The Ruby Notebook (14 page)

I blink. How can she tell?

She points a ring-bedecked finger at my notebook. “Most of all, I notice you writing in that notebook. I notice that you noticed me. I notice that you are a person who notices.”

I take a long breath. No wonder I’ve felt I was being watched.

She twists the binocular cord around her fingers thoughtfully, like an observant, retired spy. “Most people in the square only notice what their tour guide points out. They notice the statues and carvings mentioned in the guidebooks, or the displays in the storefronts. They notice the prices of things. They notice what they want to buy. They notice beautiful women or beautiful men. They notice what would make a pretty photograph. They don’t notice an open window. They don’t notice the old lady inside it. But you do,
ma petite
, you do.”

Once in a while you stumble across a person like Madame Chevalier, the best kind of person for interviews, the kind who could fill a whole notebook. I jump right in. “Madame Chevalier, can love last a lifetime?”

She jangles the silver charms of her necklace, thinking. “Not for someone like me. I was always running off to paint new pictures in some new place. I loved the thrill of it, the newness. I was like your young accordionist friend, always moving from one
amant
to another.”

“You mean Jean-Claude? How could … ?”

She smiles. “This is not the first time he’s been here. He and his band have come and gone over the past few years.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, I shift the focus back to her. “So you’ve never had one true love
—un grand amour?
”

“Perhaps. But love isn’t always returned. When it is, you’re very lucky.” She stands up slowly. “I’ll make some tea.” She shuffles into the kitchen, hunched over as if in pain, with a slight limp. I can’t tell how old she is. Her mind seems sprightly, but a cloud of exhaustion hangs over her. She has to be the same age, more or less, as Vincent, since they were school friends, but she moves like someone much older. And she’s thin, thin, thin, as though she’s disappearing up here.

A book sits on the table, a handmade album of gilded leather. I open it and there, pasted to the pages, are scraps of thin paper covered in small, formal handwriting, written with an old-fashioned ink pen. They must be messages from Vincent, delivered by Maude. Many of them are funny little things, nonsensical rhymes. Once in a while there’s a reference
to Salluvii or simply
les Eaux
—the Waters. It’s as though he and Madame Chevalier are still children playing detective, a game they never outgrew.

Madame Chevalier comes out with the tea, struggling under its weight. The cups are rattling and the tray looks about to fall. I jump up and rescue the tray.

Embarrassed, she looks away, and sees the open album. “Oh, you found my little book. We have fun together with little Maude. I adore that bird.”

She strokes her binoculars. Her fingers glitter with rings, a mélange of silver, brass, copper, and gold, studded with cut stones of all shapes and colors. “Now, Vincent said you believe in the powers of sacred waters. Is this true?”

“I’m open to the possibility. I’ve seen lots of amazing things.”

“Such as?”

“Last summer, a crystal led my friend to his birth family.”

“This was in the Andes?” she asks.

Vincent must have told her about the Peguche Waterfall. I might as well tell her about Wendell now. She’ll see him through her binoculars soon enough. “This friend, well, he’s my boyfriend, actually, and he’ll be here tomorrow.”

“
Eh bien, dis donc!
Better than a soap opera,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes. “Tell me about this boyfriend.”

I tell her about last summer in Ecuador and Wendell’s birth family and the crystal cave. She listens so intently that before I know it, I’ve let something slip. “And last summer,” I say, “he saw us together in France.”

Immediately, she asks, “What do you mean, he saw you in France?”

Her eyes are piercing into mine and I can’t think of a rational explanation fast enough. It seems safe to tell her. She obviously believes in sacred waters. Wendell’s powers wouldn’t be much of a stretch. “He can see the future,” I say, pausing to gauge her reaction.

“
Ah bon?
” She leans forward. “What exactly does he see this summer?”

“Me and him, soaking wet. I’m in a dress.”

“
Très intéressant,
” she murmurs, staring into space, as if her mind is whirling. “What else?”

“He won’t tell me anything more,” I say. “I’m worried he sees me with—” I force myself to continue. “Someone else.” I bite my lip. “Or maybe he sees us not connecting. Maybe I’m not the same Zeeta he knew in Ecuador.”

She makes a sympathetic cluck, then launches into questions about Wendell’s powers. She wants to know the kinds of things he’s predicted, how specific he can get, how easily he can see the future on demand.

The more I answer her questions, the more I wonder why she’s so interested. There’s an intensity to her questions. An inexplicable urgency blazes in her eyes, as if my answers, somehow, are a matter of life and death.

By the time Vincent finally arrives downstairs and rings the buzzer, I’m thoroughly confused. Is Madame Chevalier wise? Or a tad crazy? Or maybe both? I remember what
Layla says about clowns and fools—that craziness and wisdom go hand in hand.

“Would you get the door,
ma petite?
” Madame Chevalier smooths her hair, her shawl, her skirt. “That must be Vincent.” As she says his name, she lights up.

I open the door, waiting for Vincent to climb the stairs. It takes him a minute, and when he appears, he’s a little breathless. A light dusting of feathers covers his coat, and Maude is perched on his shoulder. He’s wearing old-man cologne that blends nicely with his natural smell of birds and old cedar. As he enters, he takes off his beret, revealing white hair that’s been recently combed with some kind of oil. He fiddles with the beret in his hands.

“ ’Ello, Meez Zeeta!” he says in English, punctuated with a laugh.

“Hello yourself,” I say in English, and head down the hall. He follows slowly, lingering over the self-portraits on the wall, as if he’s in the Louvre. The first is when Madame Chevalier was about sixteen. My age. I wish I looked so poised and elegant. He stands in front of the painting. “
Comme elle est belle!
” he whispers in an awed voice. How beautiful she is!

He waddles along like a pigeon, craning his head forward and peering at the paintings that grow older and older, oohing and aahing over each one. Sometimes he reaches out his hand, as if he’s about to touch the portrait, and then, at the last second, withdraws it, shoving it in his pocket.

“I never grow tired of looking at these,” he murmurs. “No
wonder she’s world famous.” He lowers his voice. “Now you understand why she intimidates me. She’s a genius.”

We continue walking past all the faces of Madame Chevalier, growing older, portrait by portrait. At the end, Madame Chevalier, in the flesh, sits facing the window. Vincent greets her with a burst of energy—“
Bonjour, madame!
”—and pulls a wicker chair to our chairs by the window.

Madame Chevalier reaches out to him, and for a moment I think she’s going to embrace him, but instead she takes the pigeon from his shoulder, kisses her on the head, and tucks her into her lap, stroking her. “
Maude, ma petite Maude. Ça va, mon amour?
”

Vincent watches Maude for a moment, smiling, then turns to me. “So, have you read chapter nine?” He’s as excited as a little boy.

I’m direct, even though I feel silly saying the bizarre theory out loud. “You two think that the members of Salluvii drink from the sacred waters? You think they’re the immortal guardians?”

Vincent smiles at Madame Chevalier.

She nods, beaming, as if I’ve passed some test. “
Oui,
” she says, “just like Maude here.”

“What?”

“Remember when I told you that Maude takes occasional detours to her secret places?” Vincent says, his eyes twinkling.

Madame Chevalier’s eyes grow starry too. “We suspect
she’s sipping from the waters. How else could a pigeon live for fifty years in perfect health? Most pigeons barely make it to thirty-five.”

These two really, truly believe in a fountain of youth. Right here in this town. For years, they’ve been encouraging each other, playing this game together, until they’ve begun to believe it in their hearts. It’s undeniably weird. But they’re both so eager, so genuine, and they light up when they talk about these sacred waters.

I can’t help indulging them. And it does make great ruby notebook material. So I press my lips together, holding in my smile, and ask, “And how do I fit in?”

Vincent puffs up his chest like a pigeon. “Madame Chevalier and I have decided we can trust you.” From his bag, he pulls a small album with the word
SALLUVII
embossed on the leather cover, opens it, and says, “
Regarde.
”

There are a series of paintings of two men and two women who wear clothes and hairstyles similar to Sirona, Damona, Grannos, and Bormanus.

Vincent taps the album with his fingers, flipping through the pages, letting me look at each one. Finally, he says, “We’re seventy, born and raised here in Aix. Those people in the band Salluvii—they’ve been coming to town since we were children. The same necklaces. The
same
people. They never grow older. They look exactly as they did sixty years ago.”

I study the album. Each painting is dated, the oldest from 1956. It’s true, the people in the paintings look similar,
especially the jewelry, tunics, and hair, but then again, these are quick sketches, just splashes of color, not detailed enough for me to make out facial features.

Madame Chevalier peers at the album over my shoulder. “The members of Salluvii keep to themselves, mostly. They must think that no one will remember their faces, but we do.”

“So,” I say, “these sacred waters—where do you think they are?”

Vincent smiles. “That’s where you come in,
mademoiselle.
”

“We’d like you to find them,” Madame Chevalier says, as though she’s just awarded me a prestigious, highly coveted job.

I blink, searching for words. “If you’ve spent your lives searching, what makes you think I can find them?”

“Well,” Vincent says, “we weren’t serious about the search until now. It was a game for us.” He takes a long look at Madame Chevalier. “But now, circumstances have changed.” He lifts his palms to the sky, a pleading gesture. “And now we’re too old to search. We need your help.”

My doubt must be written on my face, because he adds, “You must wonder if we’re
fous, mademoiselle
. Going on about eternal life. But trust me, we’re not crazy.”

I bite my lip. “Why me? Why did you choose me?”

Madame Chevalier answers. “You notice things. You have a connection with Salluvii. And now, what you’ve told me about your boyfriend! Well, this makes it even better.” She nods. “You’re a seeker, that’s clear.”

“Seeker.” That’s what my name means. But right now I’m up to my ears in unsuccessful seeking. Seeking the real Zeeta, seeking the
fantôme
, seeking the reason for my creeping anxiety around Wendell’s arrival. Now doesn’t seem the time to get entangled in a search with two sweet but slightly deluded old people. I try to let them down easy. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

“
Pas de problème,
” Vincent says. No problem. “For the moment, you must simply gather information from Sirona and report to us.”

Madame Chevalier turns to him and murmurs, “Her boyfriend has powers of divination. And he saw Zeeta and himself in a vision, here in Aix, soaking wet.” She gives Vincent a meaningful look.

His eyes widen. “Soaking wet,” he murmurs. “As if they’ve just discovered the magical waters!” he says.

“What?” I say, bewildered at how he leapt to this conclusion.

“This is perfect!” Vincent cries.

“Isn’t it?” Madame Chevalier agrees.

I try to get a word in. “Wendell can’t exactly control his powers,” I say. “He doesn’t even like talking about them.”

Madame Chevalier smiles. “Oh, when he hears of our quest, he’ll be glad to help you.” She speaks with a childlike faith, certain Wendell will be her knight galloping in on a white horse.

I look at their hopeful faces and say reluctantly, “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“
Magnifique!
” Vincent exclaims. “We can’t wait to meet him!” He raises his teacup in a toast. Madame Chevalier raises her own cup and looks at me expectantly.

I swallow my misgivings and clink my teacup against theirs.