The Ruby Notebook (30 page)

Afterward, we share the
tarte au citron
, and once we’ve had our fill of pie, Wendell and I say goodbye to Vincent, then wade outside through the pigeons.

Alone now with Wendell, in the stone courtyard, all the awkwardness rushes back. I fiddle with the strap of my bag. “Sorry I dragged you into this sacred waters weirdness,” I whisper as we walk through the gateway, out onto the Place des Trois Ormeaux, where the circular fountain bubbles.

“No worries, Zeeta,” he says. “It’s fun.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me ask, “Do you think there’s any chance these sacred waters are real?”

“They’re real to Madame Chevalier and Vincent,” he says. “That’s all that matters. I mean, who am I to question what they believe?”

“True.” I smile. If there’s one thing my nomadic life has taught me, it’s that strange things can happen. Mysterious things. Inexplicable things. “Hey,” I say. “You want to go to
Madame Chevalier’s now? Her doctor’s probably gone. And then we can go to the spiral addresses. They’re not far from her house.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

I wait for him to explain, and when he doesn’t, I swallow and say, “Okay, well, maybe in a few days?”

“Let me talk to Amandine, and then we can figure out a time.”

“Right. Amandine.” I raise my hand in farewell. “See you later.”

“Bye.”

I sit on the fountain, trailing my fingers in the water, and watch him hurry down the street, off to meet Amandine. Escaping from my prison of
ifs
is considerably harder with a gorgeous, artistic, fire-dancing acrobat girl in the picture. And I didn’t even see it coming.

“
Aubergine,
” Layla says with a theatrical flourish. “It’s a much more elegant word than
eggplant.
” She turns the deep purple vegetable over in her hands. “Don’t you think, Z?”

“I guess,” I say, chopping a zucchini.

We’re making ratatouille tonight—the classic Provençal dish. I hoped all this chopping would be hypnotic, distract me from Amandine and Wendell, get my mind off the standstill in the search for my
fantôme
father. His guitar music is filling the apartment, because, as much as I try, I can’t resist listening to the CD on repeat. The music takes on a whole new significance now that I imagine J.C. playing
it. I can see his hands strumming, his fingers moving over the strings, the guitar resting against his Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. But above the neckline is empty space. No face to put there.

It’s been weeks since my
fantôme’s
packet of letters, and I’m starting to worry that those might have been his last gifts. Meanwhile, I’ve continued to write letters in my notebook, which brings me closer to him than ever, in a strange, abstract way. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s just as confused about love as I am.

“Can you pass me the garlic, Z?” Layla asks.

I check the wire basket dangling from the ceiling. Only a few wispy bits of garlic skin remain. “We’re out, Layla,” I observe. “I’ll get some at the
épicerie.
” I grab my bag and plunge my hand in to retrieve my change purse.

That’s when I notice a small envelope marked with my name, written in that now-familiar compact script. My
fantôme
. But when? How? I’ve been so careful with my bag.

“Layla,” I say, sinking onto the couch. “He left another gift.”

She comes into the living room, knife still in hand, eyes wide. “What’s it say?”

My hands are shaking. Maybe he’s finally going to give his name, or address, or phone number. Maybe this time is it.

I open the envelope. Inside, there’s a bookmark made of thick, brown, fibrous bark paper, painted with a golden, smiling sun on top and a pale, pensive crescent moon below.
The sun is surrounded with colorful flowers, the moon with silver stars. I remember this kind of thing from the tourist market in Guatemala.

The envelope also contains a piece of graphed paper, torn from a notebook. Taking a deep breath, I unfold it, revealing a short letter in French. Layla reads silently over my shoulder.

I reread it a few times, then fold it up and put it back in the envelope, my heart sinking. I wasn’t expecting this crushed, bruised feeling. Somehow, even though I’ve never met J.C., I’ve grown closer to him after the unsent letters
I’ve written, after visiting the Château d’If, after hearing Maurice talk about him, after listening to his CD a hundred times, after sleeping in his Jimi T-shirt.

Now, with this latest letter, I feel even closer. But in reality, I’m no closer to him at all. I don’t even know what he looks like. I still don’t know his name. These facts make my chest hurt.

Layla has the bookmark in her hand. She’s rubbing the fibers, studying the moon and sun.

“Does the bookmark mean anything to you, Layla?”

She stares at it for a moment longer, then says, “No. But it looks Latin American, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “You think he’s from there?”

“Maybe.” She kisses my hair. “Let’s be patient, like he asked.”

I tuck the bookmark in my notebook and stand up, unsure what to think.

Layla puts a hand on my shoulder. “I have to say, Z, he seems like a decent guy.”

“I know,” I say. His kindness makes it almost unbearable. It was simpler to just hate him. The tightness in my chest is making it hard to breathe. “I’m going to get some air,” I tell Layla. “And the garlic, while I’m at it.”

I walk downstairs, but instead of turning left to go to the
épicerie
, I turn right, on impulse, and jog to Nirvana.

“Zeeta!” Ahmed says as I jangle inside. “What a surprise!”

“
Essalam alikoum
, Ahmed,” I say quickly. “I need to make a call to Wendell. Fast.”

“And how is your lovely mother?” he asks.

“Good.”

“Layla stops by sometimes to chat, you know. She loves swiveling in the chairs and giving me advice.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “And she’s always chiding me about my addiction to KnightQuest. You know, she’s the only person I’ve met who knows as much about Rumi as I do. What a delight! What’s she doing this evening, Zeeta?”

“Cooking ratatouille,” I say, only half listening. “I’m supposed to get her garlic.”

“Oh, she likes to cook?” he says thoughtfully. “While you’re calling Wendell, I’ll get a head of garlic from my apartment.” He dials the number and then flips the sign on the door to Closed and disappears into a back room.

Miraculously, Wendell is the one who answers the phone.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say. Then I add, “Zeeta,” since I’m not officially on a “me” basis with him anymore.

“Hey, what’s up?” He sounds a little distant, and there are voices in the background.

I want to tell him about my
fantôme
’s latest letter, hear what he thinks about it. I want to explain how frustrated it makes me, how much it hurts, how it makes me feel as though I could explode. I’m about to let this all spill out, when I get the feeling Wendell’s not entirely present. He’s distracted, in the middle of something.

So I don’t mention the letter, and simply ask, “Have you figured out when you want to meet? I was thinking maybe Sunday morning.”

“Oh, right. Hold on a sec. Let me ask Amandine.”

Amandine again? My chest tightens. “She’s there?”

“Yeah. We’re working on an art project. Hold on.”

I shake my foot in an erratic, impatient rhythm.

“Hey, Zeeta,” Wendell says, coming back on the line. “Yeah. Sunday around ten would work. Meet you at the fountain on Rue Mignet?”

“Okay, bye,” I say quickly, and hang up.

Outside the phone booth, Ahmed is waiting for me with a head of garlic. “Zeeta, tell your mother that I would be happy to show her how to cook my mother’s delicious Moroccan dishes. And please thank her for recommending I take a vacation. I’m planning one soon, you know—”

“Sure, Ahmed,” I interrupt, taking the garlic and dropping some coins in his hands, then jingling out the door toward Layla and the ratatouille and my father’s music.

T
he fountain on Rue Mignet is an unassuming circular pool with a single spout spurting water from its center. It’s such a small fountain that there’s no edge to perch on, so I stand beside it, keeping an eye out for Wendell and trying not to tug at my red dress. Madame Chevalier reasoned that if—according to Wendell’s vision—I’m going to find the waters in a red dress, I should increase our chances by preemptively wearing it. I’ve decided to humor her, although I secretly suspect she wanted me to get dolled up for Wendell—a futile attempt at matchmaking.

Yesterday, when I visited her, she was feeling weak and tired, so I only stayed long enough to tell her about the map of the sacred waters. That brightened her mood a bit, but I
didn’t want to exhaust her by having Wendell meet her today. We’ll wait until she gets better, I decided. If she gets better.

Just as the clock tower starts chiming ten, Wendell appears around the bend, a mostly empty backpack slung over one shoulder. The morning sunshine backlights him, makes his hair glow. If I had a camera, I’d take his picture.

The first thing he says is, “Yep. That’s the dress.”

“I feel overdressed,” I say, eyeing his jeans and plain white T-shirt. “Madame Chevalier made me wear it.”

“It’s nice,” he says. “I mean, I told you before it didn’t seem your style—” He stops, floundering. “But if your style changes, that’s fine. Anyway, it looks really nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, suppressing a smile.

As we head toward the site of the first spiral from the map, I tell him about the latest letter from my
fantôme
. He listens closely.

“What should I do?” I ask.

“You could just wait, like he said.”

“Hmm.” Wendell makes it sound so simple. “But what if he never decides he’s good enough to meet me?”

“Don’t build yourself a prison of
if
s, Zeeta. Just trust that he’ll do it.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking that it’s much easier said than done. Still, I feel better after talking to Wendell about it.

Under a window box of red geraniums, he slows down and glances at the paper in his hand, then at the address over the door we’re approaching. “Here we are, Zeeta!”

The building is buttery yellow, with an old wooden door carved with vines and flanked with potted roses climbing up a trellis. A glum stone face looms over the door—a thin man’s face wearing a stylized crown and a small, neatly trimmed beard. He’s frowning and sticking out his tongue as if he’s gagging on some unsavory food. “He looks like he’s just eaten a bad brussels sprout,” I whisper to Wendell.

“Or duck liver pâté that’s been left in the fridge too long,” Wendell whispers back.

There are no buzzers, so we knock hard. I stare at my feet, waiting. And there, near my sandal, embedded in the stone, is a brass triple spiral, so tiny you could almost miss it.

“Look, Wendell!”

He crouches beside me to inspect it. “Maybe Vincent and Madame Chevalier aren’t so nutty after all.”

I knock again, louder now. Still no answer. The ground-level windows are shuttered, and the upper-level windows—some of which are opened—have lace curtains over them, blowing in the slight breeze. Outside, two of the window boxes are overflowing with red flowers. “Someone has to live here,” I say.

“Maybe they’re out,” he says. “We can come back later.”

As we leave, I take a last glance at the grimacing, gagging man over the door, who looks as though he’s snarling at us to leave.

We walk down Rue Boulegon and turn onto Rue Matheron. Emerging from a tiny
épicerie
is the mime, in full costume, toting two bags of groceries.