The Ruby Notebook Read online

  On the navette to Marseille, Wendell asks, “What made you change your mind about finding your father?”

  “Something Madame Chevalier said about love. She’s the artist I told you about, the friend of Vincent. One of my endearingly nutty elderly friends—the ones into pigeons and eternal life?”

  “I remember you telling me about them,” he says, and then, lightly, “Well, this lady can’t be too nutty if her advice was good enough to change your mind.”

  “True,” I admit with a smile.

  An hour later, the navette stops right at the Vieux Port of Marseille, which makes it easy for Wendell and me. We simply walk off the bus and onto the docks, our destination. The bus pulls away, and as the exhaust fades, the salty, fishy sea wind wraps around us. Water laps against the pier, and my insides slosh around, wave after wave of jumbled feelings—excitement, fear, longing. For a minute I just soak in the brightness and blueness and hugeness. I watch the sunlight dance on wave tips, breathing in the ocean air and vast sky, listening to the hum of boat motors and seagull calls.

  “Want to get something to eat and make a plan?” Wendell asks. He’s beside me, a few feet away, snapping pictures. He was painfully careful not to touch me on the bus ride down here. Once, when he accidentally brushed my knee, he jerked away as though he’d been electrocuted. But here, now, the ocean seems to have calmed him, put some light back into his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I say, with a rush of happiness that he’s here with me.

  He tucks his camera back into the case, and into his backpack. Then we head across the street, toward the cafés lining the docks. We sit down at a little outdoor crêperie and order espressos and crêpes—lemon for me and Nutella for him.

  Beyond the piers, the craggy hillsides are speckled with houses and buildings. This port is much bigger than I imagined. And very international. A mishmash of dozens of languages float past the café. There are African women swathed in colorful, wildly patterned cotton; veiled Middle Eastern women; camera-toting tourists from Eastern Europe and Asia. It’s almost dizzying.

  “So what exactly do we know about your father?” Wendell asks. He seems solid and grounded with his logical questions. I feel another wave of appreciation for him.

  “Well,” I say, “we know English isn’t his native language. And he has a dark complexion. But that wouldn’t make him stand out here at all.”

  “True,” Wendell says. “But we know he’s a great guitar player. His initials are J.C. He probably looks like you. That’s something.”

  I take a sip of espresso and say, “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” I stare at my drink. “For being here.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  When I glance back up from my drink, he’s looking down at his. “I know we don’t have much to go on, Wendell. I think—” I hesitate, not wanting to say Jean-Claude’s name.

  “What?”

  There’s no way around it. It’s our best hope for finding some clue to my father’s whereabouts. “Jean-Claude gave me his parents’ address. They live a few blocks away, and his stepfather worked on these docks for years.”

  “Sounds like a good connection,” Wendell says after a pause.

  “I know,” I admit. “But I feel weird about contacting them. Jean-Claude ran away from home a few years ago. He doesn’t even talk to them anymore. But I think they could give us a good idea on how to start looking.” I pull out the paper and wait for Wendell’s reaction.

  He presses his lips together. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “On y va,” I say, relieved. We drop a few euros on the little silver tray and head down the sidewalk as the waves lap at the docks. The constant push and pull of the current makes me think of Wendell and me, moving toward each other for a moment, only to move away again.

  After ten minutes of walking, Wendell and I arrive at the door of a gray stone building that matches the address Jean-Claude gave me. The name over the buzzer reads Mme et M. Jorge Candelaria. His stepfather must have Spanish origins, I note. I press the buzzer and wait, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Oui?” A woman’s voice responds.

  “Bonjour. I’m Zeeta. A friend of Jean-Claude’s.”

  She pauses, then says, “Come in,” and buzzes us inside.

  She’s on the first floor, the door on the right. When she opens the door, I immediately see her resemblance to Jean-Claude—the deep blue eyes, the dark, wavy hair. “I’m Clementine,” she says in a warm, curious voice, not quite hiding a hint of anxiety. “Clementine Candelaria.”

  Wendell and I introduce ourselves, and then she leads us into a light, airy living room, where instruments are scattered throughout like pieces of furniture—a violin, a harp, a djembe drum, a guitar, a piano.

  “Nice instruments,” Wendell says.

  “Thank you. We have a musical family. Most of the instruments belong to Jean-Claude’s father—well, stepfather, really, but he was the only father Jean-Claude ever knew.” She speaks slowly enough for Wendell to understand. “And that violin was Jean-Claude’s. That’s what he studied in school. And his dad—Jorge—played music with him for fun every night before bed. They would play, and Thomas and I would dance, for hours, here in this living room.”

  The room seems so empty now. I can hardly imagine how it felt filled with music and dancing and kids. I take in the white lace curtains, moving softly in the breeze, the white sofa and chairs, the glass table holding a vase of orange zinnias. Madame Candelaria’s outfit matches the décor—a white linen skirt and tank and an orange silk scarf around her neck.

  She sits us down on the sofa, then disappears into the kitchen, emerging minutes later with a tray of bottles and glasses, clinking together lightly. She pours us cool water with green mint syrup in tall glasses with no ice. And then, she leans toward us, across the coffee table. “How is my son?” she asks, obviously worried. “He’s all right, isn’t he? Did anything happen?”

  “No, Jean-Claude’s fine,” I say quickly. “He knew I needed a contact at the port of Marseille. You see, I’m looking for a man who worked on the docks sixteen years ago. Jean-Claude thought his dad might be able to help us.”

  Madame Candelaria’s face falls. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but you just missed Jorge. He left this morning on business. He won’t be home for a month.”

  I sip my minted water, trying to contain my disappointment. Wendell gives me a sympathetic look.

  Madame Candelaria reaches out her hands, imploring. “But please, tell me about Jean-Claude.”

  “He told me to tell you he’s doing fine,” I say, wishing his message had contained more emotion, even a hint of love.

  But she looks pleased enough. With a wistful smile, she glances over her shoulder.

  I follow her gaze. She’s looking at a silver-framed photo of two boys posed in front of a boat, with blue sky and sea in the background. Their arms are slung around each other. The one on the right is a younger Jean-Claude, about fifteen years old. His face is softer than it is now, more open and innocent. And beside him is a boy who looks like a twelve-year-old version of Jean-Claude. It must be his brother. The picture must have been taken shortly before he died.

  “That’s a nice picture,” I say.

  “You know about Thomas?” she asks.

  “Just a little.”

  “Jean-Claude felt so responsible for his brother’s death. It was hard for all of us, of course. Maybe that’s why we didn’t see how much Jean-Claude was suffering. Before we realized what was happening, he’d shut himself off from us, from everyone he had ever known.” She stops and takes a quivering breath. “We couldn’t reach him. And then, a year later, he left home. I kept thinking he’d return, but it’s been three years and he hasn’t and he’s all grown up now. It’s like we lost both our sons—” She stops, unable to continue.

  I don’t know her well enough to hold her hand or put my arm around her. I glance at Wendell, who looks just as uncer
tain. One thing is clear: Jean-Claude’s mother adores him. How could he reject so much love? I remember the sad, frustrated look on Amandine’s face this morning. It’s the same expression his mother wears now.

  “I’m really sorry, madame,” I say finally. “I think Wendell and I should be going. Thank you for the refreshments and your time.” I stand up.

  Wendell sets down his glass and stands too.

  Madame Candelaria follows us to the door. “Tell Jean-Claude we don’t blame him. Tell him we never did. Tell him we want to see him.” She’s crying now. “Tell him we love him more than anything.”

  Wendell reaches out his hand to hers and assures her, “Oui, madame. We’ll tell him.”

  Just before the door closes she says, “Bon courage. And be sure to give Jean-Claude my love.”

  Wendell and I walk toward Vieux Port, dodging clusters of people on the sidewalk as buses and cars speed down the wide streets. I’m quiet, until I finally burst out, “She was so sweet! And she loves him so much!”

  Wendell nods. “Seems like his dad does too.”

  “I know!” I say. “I can’t believe how Jean-Claude left things with them. It’s so selfish, so immature.”

  After a few paces, Wendell says, “At least he’s taking a baby step, Z.”

  “A baby step?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  “He gave you the address, Z. He gave you a message to give to his mom. And remember, he has pretty huge reasons for the way he’s acted.”

  I find it interesting that Wendell is defending Jean-Claude. It’s almost … noble. But that’s one thing I’ve always loved about him—how he doesn’t judge people, how he tries to imagine what it feels like to be in their hearts, their heads. Inside Jean-Claude’s head, there’s probably a long list of reasons for refusing his parents’ love.

  And my father, my fantôme. If, by some chance, I find him, could I ever actually love him? Could I wade through my muddle of emotions to get to that place? And could I let him love me? It’s too much to think about. Anyway, we’re at the docks now. Time to form our plan B. I turn to Wendell. “So should we just ask around?”

  “I guess.”

  Now, as I stare at the throngs of people and boats, some doubts creep in. Without a guide, the docks seem huge and intimidating, with dozens, maybe hundreds, of sailboats and ferries and motorboats. I take a breath and walk up to a friendly-looking, weathered old man standing in front of a small dinghy. “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  “Bonjour,” he says in a nasal voice.

  “We’re looking for a man with the initials J.C. He worked here sixteen years ago and—”

  The man cuts me off. “I wasn’t here then. You want to talk with Maurice. He’s worked here all his life. Knows everything about everyone. He’s the man for you.”

  “Maurice,” I repeat. The sailor’s Marseillais accent is so thick I have to listen carefully to understand. “Where—?”

  “Oh, he usually docks over there.” The man squints in that direction and says, “Looks like he’s out on the water now. Try Georges over here.” He nods to the next boat over.

  We approach Georges, a middle-aged man in a dark blue fishing hat and with an enormous mustache. “Bonjour, monsieur. We’re looking for a man with the initials J.C. who might have worked here sixteen years ago. He liked the water, played guitar, had dark skin.” I wish I knew more than this paltry collection of random details. “He’s handsome,” I add, because that’s what Layla’s told me, although she never saw his face in full light. “Sensitive, too,” I say, thinking of his letters. “He lived in Greece at some point and traveled a lot.”

  I stop, embarrassed that this is the haphazard sum of what I know about my father.

  Georges nods. “Eh bien, I do know a J.C.”

  “Really?”

  “Jean Clément.” The man rubs his mustache. “He had a boat here for a while, had dark skin. Don’t know about the Greece part. What else did you say about him?”

  “Um. Handsome?”

  “Jean Clément was about as handsome as a dog’s behind.”

  Maybe Layla exaggerated. “Sensitive?” I ask.

  “Hehehe. If you insulted him, the fists started swinging.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “He’s in jail now after he killed a guy.”

  “Oh.” I turn to Wendell and whisper, “Let’s move on.”

  “Merci en tout cas,” I tell the sailor. Thanks anyway.

  “De rien, mademoiselle. Bon courage!”

  Once Wendell and I leave, we look at each other.

  “My father couldn’t be a sensitive killer who resembles canine buttocks,” I say, only half kidding. “Could he?”

  Wendell makes a show of thinking about it, then raises an eyebrow, amused. “Just how much wine did Layla have that night?”

  I make a face. “She says it wasn’t so much the wine. She was drunk on the moon’s reflection.”

  Wendell nods, as if this makes perfect sense. “Yeah. I heard about binge moonlight drinking. It can really mess with your judgment.”

  I start laughing. That wild, deep laughing that happens when despair brings you to a raw spot in your center, a spot where laughter and tears both form. And you laugh so hard you can’t stop no matter how ridiculous you must look.

  Wendell watches me, letting one corner of his mouth turn up in the tiniest hint of a smile.

  After three hours of walking around the docks, and still no Maurice, and still no leads on J.C., I feel thoroughly wind-beaten and sun-dried. Every conversation has been more or less the same. Oui, I know a J.C. Jean-César. Jean-Charles. Jean Clochard. He’s a priest. He’s terrified of water. He’s never left Marseille. He can’t hold a tune. He’s four feet tall. He’s scared of women and lives with his mother. He only speaks Swahili. He’s ninety.…

  By the twentieth time, the speech rolls off my tongue without thinking about it. After each failed conversation, Wendell makes some comment about the moon-reflection content in Layla’s blood. Maybe Layla’s elevated moonlight levels made J.C. appear fifty years younger. Maybe her excessive moonlight imbibing added a few feet. Maybe that last shot of moonlight made the Swahili sound like heavily accented English.

  He offers these theories with a completely straight face, which sends me into fits of giggles.

  When our stomachs start rumbling, we sit down and have espresso and Nutella crêpes.

  “Want to keep going?” I ask Wendell.

  “Absolutely.” He tries to act energetic, but he looks beat.

  “You sure?”

  He takes a long breath. “We have yet to come across a polygamist cult leader J.C.”

  “Or a millionaire mafia J.C.”

  “Or a reincarnated Egyptian J.C.”

  Baby steps. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now, taking baby steps toward each other. For every wave forward, there’s a smaller one backward. Maybe, just maybe, after this day is through, we can manage to be friends.

  “Look, a blue dinghy!” Wendell gestures toward the water.

  We’ve just finished another round of espressos and crêpes to regain some energy. We’ve been keeping an eye on the docks, waiting for Maurice.

  Squinting, I let my gaze follow Wendell’s finger. Toward the end of the pier is a small blue motorboat, and a man tying it to the dock.

  Wendell shields his eyes and says, “Think that’s Maurice?”

  I stuff the last bite of crêpe into my mouth and down the final drops of espresso. “Let’s go!”

  We leave some money on the silver tip tray and dart across the street, half running up the docks, keeping our eyes glued to the sailor by his blue dinghy.

  Up close, Maurice is a middle-aged man whose face is sunburned to the crisp reddish brown of bacon.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” I say, breathless and excited.

  He eyes us curiously. “Bonjour.”

  “Monsieur, we’re looking for someone. And we heard you’re the man to ask.”

  He gri
ns, revealing a few gaps where teeth are missing. “Oui, that’s true. And who is it you’re looking for?”

  I start telling him what we know about J.C. When I mention Greece, he stops me. “Greece, you say? Matter of fact, there was a fellow who worked here for a while. Years ago. His skin was pretty dark—but who knows how much of that was from being in the sun all day.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Zhee-mee.”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying. “Jimmy?”

  He nods.

  “He was American? British?”

  “Oh, no. But he did speak some English, I remember. He could talk to the tourists, but it wasn’t perfect. People called him Jimmy because he loved Zhee-mee Endreex.”

  “Jimi Hendrix?” Wendell interprets.

  “Oui! You know, that guitar player. Jimmy wore a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt all the time! And he was as good as Jimi Hendrix too. The best guitarist I’ve ever met.”

  Wendell and I exchange glances.

  “Where was he from?” I ask, excitement shooting through me.

  “Ouf, who knows. He spoke a few different languages. Spanish, English, French. Probably some other ones too.”

  “Was he sensitive?”

  Maurice laughs. “Bien sûr. You know how musicians are.” He’s quiet for a moment, searching his memory. “Ah yes, I remember now. He took a long trip to Greece one year. He couldn’t get over some girl he met there. Kept writing songs about her.”

  I’m shaking. I look at Wendell to make sure he’s understanding all this. He must, judging by how wide his eyes are.

  Maurice scratches his head. “Had a little dinghy, this Jimmy, smaller than mine, and older. Not a very safe boat, but the tourists liked it. It was painted turquoise, the paint chipping off, their idea of what a Mediterranean boat should look like. For a while, he had the same job as me—taking tourists to the islands. Mostly to the Château d’If.”

  “The Castle of If?” I translate, in case Wendell didn’t catch the strange name.

  Maurice gestures to the widening expanse of water just outside the port. “The island right over there.” Adjusting his hat thoughtfully, he says, “You know, Jimmy even worked there for a time. Maybe they have job records. Maybe they can figure out a last name.”