Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
T he Marché aux Fleurs turns out to be just what I need to distract from mulling over this morning’s sequence of annoyingly chaotic events. Down in the heart of Old Nice, parallel to the sparkling sea, Emi, Marie, and I traipse through café-studded streets, where the dandelion stucco shines bright in the sun. For the first time, I don’t feel so touristy. It might have something to do with my outfit or the fact that I now feel confident navigating the city without relying on my iPhone Maps.
Even Emi had commented on the former when I met her earlier at the wine shop.
“?a va, Minou?” she asked. “Comme c’est chic.” Emi eyed my outfit from top to bottom while I bashfully tucked my hair behind my ear.
A few days earlier, upon discovering the lack of functionality in my crop top with less wiggle room than a straitjacket, I’d decided to go shopping. Fortunately, the lamb’s muddy tracks hadn’t made it to this new outfit, still in its bag. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually wear it, so I’m glad today’s events forced me to. Now as we stroll through Nice Historique, sporting a floral-dotted sundress and sandals, I feel as comfortable as the locals always look when they stride past.
Turning onto the street Cours Saleya, we come to an open-air market. It’s bustling, but not overwhelming. Lines of coral and white-striped awning tents stretch for blocks. They shelter a buffet of flower bouquets nearly spilling out of each stall. Peonies, orchids, baby’s breath, and carnations. Lots and lots of carnations. Vendors wrap up fresh bushels in brown paper and string, replacing the just-sold items in a matter of seconds.
Emi grabs my elbow and then her mother’s, and we walk with arms interlocked through the entirety of the floral booths. Marie picks out a bushel of violet tulips along the way, and I drink in the sweet earthiness swirling around me. Groups take leisurely strolls, admiring the day’s offerings. Many walk like we do, elbow in elbow.
“Well, Minou, what do you think?” Emi asks, readjusting her creaseless wheat straw hat over tightly-coiled auburn locks.
“Magnifique,” I respond, my eyes still trailing the umpteen blocks left.
Emi’s eyes go to thin crescents. “Come, see ahead.”
In a matter of moments, the flower stalls transition to tables stocked with vibrant fruits and vegetables of all kinds. Squashes, leeks, melons, lemons, and oranges. Locals pick up loaves of bread, cartons of raspberries, and dried meats while tourists mull about, peeping in at every stall like it’s a wonder of the world. I fall into the latter bucket, in awe of the assortments of cheeses, spices, and spreads.
At one stall, what looks like gallons of olives from the narrow purple to plump light green varieties have been spread out in shallow dishes. Marie points to the smaller black ones and instructs the man to fill up a plastic baggy. Following Marie’s lead, we each try one out of the scoop he’s offered to us.
“Delicious, no?” Emi says to me, though it’s an understatement to the briny, buttery flavor coating my mouth.
The next stall isn’t as welcoming to visitors. The “Ne touchez pas s’il vous pla?t” sign matches the temperament of its vendor. Hands on her hips, she glares at each person perusing her selection, ready to pounce on anyone who dares hover a finger over her cured sausages.
Once Marie finishes gathering her groceries, we finally get to what Emi cares most about here. Confection and bath products.
Just as we reach the booth hailing tubes of bath salt and rows of color-coded fragrant bar soaps, someone taps my shoulder under the striped tent.
Every muscle from my shoulders to my knees locks in place. My mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario: Did Angela somehow find out about me getting all touchy-touchy with Jamie? Has she sent someone to spy on me, just like she did with her former assistant? And now based on the alleged spy’s evidence, la police are here to collect and deport me?
“?llo. ?a va?” The voice is cheery and breathy.
When I turn around, Estelle tilts her head at me, the ends of her silky headband poking her collarbone. My shoulder blades loosen, yet my insides still feel like mud. Like when I used to stay home alone while Mom traveled for work and every creak in the floorboard instantly meant a samurai assassin was creeping behind the shower curtain.
Get a grip, Kat.
“Comment allez-vous?” Estelle asks us all, readjusting the strap on her crocheted grocery bag.
I repeat the “bien, merci,” that Marie and Emi reply.
“Kat,” she says, grabbing the sides of my arms before the double cheek kiss. I’ve become so accustomed to it at this point that my body takes it on without having to think.
Over her shoulder, my eyes widen at the sight of a camera and a long, wide-brimmed lens being yanked behind a grand oak tree at the end of the cobblestone street.
Oh my God! I knew it!
I make to chase the cameraperson down, but Emi rests her hand on my elbow, startling me. My eyes dart around the nearby tent stalls and between the hundreds of shoppers admiring their goodies, but I lose sight of the onlooker.
“Looking for something?” Estelle asks.
With one more glimpse at the oak tree, there’s no sign of the spy I swear I just saw.
But I shake my head, even though my mind swarms with possibilities.
Estelle gives a coy grin.
“So, you’ve met my marraine . Godmother. Well, mine and Jamie’s,” Emi says.
Estelle nods with me. “Glad to see you’re still with us, Kat.”
Same, Estelle. Same.
“Lovely day for a market walk, hmm?” Estelle lets her eyes wander around the bustling venue.
“It’s good to know the vendors too,” Marie says in her thick accent. “When la fromagère and le boulanger do well, so do we.”
“Are you thinking of selling in the market?” Estelle asks her. Not even the breeze coasting through the streets is strong enough to move one strand of Marie’s shoulder-length brown bob.
“If we have enough hands to help.”
Emi resumes sifting through sachets filled with dried rose petals, herbs, and lavender. The bright expression on her face has subsided. When she looks at the stall a few steps down, she immediately perks up, grabs my elbow, and takes me to the confection stand.
Marie and Estelle follow, mumbling in French.
“Bonjour,” the vendor says to us as we peek over the glass barrier between us at an assortment of fine chocolates, crystallized fruit, and jars of citrus preserves. They must’ve set the display over ice packs, because in this eighty-degree weather—twenty-six Celsius—the candy would normally be sweltering.
“Un coffret de calissons s’il vous pla?t,” Emi says, pointing to a box of almond-shaped confections topped with pastel glazes. She and the vendor exchange smiles and informal niceties while I glance a few times over my shoulder, scrunching the periwinkle fabric over my thighs. The swells of visitors wandering in and out of each stall are now all suspected stalkers.
Holding out the box in front of me, Emi nods. “Calissons d’Aix. Spécialité proven?ale.”
What I thought was a cookie turns out, as Estelle explains, to be a mixture of ground almonds and candied fruit, like melons and oranges.
“Like marzipan?” I ask. I shudder, remembering the glob of overly sweet almost-paste.
“Better,” Emi insists, handing the box around to Marie and Estelle.
She’s right. The sweet, nutty bite practically melts on my tongue, leaving a lingering echo of cantaloupe.
Estelle shakes her head with pleasure. “More people need to try this. Now they take their phone pictures and move on. They don’t stop to enjoy the joie de vivre .”
Marie shakes her head. “C’est dommage.”
Emi whisper translates. Pity.
“Which is why we need to be in front of the tourists,” Marie continues. “They won’t know about us otherwise.”
“You could try social media, Maman,” Emi mumbles, popping another calisson into her mouth.
Marie can only grunt her distaste. “We cannot turn out like Solange.”
“Solange?” I ask, and I am promptly filled in that the empty bookshop where I happened to find myself alone with Jamie belonged to Solange Martin. When her grandfather passed, she assumed the reins of running the bookstore in èze until fledgling revenue levels forced her to close its doors.
“I hear she is trying to start a new business,” Estelle says, gripping her wrist below her back.
Marie scrunches her brow. “Comment?”
“Oui. A magazine of sorts.”
“About what?” Emi asks.
Estelle shrugs. “I’ve seen her walking in and out of the hotels by the Matisse museum. Something for the tourists, I imagine.”
Travel magazines. We have those back home. I used to work for one as an intern. Eighty percent of my job was devoted to marketing materials, but the remaining time, I scribed write-ups on local happenings, hidden gems, shops, and restaurants. Though small compared to a Condé Nast, it proved relevant and prosperous in its own right.
“But...” Marie lowers her voice below its already low-hum level. “Ces touristes only read what is online.”
“Maybe she wants to do the same as you, Marie. Be in front of the people. Physiquement. But with papier.”
“I for one,” Estelle begins as she walks to a stall emitting a nutty smokiness, “give her full support.”
Emi, Marie, and I follow her, departing the tent sheltering assorted honey— miel —jars for the stall with a painted sign reading “Socca.” A man pours thin batter onto a circular cast-iron skillet at least a foot in diameter. He sticks it into the pizza oven behind him, a crackling, glowing orange fire alive inside. The heat caresses my face and makes the sun shining down feel somewhat cooler. The dough bubbles as it cooks, and using a long paddle, the man retrieves the skillet, revealing the dough’s char-speckled texture. Off the heat, he slices it into triangular pieces and sticks it into a paper cone before handing it to Estelle.
She gestures for us to try a piece. I’m beginning to think that this sharing nature isn’t a temporary mood for these women, and that it’s rather culturally customary.
I tilt my head as I grab a warm piece, still steaming. “Crêpe?”
Marie shakes her head and points to the bucket of yellowish flour next to bowls of olive oil. Apparently, the pois chiches label on the container means garbanzo beans. And astonishingly, the minimal ingredients in this relatively brittle chickpea pancake understate its savory, salty, earthy flavor.
Estelle harps on about Solange. “She already has one reader. I prefer paper.”
“Is that why you don’t use your portable?” Emi lifts her own cell in the air.
“Ah, Emi. Tu es si dr?le. Hahaha.” Estelle gives Emi a smirk and a nudge. “There is a lost magic in how we used to talk. Waiting for the post to come every week, hoping for a letter from your closest friend... or lover,” she says. “It’s so...”
“Transfixiant,” Emi finishes the sentence with a slight smirk.
“Oui.” Estelle returns the grin and snatches the cone of socca back. She leads us through the pastel-striped tent colony to meander and bask in the sun. As we walk, I keep an eye out for the wayward camera lens.
When Estelle pulls me under one stall selling vintage stationary, I pause my momentary sleuthing to consider the options. Slightly discolored stamps boast sketches of the palm tree-lined riviera. Thick cardstock paper smooth on the surface and gruff on the sides. Red and blue stripes bordering postage envelopes. I exchange ten euros for a package of each, hugging my purchase tight to my chest, not sure who I’ll write to just yet.
Not two seconds later, I hear Howie Gupta’s voice bellowing a hundred feet away.
Jesus. Did all of èze decide to show up today?
He’s guzzling down a satchel of dried fruits and nuts as he saunters over.
“I thought that was you,” he says to the group. After exchanging cordialities, he strokes his chin and says, “So, did you hear the talk of the town? I was up at the Cave earlier to refill my merlot stash. And I ran into a woman starting her own travel agency.”
“Solange,” Emi interjects.
“Righto. That was her name. Might not be a bad gig for Continental to sponsor,” Howie ponders aloud.
“Did she mention her promotional magazine?” Estelle asks.
“Briefly. Something about needing an English editor.”
Marie turns to me. “You have a creative eye, Kat. Emi tells me so.”
“Are you considering the position, Miss Kat?” Howie asks.
My palms start to go sweaty. The sun’s rays feel more abrasive against my shoulders than they did five minutes ago.
“I, um... well, I haven’t heard much about it. I’d... I’d have to check with Angela, of course.”
And meet this Solange woman and read the fine print of whatever the hell I’m signing up for. I won’t lie, penning a travel magazine would be a glorious creative outlet and great practice for when I eventually work my way up to international content editor for Continental Air—after I get inducted to the Young Soarers and spend three years in the rotational program.
“Miss Kat, your ambition hasn’t failed to impress,” Howie compliments.
My mouth is gaping, and I struggle to come up with a response.
“She hasn’t said yes yet,” Estelle says.
I shrug and exhale. “I guess I’ll have to look into it.”
Howie’s grin lengthens a mile wide. A rock sinks in my stomach.
Oh God. What did I just do? I know exactly what I’ve done.
My hopefully future boss now expects me to edit a travel magazine, and I haven’t even met the woman running the show nor have I addressed the feasibility of the role in addition to au pairing and perfecting my Young Soarers application.
But the smiles painted across the group’s faces sear into me.
This is why spontaneity is overrated.