Desert Sanctuary

Vienne snatched the single piece of mail from the mailbox. A double stamped letter from home. She pressed the paper to her nose and breathed in. Eggs, butter, b. sugar looped in cursive at one corner of the envelope. Her mother’s shopping list had run long onto this page. Vienne had better call her today to make sure she hadn’t of forgotten the eggs. Of course, Vienne knew her family had to be eating dinner without her, but this accidental slip of evidence that her family was carrying on with life made her doubt her decision to leave home. Whatever her mother was cooking for dinner, she would rather be eating that then the flaky and buttery croissant she’d picked up on her way to work.

Rodez, France was the place of American girl- dreams, with its presumed elegance and fancy foods. But many months after living in Rodez, she was more than reluctant to feel at home here. Each day she worked her perfect job in a perfect riverside village, but her chest gripped her with homesickness. She ached for the dusty country roads, miles of barbed wire fences, and the nothing to dos.

Carrying her bags and mail up the stairs to her flat, she pondered the 341 days that shed spent in Rodez. The excitement for being an apprentice museum curator at the Soulages faded after weeks of guiding mundane fieldtrips for uncaring children through the gallery. However, Vienne knew every night when she turned down the display lights one by one that showcasing good art was worth even the most ungrateful spectator. She had an eye for the artist’s purpose, that had launched her to the top of her graduating class at New Mexico State. Vienne’s talent for noticing special details caused her to notice the kindly elder gentleman that frequented the gallery. In a quick change of heart, she knew without coming to Rodez she would have never come to know her new friend, Oliver.

About three weeks had passed of her working at the Soulages, when Oliver stood alone across from the Brou de Noix painting. Passing through the gallery, Vienne paused to glance down the passageway towards him. The sandy white-haired man in a sagged cardigan stood perfectly distanced from the Noix and surprised her. Vienne remembered thinking in the following moments that the older gentleman had probably visited the gallery before and knew the piece’s worth. She went about her business and dismissed the observation.

He surprised her the third time she found Oliver wandering alone through the gallery. Many people are not Soulages fans; the art makes them feel desperate and bored. But despite his interest in the dark, edgy Soulages art, Oliver was none of those things she discovered. Vienne reminisced; Oliver had been the one to say hello first. He is pleasant and a frequent visitor to the Soulages Musee so the receptionists greet him by name. He teases with them that he is familiar enough to become part of the exhibit.

It was not long before he introduced himself to Vienne as was his custom with all the other staff members. No one is ever bothered by Oliver. He is not the type of old man looking for distraction from his progressing age. Starting with small talk about new pieces and art news, developing into full discussions about meaning and artist intent, their friendship grew every day. They shared many conversations about art the way few other people understood and now their talks were a healing salve to her aching heart.

Vienne thought all of this about her kind and serene friend while unpacking boules of bread, sun ripened tomatoes, and clusters of herbs. The smell of fresh, French ingredients still potent and unfamiliar to her. How could Oliver possibly understand wanting to return to Santa Fe when she could not understand it herself? She could have been an outstanding curator at any one of the galleries around Santa Fe, but she refused to recognize the created beauty of the desert artists. Vienne left because her childhood in Santa Fe tethered her in a way she struggled to unbind. People praised her choice to work in Rodez, assuring her that every young person needs adventure. Not one, warned her of the overpowering heart ache. Clutching the unopened letter from her mother, she stands in her little kitchen, tomatoes stewing on the stovetop, she dreads another dinner alone.

Sitting with her dinner before her, Vienne feels less of an appetite than usual. She lingers over each bite slowly deciding if it is worth bringing to her mouth. She is distracted by plans to return home and plans to tough this season out. Her mother’s letter feels like a heavy weight reminder that she does not belong in Rodez.

Throughout the evening while cleaning up dishes and checking her email, Vienne draws upon memories of the first afternoon her and Oliver had stepped out for a walk together. Vienne felt noticed once again. Oliver held the door, pausing in the entry way for her to find her coat. She loved the way he bobbed his head up and down, as if every word she spoke agreed with him. He was not trying to charm her but to validate her and her youthful ideas. He saw her bright life among the dark gallery of Solanges’ onyx fixtures and chose to spend time with her. As the quiet of her flat and a glass of red wine lull her, she considers telling Oliver what has been on her mind for so many weeks. He might know a solution for her heart ache. Maybe she would tell him tomorrow after work.

 Oliver and Vienne forged a habit of walking in the late afternoons around the Foirail Gardens. Many weeks passed discussing art and politics and food before he inquired about her personal life. She was hesitant to share in the way one might be slow to bend an arm that has road rash on the skin. Too much strain can crack the surface exposing what is wounded beneath. She had so much respect for this man and wanted Oliver to perceive her as strong and intelligent and lighthearted, the way he was for her.

Vienne resolved, while brushing out her hair before bed, to not bother her friend with her troubles. She drifted to sleep that night deciding to wait for sunnier days. Rodez would eventually start to feel comfortable enough for her to call home.

“Ma Chere’? A walk today?” Oliver, standing beside her desk, inquired the next afternoon.

“Oh Oliver! I did not realize you had come in. I was distracted by the plans for rehanging in gallery three.” Vienne checked her wristwatch for the time, feigning busyness.

“Were you?”

“Well something like that.” Vienne, feeling somber, responded. Her fingertips finding the letter’s edge in her pocket.

 “Vienne, there is somewhere I want to go. Will you go with me to this place?” Oliver looked over her face, searching for her answer.

He told her they could walk from the museum doors after she closed the galleries. He waited, unbothered, in the entry way while she locked up the doors, turned down the lights, gathered her coat and scarf, and unpinned her hair. She relished the sweet breeze, coming off L Aveyron, to muss her hair and blush her cheeks. Oliver sometimes would tease her about the ritual and say, “Ah better, you look like yourself again.”

Today, Oliver seemed determined and withheld any playful comments.

“We are meeting my friend, Father Peter.”

At the mention of a clergy man, Vienne stiffened. What was Oliver planning for them? If he needed confession or assistance, he very well would have attended to that on his own. He avoided any protestation by being three paces ahead of her on the compacted rock path and focusing his attention ahead rather than behind at her.

“Oliver?” Vienne called to him.

“Yes, Chere’?” Oliver strode forward, not turning.

“What is it we are seeing Father Peter about?” Vienne inquired, quickening her steps to catch up to him.

Oliver turned on his heels in the gravel to observe her posture, “Oh we are not going to see him. Do not look so concerned I am not ailing! I need him to give me the key in.”

Oliver continued the quest and Vienne fell into step beside him. They swayed along in their usual walking rhythm. Quieter than normal because something was being left unsaid. The crunch of footsteps on gravel grated at Vienne’s heart. She caught her own tears in the corners of her eyes and prayed the cool breeze would give her excuse for the emotions she was beginning to physically display.

Oliver led her to the parish door at the side of a large gothic cathedral. Vienne wondered at its grandeur then chided herself for not exhibiting more joy that Oliver had brought her to this magnificent church. How had she never seen this massive, glorious architectural wonder just a quarter of a mile away from the gallery?

Father Peter welcomed them as they entered the cathedral. Vienne noticed the distinctive signs of cherished friendship pass between the men. After the warm greetings were exchanged, the church man excused himself to his work leaving Oliver and Vienne to roam the outer halls surrounding the sanctuary. Vienne began to sputter out words of amazement, but Oliver stopped her with a gentle smile.

Her friend looked at home as he approached a large wooden door. Pausing, he dipped into a small bow towards it. The reverence reserved for this place delighted Vienne. She assumed Oliver walked through those doors a thousand times before today and yet he still cherished this sanctuary.

“Now Chere’, close your eyes.” He said turning toward her with an outstretched hand.

They had just entered the most beautiful cathedral and he was asking her to stop looking. Even though she did not understand why, Vienne trusted Oliver. With her eyes closed she felt a pressing palm turning her shoulders towards something. She felt Oliver’s leading and then sensed him drawing away. She did not orient herself in the room before closing her eyes but could feel the sun’s warmth on her pale face and imagined windows nearby. She eyelids fluttered open.

He tutted at her and she squeezed them shut if only to humor him. They stood in the holy silence for an undistinguished amount of time. She inhaled the odor of sage. The smell intensified not as if someone was dispersing smoldering incense. To her it was more like a lilting fragrance on the wind passing by her.

She listened to the shallow, calm breaths of Oliver near her until her own thoughts drifted out of the present moment. The burning ache in her heart subsided to a dull throb and her spirit lifted. She would have remained in that state of mind a while longer but in the quiet she heard Oliver’s mild voice.

“Open your eyes, Vienne.”

The church burst into radiant view before her! Everywhere there were deep oranges, warm scarlets, and bright yellows. Oliver waited until the exact moment the sun kissed the horizon through the panels of stained glass to reveal this spectacular scene. Birds chirped outside the windows in a rousing chorus, anticipating their meal at dusk. Soft whistling wind whirled past the tall spires above, creating a natural song.

“Do you see it? The desert sunset.” Oliver’s voice, excitable and comforting, spoke to her.

She turned quizzically to him and he lifted his chin just enough to direct her gaze back down the center aisle.

“Do you smell the wild sage and hear the lonesome silence of Santa Fe?”

Vienne’s eyes pricked with tears as New Mexico shimmered like a mirage before her. She could almost feel the heat of the hardened sand rising up through her feet. She basked in the glory of seeing something so familiar to her and she felt whole once more.

“How did you know?” Vienne whispered to Oliver without turning from the new-found wonder.

“Oh dear Vienne, your heart is not the only heart to have longed for home. Carry this place you love with you wherever you go and usher people to it. Let them know what you love, and they will love it too”

Vienne embraced Oliver. She would return to this spot in the cathedral and feel close to home, even in faraway Rodez. Oliver revealed a masterpiece to her, and in it she knew, Santa Fe would always be her desert sanctuary.