The Ruby Notebook (11 page)

She rubs the pendant. “Whatever you want them to mean. Water, cycles of life, ending and beginning, renewal, rebirth, eternity.”

I jot this down and ask, “Why does your whole family wear them?”

“They remind us who we are,” she says, and counters my question with her own. “And who are you, Zeeta?”

I’m tongue-tied.

Layla jumps in and answers for me. “A seeker! That’s what her name means. And that’s what you do in your notebooks, right, love?”

“How fitting,” Sirona says, looking delighted.

I’m determined to foil her attempt to switch the focus to me, but it’s tricky. The thing about secrets—especially old, deep ones—is that by definition, you don’t go around talking about them to people you’ve just met. Instead, I ask her details about what town she’s from, how she and her husband met, where she lives, why she speaks a Gaelic dialect. Her answers are gracious but a little cloudy. “We’re from around here, but we’re often on tour.” “We live in a quiet, old
part of town.” “Grannos and I met ages ago on our travels.” “We’ve always been good at languages.”

I’m getting nothing interesting, so I change tactics and ask about local Celtic history. With this, Sirona opens up completely, answering questions in intricate detail, recounting vivid stories of her people. Her face lights up as she describes the array of festivals—the festival of light, summer’s end, the winter solstice, the spring equinox. Then, shaking her head and wincing, she tells about the loud carnyxes that people blew on the battlefield, dozens at a time, creating an ear-splitting, earthshaking noise that terrified their enemies. She laughs. “Some of those Romans cried out for their mothers, they were so scared!”

Finally, Sirona stands up with her lyre. “I’d better go warm up with Salluvii now.” We kiss goodbye, and she says, “It seems you’re interested in Celtic history, Zeeta. I’d be happy to give you a tour of Entremont. It’s the ruins of the Salluvii town on a hill outside Aix. Where Layla went to our celebration last night. My family and I go there often.”

“We’d love it!” Layla says. “Right, Z?”

“Sure,” I say, watching as Sirona leaves, gracefully toting her lyre. I can understand how Vincent might think someone like Sirona holds ancient secrets. Still, I don’t see anything that sets her apart from some of the other unusual people I’ve met on my travels.

After Sirona rejoins Salluvii, Layla turns to me. “And how was
your
party, Z?”

“Fine.” I pause, considering how much more to say. “I talked with Jean-Claude. The accordionist from Illusion. He told me we’re alike, that we’re the kind of people who make every day a song.”

Layla’s eyes widen. “You think he’s your
fantôme?
Jean-Claude?”

I shake my head. “But I’ve never met him before, so the jar of sand wouldn’t make sense. And he claims that the troubadour story is just one that travelers pass around.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “He’s almost always in the square with his band. And before your
fantôme
left both gifts, Illusion was nearby, right?”

“I guess.” My hand is still on my bag, guarding it.

“Well, love, perhaps you should keep an eye on this accordionist.” Layla stands up, stretching, and craning to look at the time on the clock tower. “More teacher training meetings. See you tonight for dinner?”

“Right. I’m making
pistou.
”

“Yum.” She kisses my cheeks. “See you, love.”

As she disappears into the crowds of tourists, I search in my bag for my notebook. My hand lands on something soft. Fabric. I pull it out. It’s an old, worn T-shirt, faded black. There’s a decal of a dreadlocked guy playing a guitar. I hold it up and squint at it. Jimi Hendrix is my guess, although some of the image has crumbled away. The shirt is riddled with holes, nearly threadbare. Tentatively, I press it to my face. It smells clean, freshly laundered.

Why would the
fantôme
give me a ratty old T-shirt? And
how? I’ve had my hand on my bag practically the whole time. How could he have gotten past it? How could I not have noticed? Maybe he
is
a ghost.

I frown. It could have happened at the
fête
last night. With all the distractions, I wasn’t watching my bag the whole time. Or it might have happened even before that, on the street last night, going to or from Nirvana. The streets were bustling.

I look around in frustration. Nothing suspicious. And Vincent the pigeon man isn’t even there, so he couldn’t have seen anything. Speaking of Vincent, he’s probably waiting for me at his shop for our English lesson. I fold the T-shirt and stuff it back into my bag, more annoyed than mystified.

On the way to Vincent’s shop, I swing by the market, grab a head of garlic and a bundle of fresh basil for the
pistou
, then hurry through the maze of side streets. Here and there, people slip in and out of heavy wooden doors. As the doors swing closed, I peek behind them, down the hallways. Some passages offer glimpses of hidden courtyards with trees growing inside, their leaves poking over the buildings. Some courtyards are visible from the street, with only wrought-iron gates blocking the entrance, making it easy to peer right through. Of course, I want to know what’s behind the closed, locked doors.

Why is it that the forbidden always holds so much allure?

On the Place des Trois Ormeaux, I pause by a circular fountain, water bubbling up from the center, a few pigeons
hopping around the edges. Just on the other side is Vincent’s antiques shop, its sign nearly hidden by a cloud of flapping silver feathers. The sign is wooden, and shaped like a pigeon.
LES SECRETS DE MAUDE
, it reads in gold calligraphy on a black background, some of the paint chipping off. I smile, imagining what kinds of juicy secrets Vincent thinks his beloved pigeon has.

The wrought-iron gate is open. Trying not to step on any pigeons, I walk back into the cool shadows of a narrow courtyard, navigating around leaves from potted plants and overhanging tree branches. Tucked into the foliage, like ruins in a jungle, antiques peek through. They’re stashed haphazardly against the stone walls—old gilded picture frames, a dusty velvet chair with stuffing coming out, an ancient wooden chest. The furniture seems to be overflowing from the shop entrance at the rear of the courtyard.

I’m taking so much care not to trip over any pigeons or antiques, I nearly collide with a man in a pink polo shirt.

“
Désolé, mademoiselle,
” he says.

“Oh, my fault.”

“Well,” he says, “actually, it’s my father’s fault for attracting vast quantities of birds and furniture.”

I study him, confused. He has light brown skin—or else a very deep tan—and doesn’t look much like Vincent. Then I remember that Vincent’s wife was from the Canary Islands. It’s ironic. People are always questioning whether Layla’s my mother, simply because we have different complexions. And now I’m making the same wrong assumption.

“I’m about to visit Vincent now,” I say. “Tutor him in English.”

The man laughs. His laugh is similar to Vincent’s, deep and hearty. “
Bon courage, mademoiselle!
My father is not exactly a linguistic genius.” He extends his hand. “I’m Jean-Christophe.”

“
Enchantée,
” I say, taking his hand, which is calloused and muscular, maybe from pulling and knotting the ropes of a sailboat. Another J.C., I can’t help noting. Of course,
Jean
seems to be a prefix to lots of guys’ names here in France. Vincent mentioned that his son sailed around the world. He looks it—his face is worn from the sun and wind, deep wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes, probably from squinting at the bright ocean. “I’m Zeeta.”

“Young to be an English teacher.” He grins. “Impressive.”

“Well, my mom’s the certified one. I just picked up some things from her. Layla drags me to live in a different country every year.”

“Exciting life, no? You must be very happy.”

“More or less,” I say.

He’s about to say something when a pigeon flies onto his head, making him jump. He grabs the bird and looks into its eyes. “Juliette! Don’t scare me like that.”

I smile at his first-name basis with his father’s pigeons. “I should tutor Vincent now,” I say, walking toward the shop. “
Au revoir
, Jean-Christophe.”

“
Au revoir
, Zeeta.”

He walks out onto the street, and I head to the back of the
courtyard, into the shop. The throngs of pigeons reluctantly move aside, giving me a little space to stand. It’s a small room, packed ceiling to floor with feathers and antiques. Everything seems balanced precariously, as if touching one thing might cause the rest to come tumbling down. There are statues of saints and the Virgin of Lourdes; dark oil paintings of people in old-fashioned dress; glass beads and rosaries; heaps of lace spilling from falling-apart trunks; cracked leather books wedged into every possible space; clocks of all shapes and sizes; golden pendulums swinging and hands ticking. I stifle a sneeze at the dust and mold, which is strong enough to overpower the sharp smell of basil in my bag.

Through piles of ancient canvases and mirrors and glass, something moves. A page, turning. The yellowed page of a book. And a yellowed, age-spotted hand turning it. Vincent is hunched over the book, peering through thick glasses through an even thicker magnifying glass. He looks utterly lost in whatever he’s doing. He’s motionless now, and if it weren’t for that page having turned, I’d believe he was a statue. Maude, of course, is nestled on his shoulder, nuzzling her beak behind his ear.

I’m wondering whether I should interrupt him or come back later, when he raises his head and sniffs, like a dog tracking a scent. He sniffs and sniffs and turns his head and rests his gaze on my bag.

“Basil!” he announces. “I knew it!
Bonjour, mademoiselle!
Come in!” He gestures toward a rocking chair, nearly hidden among a pile of old velvet coats and minks.

“
Bonjour
, Vincent,” I say, stepping around more pigeons, hugging my bag to my chest to avoid knocking over heaps of pink crystal beads, bowls of silver and brass buttons, leaning towers of china plates and teacups.

As I sit down, the chair creaks and swings backward. I right myself and pull an English textbook from my bag. Hopefully, he won’t be as challenging a student as his son suggested.

Vincent sits on a stool across from me, looking eager. “Did you figure out the Celtic band’s secret?”

“I tried, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

He nods and digs around in a crate, pulling out a book. “Why don’t you take this home and read chapter nine?”

It’s a small book, bound in burgundy cloth, ancient-looking, with gold-edged pages.
Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence
, it reads in ornate script.

He hands it to me. “Madame Chevalier and I discovered this book here in this very shop, back when it belonged to my father, when we were children. We found chapter nine particularly interesting.”

I flip to chapter nine. “
 ‘Les Eaux Magiques.’ 
” The Magical Waters. The alleged secret must have to do with Vincent’s interest in sacred waters. I’m not sure what it has to do with Salluvii, though.

Vincent is just smiling at me, not offering any more
information but obviously bubbling over with excitement. He sees life as a treasure hunt. A quest. Why not? I’ll play along. I tuck the book into my bag for later. “Sirona’s taking me and my mom to some Celtic ruins tomorrow,” I say. “I can try to find out more then.”

Vincent looks thrilled, nearly jumping up and down in his chair. “Ah!
Oui!
Perfect!” He gives Maude a peck on the head. “Hear that, Maude? Closer every day!”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

Vincent leans forward. “Have you discovered who is leaving you the mysterious gifts?”

I shake my head. “But I got another one. A black T-shirt.”

“He is persistent, isn’t he?”

“
Oui.
” I get the feeling Vincent is stalling our lesson. I smile enthusiastically and open the book. “Ready for some English?”

“In a moment,
mademoiselle
. Listen. Madame Chevalier has invited us to her apartment on Monday. Perhaps she has information about your mysterious giver of gifts.”

“Has she said something to you about it?”

“No, but she sees everything from up there. She’s got the eyes of an eagle.”

“Good,” I say in a measured voice, careful not to pin my hopes on an eccentric old lady who fancies herself a spy. I open
English for Everyone
to chapter one and say in English, “Let’s start.”