The Ruby Notebook (28 page)

“What are you going to paint?”

“What should I paint?” she asks.

“How about pink hearts and gold stars and exclamation points and
Je t’aime, Vincent?
”

She smiles, holding the brush with one hand and petting Maude’s feathers absently with the other. I watch Amandine and Wendell pay their bill and walk away, outside the frame of the window.

I bring the dishes to the kitchen and wash them in the small sink. Before I leave, I hug Madame Chevalier goodbye, kissing both of her papery cheeks. “You really believe these waters exist?” I ask.

“I want to believe,” she says. “So very much. I’d almost stopped believing. Then you came into our lives. That gave me hope.”

“Then I’ll keep searching,” I tell her. “I can do it alone. I’ll try my best.”

She shakes her head, clucking. “
Ma petite
, you need Wendell.”

“But he—”

“He will do anything for you.” Her voice is so firm, I can’t argue.

Instead, I respond, “And Vincent will do anything for you.”

I motion to her brush and paints and the whispery thin piece of paper in front of her. “Tell him everything,” I say, “just in case we can’t find the waters.”

Then, biting my tongue to hold back tears, I walk down the hallway, past all the Madame Chevaliers gazing at me. As I close the door, I look back to see the live Madame Chevalier picking up her brush and dipping it into the paint.

I
n the back street outside Madame Chevalier’s apartment, I lean against the cool stone wall, listening to my heartbeat, breathing in the scent of buttery croissants and melting chocolate from the bakery around the corner, feeling very alive. But not in a good way. In a way that makes me think of all the smells and sights and sounds that Madame Chevalier will have to say goodbye to. All the things that will end for her.

I let the pent-up tears fall. Tears for Madame Chevalier. And for myself. I can’t bear another goodbye. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, losing people I love. But it doesn’t work that way. Every time I leave a country, it feels like a mass funeral, dozens of deaths every year. Deaths of friendships and daily rituals, favorite foods and special nooks. And then,
a plane ride later, I’m dropped into a whole new world of rituals and foods and nooks, while I’m still in mourning.

It’s more painful with each new country. Each loss brings up a string of past losses. The day I left Ecuador, Mamita Luz packed me a bag of fresh-baked bread to eat on our series of plane rides to France. Silvio gave me a crystal to protect me. Gaby wrapped an indigo alpaca scarf around my neck. And the girls filled my pockets with little treasures—nuts and pebbles and wildflowers. Of course, we assured each other we’d keep in touch, but I knew that after a couple years, our letters would peter out. I knew I’d probably never again see the girls’ chubby cheeks or hear Gaby wheedling customers or taste Mamita Luz’s warm bread. Saying goodbye to Ecuador was saying goodbye to a piece of myself.

I think again, of my prison of
ifs
, how part of me was expecting my link with Wendell to die too, how, at the first sign of trouble, I just cut things off with him, assuming our relationship would end soon enough, assuming it might hurt less if I did it myself. Then I remember something else from that day in Marseille. On the boat, Maurice said that love can flow underground, invisible, like a hidden spring. I think of my love for Wendell, my father’s love for Layla, Madame Chevalier’s love for Vincent. I think of this secret river, always flowing, sometimes aboveground, sometimes below the surface. And despite everything, I realize, I want to tap into it.

Which means I need to look for the sacred waters. I need to do it for Madame Chevalier. For her, the waters mean a
chance to fulfill a lifelong love. But beneath that, I need to find these waters for me. I’m not entirely sure why or how. All I know is that I
do
need Wendell’s help. And if he’s together with Amandine, I’ll have to deal with that.

I take a few deep breaths, wipe my eyes, and walk down the alley toward the main street. I can almost hear Maurice’s nasal voice, giving me a pep talk. If Dantes had never dared to escape prison, never dared to leap off the cliffs into the icy, raging sea … if he had never looked for the treasure and eventually let go of his bitterness, he would never have reunited, in the end, with the love of his life.

Back on the square, I glance up at the clock tower, noting that I have a couple hours before my English tutoring session, glad for the time to let my puffy eyes and blotchy face go back to normal. I’m heading to my apartment, just passing Café Cerise, when I catch sight of Amandine and Wendell, standing together and talking. I’d thought they’d left, but they must have been just outside of the view from Madame Chevalier’s apartment. Before I can change routes or find some tourists to blend in with, Amandine catches my eye.

“
Salut,
” she says with two pecks on my cheeks.

Wendell just says, “Hi.” It strikes me that he doesn’t say my name, as if the word
Zeeta
is too intimate.

I raise a hand in a limp wave.

Amandine fills the awkward silence. “What are you up to today?”

“Just visited my friend. You know, that woman I told you about, Wendell.” My tongue feels clumsy, my words choppy. “The artist. Madame Chevalier.”

Amandine’s eyes widen. “Violette Chevalier?”

“
Ouais.
”

“You’re friends with her?”

“
Ouais.
”

“She’s a famous painter.
Hyper cool!
” Amandine cries. “I studied her in school. Her paintings are in museums all over the world.” She nudges Wendell with her elbow. “You’d love her work. Your art teacher would be so impressed if you met her.”

She rambles for a while about Madame Chevalier as Wendell and I avoid each other’s eyes. When the clock chimes, Amandine jumps. “Oh! I have to meet the band to get ready for a show tonight. It’s in the basement club on Rue de la Verrerie. See you there, Wendell?”

He nods.

“You’re coming too, Zeeta?” she asks.

“Oh, no …” I stall. “I have other plans,” I lie.

She pecks us on the cheeks, does a cartwheel, and skips away.

Wendell and I are alone now. Stiffly, he asks, “Any more leads on your father?”

“Nothing.”

After a pause, he says, “So, can I meet this famous artist sometime?”

I bite my lip. “Wendell, there are things you need to
know.” I hesitate, unsure where to begin. “She and Vincent know about your vision of me. The one in the wet red dress.”

“You told them?” he asks in disbelief.

“I—I’m sorry. It slipped.” I take a deep breath. “I had no idea they’d get you involved. They’re convinced that it’s our destiny to find the waters together.”

He tilts his head, confused.

“The supposedly magical waters I told you about,” I clarify. “Remember? One sip heals, frequent sips make you live forever.”

“Right,” he says, still looking mystified. “I remember.”

We step aside to let a group of tourists pass, and then I say, “I thought they were just two sweet old people playing this imaginary game, you know?” I pause, trying to keep my lip from quivering. “But now—” My eyes burn. I finish it quickly. “She’s dying, Wendell. She has cancer. Lymphoma. She thinks the waters can heal her.”

He blinks, then says, “Tell her I’ll help you.”

“Really?” I look at him more closely. “You don’t think this is crazy?”

“Whether it’s crazy or not, it means a lot to Madame Chevalier. It’s her dying wish. We have to do it.” He draws in a breath, looks over my shoulder. “But Zeeta, there’s something else. I had another vision.”

“What?”

He hesitates. “I don’t want to freak you out.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re—you’re in some kind of danger. You’re in that red
dress. It’s wet and it’s nighttime. There’s a crowd of people around you. And there’s a bearded man yelling at you, threatening you. You look really scared.”

I take a moment to process this. “In this vision—where are we?”

He shrugs. “Outside at night. There might be firelight. I can’t make out anything else.”

“If it’s dangerous, then maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I say. “Madame Chevalier will understand.”

Some kids run by us, chasing a little dog. As their squeals and laughs fade, Wendell says, “I think we have to, Z. Both of us. I keep getting glimpses of something else, something …” His voice drifts off.

“Something you won’t tell me,” I finish.

“Right.” He nods sheepishly.

A wave of frustration sweeps over me, but after a moment, I calm down. After all, he’s agreed to help me. “Okay, I think we should meet with Madame Chevalier and Vincent together. When’s a good time?”

He pauses, thinking. “I spend Tuesday and Thursday afternoons with Amandine.”

I swallow hard. “Oh.”

“She’s doing all the art assignments alongside me—sketching the fountains, going to museums. And I’m teaching her what I learn every day.”

“Why?”

“She can’t afford art lessons, and she had to quit school to work.”

A prickly heat moves up my neck.

“She’s helping me with my French too.” He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Plus, she’s cool.”

“Hmm.” I feel nauseated. “Well, I have to go. I’m tutoring some
lycée
students soon.”

Wendell tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, adjusts his backpack strap over his shoulder. “How about we meet Friday afternoon?”

“Okay,” I say, disappointed that I’ll have to wait a few days. “Meet me here at three.”

“I’ll be here.”

There’s a clumsy moment when he looks on the verge of moving forward to kiss my cheeks, and I step toward him to meet him halfway. Then a big group of women walk by, making us step aside, and when we look at each other again, the moment is lost. So off we walk in our separate directions. Still, it’s
something
.

I
peer into the courtyard of Les Secrets de Maude, looking for some sign of Vincent. Today the wrought-iron gate is shut, locked with a chain and padlock. He must be out. Too bad. I’ve just finished my tutoring session with the
lycée
students, and I’m craving Vincent’s company. Lately, I’ve been picking up random objects in his shop—a rhinestone-studded candlestick or a Japanese doll in a genuine silk kimono—and he tells me the story behind them. Each piece of junk—or treasure, depending on how you see it—is a doorway to another world, like the 1920s Paris social scene or the nineteenth-century underbelly of London.

I’m about to leave when I hear a few guitar notes floating from the shadows of the courtyard.

“Vincent!” I call, looking again through the wrought-iron bars. It’s hard to see past all the foliage and furniture.

“
Bonjour!
” a voice calls out. Not Vincent’s voice, but a younger one. And then a head pops up. It’s Vincent’s son, Jean-Christophe. He walks toward me, ducking beneath huge leaves and stepping over pigeons and half-broken chairs and tables. He’s holding a guitar.

“
Bonjour
, Jean-Christophe!” I say.

“Ah, it’s you,
Mademoiselle
Zeeta,” he says. “My father is away today, buying antiques in the villages.”