The Ruby Notebook (22 page)

“What does rain mean? What does a pigeon mean?”

“You’re infuriating,” I say, leaning back.

“
Désolé
, Zeeta,” he says. Sorry. The word makes me think of desolate things, lonely and abandoned. I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable in Jean-Claude. Until now, he’s always exuded confidence, charm, sparkle. But in this drizzle, his eyes reflect only the gray of wet stone. Even his red
outfit seems subdued. It makes me think of Tortue’s story of Harlequin, once the bad weather came.

Jean-Claude scoots to the edge of the stoop, into the rain, and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. I’m studying his face, trying to figure him out, when his eyes open and look into mine. He moves his face close. His breath is warm, his lips parted, coming closer to mine. I hold still, my heart pounding.

Suddenly, we’re engulfed by the squawks of birds. There’s an uproar among the pigeons, wild feathers flapping and beaks pecking and screeching. A pigeon fight.

I look at the pigeon that caused the commotion, its feathers still ruffled. There’s a vial tied to its leg. I squint through the rain. There are only three salmon-pink toes on that leg. But even without the vial and missing toe, I could tell it was Maude, the way she prances around like a fussy old lady or a spoiled little princess. She gives me an impish look and ruffles her silver-flecked feathers.

It’s as if Maude came to stop any budding romance between me and Jean-Claude. Maude, the cupid toting messages rather than arrows. Maude, the immortal protectress of true love. Maude, who has apparently decided that Jean-Claude is not
l’homme de ma vie
.

She wanders near my feet, and then flutters up, taking flight. She swoops down again, near my head, as though she wants me to follow her. This little back street isn’t between Madame Chevalier’s apartment and Vincent’s shop. What’s Maude doing here? And where is she headed? I remember Vincent’s belief that Maude makes side trips to drink from the sacred
waters. If that’s true, maybe she’s headed there now. I jump up, keeping my eye on Maude. “I have to go, Jean-Claude.”

“Where?” he asks, bewildered.

“To follow this pigeon,” I say with a wry smile.

His mouth drops open in confusion, but there’s no time to explain. With a wave, I run down the street, after Maude.

M
aude is flying just fast enough to make me sprint at top speed. She sticks to the streets, never flying higher than the rooftops, making it easy to follow her. She turns right around the corner, leading me down another narrow side street. We’re in the ancient part of town, where the streets are short and mazelike, where statues of saints and Virgin Marys perch in high-up niches on the corners of ancient buildings, where nearly every arched doorway is topped with a fantastical creature’s face.

Within minutes, the drizzle lets up and the sun peaks out, gleaming off the wet pavement.

I’m breathless and starting to feel silly, considering giving up the chase, when Maude glides down. She lands on the head of a grumpy-looking seraphim protruding from a
fountain, and takes a sip of the water spilling from its mouth. It’s just a regular public fountain, though; there’s no indication that it contains healing waters. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask Maude, slightly annoyed.

From behind, someone says, “You okay, Zeeta?”

I whip my head around. It’s Wendell. He’s sitting on a bench beneath a tree, his sketchbook on his knees. A cool damp lingers in the air, and the wet cobblestones are steaming in the sunshine. Droplets cling to tree leaves, draping them in crystals.

“Oh. Hi, Wendell.” I try to catch my breath, glancing at Maude out of the corner of my eye. She’s settled comfortably on the grumpy seraphim’s head.

“Why were you running?” he asks.

“Oh.” I titter. “I was running after that pigeon. Maude’s her name.” I gesture toward her. “Vincent and Madame Chevalier adore her. They think she’s immortal.”

He gives me a strange look.

“I know. It’s ridiculous. But they have this theory she takes a detour at some magical waters. You know, the ones I told you about? One sip supposedly heals you, and if you drink from it regularly, you’re immortal.” I’m caught in a nervous stream of babbling, and I can’t stop. “Maude here could have seen Cézanne painting over a hundred years ago.”

Wendell gives a weak smile and looks back at his notebook, picking up his charcoal.

I know I should leave, but I hear myself keep talking. “Hey, how was your first day of classes?”

“Fine,” he answers.

I gesture to his notebook with my chin. “What are you sketching?”

“The fountain,” he murmurs. “Part of an assignment. Sketching all the fountains in Aix.” He glances up briefly, not exactly avoiding my eyes, but not looking too closely. He looks at me as if I’m a casual acquaintance, nothing more. Even though I should be expecting this, I feel a stab of pain.

Ignoring my voice of reason—which tells me to leave him alone—I move closer. “Mind if I peek over your shoulder?”

“Go ahead.” He pushes a strand of hair behind his ear. “Better you than my teacher. She’s a tyrant.”

He’s not doing anything that shows he’s upset. It’s what he’s
not
doing. He’s not smiling the half-smile that I love. I loved. He’s withholding those particular expressions that used to be woven into our every interaction.

I stand awkwardly, noticing that he hasn’t invited me to sit on the bench beside him. I try to keep my voice natural. “How is she a tyrant?”

“She’s always yelling, ‘No outlines! Shadows only!’ ”

“What’s that mean?”

“She says you have to train your eye to see light and shadows.” He’s looking at his page, not at me. “If you shade in the dark parts, then the areas of light will naturally appear. And as a side effect, the shape will emerge.”

“
Hyper cool,
” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, to break this tension. I stare at Maude, who’s waddling along the edge of the fountain now, sipping at tiny puddles. I search
for something else to say. I don’t want to mention my
fantôme
father and my decision to look for clues in Marseille. Then I’d have to explain that I asked Jean-Claude to help me. Instead, I say, “I thought you were focusing on photography.”

“I am. But the first half of the course is drawing and painting.” He keeps his eyes glued to the page. “Everything’s about light and dark. Learning in one medium transfers to another. That’s what the tyrant tells us, at least.”

“Can I see your other drawings?”

“Sure. There aren’t many. Just a few from today.” He tosses me the sketch pad, careful not to touch me. It’s almost exaggerated, this lack of contact. As though if he accidentally brushed his hand against mine, we’d explode.

I sit down beside him and flip through the pages. “These are great.”

“Not really. I have lots to learn.” Another thing lacking—Wendell’s spark. It’s like he’s reciting lines, only feigning interest in the conversation.

I hand back his sketch pad and ask, “Mind if I sit here? Write in my notebook?”

There’s a long silence. Too long. Slowly, he says, “I don’t think I can do this.”

“What?” I ask, with a growing sense of dread.

“Be friends with you.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

“It hurts too much.”

And what he doesn’t say, but what we both know, is that
this means we’ll never be friends. Because the reason he came here was me. To be with me this summer. And if it takes him the summer to get over me, then he’ll go to Colorado and I’ll be here across the ocean and then next year Layla will drag us somewhere else. And Wendell will be gone from my life forever.

There’s an awkward silence. Maude flutters her wings and rises over the buildings, making a path over the rooftops to who knows where. I stand up, wishing I could follow her. My feet feel heavy as I head alone down the street.

Over the next few days, I fall into a routine, one from which Wendell is conspicuously absent. I fill my days tutoring the
lycée
students, buying food at the outdoor market, swinging by Les Secrets de Maude to see Vincent, having tea with Madame Chevalier in her apartment, hanging out with Sirona and Layla on the square. Nearly every day, I find time to sit at my favorite table at Café Cerise and write more letters to my
fantôme
father. With every new letter, I feel more determined to find him.

Which is frustrating, because Jean-Claude is set on delaying our trip to Marseille. Usually, at some point during the day, I run into Illusion playing in a square or on a side street. Between their sets, I have a
glâce
or an espresso with Jean-Claude. Whenever I ask him if he’ll come to Marseille, he says something vague, like “Maybe next week,” or “Maybe when the weather’s nicer,” or “Maybe after my cold goes away,” as he makes an exaggerated sniffle.

Eventually, I pin him down. “Tomorrow morning,” I tell him firmly. “That’s when I’m going to Marseille. I’ll come by your house around eight.”

Jean-Claude nods, rubbing the scar beneath his curls. But he promises nothing.

The next day, I wake up early, butterflies in my stomach. I slip on a white sundress, put my hair in two braids, and tuck in some roses from our flowerpots. At the kitchen table, Layla’s wearing her deep pink silk robe from Laos and smelling lavender honey before spooning it into her tea. “You look nice, love,” she says in a scratchy morning voice.

“I’m going to Marseille today,” I announce.

“Marseille?” She’s surprised, which makes sense, considering I haven’t mentioned my plan to her yet. I had a feeling she’d try to talk me out of it, so I’ve waited till the last minute.

“To see if I can find out something about J.C.,” I say, slicing a leftover baguette and popping the halves in the toaster. “If he lived in Marseille and worked on the water there, someone has to know him.”

“Why the change of heart, Z?”

I think about what Madame Chevalier and Vincent said. If love is offered, take it. If you have love to give, give it. Apparently not easy tasks, considering they haven’t even tried to follow their own advice.

Finally, echoing Sirona, I say, “If I don’t meet him now—now that we’re in the same country—I might never do it. I might regret missing the opportunity.” I grab the apricot jam
from the fridge. “So, Layla, if you’ve remembered anything else about him, now’s a good time to tell me.”

She closes her eyes, breathes in the steam from her tea. “We’ve gone over this a hundred times, love. It was one single night. I was sitting on the beach. He came out of the water. It was like a dream. Just like he said in his letters. Like he was a sea creature turned human for a night.”

I slam the refrigerator door, rattling the jars inside. “He wasn’t some fantastical merman, Layla. He wrote those letters. He made me. He was real.” I feel like shaking her. “Can’t you remember his last name? What he looked like? Anything? There are over a million people in Marseille, so any way I can narrow it down—”

She twists her hair into a knot, then untwists it. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, Z. I was intoxicated with moonlight. With the rhythm of the night waves. With the music of J.C.’s guitar.”

I roll my eyes, spreading jam on the toast. I’ve heard all this before, all the various mythical versions of the night, tales that shift slightly depending on what kind of mood Layla’s in.

“And the next morning,” she continues, “I had to leave Ios. I’d gotten my boat ticket already. I never saw his face in full daylight. I can’t even picture it. But you came from that magical night, Zeeta. Long ago, I accepted that we’d never know your father. But he’ll forever be part of our own fairy tale.”

Layla’s quiet for a moment, finishing her tea. She sets her
cup decisively on the table and says, “I’ll call in sick and come with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, taking a bite of toast. “Jean-Claude’s coming with me.” Even though that’s not necessarily true. He didn’t exactly agree to anything.

“What about Wendell?” she asks. “Don’t you think he’d be a good support? I mean, you helped him find his birth family, and he’s—”

“Wendell doesn’t even want to be friends with me, Layla.” My eyes sting as I say the words.