A few minutes later, the three of us were fighting for an outside table at one of the many overcrowded patisseries looking onto the market. Jonah ordered us all a coffee, though I would be the only one actually consuming the caffeine.
“Well, this is a total bust!” Brooke spat angrily as I sipped my latte.
“What do you think are the chances of Ruadhan letting us go up to Paris for the day to do some real shopping?”
“Not gonna happen,” Jonah said.
I looked out at the congested stalls and walkways, which were jazzed up by green and red holiday tinsel, brightening an otherwise drab, graying backdrop. As Brooke mounted a protest, I watched Jonah’s attention fall away from her, and from me. His eyes were scanning the market, and his body suddenly tensed. The checked tablecloth edged away from me as he dug his fingers down, pulling at it.
“Jonah?”
Nearly knocking his chair over, he was suddenly on his feet, his eyes tracing the pavement below. The Frenchman sitting behind him mumbled something; you didn’t need to speak the language to understand that Jonah jolting the back of his chair had irritated him.
“Stay here, don’t move. Brooke!”
“What?” she replied, oblivious to Jonah’s urgency.
“I said don’t move!” He bolted from the table and I lost him in the crowds within a matter of seconds.
“What’s his deal?” She was annoyed that he’d cut off her objections.
“I’m not sure.…”
I was trying to work out what had caught his attention when a looming darkness seemed to stretch itself over me. “You know what, I think we should maybe go and find Ruadhan.”
I got up and Brooke followed suit.
“Hang on, we need to go pay. Wait here.” She was up and in the shop before I had a chance to change her mind.
The moment she was gone, a haggard old woman appeared in front of me some distance away, gesturing at me to come to her. I hesitated and she willed me on again, more urgently this time. I could stay and wait for Brooke, or I could go and see what she wanted. She was human, I could tell. In her eighties and with a hunched back, she wouldn’t be able to harm me, so I ventured onto the cobbles; but as I neared she moved through the crowd. I called after her, but she just kept walking. So I followed. For an old woman, she walked fast. I briefly lost her among the many shoppers, but as I rose to my tiptoes, I found her fidgeting awkwardly underneath a sign for La Maison des Consuls. Well, at least I would keep my promise to Ruadhan of visiting the Council House; I’d accidentally broken the first one I’d made him.
As I approached, it seemed as though it was the one place in the square that no one else occupied. Drawing near to the old woman, the air stung me with its frost. And maybe it was because of the arches, but it looked darker than the open-air market.
As I reached her, the sound of a busker filled my ears. He was playing a violin of sorts; a sad and desperate tune freed itself from the strings across which his bow glided. Hunched over, the old woman grabbed my hands in her papery palms, and her yellowing, unclipped fingernails dug into my skin. Her odor was drenched in death; the stench was like rotten eggs and spoiled milk all tangled together, permeating my tongue. It was nauseating.
She spoke in French, not stopping for breath.
“Madame, I don’t understand. I never learned how to speak French!”
I wanted to cover my nose and mouth, but she still had my hands held captive in her own wart-infested grip.
Finally she let go of my hands and threw her own up in the air in annoyance. She reached inside her old moth-eaten cardigan and pulled out a velvet pouch, which she dangled in front of my face.
She spoke again in French and I shook my head.
In the end, she pushed the pouch against my chest and pointed her finger past me. “De-a-meo-n! De-a-meo-n!” Shouting in broken English, she knocked me as she scurried past.
I watched her leave, then turned my head back to where she had signaled; there was no one there. Scanning the rafters above me, I jumped as the garish carvings of deformed faces stared down, as though they were watching me.
I opened the pouch. A thick gold-banded ring with a coat of arms etched into the center dropped into my hand. A swan, with a castle above it, glowered at me. It took a moment, but I remembered it. I had seen it before. As I ran my finger along the curve, I felt dizzy. Stumbling forward, I found myself on the ground. The disfigured faces were screaming down at me, adding to my panic.
I lost myself. I was in my tunnel and images swirled and danced across my vision. Moments passed and eventually one came into focus.
A boy, maybe ten years old, was playing in a field. His long, browny-blond hair whipped past his face as he ran through the thick green grass. As I followed him I saw a young girl the same age, with blond curls down past her waist, making chase. As she caught up with him, they toppled to the floor, playing. It took me longer than it should to see that the young girl was, in fact, me. I was startled; I had never seen myself so young.
Then the summer disappeared, replaced by winter. Only now the boy and I were older, maybe fourteen. It was nighttime and we were snacking outside of a barn, the same barn in which I had seen myself with Gabriel playing chess.
Sitting with our backs against the wall, sharing a blanket, the boy was pointing up at the night’s sky toward the stars. I tugged the blanket away from him and he punched me playfully on the shoulder and we rolled around the floor giggling. He was my friend.
The scene was replaced by a series of still images depicting my childhood—our childhood.
Finally it rested on an image of him, older, maybe sixteen. I watched us as he read to me, his face partially hidden by the book. His stallion grazed on the land behind him. I had to look past him to see a familiar mare—pure white—lying on the ground: Uri. Moving the book from his face and placing it down beside him, he shuffled his hand in his pocket. The white of his flared cuffs emphasized his tanned skin. He produced a ring. It was my ring. The gem gleamed against the rays of the sun, which were cascading in strips. As he gently slid it down my finger, his own ring—a thick gold band with the crest of a swan and castle—came into focus. It was the same ring I was holding now.
Maybe my body jolting stopped the image, maybe it was my rising emotions, but it popped and dispersed. Instead, I watched the boy sob behind a dense green thicket. I strained to see what he was watching, what was upsetting him so much, and then I saw it: Gabriel and me picnicking, playing chess, laughing and smiling.