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reflection.”
    “Right,” I sigh. “The moonlight-induced altered state of consciousness. I forgot.”
    In Morocco and Chile and Laos, I was sure I’d run into my father any day on the street. I assumed he’d track me down and we’d all three live happily ever after. When I got older, I eventually accepted that it wouldn’t happen. Last summer’s search with Wendell gave me a renewed glimmer of hope. But at least Wendell knew the geographical region where he’d find his parents. My father, on the other hand, could be anywhere in the world, one of billions of men. So I’ve put the idea of a father into a coffin. Buried him. Mourned for him. Gone through all the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression—and accepted that it’s just me and Layla, forging our way in this world.
    The few times I’ve brought up my father with Wendell, he says that what matters most is the people—in my case, person—who raised you and loved you … the ones you want when you’re scared or hurt or sad. It’s been a big role for Layla to fill, and she’s done the best she can, considering her flightiness. And I try, with my notebooks, with my friendships, to fill in all the gaps.
    The CD ends and Layla pauses in her wire-twisting to press play. Again the music starts, and she smiles, as though she’s settling into a hot bath or biting into a steaming baguette. “You know what this music does, love? It opens the window in the center of your chest and lets the spirits fly in and out.”
    “Tell Rumi my window’s stuck shut.”
    “Oh, Z. That’s impossible.”
    “Better yet, tell him the window’s not really there. It’s painted on, like those trompe l’oeils.” I saw one on a building earlier today at the edge of
le centre-ville
—downtown. From a distance the painting looks like a real window, but once you get close, you see it’s a mural, tricking your eyes into thinking there’s depth.
    Layla holds her mobile to the window. “Ta-dah!” she announces. The light catches the foil and glass, bits of trash transformed into art. It makes me think of the glittering costumes of my new friends, Illusion. Of my invitation to the
cave
party. Of the poetry book in my bag. And of the boy who gave it to me, who knows nothing of Wendell.

    After a late dinner of spinach quiche, I climb up the tiny staircase to a glass door that opens to a little rooftop patio. It’s dusk and the air smells like cinnamon and cumin, wafting up from the Moroccan restaurant down the street. Yellow lights flicker on one by one in the windows below. I open Jean-Claude’s book. It’s French poetry by Luca, who I’ve never heard of. I flip to a page marked with a gold string.
    I transparent you
You half-darkness me
You translucent me
You empty castle me
And labyrinth me
    It doesn’t make sense. Parts of speech are jumbled, with nouns and adjectives where verbs should be. I read the verse three times, at first wondering if my French is rustier than I thought. Finally, I begin to suspect that the words are supposed to confuse you, catch you off guard, make you
feel
the poetry more than think about it.
    Each poem lasts for pages, nonsensical language that leaps over rules of grammar and flouts standard parts of speech. But the words give me a sense of something mysterious. A sense that life is a dream we drift through, no past, no memories. I read more and more and sink into this feeling as dusk turns into night and I can no longer see the words.
    From inside, I hear snatches of starry guitar music. Thenotes drift through the open windows, melt into the night. My
fantôme
’s gift makes no sense either, but like the poetry, it gives me the feeling that I’m walking a dimly lit path at night, and before me is an empty castle, waiting to be explored.
    I think back to Jean-Claude’s answer about the CD.
You attract mystery
.… Now that I think about it, he didn’t deny putting the CD in my bag. Maybe he is my
fantôme
.

    Routines are