The Ruby Notebook (13 page)

I close the book, tuck it into my bag, and ponder the back of Sirona’s head. I consider her odd clothes, her Gaelic
dialect, her intimate knowledge of Celtic history. Does Vincent think that Sirona and her band know the secret? Does he think they’re the immortal guardians? Is that why he’s interested in Salluvii? Is that why he chose me? Because he saw me with Sirona?

Sirona turns her head and says, “We’re nearly there!”

Layla and I follow her off the bus, stepping into the soft, honeyed country air. We’re the only people around. Once the bus leaves, it’s quiet except for cicadas clicking, their rhythms rising and falling. Peaceful. As we walk on a path up a hill, through the open gates that read
ENTREMONT
, we don’t see a soul. We follow the path through a sunlit meadow, the grass tips waving in a light breeze. Silently, we pass ruins of old stone farmhouses nearly swallowed by vines and bushes and clumps of olive trees. For the first time in days, I feel calm, free of the confusion that’s been sending my mind reeling.

“How lucky that hardly anyone comes here on weekdays,” Sirona says. A quiet radiance has swept over her face. Her eyes scan the landscape, blissfully soaking it in.

Layla murmurs in agreement.

We cross the field, stopping at the edge of the hill, where there’s a view of the valley, the red-roofed villages around Aix in the distance. Somewhere down there, Jean-Claude is playing accordion. Amandine’s leaping and dancing around. And the
fantôme
is doing whatever he does.

Sirona spreads her arms, as if hugging the view. “Some places feel timeless, don’t they? A summer’s day is a summer’s
day. But in the city, things are always changing.” The sunlight illuminates her hair, catches tiny insects and butterflies as they drift and buzz and meander through the afternoon air.

“Here it feels like anything is possible,” Layla agrees. “Like you could fly, doesn’t it?” Of course, she can’t resist quoting Rumi at times like this.

My cue to keep going. Rounding a bend, I see a maze of low, uneven stones spread out before us, what look like the foundations of ancient homes. “Imagine how it used to be,” Sirona says in a wistful voice just behind me. “The houses, people bustling along the streets. Children laughing, dogs running around, chickens pecking. Sheep grazing in the pastures. The sounds of warriors training in the distance, their horn cries.”

We walk along the labyrinth of streets as Sirona points out highlights, telling us about the healer who lived here, the musicians who lived there. She explains how the women used to walk down a long path, all the way to Aix, where they’d collect springwater in their vessels and then tote them back up here and dump the water in a communal cistern. “Let me tell you,” she says. “We women had bigger muscles
than the warriors, from carrying the water uphill for kilometers!” I scribble her remarks in my notebook, glad at my talent for writing and walking at the same time, while hardly ever tripping.

“How do you know so many details?” I ask.

She shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance, and smiles. Her gaze lands on my necklace. She reaches out a graceful hand to touch the beads. “What a lovely necklace, Zeeta. Seeds of a tree?”

I nod. “Wendell got it for me.” I’m acutely aware that she’s just changed the subject.

“He’s the one I told you about,” Layla tells Sirona, idly grabbing a leaf from a low-hanging olive tree. “Her boyfriend. The one who’s coming, what, in two days, Z?”

“Yup.”

“You must be excited to see him after so long,” Sirona says.

“
Oui,
” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. Now it’s my turn to change the subject. “What’s that, Sirona?” I ask, pointing to a large enclosure.

“The olive presses!” she says, delighted. “Nothing better than the smell of fresh olive oil. Oh, and here’s where we gathered for the market. Over there was the poorest part of town. We’d always slip those children some fruit or a bit of bread.”

“We?” An odd choice of pronoun for the ancient inhabitants. I imagine what Vincent would say about this.

“Well, the Salluvii,” she clarifies. “My ancestors.”

“Hmm.” I move on to more philosophical topics, which comes naturally since I’ve been doing this for years with my notebooks. “So,” I ask, “what do you think about eternal life on earth?”

Sirona raises an eyebrow and tilts her head.

After a pause, Layla says, “Time is relative. You can make a moment last an eternity with the right attitude. If you truly exist in the moment, you already have eternal life.”

I ignore Layla and look directly at Sirona. “Do you think it’s possible for a person to
literally
live forever?”

“Maybe,” Sirona says, brushing her hands along the ancient stone.

Before she can say more, Layla jumps in. “But it’s irrelevant, Z. There are other, easier ways. Rumi said,

I turn again to Sirona. “What about those stories about immortality? Like the Holy Grail? The fountain of youth?”

Sirona lifts a shoulder in a kind of shrug.

“Metaphorical, not literal,” Layla says. “It’s about discovering a different way of being in time. Sink into the infinity of every moment.”

I turn to Sirona, looking at her expectantly. Finally, she says, “Your mother is right, Zeeta. It’s best to simply live in
the moment. Because whether you’re immortal or not, moments are what make up a lifetime,
non?
” She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Remember, Zeeta, seeking eternal life on earth has brought most people nothing but trouble.”

T
he chimes of the clock tower slip into my dreams, and I find myself counting them. Eight, nine, ten … and then I remember it’s Monday, and I have my meeting with Madame Chevalier and Vincent at ten-thirty. Usually I’m an early riser—a necessity when you’re responsible for making money, grocery shopping, fixing things, and performing a dozen other duties that quickly fill the days. I look at my clock, and sure enough, it’s ten already.

Groaning, I roll over, right onto
Curiosités d’Aix
, whose corner jabs into my ribs. Last night, I stayed up late reading it after we got home from the Celtic ruins. I skimmed through the entire book, which was interesting enough, but chapter nine—“
Les Eaux Magiques
”—was the best. I must have fallen asleep with it still in my hands.

I splash water on my face, throw on some clothes, run a brush through my tangled hair, and hurry downstairs. Luckily, our apartment is just a couple of blocks from the square, so I’ll be on time to the meeting at Madame Chevalier’s apartment. As I race down the street, my bag flopping against my leg, the melodies of Illusion drift down the street. I whiz by the band on the Place de la Mairie, giving them a brief wave, and they nod and smile in my direction. Jean-Claude’s smile lingers, I can’t help noticing.

Then I turn around the corner to the narrow side street behind Café Cerise, stopping at a polished wooden door, scanning the names next to the buzzer.
Mme Violette Chevalier. 2eme étage
. Literally, the second floor, but since the French don’t count ground floors, it’s actually on the third story. The outside door’s unlocked, so I let myself in and walk up the flights of worn red-tiled stairs until I reach the door labeled
Mme Violette Chevalier
in fading handwritten ink. I knock, and a faint “
Entrez
” floats from behind the door. I draw in a breath, turn the knob, and push the door open. I catch a whiff of sweet vervaine and mint and old velvet and furniture wax. “
Bonjour?
” I call out tentatively. “Madame Chevalier?”

“
Entrez, entrez!
” she calls again.

I follow the voice through a long hallway lined with framed paintings and sketches that cover every centimeter of wall, ceiling to floor. Most feature beautiful women of all ages. They have chestnut hair and bright brown eyes and elegant necks and each has a different style of clothes. One
woman sits in a tropical fruit market, her hair piled in a bun woven with flowers. In another picture, a woman with a pixie haircut in a cute sixties dress is silhouetted against a shimmering ocean. Another wears a palm hat, her face hidden in the shadows, with colorful African-print fabric hanging in the background. Farther on, the subjects of the painting look older. The oldest has chin-length gray hair and big copper disc earrings and looks like she’s been caught laughing at a bawdy joke.

Now the hallway opens into a small living room, tastefully decorated with antiques—an overstuffed sofa, a faded blue velvet armchair, a few cedar chests, glass vases, and, in the corner, an empty artist’s easel. Off to the right is a closet-sized kitchen with a half-fridge and a two-burner stove top and tiny sink and enough counter space to hold a single plate. To the left is a bathroom, containing a single toilet, with space for nothing else. Beside it is the washroom, not much bigger, barely fitting in a sink, mirror, and tub.

And there, silhouetted against the window, is the woman with the binoculars. It’s not until I see her that I realize the paintings in the hallway are not of different women. They’re all the same woman. All self-portraits of the live version here in front of me. She is as still as her portraits, only in three dimensions, with the Place de la Mairie through the window as the background. Her expression holds an odd mix of weariness and curiosity. Her body seems to weigh on her, even though she’s bird-thin, yet her eyes are alive, clever.
And they brighten even more when I offer her my hand. “Madame Chevalier?”

“
Oui, ma petite.
” Those caramel-brown eyes pierce into me. It feels as if dozens of eyes are watching me, eyes of all the ages she’s been, looking at me, into me. Dozens of different people that are somehow one person. I’m not sure how I can tell, because her skin has shriveled and become spotted with brown patches, her muscles have diminished, her hair has turned coarse and gray, her eyelids have drooped, and her shoulders have shrunk.

“I’m Zeeta.”

“
Enchantée
, Zeeta.”

“
Enchantée.
” Her shawl is red velvet, faded by the sun. She wears large earrings, dangling, silver filigree like ones I’ve seen in South America. Around her neck hangs a heavy necklace made of bits of hand-worked metal, a style common in the markets of Morocco. Old-fashioned ivory binoculars hang from her neck. Her shirt is Mayan—and her skirt, long and simple black. Her shoes are worn leather thongs that look handmade, revealing knotted toes.

“Sit down, sit down,” she says. “Vincent will be a few minutes late. He sent word with Maude. He’s with a customer now.” She leans forward. “Now, you,
ma petite
, you’ve got a bit of everything in you. The way you move, you talk. I can’t put my finger on where you’re from.”

“From everywhere and nowhere,” I say, and I reel off the sixteen countries I’ve lived in.

“I’ve spent time in quite a few of those places,” she says in a thoughtful voice.

“You were in all those places you painted?”

“I was. My whole life I’ve spent noticing things and putting them on canvas.” She pauses. “Until recently, that is.”

“Why?”

She waves away my question with her hand. “You’re a girl full of questions, aren’t you?”

“
Oui,
” I admit, pulling out my notebook. “Madame Chevalier, you’ve watched me in the square. Have you seen someone dropping things into my bag?”

“Well.” She strokes the leather cord around her neck, where the binoculars dangle. “I notice a great many goings-on in the square. And although I haven’t seen anyone actually slip something into your bag, I know who I’d place my bets on.”

“Who?”

She smiles. “That red-headed acrobat girl.”

I stare. “Amandine? The girl with Illusion?”

“
Oui
. That one.” She points a bony finger out the window, toward Amandine, who’s skipping around from one table to another, offering the top hat as people toss in coins.

“Why do you think it was her?”

“She’s taken an interest in you,
ma petite
. And she’s agile. She jumps and flies and flips all over the square. She has mastered the art of charming people to distraction.”

“You think she’s sneaky? Deceptive?” I study Amandine through the window.

“Oh, she’s never pickpocketed anyone, but she’d be good at
it, I can tell. Trust me,
ma petite
, there’s more to that girl than meets the eye.”

“Wow.” I open my notebook and jot down notes. Her theory’s interesting, even though I have a feeling my
fantôme
is male, and most likely someone I’ve known before.

“And another thing I’ve noticed,” Madame Chevalier whispers mischievously. “The accordionist is drawn to you and you’re trying not to be drawn to him. But you can’t stop.”

I flush, looking quickly at my feet.

She goes on. “I notice that you have confidence walking around markets, through crowds, talking to strangers. Yet there is part of you that feels lost.”