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past the iridescent water line.
    Nothing.
    “ Oh God,” I murmured.
    “ He can swim, yes?” Monique asked.
    I shook my head, counting the seconds. One-two-three-four…God, why didn’t anyone jump in there and get him? Was everyone going to just stand there like idiots?
    I did n’t hear the drums anymore. Just my heart, beating his name. Jeannot. Jeannot. Jeannot.
    Damn it, I can swim! I thought, still watching the water, still expecting it to part and for his beautiful head to emerge.
    The crowd had fallen silent. I heard a baby cry. Suddenly I pushed past Monique and darted and dodged toward the docks.
    Be okay, Jeannot. Please, please , please be okay…
    There was a ripple in the water—was he trying to get out? Maybe he was stuck on something. He needed help and no one understood, no one knew what could happen, how quickly disaster could strike and ruin lives.
    “ I’m coming!” I cried in English.
    Just several people away, about six feet from the water, I heard a gasp. The man in black raised his arms and…a glimpse of red like a bedraggled flag emerged from the water. Jeannot! The red scrap of belt was followed by his soaking dark blond hair and sputtering face. A second later I saw his arm raised high above his head, fist clenched in triumph.
    The crowd roared . Drums pounded delightedly. Pa-da-pom-pom! Along the bridge the melody of “La Marseillaise” spread in a riot of giddy, meaningless, patriotic joy. Jeannot, up to his shoulders in the water, fist still high, smiled at me.
    He was exhausted and, I suspected, a little shaken. Yet he smiled.
    For me. Only me.
    Without realizing it, I really prayed for the first time in…years? Just a rushed Oh thank you God, thank you for saving him! And then Jeannot was completely out of that awful water, and I leaped on top of him and kissed his dripping face in front of hundreds of onlookers.
    I did n’t care. He was mine.

VII
    Hard to say how things happened after that. Hard to spell out with marks on paper how a day at the beach can spiral into a new life.
    I only know this: hours later, sand scratching at my clothes, Jeannot and I sat talking—our version of it, anyway—in the cool evening sand. Everything already felt different. Behind him, the water looked invitingly cool and inky. Above his head the moon seemed playful, poking its face into France’s unyielding daylight. I felt as if I had gotten away with something; that, by sitting so close to my boyfriend on this moonlit beach, we had accomplished something wildly courageous.
    Even the moon wanted me to change, to transform into someone new. Which reminded me of another prayer, one I’d heard at least twenty years earlier:
     
    If he is a man, he should not lose his name.
    If she is a woman, she should not lose her knowledge.
    If it is a silent bird, God will help him.
    All the evil eye, all the stares, the pain, and the evil eye
    All will go to the bottom of the sea...
     
    After finishing our sandcastle, Jeannot and I stood and leaned against a stone wall framing the beach. This wall—seemingly so solid under my fingers—was really made of countless tiny niches filled with sand—a miracle too, perhaps; everything seemed miraculous tonight.
    A foghorn blew. It remained apart from us, hollow and desperate, whereas in Jeannot’s arms I felt safe, at last.
    I can do this.
    So when he asked me, lips pressed against the seashell of my ear, if I would leave my little studio and move into his apartment to live with him, I said yes. Actually, I said, “ Oui.”
    “ Je t’adore aussi,” I also said. “Beaucoup.”

PART TWO :
     

Forest in the Sand

CHAPTER SIX

I
    Jeannot’s snoring startled me out of a deep morning slumber. Again.
    What time was it? Five? Six? I felt hot and sweaty and disoriented, like I’d been tossed about by some sumo wrestler to the wrong side of the mattress. Had I sleepwalked again? Night Terrors? How in the world was a person supposed to sleep soundly while cuddled