The Ruby Notebook Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once I get close to one guy, I move on to another.”

  “You’re nothing like me in that way, love.”

  “How can I not be? It’s all I’ve ever known.”

  Her face falls.

  I’ve hurt her. I stop myself from going farther down that road. I take a spoonful of straight lavender honey, taste its sudden sweetness filling my mouth. I swallow and ask, “So, Layla, why haven’t you found the love of your life yet?”

  “I have.” She sips her tea.

  “Really?”

  Raising her teacup in a kind of toast, she says, “You, Z.”

  I make a face. “That’s weird, Layla.”

  She bites into a mille-feuilles, and as a cascade of crumbs tumbles down her robe, she asks, “So who is he, anyway?”

  This time I answer. “Jean-Claude. The accordionist for Illusion.” I stand up, still looking away. If I see her face, all full of sympathy, I might start crying again.

  She says in a soft, Rumi-drenched voice, “This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together to make us grow.”

  From the vantage point of Madame Chevalier’s window, the Place de la Mairie is a square, shiny lake speckled with sleek black umbrellas and people darting here and there, shielding their faces from the rain. I’m drinking peach tea with Madame Chevalier as we wait for Vincent to join us.

  “There he is,” I say, pointing to Vincent with his entourage of pigeons, Maude on his shoulder. Apparently, the rain doesn’t faze him a bit. He waves and heads our way at a slow waddle.

  Madame Chevalier peers at him through the binoculars, then, looking pleased, opens a little drawer in the table and takes out a silver compact and lipstick. With one slightly trembling hand she holds the mirror, and with the other she spreads on the lipstick carefully. Cotton-candy pink. Oddly girlish. She rubs her lips, then spritzes on a bit of jasmine perfume.

  I smile at her. “You really like Vincent, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” She twirls the binoculars cord around her fingers. “Maude is so fortunate to have him dote on her.”

  I like sitting up here with Madame Chevalier, an unseen spectator of life. “And how is your boyfriend?” she asks, patting her cheeks with rouge.

  I press my lips together. “We broke up.”

  “Mon Dieu! How terrible!” She puts her hand over her heart, as if to calm it, and then whispers, “Why?”

  I pause. I’m not sure how to put it into words. I’m not even sure I know the answer. “We’re just too different” is the cliché I settle on.

  She waves my reason away with a bony hand. “Oh, Vincent always said that about us. That I was a famous world-traveling artist, out of his league.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “But you’re perfect for each other. The pigeons, the quest for the waters …” I trail off, studying her, trying to tell if she’s blushing or if she just put on too much rouge.

  “Well, ma petite,” she says, closing her compact mirror and tucking it into the drawer. “Why don’t you smooth things over with him?”

  “I can’t. We’re broken up.”

  She looks doubtful. “At least you’ll stay friends with him, won’t you? He’s essential to you finding the waters, you know.”

  I breathe out. “We’ll see.” I don’t say more. I don’t want to see her disappointment.

  When Vincent arrives, Madame Chevalier fusses over him and Maude, insisting they dry off with pink hand towels from the bathroom. Once she’s satisfied they’re warm, she tells Vincent about my breakup with Wendell. A grave expression falls over both their faces at this news. Apparently, they had high hopes that Wendell’s divination powers would be the lucky break they needed. For a while, they stroke Maude sullenly.

  They do brighten a little when I hand back the Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence book and tell them about my trip to Entremont with Sirona and Layla. “I could just ask Sirona directly about the waters,” I say. “That would be quicker and easier than this secret agent stuff.”

  “Oh, she won’t tell,” Vincent says. “You get smart after living for centuries.” He taps a finger on his forehead.

  Madame Chevalier nods in solemn agreement. “Or millennia,” she adds.

  “Oh, right,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I forgot about the accumulated wisdom of millennia.” Today I seem to have less patience for indulging these two. I exhale slowly and ask, “So what’s my course of action?”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Vincent says.

  Madame Chevalier nods. “And when Sirona slips, you’ll be ready.”

  Soon Vincent goes into the kitchen to make more tea, and I glance at the hallway lined with self-portraits. “You know, Madame Chevalier, you’d have an infinite number of hallways filled with paintings if you two get eternal life—”

  “Mais non, ma petite!” she cries. “Remember what the book says. Only those who drink regularly from the waters will have eternal life. One sip will simply heal you.” She folds her hands, tucks them beneath her chin. “Oh, we only want a sip.”

  I survey the portraits and open my notebook. “What’s the same about you in all these pictures? I mean, throughout all your travels, all the decades, what’s never changed?”

  A faraway look washes over her face. “Maude,” she says. “Whenever I’d come back to Aix after a long trip, before my bags were even unpacked, I’d hear the lovely flutter of Maude’s wings, see the glimmer of her feathers, feel her settle on my lap.” She smiles. “And read the new message she carried.”

  I jot down her answers, and then, on an impulse, I lean forward and whisper, “Is it Maude you love, or the one sending the messages?”

  Madame Chevalier puts her hand over her heart, her rouged cheeks turning pinker.

  Vincent totters into the living room with a tray of teacups, clattering with each step. “Zeeta, I nearly forgot! Have you received any more mysterious gifts?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” I pull the packet of letters from my bag and translate the first one, my voice quavering with emotion. On the second letter, halfway through, I need to pause and take a deep breath to steady my voice.

  After the third letter, I look up and see that Madame Chevalier’s face is streaked with tears. “There’s nothing sadder,” she says, “than love that can never be realized, is there?”

  I swallow, and say nothing.

  “You must find this man, ma petite.”

  I blink. “He doesn’t want me to find him.”

  “Oh, I think he does,” she says with confidence.

  “Oui,” Vincent says, nodding. “He does.”

  “Why would I even want to find him?”

  Vincent strokes Maude’s feathers before answering. “Because it’s rare for someone to offer love like this. When it’s offered, you take it. And if you have love to give, you give it.”

  Madame Chevalier looks at Vincent for a moment and reaches over to touch Maude’s head. Her fingers graze Vincent’s. Then she wipes her cheeks and says firmly, “You must go to Marseille, Zeeta. Look for clues there. Find your father.”

  An otherworldly bliss sweeps over Sirona’s face as she plays the lyre. Her fingers skim the strings, almost of their own accord, while her mind floats away to another place and time. It’s fitting that she’s named after a water goddess. She moves like river currents: pure, effortless grace. In fact, all the members of Salluvii possess this elegance and ease. Damona’s eyes scan the audience as she plays, interested and curious. Her gaze lands on Bormanus, who sends her a hint of a smile. Sirona’s husband, Grannos, is subdued, relaxed, looking upward as he plays, to the tops of buildings, the sky, the birds.

  I’m perched on the fountain in the Place de la Mairie, taking notes on Salluvii. When they started playing fifteen minutes earlier, Vincent ushered me out of Madame Chevalier’s apartment, encouraging me to study the musicians up close. “Take notes in that notebook of yours!” he advised. I suspect he simply wante
d time alone with Madame Chevalier.

  The rain has let up, and weak sunlight is peeking through the clouds. I open my notebook, wanting to write about my father but not sure where to begin. Last summer, I translated letters that Wendell wrote to his birth father when he was younger, years before they’d ever met. Some letters burned with rage, others were light and casual, others full of yearning, and others simply grateful. Wendell said it was his way of making sense of his jumbled emotions in a powerless situation.

  I turn to a fresh page and, slowly, write,

  Dear J.C.,

  I got your packet of letters. At first I wanted to kill you. How dare you come into my life now? How dare you play games with my feelings?

  I write two pages, until Salluvii stops playing. I feel a little better after venting, even though I doubt my father will ever read the letter.

  After Salluvii’s set, Sirona glides over, carrying her lyre. “Bonjour, Zeeta,” she says, giving me two quick pecks on the cheeks and sitting beside me, bringing with her the scent of lavender and thyme, as if she’s just emerged from a sunny field.

  “Bonjour, Sirona,” I say, closing my notebook, aware that Madame Chevalier is probably watching us through binoculars, speculating with Vincent on my conversation, cooking up some new, magical theory.

  Sirona sets her lyre on her lap, absently plucking a few strings. In her calm voice, she asks how I’m doing. “Ça va, Zeeta?”

  I hesitate, wondering whether I should confide in her. “Sirona,” I begin. “Did Layla tell you about the letters from my dad?”

  She nods. “What a shock for you. How are you handling it?”

  “I’m thinking I might try to find him.”

  “Really?” She tilts her head. “Layla said you were angry, that you wanted to forget about him.”

  “Maybe I changed my mind,” I say, glancing at Madame Chevalier’s window, where she and Vincent sit side by side, watching me. Sure enough, the binoculars are half covering her face. I give her a small smile and turn back to Sirona. “What do you think about all this?”

  She hesitates, running her fingertips over her lyre, bits of stardust. Then she leans in, close. “Zeeta, you wouldn’t believe how much I’ve seen in my lifetime. And if there’s one thing I’ve observed again and again, it’s this.” She pauses and lets her gaze sink into me. I imagine that Madame Chevalier and Vincent are waiting with bated breath, dying to hear what she’s about to say.

  “At the end of their lives,” Sirona says slowly, “people usually regret what they didn’t do, not so much what they did do.”

  I take this in. “And you think I’ll regret not looking for my father?”

  She nods. “Now, when he’s so close, when he’s reaching out. Now, when you have the opportunity. Maybe your only opportunity.”

  I turn her advice over in my mind, glancing up at Madame Chevalier in the window and then back at Sirona.

  Both women are wise in their own eccentric ways.

  Both have traveled the world. Both have souls of artists.

  And most importantly, both have given me the same advice.

  It’s rainy again today—just a light drizzle, but I’m wishing I had an umbrella. Layla doesn’t believe in umbrellas. She insists that being caught in the rain is one of the greatest joys of being alive, and no way would she try to block it out. Since we’ve never had money for luxuries, I’ve learned to accept an umbrellaless existence.

  I’m on Rue Granet, heading toward Illusion’s apartment, since I have some extra time between tutoring sessions. When I reach Café Eternité, I push Illusion’s buzzer and duck inside the doorframe for shelter, shaking the rain from my hair.

  Jean-Claude’s head pops out the third-story window. “Salut, Zeeta!”

  “Salut!” I call up. “Can we talk?”

  “Bien sûr!” he says. “Un instant.” He disappears from view, and two minutes later, he’s downstairs kissing my cheeks, without an umbrella. Tilting his head to the sky, he lets raindrops fall into his mouth.

  I’m guessing he feels the same way about rain that Layla does. “Do you want to go somewhere to talk?” I ask. “A café or something?”

  “Ouais.” He lightly takes my arm and we head down the street. “Let’s go to my favorite fountain,” he says. “It’s hidden, just down there.”

  He leads us down a back street toward a small and simple rectangular fountain, just two modest streams of water falling from snake mouths. A few pigeons are clustered on the edge of the fountain, unbothered by the misty rain. The fountain is just in front of an abandoned-looking apartment building, boarded up, with broken glass and graffiti. Jean-Claude gestures to a stoop next to the fountain, under an overhang to keep off the rain.

  I sit down, folding my arms across my chest, feeling chilled.

  “Voilà!” he says. “A solitary nook. No tourists come this way, or else the Aixois government would have fixed that window and cleaned up the graffiti.” He leans back against the door and breathes in deeply. “I wish I could eat the smell of rain. I’d serve it at a feast. It would be a nice palate cleanser, like lemon sorbet without the tang.”

  It’s starting to rain harder now, just a foot away from us, but I stay dry except for an occasional stray drop. The sounds of water surround us—the patter of rain on the street and in the fountain, the light rushing of water pouring from the snake mouths. The world looks blurry, subdued, the streets shiny and dark and empty.

  “I’ve decided to look for my father,” I announce.

  He looks at me, surprised. “Last I heard, you wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “I’ll regret it if I don’t try.”

  He holds out a hand, cupping raindrops. “I told you my thoughts already. That parents are not necessary after a point.”

  “What happened with yours?” I hug my knees to my chest, shivering. “Why did you break with them?”

  He shakes his head. “I leave the past in the past.”

  For a while we just watch the rain, and then I say, “My father lived in Marseille for a while. I think if I go there, I might find out something about him.”

  He gives me a sideways look. “What do you have to go on?”

  “I think he might have worked on the docks sixteen years ago.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “There are over a million people in Marseille, Zeeta.”

  I take a deep breath. “That’s why I was hoping you’d come with me.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, briefly revealing his scar. “Marseille is the setting for all my nightmares. I never go there.”

  I nod, biting my lip. “You’re the only person I know from Marseille. It would really help if—”

  “All right, Zeeta,” he says abruptly. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Merci.” I hug my knees tighter and watch the raindrops land in the fountain, creating widening, intersecting circles. “Tell me one good memory of your parents in Marseille. There has to be something.”

  He gives a short bark of a laugh. A full minute passes before he says, “When I was little, we’d take a ferry to the islands of Frioul, just off the coast of Marseille. My stepfather worked for the ferry company, so I got to sit up front, get royal treatment. They’d even let me work the controls sometimes. It was amazing for a little kid, to be steering something so huge. And then we’d get to the island and go swimming on the beach and have ice cream at a café on the docks. My dad would always bring along one of his instruments—and we’d sit on the towels and play together until the very last ferry left at sunset.”

  “Sounds good. Your parents sound great.”

  “You asked for a good memory.”

  “But there have to be more, Jean-Claude.”

  “Let’s just say that the innocent boy steering the ferry is gone. And his parents are too.” He traces the lines in the shattered glass, leaving a thick film of dust on his finger, which he wipes on his red velvet pants.

  “Did something happen?” I ask.

  He does
n’t answer.

  “Can’t you tell me anything about your family, your past?”

  “Like what?”

  “Any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

  “Julien and Sabina and Amandine.”

  “I mean real brothers and sisters.”

  “Dandelion seeds,” he whispers.

  “Where are they?”

  “Wherever owls go in the daytime.”

  I think. I’ve never seen an owl in the daytime. “Where’s that?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Jean-Claude, why won’t you tell me why you left home?”

  “The past doesn’t matter. There is only now. You. Me. The pigeons. The rain.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does rain mean? What does a pigeon mean?”

  “You’re infuriating,” I say, leaning back.

  “Désolé, Zeeta,” he says. Sorry. The word makes me think of desolate things, lonely and abandoned. I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable in Jean-Claude. Until now, he’s always exuded confidence, charm, sparkle. But in this drizzle, his eyes reflect only the gray of wet stone. Even his red outfit seems subdued. It makes me think of Tortue’s story of Harlequin, once the bad weather came.

  Jean-Claude scoots to the edge of the stoop, into the rain, and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. I’m studying his face, trying to figure him out, when his eyes open and look into mine. He moves his face close. His breath is warm, his lips parted, coming closer to mine. I hold still, my heart pounding.

  Suddenly, we’re engulfed by the squawks of birds. There’s an uproar among the pigeons, wild feathers flapping and beaks pecking and screeching. A pigeon fight.

  I look at the pigeon that caused the commotion, its feathers still ruffled. There’s a vial tied to its leg. I squint through the rain. There are only three salmon-pink toes on that leg. But even without the vial and missing toe, I could tell it was Maude, the way she prances around like a fussy old lady or a spoiled little princess. She gives me an impish look and ruffles her silver-flecked feathers.