The Ruby Notebook Read online

  “Well, you look magnificent, Z!” Layla eyes my red dress. “It’s good to change your style once in a while. Experiment.”

  I force myself to stop tugging at the dress. When I changed into it this afternoon, it suddenly seemed too short, too red, too low-cut. And my old leather sandals from Ecuador look as though someone chewed them up and spit them out. “Here’s the place,” I say, glad we’re cutting the conversation short. I jangle open the door. “Nirvana.”

  We duck inside the dark, stale-smoke-laced room. I wave to Ahmed. “Essalam alikoum.”

  Ahmed gapes at Layla. Not an unusual reaction to my mother, although I didn’t think anything could make Ahmed abandon his online gaming. But my mother does look striking now, all dressed up in her goddess garb. Beautiful and ridiculous at once.

  “Layla, Ahmed; Ahmed, Layla,” I say quickly, and add, “Layla’s my mom.”

  Forcing his mouth closed, he nods.

  “Enchantée, Ahmed,” Layla says, offering a glittery hand around his computer monitor.

  “En-enchanté,” he stutters, looking as though he doesn’t want to let go of her hand, as though he’s completely forgotten the existence of KnightQuest. Truly enchanted.

  “So, do we just grab any computer?” she asks.

  He comes to himself. “Ah, yes, allez-y, madame.” “Come As You Are” is playing softly on his little speakers. “Zeeta, your computer’s open.” He nods with his chin, but his eyes haven’t left Layla.

  “Actually, I’m just making a quick phone call,” I say.

  “To the love of your life?” he asks, already punching in the number he keeps on a sticky note by the phone. His eyes follow Layla as she floats across the room to a computer in the corner.

  “Yup.”

  “Fantastic chairs!” Layla calls out, swiveling like a kid. “Très amusantes!”

  Ahmed looks pleased. “You may sit on them whenever you like, free of charge.”

  Layla laughs and turns her attention to the computer screen as Ahmed watches, smitten.

  I pop into the phone booth, shut the flimsy wooden door, and perch on the stool. Waiting for Wendell to pick up, I open Jean-Claude’s poetry book, letting my eyes skim over a random page.

  Wendell’s voice is a little breathless, as if he’s just been running. “Hello?”

  I slam the book shut, stuff it back into my bag. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Zeeta, hi.” His voice drops to that soft tone, the one that always makes me melt. All last year in Ecuador, we used to talk until late at night, him on his cell in bed and me on the plastic stool in the little phone booth that I’d gotten to know very, very well, every crack in the ceiling and chip in the paint and stain on the tile floor. “What’s up, Z?”

  “I bought a dress yesterday. Red. Short. With spaghetti straps.”

  He says nothing.

  “Is it the one in your vision?”

  After a moment, he says, “Yeah.”

  “Weird stuff is happening, Wendell. Remember how my fantôme slipped me a CD?”

  “Your phantom?”

  “My ghost. Well, now he’s slipped me a jar of sand.” I pause. “Are you sure you haven’t seen anything else?”

  He speaks, his voice eerily serious. “One thing I learned, Z, is that I can only tell you the future if, for some reason, you need to know it.”

  “I need to know it.” I run my fingers through my hair, frustrated. “First you change plans, then this fantôme starts giving me things, and—I don’t know, I want to know what’s really going on.” I look at the ceiling, and add quietly, “And not just with my fantôme, but with us. You and me. Will things be different? Will … ?” I let my words fade.

  He hesitates. “I’ve just seen glimpses of things, Z. Things that don’t make sense. Colors and lights, nothing distinct. Some people, but no one I recognize.”

  I sense in his voice that I won’t get anywhere, so I leave it be. Outside the thin wooden booth, I hear Layla chatting with Ahmed. I can’t hear their words, but it’s obvious from the rise and fall of their voices that Layla is charming him and he’s becoming putty in her hands.

  “Hey, I should go,” I say. “I’m trying to be frugal until I get some tutoring jobs lined up.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Love you,” I whisper.

  “Love you too,” he whispers back. And then, so faintly that I wonder if I’ve imagined it, he says, “No matter what.”

  Illusion seems comprised of the kind of people whose parties wouldn’t start until nine or ten but would then last until dawn. It’s nine-thirty, and I’m walking along a dark, deserted street, hoping I won’t be too early for the fête. I’m in the medieval part of town now, the oldest quartier, where the roads are extra narrow. One street is called Fly’s Elbow in the old Provençal language; it’s so narrow that even a fly buzzing through would get its elbows stuck.

  Following my map, I make three rights in a row, spiraling into an ancient part of town I’ve never been to before. A medley of fantastical faces carved in stone peer at me from nooks over doorways—angels, demons, monsters, mermaids, saints, bearded men, lions, dragons, cherubs.

  When I reach the address, the shades are drawn; they’re red velvet, like the curtains of a stage before the first act. A small sign in the window reads CAFÉ ETERNITÉ. I push on the heavy door. It creaks open.

  I step inside.

  I’ve never been to an opium den, but this is how I picture one. Shadowy corners, little pools of candlelight through red glass orbs. A golden-red luminescence. Low, Middle Eastern music playing. Hookah smoke drifting, each breath a different flavor—cherry, vanilla, clove. Burgundy carpets draping the walls. Pillows with gold tassels and silk brocade scattered around low tables. A few people sitting cross-legged on the fringed rugs, drinking tea and murmuring, reclined on sequined cushions.

  I clutch my bag, which contains Jean-Claude’s poetry book and my ruby notebook. I want to sit in a corner and write about this place, but I force myself to keep moving, into the next room, where the smoke forms a thick veil. Toward the back, I can barely make out a narrow spiral staircase that descends into what must be the cave. The metal stairs quiver beneath my feet as I walk down.

  The cave actually does feel like a cave. A low ceiling caps rounded, half-crumbling stone walls, and a few tapestries are hung in odd spots, over what are probably holes. An old man is playing his violin like a fiddle, the notes bubbling and bouncing like champagne fizz. People are dancing and clapping and jumping around him. Some of them are performers I’ve seen on the streets—a harpist, a contortionist, a magician.

  The tables have been pushed aside to make room for the dancing. Around the edges, a troupe of muscular hip-hop dancers are eating cake. Next to them, two puppeteers are passionately kissing, their puppets abandoned on a cushion. In the far corner, a juggler squats, tossing lit candles and teacups in the air. From what I can tell in the dim light, most of the people are a few years older than me.

  Through the gyrating crowd, I spot the members of Illusion. The gypsy dancer girl and the tuba player are swaying in an embrace, their lips all over each others’ necks. Amandine is swirling alone, barefoot, wearing a red dress that is actually shorter than mine.

  I wave to her, but her eyes are closed in a blissed-out state. I look around for Jean-Claude. There he is, at a table in the corner. “Zeeta! You came!” He smiles and stands up, weaving through the dancers to greet me. He kisses me on both cheeks and leads me back to his table in the shadows. “And the poetry? It touched you?”

  I pass him the book, hoping my sweaty hands haven’t left marks on the cover. “I love it. I didn’t understand much, though.”

  “You’re not supposed to understand it.” He waves his hand. “Simply experience it. Like smelling the moon.”

  “Right.” I look around. “Nice place.”

  “Isn’t it? The owner of Eternité lets us use it for our fêtes. I live on the second floor with the rest of Illusion.” He smiles. �
��You should come by sometime. The apartment’s our base for playing music this summer. The hub of our wheel. The center of the daisy. The pit of the cherry.”

  “Where do you live the rest of the year?”

  “We wander. Mostly around the Mediterranean. Near sea light. Warm places call to us. Spain, Italy, Portugal.”

  I open my notebook to a fresh page. “Why red?” I ask, twirling my pen. “For the costumes, I mean.” Now I’ve forgotten about my shabby shoes and too-short dress. With a pen in hand and an open notebook, I’m instantly in my element. I can ask anyone anything.

  “Rouge.” He meets my gaze. “It’s the color of passion. Of blood. Of joy. Of anger. Of the ripest, richest, juiciest berry. Of our music.” He sips his tea. It’s chai, with a warm ginger-clove smell that mingles with his spicy cologne. “We set people’s souls on fire with our music. Like a bite of chili, you know?”

  I jot down his answers in my notebook. As I write fire, my skin feels as though I’m sitting too close to a flame.

  Someone plunks a tiny cup on the table. Jean-Claude pours me some chai and swirls in milk from a little brass pitcher.

  I take a sip and say, “Tell me about your family, Jean-Claude.”

  “My old family was a weary dandelion that I blew and scattered into many pieces. My new family is Illusion.”

  “Earliest memory?”

  He pauses to think. Our heads are close now, since the music is loud. Finally, he says in a dreamy voice, “Hundreds of silver fish on shaved ice. Cold scales, glistening. The smell of the belly of the sea.”

  “Where?”

  “In Marseille, the market near my childhood home.”

  Marseille is the port city just south of here. According to my guidebook, it’s full of drum music and warm spices and bright fabrics from North Africa and other Mediterranean countries.

  “Enough about me.” Jean-Claude’s head moves even closer. “Tell me, Zeeta, what first set your soul on fire?”

  Just the kind of question I might ask someone for my notebook. But not a question I want to answer. I raise one shoulder in a shrug and say, trying to sound mysterious rather than dull, “Who knows.”

  Suddenly, I’m aware of how hot it is in this cave, with so many people dancing, sweating. Despite my wisp of a dress, heat is rising inside me. Clutching my notebook, I stand up and say, “Excuse-moi, Jean-Claude.” Without explanation, I move away, through the dancers, wishing I had my indigo notebooks with me. They’re filled with Wendell. This ruby notebook contains nothing about him. And the remaining pages want to be filled with new fiery things.

  Why didn’t I pick beige?

  I interview a jovial capoeira dancer, a pale celloist, and a wild-haired fire-eater, then move on to Jean-Claude’s friends in Illusion. Since the gypsy dancer and the tuba player are inseparable, I interview them at the same time. Sabina is Romanian, nineteen years old, with a throaty, warm voice and gentle brown eyes. She’s wearing a golden tank top and a flaring crimson circle skirt that skims her ankles, which are adorned with silver charms.

  Her Parisian boyfriend, Julien, is a bit older, his sun-pinked skin covered in a smattering of freckles, his hair a ruddy shade of red, cropped close to his head. His capri pants are made of patched-together scraps of velvet and satin, with sequins stitched at the cuffs. He and Sabina tell me that they’ve both traveled all over Europe, that together, they speak eight languages, English included.

  I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and ask, “How do you know who you are?”

  Sabina and Julien give me puzzled looks. “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “If you’re always changing, always moving?”

  They look at each other. “Julien reminds me,” Sabina says. “And I remind him.”

  “But how do you know you’ll still get along? I mean, in all these different places?”

  Julien doesn’t hesitate. “You are what you love. I love Sabina and my sister and my music. That won’t change.” It’s amazing how in French, you can say these things, and they don’t sound sappy but simply like a statement of romantic facts.

  Just then, Amandine bounds over in her red dress and perches at the edge of the table. “Bonsoir, Zeeta!”

  As she kisses my cheeks, I catch Jean-Claude approaching out of the corner of my eye. He slings his arm around her shoulder and tousles her hair.

  Amandine glares at him and smooths out her hair, which is loose and tumbling to her waist.

  I smile and close my notebook. Amandine’s even prettier in this cave, the candlelight making her red hair glow, setting off her green eyes. Her hair must be heavy, but she holds her head high, like a ballerina.

  While her gaze stays on my face, her hand darts out and messes up Jean-Claude’s hair.

  “Eh!” He jumps back.

  She grins at him impishly. “That’s what little sisters do, non?”

  As he runs his fingers through his curls, I can see traces of some kind of product, a gel, maybe. He must have taken time to style it, arranging the waves just so, making them appear casual, effortless. “Do that again,” he tells her, “and I won’t make that tarte aux fruits for dessert tomorrow.”

  Amandine ruffles his hair again, teasing, “And I’ll take back that vest I spent two weeks making you.”

  It’s an old tuxedo vest, faded red and covered with iridescent beads. He wears a white tank beneath that shows off his arm muscles. Somehow cute French guys get away with wearing clothing that other men in the world wouldn’t touch for fear of appearing girly.

  “You made that vest?” I ask Amandine, impressed.

  “Sabina and Amandine are the geniuses behind our costumes,” Julien says.

  “Not true,” Sabina insists. “Amandine is. She designs them. I just help sew them.” She raises her eyes to Julien. “And you give me moral support, amour.”

  Amandine imitates the romantic gaze, making goo-goo eyes at Jean-Claude, tossing aside her hair. “And you, amour,” she says with an exaggerated eyelash flutter, “sit around eating tartes aux fruits, watching us work.”

  Jean-Claude rolls his eyes and reaches his hand toward her, but she ducks away.

  There’s something Peter Pan–ish about these young people forming their own family, goofing off and surviving together, dancing and playing music and roaming the streets all day.

  Suddenly, Amandine’s eyebrows furrow. “Has anyone seen Tortue tonight?”

  The others shrug, shake their heads.

  “He said he’d come to the party. I hope nothing’s wrong.” In a flash, Amandine moves across the room, leaps a meter high, grabbing the railing of the upstairs floor, and swings her feet up and over the edge, disappearing from sight.

  It takes me a minute to remember who Tortue is. Then I remember. Turtle. The mime. I turn to Jean-Claude and ask, “What’s Amandine worried about?”

  Jean-Claude lets out a long breath. “Tortue feels like a piece of wet wood tonight.”

  “Wet wood?”

  “He must dry out again before a spark will ignite him. And when it does, he’ll be able to make any instrument burst into flame.” Jean-Claude runs his fingers through his black curls. There’s that scar again. It’s slightly curved, like a sliver of moon. “It’s like this with him,” he continues. “Tortue’s specialty now is being perfectly still and silent. Like a piece of wood drying in the forest. We wait for him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s like a father to us,” Julien says. “Especially to Amandine, after what happened to our own father.”

  After a pause, he heads upstairs after his sister, with Sabina trailing behind him, leaving me and Jean-Claude alone.

  The music grows louder, and around us, the crowd is dancing, pushing us against each other. It’s too loud to talk. The only thing left to do is dance together, so I force myself to say, “I think I should go home now, Jean-Claude.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “I insist.” And he takes my elbow in
a gentlemanly gesture from our grandparents’ era and escorts me outside.

  The night air is clear and cool. From the distance floats music from bars and restaurants, blending with the hum of far-off motorcycle engines. The street is deserted except for Jean-Claude and me, and a few pigeons cooing in an alcove above.

  I extract my elbow from his hand and try to set a fast pace, but Jean-Claude saunters. His profile is breathtaking in the silvery moonlight, as though it’s draped in a thin veil of silk.

  I look away. A black cat creeps across a rooftop. The silence is dangerously romantic. I start talking in a too-loud voice. “I’ve always identified with cats,” I say. “Their nine lives.”

  “Ah bon?”

  “Only for me it would be sixteen lives. A new life every year. A new Zeeta.”

  “The joys of being a wanderer.” Jean-Claude spreads his arms, as if embracing the world, a gesture that would look silly for most people but that makes him look radiant.

  I hug my arms tight across my chest, holding myself in. “The woes of being a wanderer.”

  He tilts his head back, face to the sky. “But don’t you love it? Always creating a new you?”

  “No!”

  “Why?”

  “A zillion reasons.”

  “What’s one?”

  “Well …” I think. We walk through a pool of yellow lamplight, past a small, gurgling fountain. A smooth stream of water pours from the mouth of a copper snake. I listen to the rhythm of my breathing, my sandals slapping the pavement. “For instance,” I say finally. “How can you be in love with someone if you’re always changing into a different person?”

  He considers. “Perhaps le grand amour is for other people, settled people. Not us. We wanderers go where the breeze takes us, enjoy whatever lovely feathers and leaves are blown our way.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  As we walk, his arm brushes against mine. If I had pockets I’d stuff my hands in them now. I’m too aware that his hand might slip into mine and stay there. I take a sharp breath, but I don’t move away.

  Pausing in the middle of the street, he whips out the tiny notebook from his back pocket. He scribbles something.