not exist on my dates—not that this was a date, I chided myself.
“Taste the jam first before I put it on the bread.” He dipped the spoon into the golden jar.
“Before I do, I have to ask: Did you make these?”
“Yes, preserves making is a hobby,” he replied. “Apparently, it’s common around here.”
I closed my eyes as he fed me the first flavor. The carrot and ginger jam was smooth with a hint of bitterness, which only helped balance the sweet notes. Delicious.
“You sure you don’t want to quit the day job to make artisanal jams instead?” I asked.
He laughed. “I have no plans to do that. This is something fun for myself.”
“I still think you should consider it as a backup. I can’t wait to try the next two.”
We took the RER to Versailles-Château Rive Gauche. A steady rain greeted our arrival at Versailles. We ducked inside before the downpour.
“The palace is incredible and the gardens, massive. If the weather were better, we could have walked along the Grand Canal to Grand Trianon and Petit Trianon. You can’t really get the scale of how big the estate is unless you walk it.” He ran his fingers through his hair to shake off any stray rain droplets.
The grandiosity and scale of the palace was matched only by the gilt. It inundated the senses until it became common—the irony of reducing its worth to the banal and the ensuing ennui that inevitably followed. The opulence didn’t intimidate; rather, it radiated the reason the population revolted. This was beauty at a price—viewed with equal parts caution and awe.
“This place has a ton of mythological references in the murals and names,” Marc leaned in and whispered over my shoulder. “You’ll be very busy writing everything down.”
I pulled out my pen and sketchbook as we trailed behind the tour guide. The ceilings gave my craned neck a workout—murals and panels, without an unpainted inch in sight.
“Why are you here in Paris?” he asked. “What made you pick this city?”
“My aunt kind of sprang the vacation on me.”
“Like a present?”
How could I explain the weird truth? I had to take lessons to control the prophecies I see, and my clairvoyant aunt abducted me to Paris because only she can teach me. A little too much information for a second day together. Better to be vague before I lost my guide.
“Yes, a last-minute one. I’m sure she’ll appreciate my company when her tea shop opens, but it’s also an opportunity to see the art in person. The textbooks can’t do it justice.”
“When I went to see The Night Watch at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, I stood there, staring at it for what seemed like hours. It’s huge and you feel as though you’re in the square with the men. No photo in any book could re-create that experience.” Marc tightened the strap of his messenger bag.
“I’m jealous. Most of the traveling I’ve done has been to all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean with my cousins, or eating and shopping trips with my parents in Asia. I need to travel more with an art-food itinerary in mind.”
Our group moved into the War Salon. Murals covered the arched ceiling. The guide explained the planned art was mythological until King Louis XIV’s decision to depict his military prowess instead. The tourist experience wouldn’t be complete without being herded as human cattle from one attraction to another.
A British couple in front of us carried a small drinking thermos. “Is that allowed in here?” I asked in a low whisper.
“If it’s alcohol, I don’t think so,” Marc whispered back. “Security inspected our bags twice. They must think it’s okay.”
The brunette struggled with the cap. I didn’t need my aunt’s clairvoyance to know this wasn’t going to end well. She handed the bottle back to her partner, who strained to open it. The lid popped off, hitting Marc in the shoulder. The thermos gaped open for me to see the dark liquid inside.
My stomach clenched. A prophecy formed like a gumball in my mouth.
Please, not now.