The Ruby Notebook (17 page)

I give him a look full of questions.

He grins and buys six tickets at the kiosk.

“Six?” I ask.

“Three for you, three for me.” He grabs my hand again and helps me onto the carousel. We’re the only people over four feet tall on here. “Take your pick,” he says, flinging his arm wide. “Zebras, lions, airplanes …”

I climb onto a black horse, feeling silly.

Jean-Claude gets on the zebra beside me.

The music starts—horn, accordion, tuba—and the carousel spins and our horse and zebra go up and down. I can’t help laughing.

“
Excellent!
” Jean-Claude says. “See? I told you it works.”

For the first round, I feel slightly ridiculous, passing all the parents waving at their children. After that, the ticket man comes around and collects our second tickets. Parents help their kids off and on, and there’s a scramble for their creatures of choice.

“Want a different animal?” Jean-Claude asks.

“I’ve grown fond of my horse, actually,” I say. This time, when the music starts, I get into the rhythms of going up and down and around and around. I forget my self-consciousness. I actually start smiling despite myself.

After the second ride, in the commotion of the kids getting off and on the carousel, I say quietly, “I don’t think Wendell gets me.” I don’t look at Jean-Claude as I say it, just stare at the brass pole in front of me.

“Why?”

“I’ve been living this nomadic existence. Like you. And you know how you have to have a certain intensity in your relationships? Because within a year you’ll be saying goodbye?”

He nods. “
Tout à fait.
” Exactly.

“Wendell doesn’t understand that.” I press my head against the cool metal. “He’s completely wrapped up in his host family.”

“
Ouais
. It’s hard for people to get us gypsies.” The music starts again and Jean-Claude throws back his head, making his curls fall back in a wild mane. The moving lights make his vest sparkle.

“That doesn’t make you dizzy?” I ask.

“Embrace the dizziness, Zeeta!”

I throw my head back too. Now everything is backward and upside down, a mishmash of lights and colors, and nothing makes any sense, but yes, in its own way it’s beautiful, and I hang on tight, just letting the spinning lights and colors wash over me.

T
he tiny bells ring as the door swings open and I step into Nirvana. The stuffy, stale air smells almost homey after my absence of the past few days.

“Zeeta!” Ahmed cries. “Where have you been?”

“Wendell’s here in Aix now, remember? I don’t need to e-mail him as much.”

“Ah,
oui!
” He beams. “And how is it finally being with
l’homme de ta vie?
”

I muster up as much enthusiasm as I can. “Great.”

“And Layla?” His eyes flicker back to the screen. He’s making an obvious effort to sound nonchalant. “She’ll come back again soon, I hope?”

I sigh. So many men’s hopes raised, then shot down. “Ahmed, trust me, Layla’s not your type. She gravitates
toward poorly groomed artists and musicians and clowns. She’s never had a boyfriend for more than a couple of months. Forget about her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You know, the Persian mystic Rumi mentions a Layla in his poetry.”

“You read Rumi?” I can’t hide my surprise.

“I have a doctorate in Middle Eastern literature.” He smiles. “There are many things about me that you don’t know. Do not always judge a person by how he appears.” Laughing, he turns back to his game.

“Do me a favor and don’t mention Rumi to Layla.” The Rumi thing might let Layla overlook the fact that Ahmed is well groomed and financially stable. And the last thing he needs is to form a Rumi bond with Layla, then get his heart broken.

“Listen, I just need to make a quick call to Wendell,” I say, handing Ahmed a slip of paper with the host family’s number. Wendell canceled his cell phone for the summer to save money.

Ahmed dials the number as I head into the phone booth.

The host mother picks up. She whispers that Wendell’s sleeping, exhausted from jet lag and the family’s latest outings. I stare at graffiti on the wooden door as she chats about Wendell’s jam-packed itinerary for the next few days. They’re planning to take him to the major tourist attractions. First Mont Sainte-Victoire—the mountain Cézanne adored painting—then la Sainte-Baume—a cave where Mary Magdalene supposedly lived in her later years—and
then the pretty little beach town of Cassis. All the places that Layla and I crammed in during our first week, before her teacher trainings started.

Finally, I interrupt. “Madame, I have to go. Can you tell Wendell I called?”

“
Bien sûr
. Does he have your number?”

“I don’t have a phone. But he can e-mail me.”

“Can I give him a message?”

I think. What is it I want to say? I don’t know. I just want to be close to him. Just be together, comfortable together, like we were in Ecuador. But we’re no longer in Ecuador. We’re no longer
who we were
in Ecuador.

Of course, this is not the kind of thing you leave in a message. “
Non. Merci, madame,
” I say. “
Au revoir.
” I set the phone in the cradle, leaving my hand there for a moment, feeling, with that click, that something has ended.

Beneath white awnings, long tables stretch before me, covered with yellow cicada-print tablecloths and filled with bags of crushed herbs and spices, heaps of dried red sausages, soft white sheep cheeses, jars of amber honey, bottles of olive oil, shining like liquid sunshine. Sirona and Layla and I have been wandering up and down the market aisles, sampling baguette dipped in fresh olive oil or spread with cheeses. Sirona looks cheery in an orange tunic, her hair woven in a network of intricate braids. She did Layla’s hair the same way.

The outdoor market is packed with people, the perfect
time and place for my
fantôme
to slip me another gift. I’m keeping a close eye on my bag, hoping to catch him in the act. It’s easy to get distracted, though, with all the people to look at, the food to taste. We’re just sampling an array of olives when Layla says, “Look! That mime’s actually moving for once.”

It’s true, he’s doing a performance, acting out a skit in pantomime. We pop a few more olives into our mouths and wander over to the crowd that’s gathered around him. One moment the mime is crying, looking mournful in his skullcap, with the black tear, clutching his hands over his heart. The next moment, he changes character, throwing on a bonnet and prancing around like a playful, silly girl, skipping arm in arm with someone. Next, he tosses off the bonnet and puts on a colorful vest with a patchwork of rainbow diamonds. He must be the girl’s companion now—a frolicking, distractible clown, elbows linked with the girl’s, pointing at this and that. Seamlessly, Tortue switches among these three characters. Although I don’t understand the story, it’s fascinating to watch.

Sirona whispers to us, “It’s the tale of Pierrot.”

The French people around us appear to be familiar with the story. They’re laughing and clapping and clucking in sympathy at the right times.

At the end, Tortue bows as everyone applauds, tossing money into his hat. Once the crowd disperses, he collapses onto a bench, looking exhausted.

Layla says, “Let’s go talk to him.”

“Why?” I say. “So you can start meeting your clown quota for France?”

“No, Z! To have him explain the story.”

Sirona says, “Good idea. He could explain it better than I could.”

I trail behind them, cringing inside.

“
Bonjour!
” Layla says as she approaches him.

Tortue looks up, surprised. “
Bonjour, madame.
”

“We loved your performance.”

“
Merci, madame.
” His voice is soft, almost shy.

“Could you explain the story?”

“
Oui,
” he says hoarsely, as if he’s not used to talking much. “It’s the tale of Pierrot and Harlequin and Columbine.” I can’t put my finger on his accent. A Latin language, maybe. Italian or Spanish or Portuguese. “There are many different versions of the story, but here’s the one I like. Harlequin was a colorful clown, dazzling, bright, fun. He traveled in a little caravan, having sunny adventures, charming people with his words.” Tortue pauses, looking nervous, swallowing hard, as though this is the most he’s talked in ages.

He continues. “Pierrot was a clown who was quieter, deeper, wore white and black. He baked bread in a wood-fired stove, by the light of the moon. He had always loved Columbine, but she was drawn to the bright colors of Harlequin. And so she went off with him. Pierrot was sad, but patient. He waited. When winter came, and the world grew cold and harsh, Harlequin had no food to give Columbine. They had no heat, no fire, no light. Columbine
realized her mistake and returned home. Pierrot let her into his warm kitchen and nourished her with bread and love.”

“Ohhh,” Layla says. “Now I get it.”

Suddenly, Amandine appears, slinging her arm through the crook of Tortue’s elbow. “So. You met Zeeta and her mom!”

He gives a slight shake of the head. “Not officially.”

“Well,” Amandine says, “this is Zeeta.”

I nod in greeting.

“And I’m Layla,” Layla says, holding out her hand. “I’d do the kiss thing, but I wouldn’t want to mess up your makeup.” She laughs.

With a tentative smile, Tortue shakes her hand with his gloved one.

“And this is my dear friend Sirona,” Layla adds as Sirona offers her hand.

Amandine smiles, satisfied, and turns to me. “Tortue will be at the dinner on Saturday. You’re still coming, Zeeta, right? With your boyfriend?”

I nod and say nothing. I don’t even want to think about the dinner.

Amandine looks around. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Busy with his host family. They’re sightseeing this week, since he starts art classes on Monday.” I try not to let my voice quaver as I say this. Come Monday, I’ll be even less likely to see Wendell. He’ll probably be at class for most of the day, then do homework in the afternoons and spend evenings with his host family.

“We’re off to find some chocolate samples!” Layla says, rescuing me. “There has to be a chocolate section around here somewhere!”

We wave goodbye and Layla pulls us away, tugging on Sirona with one hand and me with another, back into the sea of tarps and crowds and market stands. I look back at Amandine. She and Tortue are staring after us. I remember what Madame Chevalier insisted.
There’s more to her than meets the eye
. The only thing I’m sure of is that Amandine cares deeply about Tortue.

Layla doesn’t seem very interested in the mime, which is surprising considering her history of clown boyfriends. Although, now that I think about it, most of Layla’s dozens of clown boyfriends would be the fun-loving Harlequin types. Tortue, on the other hand, is most definitely a melancholy Pierrot.

Making our way slowly through three pots of linden flower tea, Madame Chevalier and I exchange stories of our travels over the course of the afternoon. We’ve been to some of the same countries—Senegal, Brazil, India—and can thoroughly appreciate each other’s misadventures. At times, I find myself laughing so hard at her stories, I’m crying. It’s rare and delicious to meet people who can share these kinds of memories with me.