Just One Year

here, no sound except the steady pounding of rain, the waves against the sides of the hulls, and the clang of the halyards.

A cat streaks out across one of the piers, and behind it, a barking dog, and behind the dog, a man in a yellow slicker, one dot of color in all the gloom. I watch them go and wonder if I’m like that dog, chasing a cat because it’s what a dog does.

The boys take shelter under an awning. I’m shivering now, ready to pack it in. I turn around to suggest a warm bistro, a nice meal, and some drinks before the long drive home. But the boys are all pointing behind me. I turn back around.

The Viola’s blue steel shutters are closed, making her look lonely out here strapped alongside the cement slips and the massive wooden posts. She looks cold, too, like she also wishes she were back in the hot Paris summer.

I step on the pier, and for a second, I can almost feel the rays of sunlight on my skin, can hear Lulu introducing me to double happiness. It was right there we’d sat, by the railing. Right there we’d disagreed about what double happiness meant. Luck, she’d said. Love, I’d countered.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Striding toward us is the man in the yellow slicker, the runaway mutt now leashed and shivering.

“Many a thief has underestimated Napoleon and has paid for it in a pound of flesh, haven’t they?” the man says to his dog. He pulls at the leash and Napoleon barks pitifully.

“I’m not a thief,” I say in French.

The man wrinkles his nose. “Worse! You are a foreigner. I knew you were too tall. German?”

“Dutch.”

“No matter. Get out of there before I call the gendarme or let Napoleon loose on you.”

I hold up on my hands. “I’m not here to steal anything. I’m looking for Jacques.”

I’m not sure if it’s the dropping of Jacques’s name or the fact that Napoleon has started licking his balls, but the man backs down. “You know Jacques?”

“A little.”

“If you know Jacques even a little, you know where to find him when he’s not on the Viola.”

“Maybe less than a little. I met him last summer.”

“You meet lots of people. You don’t board a man’s vessel without an invitation. That is the ultimate violation of his kingdom.”

“I know. I just want to find him, and this is the only place I can think of.”

He squints. “Does he owe you money?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? This isn’t about the races? He always backs the wrong horses.”

“Nothing to do with that.”

“Did he sleep with your wife?”

“No! Last summer he took four passengers through Paris.”

“The Danes? Bastards! He lost almost his whole charter fee right back to them. He’s a terrible poker player. Did he lose money to you?”

“No! He got money off us. A hundred dollars. Me and this American girl.”

“Terrible, those Americans. They never speak French.”

“She spoke Chinese.”

“What good does that do you?”

I sigh. “Look, this girl . . .” I start to explain. But he waves me away.

“If you want Jacques, go to Bar de la Marine. When he’s not on the water, he’s in the drink.”

• • •

I find Jacques at the long wooden bar, slung over a near-empty glass. As soon as we walk in, he waves at me, though whether it’s because he recognizes me or because this is just his standard greeting, I’m not sure. He is carrying on an in-depth conversation about new slip fees with the bartender. I buy the boys a round of beers, settle them into a corner table, and sit down next to Jacques.

“Two of what he’s having,” I tell the bartender, and he pours us each a glass of teeth-achingly sweet brandy on the rocks.

“Good to see you again,” Jacques tells me.

“So you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you.” He squints, placing me. “Paris.” He belches and then pounds his chest with his fist. “Don’t look so surprised. It was only a few weeks ago.”

“It was three months ago.”

“Weeks, months. Time is so fluid.”

“Yes, I remember you saying that.”

“You want to charter the Viola? She’s dry for the season but we get wet again in May.”

“I don’t need a charter.”

“So what can I do for you?” He downs the rest of his drink and crunches hard on the ice. Then he starts in on the fresh one.

I don’t really have an answer for him. What can he do for me?

“I was with that American girl and I’m trying to get in touch with her. She didn’t by any chance get in touch with you?”

“The American girl. Oh yes, she did.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She said to tell that tall bastard I’m done with him ’cause I’ve found myself a new man.” He points to himself. Then he laughs.

“So she didn’t get in touch with you?”

“No. Sorry, boy. She leave you high and dry?”

“Something like that.”

“You could ask those bastard Danes. One of them keeps texting me. Let me see if I can find it.” He pulls out a smartphone and starts fumbling with it. “My sister got me this, said it would help with navigation, bookings . . . but I can’t figure it out.” He hands it to me. “You try.”

I check his text queue and find a note from Agnethe. I open the text and there are several more before it, including pictures from last summer when they were cruising on the Viola. Most are of Jacques, in front of fields of yellow safflower, or cows, or sunsets, but there’s one shot I recognize: a clarinet player on a bridge over Canal Saint Martin. I’m about to hand the phone back when I see it: in the corner, a sliver of Lulu. It’s not her face, it’s the back of her—shoulders, neck, hair—but it’s her. A reminder that she’s not some fiction of my own making.

I’ve often wondered how many photos I’ve been accidentally captured in. There was another photo that day, not accidental at all. An intentional shot of Lulu and me that she’d asked Agnethe to take with her phone. Lulu had offered to send it to me. And I’d said no.

“Can I forward this to myself?” I ask Jacques.

“As you wish,” he says, with a wave of the hand.

I forward the shot to Broodje’s phone because it was true that mine won’t accept photo texts, though that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want the shot of Lulu and me when she offered it. It was automatic, that denial, a reflex almost. I had almost no pictures from the last year of my traveling. Though I’m sure I am in many people’s photos, I’m in none of my own.

In my rucksack, the one that got stolen on that train to Warsaw, had been an old digital camera. And on that camera were photographs of me and Yael and Bram from my eighteenth birthday. They were some of the last photos I had of the three of us together, and I hadn’t even discovered them until I was on the road, bored one night and going through all the shots on my memory stick. And there we were.

I should’ve had those pictures emailed somewhere. Or printed. Done something permanent. I planned to, I