Aunt Evelyn tipped her head toward the window, where an elderly couple in their seventies walked side by side. “He will surprise her tonight with a trip to Morocco. They had their honeymoon there fifty-three years ago. She’ll love the vacation, but hate the citrine earrings he picked out for her.”
From anyone else’s mouth, it would have sounded like gossip or fanciful fiction from an eavesdropping writer. According to Aunt Gloria, Aunt Evelyn’s foresight was unparalleled even among psychics. The aunties loved to engage in occasional tarot and spiritual readings. They had invited Aunt Evelyn a handful of times with the intention of having her perform. My clairvoyant aunt eluded them. The curious incidents left me with questions.
“Do you remember the time when the aunties asked you to tell their futures?” I asked.
“If you’re referring to the year they failed to pin me down for lottery numbers, then yes.”
“I doubt that was all they were after. At the time, Ma was worried about Dad’s lingering carpal tunnel issues. She was wondering if the second surgery would take. I’m sure that the other aunties had similar concerns.”
“Why do you think I avoided them?” she asked. “And if your answer is because I can, you’re wrong.”
I paused to reexamine what I assumed I had known about her and added the details I had collected during our short time together in Paris: the way she nursed a cup of lavender tea every morning; how she browsed through her curated collection of cashmere scarves and shawls every night and paired them with a vintage jeweled brooch for the next day; her love of foreign films and old Hollywood movies. These observations meant nothing. She had yet to confide anything of substance.
I knew why I would avoid the aunties, but why would she?
Twenty-Two
We are fortune-tellers, not doctors, therapists, nor hedge fund managers. The aunties were asking you to be something you’re not,” I replied. “I suppose it’d be different if they were seeking a friend to listen to their troubles. They should have asked you what you wanted, instead of only thinking about what they wanted from you.”
Aunt Evelyn patted my hand. “You do understand.”
Not everything. I kept my hand still to conceal my objection. I still didn’t know what she wanted or why she had moved here. She didn’t trust me, and I often feared that our brief time in Paris wouldn’t be enough. She had kept so much of herself apart from the very people she considered as family. Even Uncle Michael, who was considered to be her closest friend, wasn’t privy to her secrets. I knew this because he had told me once that Aunt Evelyn kept her secrets like her jar of valuable Da Hong Pao tea—sealed shut.
“I can’t wait to see this new restaurant you’ve discovered,” she said.
I remembered the butterfly garden mosaic on the eatery’s wall. “I have a feeling you might already know it.”
“If I’ve been there, I’ll act surprised. Besides, I’ll be going with you, and that will be a first time for me.”
We closed the store, finished tidying up, and returned to the apartment to change. I chose an effervescent blue V-neck dress. My aunt picked a canary-yellow, form-fitting outfit. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. I had seen her hair down only one other time, when I was six; after a long afternoon of lessons at her house, we spent the evening watching classic movies.
“Auntie, you look spectacular,” I remarked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you had a hot date.”
“Paris is the city you want to take out to dinner. Why not dress up for the occasion? Scandalous, I know. The family back home would have been divided over what was more controversial, my outfit or having my hair down.”
“True.” I giggled. “You do have beautiful hair.”
I reached for my wristlet, but my aunt stopped me. She patted her vintage champagne-satin clutch with a rose-shaped rhinestone-studded clasp. The dispute over the bill was an ancient tradition. As was deferring to your elders. Challenging core canons of Chinese culture could wait.
Aunt Evelyn smiled. “Let’s go. Let’s see this restaurant you discovered.”
* * *
* * *
On the short walk to our destination, my aunt drew appreciative glances from passersby. Back in the Bay Area, she possessed this aura of mystery paired with a healthy dose of intimidation. Her reputation kept intimacy distant. In Paris, however, Aunt Evelyn was seen as a beautiful woman, not feared as a Chinese Cassandra.
I pointed to the entrance as the butterfly garden mosaic came into view. “That’s the place. I’m not even going to attempt to pronounce the name of the restaurant.”
“Le Papillon Bleu. The Blue Butterfly. Shall we?”
I grinned and nodded.
The male host greeted us and we were soon seated at a small table by the window. A vivid shade of turquoise splashed the walls, complementing the gilded mirrors and modern crystal chandeliers above. The table linens were a subtle rose shade, and the rounded chairs, a soft ecru. The pleasing color palette reminded me of my aunt’s tastes.
I slid into my seat. “I can’t wait to see what they’re offering.”
We were handed the menus. My aunt translated each item for me. Her fingers glided over the list, lingering on the dishes she was excited by. In the end, we decided on lobster salad, seared foie gras, sole meunière, and the daily cheese and charcuterie plate. We reached an impasse on the dessert menu. Aunt Evelyn suggested we continue that debate after we had enjoyed our courses.
“Did you know about this place already?” I asked.
The corners of her mouth tipped upward while she made a zipper gesture across her lips.
“How did you learn French?” I stacked the menus and placed them at the end of the table. “Did you take it in school?”
“I did. I took what I could. I fell in love with the city while watching Sabrina. I saved up and spent close to two years here after college.”
I smiled at the mention of the movie I, too, adored.
When the appetizers arrived, my aunt asked for extra plates to share the dishes. The champagne-based dressing tempered the sweetness of the butter-poached lobster morsels, while the crisp, local greens added brightness to the tongue. The spiced glaze on the charred foie gras balanced its richness.
I cut the portion of the foie gras in half and transferred them on the two plates while my aunt split the salad. The best meals created the liveliest of conversations, but the tastiest meals facilitated silence: the mouth had chosen consumption over speech. My aunt and I enjoyed our food without words, reserving our praise for later.
We had finished our plates when a handsome gentleman emerged from the kitchen. He resembled Robert Redford circa The Great Gatsby, but with silver-streaked, raven hair. By the dark expression on his face, we had broken an unwritten law or were personae non gratae.
I reached out and placed a hand over Aunt Evelyn’s forearm. She responded by covering my hand with hers. The simple gesture calmed my nerves.
The stranger pointed to the door while speaking in harsh French. I didn’t need a translation. Based on his acidic tone, we weren’t wanted.
Unperturbed, my aunt flashed a radiant smile.
“Hello, Girard.”
Twenty-Three
Leave. You’re not welcome,” he said in English.
Aunt Evelyn made no move to vacate her seat. “I see you still cling to the past.”
Girard placed both hands on the table. The added weight caused the dinnerware to crash together. He leaned forward, shortening the physical distance between them. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough damage?”
“To whom?” she asked with a calm voice. Her hand still covered mine. “If you’re looking for restitution, I could be doing the same.”
The entire restaurant and I watched the exchange as if it were playing on the silver screen. The tension between the stranger and my aunt rivaled that of Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen. The words left unsaid filled the room.
This man was one of my aunt’s precious secrets, and I didn’t need the power of clairvoyance to know.
“I moved here with my business. I’m not going anywhere,” she continued.
He clenched his jaw while the table linen puckered under his curled fingers. Girard reverted to French and emitted a string of caustic expletives. His dark blue eyes were the same shade as my aunt’s favorite teakettle, a rich cerulean.
His volatile emotions rolled off his crisp jacket in puffs of smoke. It smelled like woodsmoke char, the kind I loved when Dad and I went camping in Kirby Cove. The audience in the restaurant had given up all pretense of eating their meals. Every chair—every pair of eyes—was turned to our table and the pyrotechnics display.
“It’s been thirty years! Why are you here?” he demanded.
She replied, “Twenty-seven years, one month, and five days.”
The crystal lights from the chandeliers flickered. Everything shifted from vibrant color to a monochromatic palette of black and white. The subtle transition amped the silver tones of their skin, added shimmer to the metallic surfaces, and transformed the lamps in the room into starlight. Girard and Aunt Evelyn aged backward, a version of their younger selves. The years melted away through a hazy, cinematic filter, leaving two people reliving the memory of their past.