In the first moment I saw the ghost peer over her shoulder at me as she disappeared around the corner, I understood why sailors of legend followed the call of the siren to a watery grave.
Her smile enchanted me so, I forgot to be frightened at the wispy quality of her personage. Or perhaps it was that her appearances occurred as the morning sunshine glinted off the ancient stone walkways of Enza Village, and not in its dark dusty dungeon known for harboring troubled spirits.
No book prepared a man for what to do about a flirty ghost with mesmerizing green eyes. I certainly didn’t want priests exorcising her or herbalists conjuring potions to ward her away.
I needed instruction on how to make the apparition tangible enough to kiss. If she was other-worldly, I needed directions for making her this-worldly. I wanted to press her up against the stone wall and do things that made her smile only for me, things that made her want to stick around for more, things that sated the hunger that burned like fire every time I caught a glimpse of her, things which were completely unacceptable for a man of my station to want.
My deportment should have been the problem, but my only concern was that I might not have been the only man who wished those things. I worried I wasn't the only man who’d seen her. I worried she was both a fickle and a flirty ghost, yet I’d become so enamored, my worries no longer mattered. I wanted her so much, there were days I lost myself in the village, following her around one corner after another.
I had gone so far as to research such things as trapping an apparition, causing the dead to re-animate, and how to make a ghost fall in love. If the authorities had ever cared to question my research, it would’ve most certainly meant an asylum stay for me.
I had taken the job as a hotel concierge at the medieval town nestled in the French Alps near its Italian border because it was owned by an international hospitality corporation, and I hoped that if I got my foot in the door at one of their smaller establishments, I would eventually be able to work at their larger hotels while seeing the world. The job listing had stated that the entire charming village of Enza, with its twisting streets and unparalleled views, had been purchased by a 5-diamond chain known for its impeccable standards of excellence, a chain that had subsequently upgraded the village with every amenity a guest might desire, catering to discerning couples who wanted a romantic weekend, and to the wealthy elite who required discretion and privacy.
With great luck, I was the first person to answer their advertisement. I was hired and soon spent my days and nights wandering the narrow winding streets of the village, in search of her. Of course, there was a job to do. The place was popular, and rich guests were needy guests. There was always a guest in need of a limousine to Monaco, or a diamond necklace authenticated, or funds wired to a Swiss bank account, but with every spare minute, I left my post and busied myself with any errand that took me through the town.
Etched into the steep hillside, the first dwellings of the historic village were built in the 1500s. And as with most European villages, it had been added upon, piecemeal, through the decades, explaining the cobbled roads too narrow for a vehicle and too steep for a bicycle. Accommodating foot traffic only, the roads were no more than stone hallways, open to the sky above, with narrow stone steps veering off in various directions that led to doorways in unexpected niches. Beyond those doors was where the upgrades had taken place. In the hallways, the same stonework adorned as it had through time, but to cross the stoop was to find plush rugs warming the stone floors and gas fireplaces that roared to life with the flip of a switch. There were bidets and kitchenettes and telephones, the likes of which the earliest occupants could never have imagined would ever exist.
The village had seen bombings and world wars and regional tensions that moved their borders from France to Italy and back again. They had endured plagues and blights and bitter winters, and through it all, the village had remained occupied, clinging to its hillside with all its might.
It was perfectly reasonable for a ghost or two to have been relegated to roam its streets, but in all my study of its history, and in all my interrogation of the elderly locals, no one could provide the reason why a raven-haired beauty with bright green eyes would have cause to roam Enza Village.
The villagers who remained in the village after its purchase, willing to put up with our ever-changing clientele, were shown the greatest of respect. They received basic versions of the hotel’s enhancements in their own homes and enjoyed the same updated utilities. Most villagers welcomed the increased business in their shops, happily adding to the unique charm of the village, with their homemade apricot confitures, fresh Emmentaler cheeses, and dark chocolate candies filled with liquor made from the mountain’s own raspberries.
The villagers had counted it a win/win situation. The only two people who weren’t happy with the village’s new occupants were two sisters, in their eighties, who lived together at the end of Rue Minet. They grumbled and griped, but in the endearing way many elderly people purse their lips at new ways and new establishments. It was only a matter of time before we won them over with elegant new benches in the square and hanging flower pots on every corbel of the train station. Yet, even these old sisters looked at me cockeyed when I asked questions about a green-eyed woman who may have met her fate in the village at some time in its history.
After a time, I deduced it was to be a private haunting all my own. It was a relief.
On what had become my daily ritual, I set out from the concierge desk for a walk. Always a different route. It had taken me two solid months of these walks to map the village in my brain, until, without fail, I could provide direction to the guests with confidence.
The first time I saw the ghost, it was on one of these mind-mapping walks. It was as I concentrated on the twists and turns of the streets that she appeared up ahead. I assumed she was a guest who had stepped out in her dressing gown and couldn’t find her way back to her room. It happened often, hence the need for the mind map. I called out to her, “Mademoiselle, may I help?”
She turned away from me in that shimmery gown that matched her eyes, looked over her shoulder with a beguiling smile, and responded, “Yes, you may,” yet she turned the corner and out of my sight.
Perhaps even happier than usual to provide assistance, I followed her, but when I turned the corner onto Rue Tordu, she was nowhere to be seen. I followed the hallway, checking the knob of each door. All were locked. I turned a dozen corners then, with the same result. I called out to her, but there was no answer.
The next day as I set out, I thought of her. Five minutes into my walk, I spotted her again, up ahead. She was wearing the same gown, and in the filtered midday sunlight I was slightly scandalized to note that the gown was the tiniest bit revealing, yet not too scandalized to appreciate the view.
Again, I called out, “I tried to assist yesterday, but I couldn’t find you. What is your room number?”
She smiled and turned as she said, “Monsieur, I have no room number.”
“No? Not to worry. I am happy to help.” Yet once again, she disappeared around the corner before I could oblige.
The next day, I walked closer before calling out to her. Her beauty was truly stunning and it drew me to her, moth to flame. I felt as though she were waiting especially for me in the gown that matched her eyes. “Excuse me, Miss. Were you able to find your room yesterday? I had hoped to help.”
“Sadly, I do not have a room. It is occupied.”
“I don’t understand. Has there been a mix-up in the reservations? Do you need somewhere to stay?”
“I only wait for my room to empty so that I can go back home.”
“Which room is it? I can help. It’s what I do!” But without providing a room number, she disappeared around the corner. It was then I started to believe I was seeing things. Losing my grip on reality. Had I wanted to see her again so badly that I had created a figment of my imagination? Conjured my own private apparition?
I kept looking for her, each day, afraid I would never find her again. I decided that if she did only exist in my imagination, at least I had done a very good job of it. I became obsessed with her, relishing the moments each day when we talked.
As nonchalantly as possible, I inquired about her after my weekly instruction with the bellhops. No one had seen a guest in a green dress or heard of anyone who had been displaced from their lodgings prematurely. The next morning, I came as close as I had ever been to her. The wind had kicked up in the night, blustering along the walkways, and as I watched it catch the hem of her gown and send the dark strands of her hair billowing, I silently wondered if an apparition could be moved by earthly elements.
With a determination to prove myself sane, I reached out and brushed her hair away from her face and neck. She was warm, her skin smooth. A surge of electricity ran through me.
I trailed my fingers along her shoulder and down her arm. “You must be cold. Please let me provide you shelter.”
“Yes," she answered, blinking up at me and flashing the smile I had decided was not only alluring, but also kind. She linked her arm through the crook of mine and the increased contact brought my entire body to life. She was living, there could be no doubt.
We were only two corners from my own apartment, and I headed there. It was the same as some of our nicest rooms. Not as nice as a suite by any means, but at least as nice as the accommodations we provided the villagers. I unlocked the door and reached for her hand to pull her across the threshold.
She paused. “Are you certain you want to invite me in?”
For a fleeting moment, all the vampire stories I had ever been told replayed in my head, but I realized that if she was a succubus I’d already fallen under her spell. It was too late for turning back.
"I'm certain," I assured her, and with a nod, she permitted me to escort her through the open door.
She stopped just inside and turned to trace the arch of the stones. “Aw, I remember this well.”
"You remember this room?"
"I do. It is my home."
I sputtered, but before I could clarify that we had actually entered my home, she moved to stand before me, unbuttoned my suitcoat, ran her hands up my chest and over my shoulders to remove the coat, and hung it neatly over the back of the kitchen chair. The act was both shocking and routine at once. She returned to unknot my tie and unbutton my dress shirt like the exchange between us was an everyday occurrence. At that point, I no longer cared whose home we were occupying.
I pulled her close to me, overwhelmed by the need to feel her, real and whole, in my arms. It felt like she had always been there. Like a part of me had finally returned. Every curve was familiar. Every kiss perfectly synchronized. Every breath, in unison. Every whispered sound she made flowed over my heart like a balm. I relished in the power I wielded in her ecstasy. It was the most exquisite experience of my life, wrapped up with her in front of the fireplace for hours, studying the flames.
"Will you stay?" I asked.
"As long as you stay, I shall also."
Somehow, I understood that if I were to leave, she would not, and suddenly, traveling the world became a grotesquely unattractive plan.
I said nothing to anyone about her, afraid she would disappear if I did. No one else could see her, but she was real. She knew everything about the village. About the guests. We talked of music and history and art. Everything that passed through the town, she knew well, yet a strange faraway look crossed her face whenever I talked of distant places that none of our guests had spoken of.
"My darling, what is your name?"
"You know you may call me whatever you like."
"Then I would like to call you by your name."
"Very well," she said with a smile. "My name is Enza."
And then I knew.
I hadn’t fallen in love with a ghost.
I had fallen in love with a village.
And I would never leave.
Enza cooked our meals. She filled the silence with engaging stories. She filled the night with love and belonging. She gave the most fitting suggestions for improvements to the village, never a one rejected by my superiors. She knew when a guest was in need of cheer and sent me on my way with a reminder to be a good listener. There were times when she knew I was needed, a problem to be fixed, and before I was summoned, she would send me along to attend to the matter.
She made me happy, and in return, I made the guests happy. Happy guests made my employers happy, and in time I knew that the Conciergerie of Enza Village was not a stepping stone to assignments in faraway places as I had first imagined. Enza Village was where I was meant to stay.
The hotel’s popularity grew and guests filled our rooms, with never a vacancy. Grand galas and decadent dinner parties filled the calendar. I oversaw each event, with my telephone in hand and a green-eyed goddess beside me. I became an expert at carrying on conversations with her, my phone pressed to my ear. No one ever questioned who was on the other end of the line. We rated the food, the couture, and the bits of dialogue we overheard. The only thing I couldn’t do was ask her to dance. I had to wait until we reached our room to whisk her up in my arms and twirl her about until she laughed. I lived for those moments of twirling laughter. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Together, as a team, we took great care in watching over the village and its residents. Enza's insight made me look good. I was sorry to take the credit, yet she waved away my concerns with a flip of her raven hair. Our years of impeccable work garnered accolades from my superiors, and I began to enjoy a bit of notoriety. My name became synonymous with the inn and when guests sought out a photo or a signature from the Concierge of Enza Village, I always accommodated the request, but there were days when it was hard to do so with Enza mimicking me at my side. She wouldn't let celebrity puff up my ego. She kept me grounded, always with an eye on what was most important for the village.
Today, as I awoke, I had the strangest feeling flow through me that I can only explain as a quiet exhale. It chilled me, and I invited Enza to stroll with me to warm up my blood in the morning sunshine.
We walked the streets of the village and I felt much better, although, in the bustle of the morning, the bakers and the shopkeepers had not a nod for me. We wound around the back streets of the village to a remote street at the very top of the village where I dared to hold Enza’s hand, and we sat down next to the wishing well for a rest. It was our favorite spot. The well’s tiny trickle echoed down the stone walkway. It had once been the source of fresh water for the citizens of the upper village, and I imagined how happy they had been not to haul water all the way up from the town square after the well was installed. In modern days, it had become a wishing well, the bottom of it now layered with the wishes of guests, coined in silver and bronze.
My Enza joined me on the bench to listen to the tinkling of the water. Whenever she joined me in the hallways, I was careful not to speak to her without my phone to my ear,
but the well’s echo disguised our voices well enough.
"Do you remember what your first wish was?" she asked, curling her fingers through mine.
I had to think. So many years had passed. So many stolen moments, here on our bench. I answered quietly, “I believe I wished to become a part of the village. To be at home here.”
"Yes. It was once my wish, too."
A family passed by and I sat at attention, ready to offer my help, when the young boy tugged on his father’s arm, “Papa, do you see them? The old couple at the well?”
Alarm pulsed through me at the child's recognition of Enza beside me. I stood, preparing to make some kind of explanation, when the father peered right through us. “There’s no one there, my boy. It must be a trick of the light upon the stones.”
The child wasn't convinced, and he turned and waved as his father pulled him down the hall.
I took Enza's hand and made haste to the concierge desk, only to find a young man at my post who would not respond to the simplest of questions.
My memory flashed back to the day my Enza had been without a place to stay, and a new fear clutched my chest, that together we had been cast out onto the street. Hurriedly, we made our way to 13 Rue Cieux where two young maintenance workers were troweling mortar into the cracks of the stonework around our door.
"Pardon, good sirs, but this is our home,” I said.
They did not hear me.
As they finished their task, a placard was placed at the center of the door just below the knocker. It read, “Sealed this day, in honor of our beloved concierge, who now roams these village halls, watching over us all.”
“It’s a nice sentiment, I’m sure, but if you seal my door, how will I come and go?”
They did not answer. The younger generation could be so insolent.
Enza cradled my face in her hands and winked up at me with those bright green eyes, still as mesmerizing as the very first time they had locked with mine.
And then, with complete disregard for the workers who stood barring our door, she linked her arm through the crook of my elbow, pulled me effortlessly through the ancient stonework, and into the warmth of home.
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