By G. M. Donley
Members of the Neff family had lived at 437 E 150th Street in Cleveland’s North Collinwood neighborhood since the 1950s. First it was Leander and Adrienne bringing up their five kids, Leander, Michael, Sylvia, Fred, and Missy. Then Missy stayed there and helped take care of the older generation; that generation was Adrienne’s parents for a few years and, soon enough, Leander Senior and Adrienne themselves. Missy got married and she and her husband Deon Darling moved in and they kept living there and had their own kids, a set of twins Ida and Rosa, but sadly Missy died young, in 2008 just as the twins were getting out of college. Her parents, too, were gone by then. The bodies wore out fast and nobody lived very long because everybody worked steel or railroads. Everybody except for Fred. He picked up a saxophone in the 4th grade, which for him was 1967, and then the bass, then the drums, and by the time he hit high school he was making good money playing local gigs. Bands always need a drummer. Rock and Roll was the big thing for the white kids, and the black kids like Fred were expected to play soul or Motown-type music, but he got the jazz bug. Jazz didn’t qualify as a big thing at the time. Or to put it more accurately, for almost everybody jazz was nothing, and for a very small number of people it was everything.
Not long after Fred got out of high school, he took off, first for New York, and within a few months of that, for Paris, which he had been told was the only place in the world in the 1970s where being a drummer in a jazz combo was seen as a perfectly worthy and mature life choice. The family didn’t like all the drugs and he didn’t like anybody telling him how to live, so the distance worked in everybody’s favor at the time. He didn’t keep in great touch with the family in general—just the occasional post card, and he never did get back to America, though he talked about it all the way up to his own death in 1992 at only 35. He wasn’t married, exactly, but Chantelle, the French woman who would have been his widow, sent a letter saying he had died to Adrienne Neff, the only legible Cleveland address in Fred’s chaotic appointment book, but how could she know that Adrienne herself was dead by then and that “Return to Sender” wouldn’t get a letter all the way back to France? What they saw in Cleveland was that at some point the post cards from long-gone Fred had stopped. What that meant, who could say? And since post cards have no place for a return address . . . just say that, for whatever reasons, people lost track. If anyone had checked Missy’s old address book, they would have seen Fred’s +33 phone number in France right there next to the letter F, but nobody did that. No reason to look.
That all might help explain why, when a letter arrived where Rosa and Ida now lived together at 437 E. 150th Street, Cleveland, Ohio in early 2023, bearing a printed mailing label addressed to “Madam Sir Family of Neff,” Ida assumed it was a junk solicitation. She didn’t throw it away, though, or mark it “no longer at this address,” but rather stuck it in the “intend to consult Rosa” pile and immediately forgot about it. Had she noticed that the return address was from France, maybe she would have opened it right then, just out of curiosity, but the return address was on the back and she hadn’t even looked at the back. Rosa might have rolled her eyes at this moment, because twins have a special sense for that sort of thing. Then again, Ida might have rolled her eyes at Rosa for never checking the Rosa pile.
Three weeks later, one evening, the phone rang. Rosa had been intending to disconnect the land line ever since Uncle Lea had moved out to the retirement place, but she hadn’t gotten around to it, primarily because any such momentous decision required a consultation with Ida and they were born Libras so they could never decide anything, or so they told themselves. And also because things don’t always go smoothly at retirement places and it seemed that there might be some remote chance that Uncle Lea would end up back in the house for another while, and a land line might be one of those things Uncle Lea had to connect him with his younger days, if he wanted that. So that was maybe why there was still a phone to ring.
The male voice on the other side introduced himself as Luke and explained, in a French accent that Rosa found difficult to understand, that Chantelle had died and now there was the question of the Mark IV. Rosa was trying to figure out what question mark number four might be when the voice noted having sent a letter some weeks prior. She and he agreed to set up a Skype call the next day, at 3:00 p.m. her time, which would be 10:00 in France, which meant that it was now about 3:30 a.m. there. When she brought this up, he explained that he had counted in the wrong direction and had been aiming for mid-morning in America.
Ida fished the letter out of the Rosa pile as Rosa rolled her eyes and Ida rolled her eyes. Ida opened the envelope and they read it together.
“Well,” Ida said.
“That’s interesting,” said Rosa.
“Can you be a witness to a will that names you in it?”
“I do not know, Ro.”
The contents of the envelope included two photocopied handwritten documents, in English, arranged on one sheet:
Last Will and Testament of Fred Neff
August 17, 1989. Witnessed by Chantelle Lafond and Jean-Philippe Sevrier
I leave all my worldly goods to Chantelle Lafond. I wish to be cremated and my ashes preserved in our Lincoln Continental Mk IV automobile, along with my drum kit and assorted other items that are already in the trunk of said automobile, which will be found at the property of Chantelle Lafond in the village of Saint-Philibert d’Entremont, France. Should Chantelle Lafond predecease me, I leave all my worldly goods to our son Luc.
Last Will and Testament of Chantelle Lafond
August 17, 1989. Witnessed by Fred Neff and Jean-Philippe Sevrier
I leave all my worldly goods to Fred Neff. I wish to be cremated and my ashes preserved in a Lincoln Continental Mk IV automobile which will be found at the property of myself, Chantelle Lafond, in the village of Saint-Philibert d’Entremont, France. Should Fred Neff predecease me, I leave all my worldly goods to our son Luc.
The signatures of the three witnesses appeared at the end of each text. The same two documents, but written in French, appeared on a second sheet.
A third sheet was a printed letter in English.
Madam, Sir Family of Neff:
Please pass this information to interested parties. As you can see from the attached documents, my parents wished for their property would be transferred to me when they have died. However, my mother and I agreed to an additional instruction that the relatives of Fred in America should be having the opportunity of traveling to France to see the place where they have been living and to meet their son Luc, myself. A fund was set up by my mother in 1999 to pay for flying tickets and more travel costs. Please contact me as soon as you find possible to make the arrangements.
To your health,
Luc
luc83@chartreuse.fr
+33 4 79 54 49 54
Skype calls were routine to Ida and Rosa because the Darling Twins were often contracting with musical producers and recording engineers around the country and even overseas sometimes to contribute their unique flavor of vocal expression to someone’s new song, which these days could be done with a couple microphones and the portable digital recorder in their state-of-the-art recording studio (either the upstairs tile bathroom or the walk-in coat closet down the hall depending whether the client wanted a reverberant or dry sound). No need to fly to remote locations and book studio time or anything like that—just record a few takes and upload the files to the producer’s FTP site and go from there. Years ago, this line of work had involved some occasional travel to an exotic place, or at least to some location outside of Cuyahoga County, but technology had put an end to that. Only the really high-end artists could get the label to pay for an in-person trip to L.A. or Muscle Shoals or King’s College Chapel or the Aztec pyramids to get a group of musicians all in one place to actually perform together in real time in the same room where somebody was sure the necessary magic would be. The Darling Twins were too good at the remote recording game for their own good, it turned out. There had been no subsidized travel for a decade. An expenses-paid trip to France to meet the son of a long-lost uncle? Hell yeah.
Rosa was the tech whiz, while Ida played the role of lead musician and had learned, in addition to singing, to play a number of instruments including piano, the drums, the tuba, and the flute. They were fraternal twins. Ida was a pure soprano, Rosa an alto, but each had enough range to overlap the other substantially, and this capability was the basis of their trademark effect: they would be singing exactly the same notes and then suddenly one voice would veer away and offer an unexpected harmony, or they would be singing along in two-part harmony (or more parts than that, thanks to overdubbing), and then suddenly everything would converge into a clear and powerful unison. It could be unnerving.
“Allo?” The curly-haired gentleman on Rosa’s iPad screen raised his eyebrows and appeared to be fiddling with his keyboard.
“Hello!” Ida and Rosa enthused in a clear and powerful unison.
THERE ARE NO DIRECT FLIGHTS to Geneva from Cleveland. After the expected unscheduled delay in Newark, they arrived only 30 minutes late. Luc would be holding up a sign so they would know him—this much they had agreed upon—but the conversation had wandered off track before anyone thought to specify what said sign would say. So Luc was ready with his piece of cardboard and his black marker, but not with any words, and he was still formulating phrases in his mind when the passengers from the Newark flight began trudging zombie-like into view. He held up the blank cardboard. “There he is,” said Ida and Rosa.
Luc drove the Citroën down the fast toll road to Chambéry, then got off the highway and began to head through the city toward a gigantic cliff that loomed over the town and the lake near it.
“Make stop for grocery,” he said. “No shopping in Saint-Philibert. Very small village.” He steered the car into a lot and turned to the women in the back seat. “Come in shopping?” They shrugged and followed him in.
Luc talked to himself as he toured the aisles. “Des baguettes? Oui, quatre. Du fromage? Oui, entremonts naturellement. Du vin? Bien sur, le rouge Ventoux. Et Gigondas.” And so on. Soon the cart was filled with enough for a few good meals. “C’est bon?” He turned to his guests.
That much French they understood. “Oui,” they said, Rosa a major fifth lower than Ida.
They exited the parking lot and Luc drove a couple minutes then turned off and pointed the car uphill. The road grew narrower, and then he turned off onto a smaller side road to go even more steeply upward, winding through sheep and cow pastures via switchback turns, rarely shifting higher than second gear. “Le Mont Granier,” he said, pointing out the window at the imposing cliff as the car came up into its shadow. It looked to Rosa like the thousand-foot-high bow of a granite ocean liner was emerging from the steep green hillside. The road veered back and forth a few more times, joined a larger road, and leveled out just as they came to a roadside bar and restaurant where a dozen or so bicyclists in varying states of dissolution were congregated, a couple standing, more sitting, some flat on their backs.
“Why do they do that?” Ida pointed.
“Because they are very tired,” said Luc.
“No, I mean why do they ride up here in the first place?”
He just laughed.
Twisting relentlessly, the road descended into a deep valley, with cliffs rising on either side. After some time following a river gorge, they came into a small town—two churches, a few shops, a bridge over a river. Ida was going to ask if this was Saint-Philibert, but then the village was over almost as soon as it began, and they were back in the forest, climbing again. Shortly, Luc steered the car off the main road onto a narrow track that angled down into a pasture. He gestured out the window. “Et voila!” At the base of the pasture was a small cluster of buildings flanking a stream. There was one church spire. “Bienvenue en Saint-Philibert d’Entremont. Welcome!” He pulled off to the side to make room for a tractor coming up the other way, then resumed. The road doubled back around a barn and then they could see, in a carport next to a stone and wood cottage, under a blue tarp, the unmistakable profile of the rear end of a 1974 Lincoln Continental MK IV, with its semicircular hump at the back implying that a spare tire was stored there inside the trunk.
“So that’s it?” Ida said. “The Lincoln Continental Mark IV where they wanted to be laid to rest?”
“Yes. First we go inside,” said Luc. “Groceries must refrigerator.”
He opened the unlocked front door, reached around inside to turn on a light, and gestured that they enter. It was a large single room with stucco walls and a beamed ceiling, Along the left edge was a tile counter and a stove and sink and refrigerator. A wooden table and a few chairs sat by a window next to the kitchen area. Along the right wall was a narrow stairway leading upward. A few black-and-white framed photos adorned the walls. And in the middle of the open space was a grand piano.
“You play?” Ida asked.
“Oui, yes,” said Luc. “This instrument was my mother’s. She teach me. And Papa teach me the percussion. Drums in car.”
Rosa walked up closer to the photos on the wall. “That must be Uncle Fred. Looks like a tall, skinnier version of Grandpa Lea. And the lady is your mom, Chantelle?”
“Yes. They perform together for many years. He play the drums and make the arrangements. Sometimes other instruments. She do piano and sing.” He pointed to a framed poster. “Neff-Lafond, 21:00, 23 Mars 1983, l’Espace Jazz, Lyon,” the headline read.
“That’s what they called themselves?” Rosa asked. “Neff-Lafond?”
“Oui.” He nodded. “After I am born, my grand-mère attend me while they are away.”
“Here?” Rosa made a sweeping gesture across the room.
“We live in Lyon. This is vacation cottage of my grandparents, less than two hours driving from Lyon. Many people can stay, two sleeping rooms and loft upstairs. One bedroom for you sharing, okay?”
“Oh yeah, we share everything anyways. Musta been fun getting that big-ass car up here,” Ida noted.
“This car is for the touring. Drum equipments and clothes all go in. Sometimes also clarinet player or saxophone or trumpet in back seat. Bass player okay, but only electric. No room for stand-up double-bass. Wide car but not tall. Very stable for the mountain roads. Also very strong for collisions.”
Rosa decided not to pursue the topic of collisions. “Why are we here instead of in Lyon?” she asked.
“Car too big in Lyon,” he said. “Park here free.”
“So they never lived here?” Ida asked. “May I?” She lifted the cover to expose the piano keyboard.
“Yes, of course, play. In summer only they live here. This car is sliding so much in the snow.”
Ida played a few chords and rapid scales in a couple of keys. “In tune, even, damn. If you don’t mind,” she closed the cover, “how did he die, your father? We never knew for sure that Uncle Fred had even passed away, only that the post cards stopped. Was it the drugs?”
Luc raised his eyebrows. “I have only 5 years then, but I remember Mama come tell me Papa is killed from street accident.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Rosa. “So he’s buried in Lyon?”
“Lyon? No, no. He is in the car with Mama.” Rosa and Ida glanced at each other in a way they had always done that carried the implicit question, Okay who’s going to follow up on that one?
“Hello!” A voice came from the stairwell. Ida and Rosa turned in unison. Dark legs came into view, then a yellow skirt, and a loose blue blouse over a pregnant belly, then a sharp-featured face with high cheekbones framed by hair made into tight corn rows. “You made it.”
“Ah, oui,” said Luc. “I introduce my wife, Surya.”
“Forgive me, I was resting,” said Surya.
THE BLUE TARP covered only the rear end of the car, which was dark brown with a black vinyl top. “Is too long for the parking,” Luc explained, pointing up at the roof of the carport which stopped a couple of feet short of the back of the trunk. “In the front are Mama and Papa.” He walked forward and opened the single very long left-side door as far as he could, which was not very far, and stepped back.
“You first,” said Ida, who was having a mental flash of a skeleton seat-belted into the driver’s position.
Rosa leaned in and noted a small metal box positioned on each seat. The cavernous interior was a mix of black leather and wood grain or (Rosa thought to herself) faux versions of each. “Both cremated, I see,” she turned to Luc. “And they are in the car why?”
“In the wills, their wish,” he said, shrugging. He closed the car door. “You wish a drink?”
“That,” Ida said, “is my kind of wish.” Even though she had known perfectly well that Fred and Chantelle had been cremated, she could not get the skeleton image out of her mind.
He led them back into the house, where Surya had set out wine glasses and a bottle. She was preparing a platter of some of the cheeses and bread that Luc had just bought. Luc gestured that they take seats and he opened the bottle poured three glasses. “Gigondas,” he said. “Close to here, in direction of Provence.” Surya brought the platter and a glass of mineral water sat with them.
“Thank you,” said Ida and Rosa.
“To Chantelle and Fred,” said Surya, raising her glass. They all clinked.
It was not even 5:00 yet, but the jet lag was catching up to Rosa, and one look at Ida’s red-rimmed eyes told her that her sister felt the same. It would not take much wine before the lights went out.
“Have you decided?” Surya asked.
“Decided?” replied Ida and Rosa.
“Whether to take the car back,” Surya said. “Their forever-postponed trip to America.”
“What?” said Ida. “First we heard of that. Right Ro?”
“Why would you take an old barge like that all the way back to Cleveland? You ever been to America, either one of you?” Ida asked.
Luc shook his head. “I went to college in Boston,” Surya said. “From Senegal originally. Former French colony, that’s how I ended up here. I spoke good French already.”
“Cleveland too,” said Rosa.
“Cleveland too what?” said Ida.
“Used to be a French colony,” said Rosa.
“Not that I remember,” said Ida.
“Your English is better than his,” Rosa pointed at Luc. “No offense. Did your dad not teach you that?”
“No, French only,” said Luc. “He said America is no place for a man with dark skin.”
“So why does he want to go back there?” Ida asked.
Luc shrugged.
“I never knew him,” said Surya, “but I did know Chantelle. “It was not just the skin. It was the music. Jazz is the American music, but it found a happier home here in France.”
“Is this cool for you here?” Rosa looked between Luc and Surya. “Having darker skin than . . .”
“Than the white French peasant farmers all around us?” Surya broke in. “It’ true, I am about six shades darker than anybody else around here.”
“This is not true, no peasants,” Luc said. “Vacation place now.”
“He’s right,” Surya said. “I was joking about peasants. It’s mostly professionals from Lyon and Grenoble now who own these places. But no, it’s not perfect. I mean France still had colonies in Africa until the 1960s. It’s not the same legacy as American slavery is for you, but it’s definitely a legacy. But according to Chantelle, Fred thought he got a fairer shake over here. So he stayed. I think the jazz helped.”
“You were in Boston,” Ida said. “That’s a cool town, right? Why didn’t you stay in America?”
“It is a cool town like you say. A big college town. But also some places you definitely don’t want to go if you look like me. But that is not why I left. My mother moved to Lyon, and she needed some help so I joined her.”
“And met Luc?”
She nodded and smiled at him. He reached across and clasped her hand.
“So what’s this about taking the car?” Rosa asked.
“You did not explain to them?” Surya looked at Luc as if she were not the least bit surprised.
He shrugged. Ida had been counting Luc shrugs, because they were more frequent than words, but between the wine and the jet lag, she had lost track.
“Chantelle said that she thought that Fred always wanted to take her to America, but that plan obviously was not possible after he died,” said Surya. “So you know the funny story? Of course you do not. Fred bought that car because he thought he could fit his bass drum in the back of the trunk where it looks like a wheel fits. Then, after he buys it, he finds out it’s fake, a non-functional design feature—just a wheel shape built into the trunk exterior. No matter, everything fit in it even so. For many years in the warm months they would drive that car all over Europe to perform. It was almost like their home. Good memories. After he died, Chantelle drove it here and parked it and said ‘never again’ and it has been sitting there ever since. Tires flat. Maybe it runs, maybe not. Anyway, Fred used to say sometimes that his sister Missy would love to have the Lincoln Continental Mark IV, so he always thought he might find some way to get it to her. So to put all the things together, if Fred and Chantelle are in the car, and the car goes to America, all boxes checked.”
“Well first of all, how the hell you going to get a beast like that across the ocean?” Rosa asked. “Wait for the Bering Straight to freeze over again?”
“Cars can be shipped,” said Surya. “I researched this. Costing probably a couple of thousand euro, crossing time of a couple weeks, then you would need to pick up the car in New York. But we have no title or other papers for it. This would be a problem. And before that you have to drive the car to the nearest seaport, that’s Marseille.”
“And second of all,” said Ida, “Missy, that’s our mama, and she’s dead too.”
“I LIKE THE SOUND IN HERE,” Rosa said to Ida as they enjoyed a morning coffee at the wooden table.
“I noticed that too. Warm, a little bounce but a quick decay. Maybe try something after they wake up.” It was still dark out, but they had gone to sleep ten hours ago.
“Nice of them to set out the coffee stuff.”
“What do you think,” Ida said, “about the car?”
“Nice car,” Rosa replied.
“Dead folks in it,” Ida noted.
“We already got a car anyways.”
“Not like that one.”
Rosa didn’t answer, but took a sip of coffee.
“No, not like that one in any number of ways,” Ida continued.
“Ain’t nobody to give it to.”
“Looks in good shape. Wouldn’t last too many Cleveland winters.”
“They must not use the salt here,” Rosa said.
“Maybe some kinda fancy-ass French salt that don’t give you high blood pressure and don’t rust your car out.”
Someone was coming down the stairs. They looked over as Surya carefully negotiated the last few steps and walked toward them.
“Hello,” she said. “Bon matin, good morning.”
“Morning,” said Ida. “You drinkin’ coffee?”
Surya smiled. “In careful measures.” She patted her belly.
“How long you got”” Rosa asked.
“Another month, approximately.” She groaned.
“We never had one of them,” Ida said. “Probably on account of avoiding men.”
“You are smart ladies,” said Surya.
“You’re a smart lady, anybody can tell that,” Rosa said. “What were you studying in Boston? Never been there, but we have some clients over there.”
“ESL. I am a French-English translator in either direction. You say clients. What kind of clients?”
“That explains your English,” Ida said. “For clients, we did some tracks for a band in Boston called Lights of their Eyes a couple years back. Folky indie rock stuff. Pretty good, but I don’t remember the names of the songs.”
“Tracks?” Adrienne asked.
“Vocals,” Rosa said. “We’re singers.”
“Oh, beautiful. Can we make some music later? Luc would love this.”
“We like this room,” Ida said. “It would sound nice in here.”
“It does,” Surya said. “Listen, we need to talk about something before Luc comes down.”
“It’s okay, we don’t feel pressure either way about the car,” Rosa said. “Whatever works for him and you we’ll do that.”
“It’s not that, or not exactly,” said Surya. “Missy, your mother, she called me. She was very sick, in her last days. She had a number for this place because Fred had given it to her and it was still a land line, so when it rang and I was alone in here I picked it up. I had been with Luc only for part of a year, not long after I got back from America.”
“So you knew our mama?” Ida exclaimed.
“A little bit, and only over the telephone. But let me finish quickly. Your mother and her brother Fred, they had kept in contact the whole time after he left home, but they agreed they would not tell anybody because a good part of what they talked about was his struggles and he didn’t want anybody worrying about that. Drugs, mental challenges. When he died, Chantelle even told little Luc it had been a street accident, but Missy told me Fred had got AIDS from needles they thought, and when he started getting sicker from that he told her he was going to take control of the situation. She knew what that meant. He would overdose on purpose rather than make Chantelle watch him crumble away while trying to take care of Luc. He hadn’t been using for years, but he kept that one dose stashed away, figuring he might need it one day. I checked the records in Lyon and that’s confirmed. November 3, 1992. But nobody ever told Luc. Including me. And nobody told your family. I don’t know if it really matters to anybody now, but I thought you should know the truth. You can decide what to do with it.”
“But all these pictures,” Rosa said. “Is that all made-up?”
“No, not at all,” Surya replied. “They had ten good years before he got sick. They were even good years after he got sick, but they stopped touring. And thank heaven, she didn’t catch it from him.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Ida said.
“About the car,” Surya said, “you don’t need to take it. I suggested to Luc that he might mention it when he first called you, but that was just one more thing to try to get you interested enough so that you would come here and I could talk to you.”
“Luc didn’t plan this?” Rosa asked.
“He did, yes. He and his mother spoke about this possibility, and when I heard, I helped them plan the logistics. I am much better at that kind of thing than he is.”
“What does he do, Luc?” asked Ida, “for a living?”
“A variety of things,” Surya replied, “but there is a reason the piano is always in tune. He’s a composer, a songwriter. Almost successful enough to make a living, but he adds some other jobs just to be safe.”
“He does have that spaced-out songwriter vibe,” Rosa said.
“Carefully cultivated,” Surya laughed.
“Thank you,” said Ida. “Thank you for telling us about Uncle Fred. It’s good to know what happened, and good to know that him and Chantelle had something special.”
Surya nodded.
“Are you ever going to tell him?” Rosa put her hand on Surya’s.
Surya looked up, her large, almond-shaped brown eyes wet with unshed tears, and shrugged.
LUC LED THEM back down the path alongside the pasture fence. A breeze made a hissing in the trees while the brook murmured a quiet bubbling, their footfalls added a steady walking beat, and cowbells filled in randomly with flat metallic accents. Ahead, the path joined the paved lane as it curved around the barn and descended to the village.
“There’s the big ass of that Mark IV sticking out,” Ida said.
“Car got a booty on it,” said Rosa.
Surya had stayed back because her feet hurt while Luc gave the 45-minute walking tour of Saint-Philibert d’Entremont. The stream that followed alongside the pasture continued beside the lane, and they had followed that downhill into the village. They had paused outside the plain, white stone and stucco church that sat in the middle of an open space where the brook made a turn. Luc pointed out a building that had served as a communal baking oven for centuries and was still well stocked with firewood. Next to that, a small stone edifice had been converted to a free lending library. A few farmers lived here year-round, he explained, but most of the small houses were now owned by people in Grenoble or Chambéry or Lyon, and used as family vacation places or rented out to French tourists (few outsiders had discovered this place). But there were a few resident families in the village—as Luc led Ida and Rosa uphill away from the church, a school bus appeared from the nearby main road and a half-dozen kids who had strolled into the churchyard in the past few minutes climbed aboard.
Luc led them up to a viewpoint where he noted a massive rock outcrop a few miles away that he said was called la Roche Veyrand. He pointed at the high cliffs all around and said that was where the name “entremont” came from—between mountains. He said he would get out a map back at the house and show where they were and trace the various routes they might take to drive the Mark IV out of the Chartreuse to Marseille. And then they had walked across the ridge listening to the cowbells and the birds and feeling the breeze, and that had helped Ida and Rosa both feel a bit more energetic and now they were back at the house.
Surya was at the table reading. Luc excused himself to find the map. Ida and Rosa sat with Surya.
“Sure is pretty here,” said Ida.
“Good thing,” said Surya. “It’s going to become home for us. We’ll keep our little apartment in Lyon after the baby, but there is a lot more space here. Two bedrooms and this room and a big loft on the third floor.”
“That’s a big change,” Rosa said.
“It is. But we both work well here. Good fast internet. I do a lot of remote work anyway. It’s an experiment. We’ll see.”
“Yeah, talk yourself into it, baby,” said Ida.
Surya laughed.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Rosa asked.
“No, but all the ladies in town tell me it’s going to be a boy.”
Luc came back and unfolded two maps on the table. “So we are here, Saint-Philibert,” he said. “You see the mountains all around, like we are in secret kingdom. He began tracing convoluted pathways for getting the Mark IV out of the secret kingdom of the Chartreuse region and onto the highway toward Marseille; many routes had to take detours at pinch points where the car was too wide for some bridge or tunnel or small village corridor. Ida and Rosa tried to follow, but very quickly their eyes wandered into the nearby mountains and valleys on the map while Luc’s words became a background murmur like the bar chatter between sets at a club show. Finally, he switched to a broader-area map and his finger stopped and tapped on the large dot labeled Marseille. Then he paused. “Or leave car outside here, nobody worry about it.”
“Uh . . .” said Rosa.
“We were talking about the car,” said Ida. “And . . .”
“I have song, making since death of my mother. Try now,” Luc said. “Mark IV.” He walked over to the piano and opened the lid. “You help?” he asked, handing a sheet of paper each to Rosa and Ida. “Your parts. Music always better all in one room.” Rosa looked back at Surya, who looked puzzled and stood up.
Each sheet was printed with “Mark IV” at the top. Ida and Rosa examined the music, noting how their parts moved in and out of unison, the piano interplay. Ida looked up. “Somebody’s been listening to us.”
Luc smiled.
“The words are in French,” Rosa said. “What’s it about?”
“I know, I am sorry,” Luc said. “Surya, she helps me with translating in English. She help you pronounce French words too, for singing.”
He handed a third sheet to Surya, who read it silently for a minute.
“It’s about,” Surya paused and cleared her throat. “It’s about two lovers. Musicians. First they rescue each other from dark places, then they travel together, performing. The car they travel in is this Lincoln Continental Mark IV from 1974. Nobody knows how it got to the French countryside from America. It’s ridiculous. Wildly impractical for driving on narrow French roads. But it comes to symbolize their love, their life together. That’s what the chorus is about—so out of place so far from home, we make a home for ourselves now, wherever we may be. It’s about the car being out of place, but also the two of them being out of place, and how they make this movable life. They have a child, they are very happy. But then one of the lovers gets sick—his past has caught up with him. He had hoped it was left behind forever, but no. He can’t bear to make her endure his hopeless disintegration, so he takes his own life. She keeps the car in a place where no one will ever disturb it, and plans for the day when she will rejoin him. In her final hours, she finally gets the courage to tell her son, now adult, the truth about how his father died. But,” Surya paused and took a breath. “But the son has known all along, since he was a little boy. Because his papa had made him promise to take care of his mama.”
Luc begins to play, the chords and melodies sliding minor to major, back and forth. Surya stands behind him, hand on his shoulder. Ida and Rosa sing their parts. It has a certain kind of sound in that room.
This story appears in The Virtues of Alignment, a collection of short fiction available as a print paperback and ebook. See the Miscagon Publishing Project page for more information.
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