Mistral's song

As Carly stepped off the bus, a gentle breeze tickled her face, causing a strand of her long, blond hair to blow across her cheek. She impatiently brushed it back with her fingers and looked around, searching for the route that would take her to the pier. The outdoor cafes and narrow streets wound their way past old stone buildings with sepia potted flowers on tiny wrought iron balconies. She felt like she was in a scene straight out of a movie. Naive young American takes Europe by storm. The village was so picturesque, it called to her. She really wanted to explore its cobbled roads more, but she couldn’t also wait to make her way down to the waters, to the Mediterranean on the fabulous Cote d’Azur. She couldn’t wait to make her way to Philippe. 

Carly turned to her equally wide eyed companion who was glancing around, her head swiveling between the town and the ocean, where the water sparkled like diamonds. Boats of all shapes and sizes were docked in long rows waiting for their captains’ hands to take them out. Sarah was her wingman, her fellow American. Or first mate, Carly guessed she should say, since they were about to set sail. Sarah hadn’t hooked up with a French guy herself, but she was up for accompanying her friend on any adventure. And that adventure just happened to include going on a sailboat ride with Carly’s boyfriend Philippe and his friend, Antoine. 

The girls, American college students studying in the south of France, had met some handsome young rugby players. Despite their limited skills in the French language, the girls had managed to strike up a friendship with the players. Or in Carly’s case, a romance. She thought it might have been the case of opposites attracting. Philippe, the swarthy muscular French athlete who lived in an apartment in Avignon with his family and Carly, the tall, lanky Scandinavian American from Minnesota, who spoke French with a terrible accent. She was here, after all, to study French. She lived with a French family in an immersion program to improve her language skills while studying at the local university. Sarah was doing the same. The girls had quickly bonded, being two Midwesterners in a foreign country. Two fish out of water.

Carly had met Philippe and his friend at the local gym when Sarah had begged her to join her in a Pilates class. Carly was now so very glad she had let her friend talk her into it. Post workout, they had been in the sauna, when she had struck up a conversation in stilted French with the handsome young Frenchman. The rest was like a scene from that movie Carly kept seeing in her head about the moony, starry eyed young American set adrift in a foreign country.

Despite their cultural differences and the language barrier, she and Philippe had been drawn to one another and had started seeing each other. Much of their romance involved sitting in outdoor cafes and drinking wine underneath starlit skies, followed by furtive kisses and heavy groping. Carly had fallen head over heels for Philippe. Besides being so good looking, his French accent made her swoon.

Philippe was like a bottle of fine wine, and she had sampled many of those during her time in Provence. She had made it a point to try a bottle from each one of the surrounding vineyards. This was the wine country, after all. Philippe seemed only too eager to help her in her quest to sample fine wine. She didn’t know how he maintained his athlete’s physique, drinking so much. She guessed it was a French thing. She loved wine, but hadn’t quite worked up any kind of tolerance for it. After many of their nights together, she woke up with a pounding headache and what the French called “gueule de bois", or wooden mouth. Still, it was a small price to pay for heady, romantic, albeit fuzzy nights spent with Philippe.

It still felt like a movie or a dream to her. Like she really wasn’t here. But why shouldn’t she have a whirlwind romance with a handsome young Frenchman? She was only young once, after all. This experience was surely one that someday, years later in her old age, she would look back on fondly, with a smile. Her coming of age, her first love, most likely, her first heartbreak when she would leave someday to go back to America. Well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

For now, they needed to make their way down to the dock where they were meeting the guys. Philippe’s friend Antoine was from a wealthy family. He had a condo and a sailboat here in Nice. They had invited the girls to meet for a day of sailing. Carly thought it was sure to be an experience they would never forget. 

The girls walked leisurely through the sand by the startling blue water. Carly was glad she had worn her sandals. There was nothing worse than getting sand in your shoes. Along with her sandals, she wore a long, loose comfortable skirt with an oversized, puffy white blouse. Hoop earrings and an infinity scarf around her neck completed her look. She was trying to appear effortlessly chic and French, glamorous and exciting. No jeans and tennis shoes for her. Tennis shoes made you look so American.

She was sure Philippe had been with many sophisticated French women before her. She didn’t want to appear like an American hick. Carly wasn’t sure what the proper attire was for sailing. She wondered if she should have worn leather boat shoes. Again, though, she didn’t want to appear gauche. Deck shoes seemed almost as bad as sneakers. 

She pulled on her scarf, adjusting it so it lay nicely around her neck. She loved infinity scarves. Loved the look of a scarf, hated having to tie them. The looped scarf made it so easy. Infinity meant it had no end and nothing to tie. Kind of like her relationship with Philippe. It had no end at the moment. They weren’t firmly tied together. They hadn’t talked about what would happen when she would eventually return to America. Surprisingly, that was fine with her. Right now, she was just having a good time. Let the end take care of itself eventually when the sands of her hourglass ran out.

Carly pushed her dark glasses further up on her nose. While doing so, she once again brushed her wind whipped hair back from her face. She was glad she had worn her shades. The sun was so bright and the sand such a pristine white it hurt the naked eye. Even though the sun beat down on her shoulders, it wasn’t overly hot though. That cool gentle breeze continued to caress her face and tease her hair. She had yet to experience Le Mistral, the famed strong Mediterranean winds. 

The perfect day matched her mood. Carly felt strangely liberated and light, as free as the breeze that gently swirled the air. All her life someone had always hovered over her, telling her where to go and what to do. Her parents, teachers, roommates, even the resident assistants in her dorm. For the first time, Carly felt like an independent person. She could go wherever she wanted in this amazing foreign country. 

Everything was so different and appealing, so unlike home. This drastic change of scenery made her feel like she could be a different person. She could shed any preconceived notions of herself and be a totally new person. No one expected anything of her. She could say anything, do anything, be anything. It was a heady thought. 

Sarah sighed dreamily, interrupting Carly’s reverie.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” 

Carly nodded her head enthusiastically. She couldn’t help but echo that sentiment. 

Suddenly, however, a gust of wind blew fiercely. It blew so strongly, her gauzy scarf rose inches off her neck, before settling back down into its endless loop. She glanced up. The previously bright sky was now overcast. The sun now hid behind an ominous dark cloud. She took off her sunglasses and looked out to sea. The few boats that were on the water were rapidly heading to shore. White caps danced on the surface of the previously serene waters. Carly saw a boat with the name Ursula printed on its bow speeding back to shore, its billowing sail fully inflated. 

All of a sudden, a booming crash sounded and a cartoon-like, jagged lightning bolt split the sky.

“Sarah?” Carly said in a small voice.

“What?”

“Where are the guys? Weren’t they supposed to meet us here on the dock?”

“They were. At least, I think that’s what they said. You know my French isn’t so good. What was the name of their boat again? Maybe we can try to find it,” Sarah reasoned.

“I doubt we’re going to go out anyways. Not in this weather . . . “ Carly replied. “I think the boat’s name is Valhalla, though.”

“Valhalla? What does that mean? Is that French?”

“Actually, it’s Nordic. It means ‘Viking heaven.’ Philippe’s obsessed with Vikings, and he convinced his friend to pick that name for his boat.” She blushed. “He says I’m his Viking princess, being Swedish and being from Minnesota. The Minnesota Vikings, get it?”

“Oh, I see.” Sarah laughed. “Well where is this Viking heaven boat?”

“Good question.”

The girls continued walking, scanning the names written on the bow of each sailboat. The wind was now whipping, and the air had turned cold, making Carly wish she had brought her sweater. Although they had heard that initial clap of thunder and seen lightning illuminate the sky, it had only happened once. The sky was quite dark, however. She had to squint to read the names of the boats. At least it wasn’t raining yet, only very chilly. Carly shivered. She now felt goosebumps pimpling her arms each time the wind blew. 

“Did you try calling Philippe’s cell?” Sarah asked Carly.

“Bonne idee,” Carly said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that sooner.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and punched in the number. It went straight to voicemail. She hunched down into her scarf, now feeling the first rain drop hit her head. 

“No answer?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Carly replied.

“What are we going to do?” Sarah looked worried. “Do you think they forgot about us?” 

“I don’t know.” Carly said. “Maybe we should ask someone if they've seen them.”

“Ok. Go ahead. Go for it. Your French is better than mine,” Sarah said.

The girls trudged along, their steps heavy. The pier was now deserted. There was no one to ask for help, in either French or English. The foreboding weather must have chased everyone away. The wind was whipping. There wasn’t a sailboat in sight on the water. All had returned to shore. Nor could they find a boat named Valhalla.

Off in the distance, thunder cracked. The sky was now pitch black. Rain began to fall. It soon turned into a torrential downpour. Both girls were rapidly becoming soaked to the skin. 

“Sarah? Let’s go.” Carly urged.

 Her teeth were starting to chatter. She was drenched and starting to freeze.

“Go where?” Sarah asked.

“Go home. We need to catch a bus or a train or something and get out of here. We’ve obviously been deserted. Or stood up. I’m not sure what happened.”

Carly felt a stab of pain and disappointment. She had really looked forward to spending the day with Philippe, out on the water. It obviously wasn’t meant to be.

“I guess I could try Philippe’s phone one more time,” she continued, punching her phone screen in frustration. Again, it went straight to voicemail.

It was now confirmed. She had officially been stood up. That romantic movie was rapidly turning into a nightmare. 

Little did she know the true horror of the situation. Far out on the water, a lone sailboat had capsized. Its sail was dragging in the water. One man clung desperately to the boat’s hull. His red rimmed eyes were exhausted. He looked around frantically for his friend who was nowhere to be found. 

The boat’s name. The Valhalla. Legend says that every good captain is supposed to go down with his ship. In this case, however, the boat’s owner had survived, while the first mate had gone overboard, striking his head on the mast when the boat capsized in strong winds that arose out of nowhere.

Antoine had tried desperately to save his friend, but Philippe had thrashed in panic. He had almost pulled Antoine under in a choke hold when Antoine tried to rescue him. Antoine reacted instinctively, flailing about and kicking fiercely to the surface, struggling mightily and gasping for air. By the time Antoine dove back down to find Philippe, he was gone, disappearing back into the murky depths of the water. 

In Philippe’s mind, Valhalla had meant just a peaceful day out on the water with his friends. In his struggle with the fierce Mistral wind, however, the Mistral had won. Like the Viking warriors before him, Philippe was now an immortal in Valhalla’s hallowed walls. The Mistral had claimed her victory by pulling her prize under. She had tossed him about capriciously like a child playing with a toy before dragging him to his doom. 

Months later, after much digging, Carly finally found out the fate of her erstwhile lover. Another had indeed taken him from her. The Mistral had won.