For her birthday, Amina asked to go on a trip. Her husband had travelled for work the previous month, and, although that wasn’t exactly for pleasure, it was now understood that anything which freed them from child care could be considered some type of holiday. Besides, they were trying to allow each other leisurely activities—evenings out, morning runs, a movie from time to time. And, recently, nights away. They wanted to find ways of easing back into their life, which had been on hold since the baby was born.
It was so simple to slip into that old self, free of obligations; the exchange happened so naturally. Amina was already bored in the half hour she had to wait at the train station in Lyon, even though such time was hard to come by. She bought a coffee and a pack of biscuits, then sat on a bench, scrolling restlessly on her phone. Though this was her first trip away from the baby, who had recently turned one, it didn’t really feel momentous. It felt, rather, as if she were putting on a coat she hadn’t worn in a long time, whose shape and texture she remembered immediately.
She was going to Marseille to meet her university friends Alba and Lisa, with whom she had studied in England. They were travelling from Madrid and Zurich and would arrive at the rental apartment at around the same time as Amina. It was Lisa who’d arranged everything—set the dates, booked an apartment, compiled a list of restaurants and neighborhoods they should go to. Amina and Alba had reverted to their old joke that Lisa was their travel agent; she’d account for their hours of sleep, for every minute in the bathroom.
Amina sent her friends a photo of herself making an excited face on the platform.
Eeeee, Alba responded. Lisa sent instructions for retrieving the keys, in case the others arrived before she did.
On the train, Amina sat next to a woman travelling alone with her baby, who was refusing to nap despite the mother’s frenzied attempts. Amina looked up from her reading now and then to offer the woman understanding smiles, meant to signal that she felt for her, that she didn’t mind the baby’s crying, but from the woman’s perspective she must have appeared smug, with her book and coffee.
Amina hadn’t seen her friends since her pregnancy. They used to visit regularly after Amina and her husband moved to Lyon seven years ago, to the neighborhood where Amina’s husband had grown up. Amina always looked forward to these reunions; she was allowed to be a tourist with her friends, speaking too-loud English, getting a little hysterical. But Lisa and Alba were exceptionally busy in the months after the birth. This was what they’d said, when they apologized for not yet having met the baby. Their weekends were booked for months ahead. Amina had barely left the confines of her neighborhood that year, and she had thought with some bitterness that Alba and Lisa didn’t know what real busyness meant. But she hadn’t insisted they come. For one, she was exhausted. And their friendship had always operated in leisure: long meals, afternoon drinks, dressing up to go dancing. Amina wanted to see them on these same terms, rather than be disappointed by interrupted conversations and her friends’ possible lack of interest in her daughter. She herself had never paid attention to friends’ babies before; she only surveyed the mothers. She noted the physical changes, their waning interests, trying to project what might become of her in the future were she to have a child.
Next to her on the train, the baby had finally fallen asleep. The mother looked at once defeated and serene, her face sagging with fatigue. Amina considered telling the woman that this was her first trip away from her daughter, but she decided against it. She retrieved Lisa’s list of restaurants and checked them one by one, already feeling that there wouldn’t be enough time.
The apartment was a half-hour walk from the station. Amina had planned on taking a taxi, but it was so sunny when she stepped out of the train and onto the wide marble terrace that she could not bear to waste the bright day. The city lay beneath her, past a long descent of stairs. She took another selfie at the bottom, for no one in particular, because she was feeling giddy. Then she walked, dragging her suitcase, stopping from time to time to take pictures of shop fronts, the boulevard lined with palm trees.
When she entered the building, she heard Alba and Lisa exclaiming from an upper floor. She called their names, and they ran out to peer at her over the bannister, all three of them shrieking.
“Let the festivities begin,” Alba announced, taking Amina’s bag at the door to the apartment. Lisa and Alba had already opened theirs on the living-room floor. The couch was strewn with clothes—too many for the two nights they would be spending together.
“We should get going soon,” Lisa said, showing Amina the route she’d mapped for the evening—drinks, dinner, a walk along the sea.
“Amazing,” Amina said. “I can leave right away.” She was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, slightly stained from the baby’s bottle that morning.
“Leave like this?” Alba had taken off her trousers. She was picking up clothes and putting them down without trying anything on. “It’s our first evening out. I might meet someone fabulous.”
Alba had separated from her boyfriend some months ago. She’d informed Amina and Lisa briefly of the fact, brushing away the details, as she did with every breakup. She’d known from the start it was just a fling, she’d texted their group chat, though Amina seemed to remember that there’d once been talk of having a child. She could no longer recall whether this had been a serious plan or simply a consequence of Alba’s age, at which the question could no longer be ignored. If, that is, Alba even wanted to have a child—she’d always been at once transparent and mysterious about her desires. Blunt and elusive.
Lisa had taken off her shirt. She was not wearing a bra, and Amina thought that her body had not changed very much since their student years. Then, too, the three of them would gather in one another’s rooms and invent reasons to take off their clothes. Had it been a requisite for intimacy? Or a silent competition? Full-moon gatherings and menstrual rituals—they loved that sort of thing, the way it made them beautiful, brought them together. Amina had other close friends—studious types, with whom the body became invisible, or irrelevant. It was with them that she discussed serious matters: choices, strategies, philosophies. It was with them that she could be sad. Whereas her friendship with Alba and Lisa demanded cheer; it was carried forth by a constant desire to enjoy life.
Alba and Lisa were still without clothes, showing each other tasteful, expensive options for outfits, so different from the flowery, tattered garments they’d worn as young women, when they borrowed dresses and shoes from one another for parties. Just like their clothes, her friends’ bodies had more purpose now, Amina thought; they were muscled and smooth, made to look that way through discipline and deliberation. She turned away, as if she could no longer examine them on equal footing. It seemed that she’d stepped off the imaginary stage where the three of them had once stood together.
Finally, they left the apartment. Alba had settled on a short, neon dress, as cheeky as it was seductive. Lisa was wearing a striped shirt and canvas trousers, identical to the neat outfit she’d just changed out of. Amina put on earrings and lipstick, surprised how these small adjustments brought her into her body. Lisa led the way, phone in hand, through several small streets and out onto a wide boulevard, crowded even as shops were closing.
It was so nice, Lisa said, to be in a city that was alive.
“Zurich makes me feel old,” she said, when they’d arrived at a rooftop bar overlooking the harbor, bustling with tattooed and pierced people. Her boyfriend didn’t mind the monotony of the city, whereas she tried to leave as frequently as possible; she could not bear the thought of so much life passing her by.
The bar continued to fill up. Newcomers joined their friends in an expanding group along the terrace ledge. It was as if all the young people in Marseille knew one another. Or perhaps it was the familiarity of youth, the way you could become acquainted over a single drink and spend an entire evening chatting.
“Let’s skip the restaurant,” Alba suggested. “It’s fun here.”
She’d already pointed out two men with rugged beards; Amina and Lisa joked that they could pick out the most rumpled shirt in any crowd and its owner would be Alba’s type.
There wasn’t much food on the menu, so they ordered everything—little dishes of olives and spreads, a platter of cured meats. Amina was starving. She’d woken up before dawn with the baby, had barely eaten anything other than the pack of biscuits at the train station. Still, she could see the charm of spending an evening at the bar. Not that she had any interest in the linen-clad men with whom Alba was now exchanging glances. Alba had always been like this: she found someone to flirt with wherever she went. Very quickly, the attention was reciprocated, and then it was up to her to decide how much she wanted from the encounter. Alba’s appeal had less to do with her beauty than with her confidence and nonchalance. Lisa and Amina had spent years trying to decipher it, to understand exactly how it worked. There was admiration in their investigation, and of course some envy. Perhaps the envy was related to the fact that Alba’s exuberant flirtation had been an aspect of their own youth, before they’d settled into relationships. Amina could not recall whether she’d always thought this; maybe it was only after the birth that age had come into such focus for her.
She remembered a woman telling her, in the last month of her pregnancy, that she should beware of her diminished desire. This was at a party, and the woman had approached Amina out of the blue to say that after she gave birth to her first child she had not wanted to have sex with her husband for quite a long time. People had a way of opening up to pregnant women, as if they would forgive, or forget, whatever they were told.
“How long?” Amina asked.
“Oh, I can’t remember,” the woman said. “It was years ago. The point is, no one told me this would happen. That’s why I’m telling you now. But don’t worry. It will come back. It’s your life force.”
Amina had taken the woman’s words at face value: a simple warning. But afterward, months after the baby was born, she wondered whether the anecdote was intended to have the opposite effect, to draw attention to the woman’s restored passion, and mark her sexuality. She hadn’t been very young—certainly past her reproductive years, a time when it might seem surprising to talk about desire. Yet she’d seemed fierce, and radiant. She’d seemed, Amina thought in retrospect, to be showing off.
They were too tired to walk along the port as they’d planned and took a taxi back to the flat. They bought a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes from a kiosk downstairs, though none of them really smoked anymore.
“Just one glass,” Lisa cautioned. “We shouldn’t waste all day hungover tomorrow.” But they were too sleepy by the time they’d changed out of their clothes. They wandered off to their beds, murmuring good night.
Breakfast was coffee and tartines with jam on a chic plaza. A block away, the streets were lined with fabric shops, elderly men crammed onto benches.
Alba said that she couldn’t get a sense of the city, of its age and mood. One minute it seemed ancient, then suddenly youthful.
“It’s a harbor,” Lisa said. “Port towns are always eclectic.” Amina liked the sound of that—the idea of Old World trade, of people stepping ashore, embarking on adventure.
They took a group photo. Alba offered around the pack of cigarettes. They asked the waiter for second cups of coffee.
“This is so great,” Amina said. “This may be the best morning I’ve had in a year.”
The waiter turned around and tapped her on the shoulder.
“You can do better,” he said in English. “You haven’t even tried the pastries.”
He took out a lighter from his back pocket and extended the flame to Alba. When he left, Lisa remarked that he sported both a rumpled shirt and a rugged beard.
“Well, then,” Alba said, “I guess I have a type.”
When he returned with their coffees, he asked if they were sisters. The three of them were wearing flowing black outfits, and they all had brownish hair, though they weren’t otherwise very similar.
“Sisters from different mothers,” Alba told him. It was unclear whether he understood what this meant.
“Are the sisters on holiday?” He looked boyish despite his dark beard.
“Yes,” Alba said. “Do you have any suggestions for us?”
“Have you already taken the ferry?” He named a place Amina couldn’t make out. “You must go there. You drink pastis at the docks, and you eat—” He said something else she couldn’t catch.
“Great suggestions,” Lisa said. “We’ll totally do that.” It was clear she had no idea what he’d said, either.
A few minutes later, he came back to smoke a cigarette at the empty table next to theirs. It didn’t look as if his shift was over, only that he was taking things easy.
“Are you from Marseille?” Alba asked.
He was born in Bordeaux, had moved here a year ago. He felt this was where he really belonged. The city was full of energy, he said. His two good friends from home, with whom he had a band, were also in Marseille.
“You’re in a band?” Alba asked.
“We’re not Pink Floyd. We just have fun.”
“Would love to hear you play,” Alba said.
“Would love to play for you,” the waiter said.
When he was called back to work, he told them that they were a happy sight: three women having a great morning.
“You’re all like sunshine,” he said. The awkwardness of the phrase did not diminish its charm.
Afterward, they egged Alba on to ask for his number.
“Can I be bothered?” Alba stretched her arms dramatically. “I mean, I guess it would be fun to have an amoureux in Marseille. Handy for holidays.”
Amina remembered Alba’s way of talking about men—her tone of idleness. It hadn’t occurred to her before that this might be her allure: the suggestion that she was bored with them even as she was intrigued.
When they got up to leave, Alba told her friends to wait for her. She went inside, where the waiter was standing at the bar. He jotted down something on a piece of paper and handed it to Alba, who walked out smiling.
“I asked him for the name of that place,” she explained. “And the thing we’re supposed to eat. It’s called a panisse,” she read out from the piece of paper. “And then I invited him for a drink with us.”
“How did he react?” Lisa asked.
“Oh,” Alba said, “he put on some airs, like he was expecting it. I mean, he isn’t as boyish as he looks.”
He was seeing a friend that evening, but he could meet up later. Amina and Lisa agreed this was the best arrangement—they’d have a long dinner, then join him for a nightcap.
“Nightcap for me and Lisa,” Amina said with a giggle.
“His name is Vincent,” Alba added. “Or, should I say, Van-sun.”
“Vincent, mon amour,” Lisa cooed.
There were two museums that Amina had suggested visiting when they were making plans in the group chat, though they now decided it would be more fun to be outside. They were feeling so jolly, walking the streets. The encounter with Vincent had cheered them up, given them purpose. It was as if they were all going to meet him for a date that evening. And in a way they were: they’d made their impression as a group, and would do so again, until it was time for Alba to take off with him. This was not so different from their student years, when Amina and Lisa would help Alba in her quests—they must have decided that this was a smoother path than trying to compete with her. Any flirtations of their own happened in private, away from Alba. And perhaps Alba was now a bit old for one-night stands with waiters—after all, she’d readily stated that she wanted a relationship. But this was part of the thrill; a reminder that they were on holiday.
Amina was a little sad to skip the museums—she hadn’t been to one in months. Her days were so efficient, and practical. She was feeling the same restlessness she’d experienced on the journey—that there would not be enough time, that she was wasting her trip. It was already past noon; her train back home was the following day.
She didn’t tell her friends she’d still like to go to a museum. They would joke that she was an old lady, as they used to when Amina sat alone on a couch at parties, watching people. Was that what it meant to be old—a spectator to interesting things?
Lisa was telling them that they were entering the city’s longest-inhabited neighborhood, atop a hill. Winding, narrow streets were lined with pots of flowers. There were many shops, meant to lure tourists with overpriced hats and silk dresses. So many useless, beautiful things: they examined them seriously, one by one. They each bought a hat, scarves, beaded jewelry. When they reached the bottom of the hill, the sea appeared before them, like a celebration. Alba said that they might as well take the ferry, as Vincent had suggested.
“I thought that was just an excuse to get his number,” Lisa said. “We have reservations for lunch.”
“It’ll give us something to talk about when we meet him,” Alba said. “And it’s a tip from a local.”
“I agree,” Amina said. “We might not get to see anything like this.”
They had some trouble finding the correct ferry. Most people were boarding another one, to go swimming at the calanques. Theirs turned out to be a small motorboat that would take them across the bay. The young boy checking tickets advised them to sit in the front, so they wouldn’t get wet.
Soon enough, they were in open sea, pushing forth against crashing waves. Even where the boy had suggested, they were sprayed by water. Lisa and Alba cheered with every thrust and descent of the boat. Amina tried to appear calm, though she was at that moment imagining a disaster, and its aftermath. She pictured her husband telling the baby that Mama wasn’t coming back, and the miscomprehension on the baby’s face. She had tears in her eyes from the scenario; she was annoyed with Vincent for suggesting such a trip.
The village, when they finally arrived, was utterly unspectacular. There was a single café, where they stepped off the boat. Farther down the boardwalk, food trucks were indeed selling panisse, which looked something like fried dough.
They walked a little way inland, though there was no center to speak of. A bunch of teen-agers were smoking on a bench, loud, unpleasant music thumping from somewhere in their midst.
“Let’s just go back to the café,” Lisa suggested. “We can have lunch there and take the next boat to the city.”
There were only chips, which they bought with their pastis. They asked the waiter how much water they should add to dilute the fragrant, milky liquid he’d poured. He was a young boy; at first glance, he looked just like the one who’d taken their tickets on the boat. Perhaps the two of them were brothers.
“Depends how drunk you want to get,” the boy replied. He offered them second rounds on the house as their boat was approaching.
“We have to leave soon,” Amina said. “But thanks.”
“Let’s dunk them,” Alba said.
“She knows what she’s talking about,” the boy said.
Maybe he wasn’t a mere boy. Maybe they were a little tipsy. In any case, the ride back to the city did not feel so bumpy.
On board, a young woman asked Amina to take her photo. She posed seductively, pouting her lips without any hint of self-consciousness. Then she took the phone back and examined the pictures.
“Thank you sooo much,” she said. “I’m travelling alone, so I always have to ask.”
“How do you like Marseille?” Amina asked.
“Oh, it’s so fun. And this little village was amazing.”
“What did you like about it?” Alba asked, only slightly condescending.
“Cézanne’s house, of course,” the woman said. “I imagined him painting there, seeing the view from up top.”
The friends exchanged glances. Was that why Vincent had told them to go to the village? How had they failed to realize its significance?
“Where else have you been?” Lisa asked.
That morning, the young woman had visited the two museums they’d skipped. She had tickets to see a dance show later. She was taking a train early the next day to Spain, where she would meet up with her boyfriend to walk the path of St. James. She was not religious, she clarified, but she would consider herself spiritual. She had recently graduated from university and was taking a year off to travel.
Amina was startled by just how much they had learned about the young woman within minutes. She was still young enough that she could sum up her life in a continuous narrative; she hadn’t asked them any questions, perhaps believing that her year of travels was something extraordinary. Amina didn’t tell her that she and her friends had all done something similar after graduation. It didn’t seem very interesting now. In fact, Amina felt a little tired on the young woman’s behalf—all those trains she had to take, the cheap hostels, the plazas of every city which blurred into one another. Lisa and Alba had stopped listening and were deep in a conversation of their own.
“Wow,” Alba said when they stepped off the boat. “You had a lot of patience for her.”
“She was just young,” Amina said, feeling generous now that the conversation was over.
They discussed what to do before dinner. They could go back to the flat to change, though it was in the opposite direction from the restaurant. They were all dishevelled from the wind, sprayed with seawater.
“It’s Alba’s call,” Lisa said. “She’s the one meeting her amoureux.”
“Oh, I’ll just put on some lipstick,” Alba said. “I don’t want to drag everyone back for my sake. Vincent can take it or leave it.”
In the end, they sat on a bench by the harbor, idly watching the crowds. Amina called her husband to check if everything was all right.
“We’ve had a great day,” her husband said. “Someone was on her best behavior. Don’t worry about us.”
She was grateful to him for saying that, and a bit envious that she’d missed out. And now it was nearly the baby’s bedtime. Afterward, her husband would pour himself a glass of wine and watch something before going to read in bed. Whereas she still had so many hours ahead of her.
There was a mixup with their reservation: they were given seats at the bar until one of the tables cleared. Lisa kept repeating that she wasn’t pleased about this, but the waiter did not take her very seriously.
They were tired, and hungry. The barstools weren’t comfortable. Half-heartedly, they discussed plans for the next day: perhaps they could make it to one of the museums before Amina’s train.
“That all depends on Alba’s night out,” Lisa said, trying to lift their group spirit. “You should text him now.”
“I’ll wait a bit,” Alba said. “He’s probably out with his friend.” Amina couldn’t tell whether it was for their sake that Alba was demonstrating nonchalance. Still, Alba wrote a message a few minutes later, telling Vincent to meet them at the restaurant.
The job was done. And their food had arrived. They were all in a better mood. They discussed ideas for another, longer trip, a few months later.
“How about that music festival in Barcelona?” Alba suggested. “Get Amina back on track.”
“I just need to figure out logistics,” Amina said, “but it should be doable.”
“It’s good to see you liven up,” Alba went on. “When you arrived yesterday, I thought . . . she’s had a tough year.”
“Really?” Amina said. “I was feeling totally fine.”
“It’s more the over-all change.”
“And?” Amina said. “What’d you notice?”
“Darling, you’re always fabulous. You just need some sleep. And maybe a haircut.”
Amina felt a shudder of annoyance at the bluntness of the comment, and also at its blindness—that signs of her transformation should be guessed at from her appearance. She held back from saying something bitter. She shouldn’t make a big deal of it, she thought. This was the way they’d always been with one another. But it was true that she felt, at that moment, defeated.
There was no response from Vincent when they finished eating, so they each ordered another glass of wine and asked the waiter for the dessert menu. In the end, they’d never been given a table, and now the waiter was telling them that the seats at the bar were also reserved.
“You still have some time,” he offered. “Just wanted to let you know.”
“It’s O.K.,” Lisa said curtly. “We’ll have dessert somewhere else.”
After they paid, they walked toward the harbor, which was now utterly different than when they had stepped off the boat. The boardwalk was teeming with people trying to get into bars. Girls in high heels, shaky on their legs; boys dressed comically like businessmen, in blazers and dress shoes.
“Where did all these people come from?” Alba asked.
The air smelled of perfume and hair gel.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lisa said, leading them toward a side street, and up to the shopping avenue they’d walked the previous evening. The stores were closed, the pavements empty. The booming sound of music from the harbor reached them as if through a membrane. They took another turn, into a lifeless, dirty neighborhood, though none of them wanted to suggest they should just go home. Alba’s phone buzzed.
“Finally,” Lisa said. “Someone’s playing hard to get.”
Alba was silent for a moment. Her face fell, just a little. Then she read out the message.
It would have been lovely to join them, Vincent wrote, but he was already back home. He hadn’t met up with his friend, after all. If they were around the following afternoon, he’d be playing music at a café, some distance from the center. He could send them details.
“Well,” Alba said. “I guess I wrote too late.”
“Do you want to go tomorrow?” Amina asked. “We could make it if it’s early enough.”
“Can’t be bothered,” Alba said. “And I can’t believe he’s arrogant enough to suggest we come to watch him tuning his guitar on our holiday.”
“It’s your call,” Amina said, though the whole thing now sounded a bit pathetic.
They turned around and headed in the direction of the flat.
“You know,” Alba said, “the city’s grown on me. I didn’t know what to make of it at first. It’s so vibrant. And I find it amazing that most people we met today were our age, at most.”
“Sorry to break it to you,” Amina said. “But they were all younger by, like, a decade.”
And perhaps this had dawned on all of them, like an answer, though they hadn’t realized until then that there’d been a question. It had never been a question, not yet. It was still their turn.
“Oh, my God,” Lisa said. “What if . . . what if he thought we were just a bunch of aunties?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alba said. “I already thought about it—he’s at most five, maybe six years younger. Besides, we don’t show our age.”
“I was kidding,” Lisa said. “Obviously we’re not aunties.”
Still, they were startled by Alba’s response. That she’d even considered the question, and addressed it, rather than laugh it off as she always did. That she’d made a decision for all of them.
Amina tried to recall their exchange at the café, the way Vincent had flattered them. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be doing so out of vanity, to make anyone who crossed his path adore him.
They’d reached their building.
“We’re definitely having a nightcap,” Lisa said. Alba offered to go to the kiosk to get a bottle of wine. Really, they were all tired, though they wouldn’t let on, for the sake of their last evening.
Then they remembered that the bottle they’d bought the previous night was unopened, and climbed slowly up the stairs. ♦
This is drawn from “Long Distance: Stories.”
