The Ruby Notebook Read online

  Sirona whispers to us, “It’s the tale of Pierrot.”

  The French people around us appear to be familiar with the story. They’re laughing and clapping and clucking in sympathy at the right times.

  At the end, Tortue bows as everyone applauds, tossing money into his hat. Once the crowd disperses, he collapses onto a bench, looking exhausted.

  Layla says, “Let’s go talk to him.”

  “Why?” I say. “So you can start meeting your clown quota for France?”

  “No, Z! To have him explain the story.”

  Sirona says, “Good idea. He could explain it better than I could.”

  I trail behind them, cringing inside.

  “Bonjour!” Layla says as she approaches him.

  Tortue looks up, surprised. “Bonjour, madame.”

  “We loved your performance.”

  “Merci, madame.” His voice is soft, almost shy.

  “Could you explain the story?”

  “Oui,” he says hoarsely, as if he’s not used to talking much. “It’s the tale of Pierrot and Harlequin and Columbine.” I can’t put my finger on his accent. A Latin language, maybe. Italian or Spanish or Portuguese. “There are many different versions of the story, but here’s the one I like. Harlequin was a colorful clown, dazzling, bright, fun. He traveled in a little caravan, having sunny adventures, charming people with his words.” Tortue pauses, looking nervous, swallowing hard, as though this is the most he’s talked in ages.

  He continues. “Pierrot was a clown who was quieter, deeper, wore white and black. He baked bread in a wood-fired stove, by the light of the moon. He had always loved Columbine, but she was drawn to the bright colors of Harlequin. And so she went off with him. Pierrot was sad, but patient. He waited. When winter came, and the world grew cold and harsh, Harlequin had no food to give Columbine. They had no heat, no fire, no light. Columbine realized her mistake and returned home. Pierrot let her into his warm kitchen and nourished her with bread and love.”

  “Ohhh,” Layla says. “Now I get it.”

  Suddenly, Amandine appears, slinging her arm through the crook of Tortue’s elbow. “So. You met Zeeta and her mom!”

  He gives a slight shake of the head. “Not officially.”

  “Well,” Amandine says, “this is Zeeta.”

  I nod in greeting.

  “And I’m Layla,” Layla says, holding out her hand. “I’d do the kiss thing, but I wouldn’t want to mess up your makeup.” She laughs.

  With a tentative smile, Tortue shakes her hand with his gloved one.

  “And this is my dear friend Sirona,” Layla adds as Sirona offers her hand.

  Amandine smiles, satisfied, and turns to me. “Tortue will be at the dinner on Saturday. You’re still coming, Zeeta, right? With your boyfriend?”

  I nod and say nothing. I don’t even want to think about the dinner.

  Amandine looks around. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Busy with his host family. They’re sightseeing this week, since he starts art classes on Monday.” I try not to let my voice quaver as I say this. Come Monday, I’ll be even less likely to see Wendell. He’ll probably be at class for most of the day, then do homework in the afternoons and spend evenings with his host family.

  “We’re off to find some chocolate samples!” Layla says, rescuing me. “There has to be a chocolate section around here somewhere!”

  We wave goodbye and Layla pulls us away, tugging on Sirona with one hand and me with another, back into the sea of tarps and crowds and market stands. I look back at Amandine. She and Tortue are staring after us. I remember what Madame Chevalier insisted. There’s more to her than meets the eye. The only thing I’m sure of is that Amandine cares deeply about Tortue.

  Layla doesn’t seem very interested in the mime, which is surprising considering her history of clown boyfriends. Although, now that I think about it, most of Layla’s dozens of clown boyfriends would be the fun-loving Harlequin types. Tortue, on the other hand, is most definitely a melancholy Pierrot.

  Making our way slowly through three pots of linden flower tea, Madame Chevalier and I exchange stories of our travels over the course of the afternoon. We’ve been to some of the same countries—Senegal, Brazil, India—and can thoroughly appreciate each other’s misadventures. At times, I find myself laughing so hard at her stories, I’m crying. It’s rare and delicious to meet people who can share these kinds of memories with me.

  I don’t realize how long we’ve talked until it’s nearly too dark to see her face. Once I turn on the blue glass table lamp, I see that Madame Chevalier’s eyes look happy but tired. I wish her goodnight and kiss her goodbye.

  Outside in the cool, dusky air, I realize I’m starving. Layla’s at a teachers’ meeting, so I’m on my own tonight. I swing by the boulangerie and pick up a mini quiche Lorraine for dinner. On the way home, munching on the quiche and crossing the Place Richelme, I run into Illusion.

  Jean-Claude greets me with an energetic “Zeeta!” and kisses me soundly on each cheek.

  I notice unlit torches piled beside him and the pungent smell of kerosene. A few meters away, Sabina is twisting Amandine’s hair into a bun, and Julien is warming up on the drums. “What are you up to?” I ask.

  “Dancing with fire,” Jean-Claude says, a daring gleam in his eye. “Very dangerous, Zeeta. Don’t let your soul get too close. It might burst into flames.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” I say, sitting on the wall of the fountain and finishing off my quiche.

  It turns out that Illusion is holding an impromptu fire-dancing performance, something they don’t do often for lack of permits. “If the flics come, we’ll have to bolt,” Julien says nervously.

  “We’ll be fine,” Sabina assures him.

  “But we’ll have to be quick,” Amandine says. “Fifteen minutes, tops.” She douses the wicks with kerosene and lights a match. After a moment, the torches flare.

  Julien begins pounding a primal beat on the bongos. Amandine twirls two torches around her head in figure eights, then shimmies into a back bend. She tosses the torches into the air as she does a flip. Landing gracefully on her feet, she catches the torches just before they hit the ground, one in each hand.

  People flock toward Illusion, oohing and aahing, drawn to the flames. Amandine looks especially young in the firelight, bending her tiny body in all directions. I can see why Jean-Claude would feel protective of her. Still, she possesses a fierceness, an intelligence that makes her much more than a needy little sister. I watch, hypnotized, as her body fades into the darkness and my eyes focus on the orange fireballs spiraling as if of their own accord.

  What first set your soul on fire? The question Jean-Claude posed at the cave party. I could have answered Wendell. Why didn’t I?

  I let thoughts of Wendell drift away, and lose myself in the smell of smoke, the drumbeat, the whirl of Amandine’s skirt. Jean-Claude is warming up in the background, casually juggling torches as though they were oranges, tossing them high, then spinning on his heel to catch them. His face glows in the flame. I suck in a breath every time a torch moves near his black curls.

  Amandine skips away, letting Sabina take center stage. She moves like a belly dancer, swaying her hips, gyrating her torso, swirling the torches, painting the night air with fire. Her stunts aren’t as impressive as Amandine’s acrobatics, and there aren’t as many gasps from the audience, but she’s entrancing. The crowd is clapping now, in sync with the flicks of her hips and shoulders.

  The flame briefly illuminates a part of the street that was in darkness, lighting up Tortue, in his Pierrot costume, leaning against a doorframe, perfectly still. I wonder if he’s worried about Amandine, his daughter, playing with fire. Or simply proud. Or a mix of both.

  Sabina tosses the torches to Jean-Claude. Now that Amandine has rested, she skips onto the scene again. Jean-Claude tosses her the torches. He and Amandine throw the torches back and forth, high and low, both of them leaping and spinning as the flam
es arc between them. They maintain nearly constant eye contact, anticipating each other’s moves and cues. As Julien’s drumming grows faster, louder, rising into a wild fervor, Amandine runs to Jean-Claude, leaps onto his shoulders, swirling her torches overhead as he stands up.

  It’s breathtaking. The audience explodes in applause.

  Afterward, I sit with Illusion by the fountain. We’re all floating from the rush of the fire dancing. Sabina is talking with Amandine about some new costumes they’re designing, while Julien taps out complex rhythms on the bongos with his fingertips. Jean-Claude sits next to me and pulls his little notebook from his back pocket. I take out my ruby notebook. Together, we write, occasionally looking up to smile at each other, and then lower our heads to write some more.

  I write about fire. Who knows what he’s writing about.

  Once, he looks up and says, “Your wrists are ocean waves.”

  “What do you mean?” I whisper.

  “The way your wrists skim your page as you write. The invisible pulse inside, the hidden movement that keeps you alive.”

  I look back down at my notebook, aware now, of the rhythm of my hands. It’s really too dark to see the words between scattered puddles of streetlamp light. It’s better this way. No chance that Madame Chevalier is reading this through her binoculars. I glance up at her dark window. Maybe she’s asleep. Or maybe she’s watching us in the darkness. I imagine her trading her binoculars for night-vision goggles once the sun sets.

  As I look back down at my notebook, I feel Jean-Claude watching me for a while, then scribbling something in his notebook.

  “What are you writing about?” I whisper.

  He motions with his chin to my neck. “That necklace makes you look like you’ve just emerged from a tree hollow.”

  My hand rises to my neck. It’s my seed necklace from Ecuador. “Merci.”

  I don’t tell him that Wendell bought it for me. Just a few weeks ago, I could fit Wendell into any conversation. But now, here, with Jean-Claude’s poetry, in the afterglow of fire dancing, Wendell feels like something that didn’t quite fit into my suitcase, something I left behind, along with my navy blue skirt with too many holes and my moss-green tank that had bleach splashed on it. Something with no place in my life now.

  Of course, that’s not true. Wendell is here in this town, and tomorrow he and Jean-Claude will be in the same room, at the same table, and I can’t imagine that scene without feeling my throat start to close up.

  Later, outside my apartment, my hand is fumbling around in my bag, looking for the key, when I feel something odd. A large envelope filled with something. I suck in a breath. Another mystery gift. How could my fantôme have slipped it in there? I’ve been so careful with my bag in crowded places.

  My heart pounding, I hold the envelope up to the yellow streetlamp light. The front is marked For Zeeta and Layla.

  Any lingering possibilities that the fantôme mistook me for someone else vanish. I open the envelope carefully, leaning against the stone wall. Inside are a bunch of folded-up light blue papers, and on the top, a piece of torn-out notebook paper, white and graphed, as most French notebooks are. On this top paper is a letter, written in French.

  Chères Zeeta and Layla,

  I’m sorry I cannot give these letters to you in person. I’m sorry I cannot tell you who I am. But it’s important for you to know, Zeeta, that I loved your mother very much, even if we could only be together for one night. I still love her. When I saw you, I knew you must be my daughter, Zeeta. You look like my sister—your eyes, the heart shape of your face. I am so proud. Yet so sorry that I could not be part of your life.

  I never mailed these letters because I had no address for you, Layla. But I saved them in hopes our paths would cross again. Please do not try to find me. Please just know that you have always been loved. And Zeeta, know that you will always have the love of a father, even if you don’t know me.

  All my love.

  My hand is shaking, my stomach doing cartwheels. I flip through the remaining letters. They’re all addressed to Layla, dated throughout the year before I was born, and signed J.C.

  My father’s hands touched these papers. My father’s hands were here, just beneath my own hands. He wrote these words.

  I tuck the pages beneath my arm and stumble up the three flights of stairs.

  Layla’s on the roof patio, sitting at the table, making a mosaic with shards of a pot knocked over earlier by the wind. Our porch lamp bulb has burned out, so the only light comes from three candles in glass holders. Layla’s neck is craned over her project as she strains to see in the dim light. “Hello, love,” she sings when she sees me in the doorway.

  “Layla,” I manage to creak, holding out the papers.

  Seeing my face, she drops the pottery shards. “What’s wrong, Z?” She wipes her hands on her skirt and takes the letters, raising them to the candlelight. When she realizes what they are, her hand flies to her face. There her hand stays, over her mouth, as her eyes move over the words.

  Meanwhile, I try to wrap my mind around what these letters mean. But I’m in too much shock to think straight. I can only feel the flames inside me, an inferno of unformed emotion. Something red-hot and burning. Raw fury. At Layla. At my fantôme father. At life.

  And then come the words, the same ones, over and over, in wave after wave. Not fair, not fair, not fair.

  Gradually, my thoughts take shape. For years, I desperately wanted to know my father. And now—now—is the time he shows up. Now, when I’m way too old to cuddle on his lap or sit on his shoulders or be spun around or dance on his feet. Now, when all that can happen is awkward conversation. I’ve spent years trying to fill the hole he left—forming friendships with Paloma’s father in Guatemala, Gaby in Ecuador, Vincent and Madame Chevalier here in France, and so many others over the years … and now he drops into my life.

  These gifts from him—they’re taunting. They’re cruel.

  Finally, Layla has read through all the letters several times. She looks up at me. “Where did these come from?”

  I force myself to form words. “My fantôme.” I sink into a chair, my legs too weak to hold me anymore. I have the impulse to put the letters in the fire, let them burn up, turn to ash.

  “Have you read them?” Layla whispers.

  I manage to shake my head.

  She pulls a chair close to mine and holds the first letter between us. I keep my hands in my lap in hard, clenched fists. The letter is not in French but in English. And it’s dated nine months before my birth. I make myself read it silently.

  Lovely Layla,

  You said you would write to me, and as I am too eager to wait for your letter, I shall write to you first. Why did you leave without saying goodbye? I woke up in the morning and you were gone, like an angel in a dream. Last night was the most beautiful night of my life. I can only wait for your letter from Italy, and hope it comes soon. Did you feel what I did last night?

  Yours,

  J.C.

  The next letter is also written in English.

  Lovely Layla,

  Your sunshine taste is still on my tongue, even after a month. I remember when I came out of the sea. You were sitting there like a mermaid in the moonlight. I thought I was dreaming you. And when we talked, you wove a spell over me. Perhaps we can meet in Italy? Oh, please write to me soon! I do not know where to send this letter. You know how to find me, but I cannot find you. I cannot stop thinking about you.

  Love,

  J.C.

  * I hoping this leters have sence. My friend traslate for me. I am copy the leters. My Inglish riting is no good. Sory.

  Layla has rested her hand on her chest. She’s struggling to breathe deeply, but this is something too shocking for yogic breath to touch. She shuffles to the next letter.

  Suddenly, my anger’s directed toward Layla. I turn to her and hiss, “Why didn’t you write to him?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. The night wa
s magical for me, too. But I wanted to explore, travel. I didn’t want a man holding me back.”

  “But when you found out you were pregnant?” I push. “Why didn’t you write him then?”

  “I must have thrown away his address. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”

  My fingernails dig into my palms as Layla rubs her temple, shuffling to the next paper. How would our lives be different if she’d written to him? If she’d gotten these letters? J.C. was in love with her. In love with her. It wasn’t just a one-night stand for him. He loved her!

  And now, in some kind of sick revenge scheme, he’s teasing us with this.

  I hate him. I don’t even know him and I hate him. How could he give these to me and write that he won’t meet me?

  The final letter is in English too. I chew on my lip and force myself to read it.

  My Layla,

  I have left Greece. Every time I look at the ocean I see your mermaid hair tangled with sand, each grain a tiny star. It seems that night meant nothing to you. Your letter has never come. I have returned to France. I am tired of moving. Too heavy. Like a stone that can only sink. Farther and farther down. Here I will stay in Marseille, near the sea, where I can smell the salt and work on the water but not be haunted by the memories of our night in Greece. Forget about me. But you already have, no? And I will try to forget you. I still wear your Jimi Hendrix shirt. Perhaps someday I shall return it to you.