The Ruby Notebook (31 page)

I wave. “
Bonjour
, Tortue.”

“
Bonjour
, Zeeta.” As always, his voice sounds rusty. Strange that he even wears white face paint and gloves to run errands.

I introduce him to Wendell, then pull out my notebook. “Do you wear your mime outfit everywhere, Tortue?”

He gives a small smile. “When I’m in a depressed phase, I do. It’s comforting, I guess. I don’t have to be myself. I can disappear behind a mask for a while.” He shrugs a shoulder. “At least, that’s what my therapists say.”

I figure since he’s mentioned the therapy in front of Wendell that it’s okay to talk about. “How’s your treatment going?” I ask.

“
Ça va,
” he says. “Little by little. No sessions on weekends, so I’m spending time with Illusion and doing some performing.” He turns to Wendell. “And what are you two up to?”

Wendell looks at me. “Just taking a walk,” he says.

“And how was your trip to Marseille?”

“Good.” I don’t know how much he knows about the situation, so I just repeat, “Good.”

“I should get going,” he says, holding up his bags of groceries as evidence. “
Au revoir.
”

“
Au revoir
, Tortue,” we say.

After the mime is out of earshot, Wendell says, “Tortue. That means ‘turtle’ in French, right?”

I nod. “Who knows how he got that nickname.” I look
over my shoulder, watching him fade into the crowds down the street. “He’s the deepest clown I’ve met so far. And as you know, I’ve met lots. It’s too bad Layla’s not into him.”

“But doesn’t he have emotional issues?” Wendell asks.

I laugh. “Out of all the clowns I’ve known, he’s probably the most stable.” I tilt my head. “Or he might be, if he ever took off that costume.”

“Why isn’t Layla interested?”

I blow a strand of hair from my face. “She says he’s too serious. Not playful enough. She goes more for the Harlequin clowns—all flashy colors. He’s a Pierrot—quiet and thoughtful.”

“So she hasn’t found any other clowns so far?”

“Miraculously, no. My friend who owns Nirvana is practically drooling over her, but even if she got past how clean-cut and responsible he is, she’d break his heart within a few weeks.”

Wendell and I talk, lightly, joking about the guys in town who might make good matches for Layla. He comments on how much moonlight she’d need to drink to make them acceptable, which makes me giggle and reminds me of our day in Marseille.

A few blocks later, we’ve arrived at the second address, on Rue Epinaux. This door has a carved stone joker face over it. Or maybe it’s a jester, or a demon, or an ancient Christian rendition of some pagan deity. He’s laughing mischievously, his eyebrows raised in devilish delight. A bushy, unkempt
beard frames his cheeks. His ears are pointed and his eyes impish.

“I like this guy better than Mr. Grumpers back at the last house,” I comment.

“Definitely,” Wendell agrees. “This one would be lots more fun to hang out with.”

“Hey, look,” I say, pointing to a small triple spiral in the stone on the sidewalk. It’s easy to miss unless you’re looking for it or staring at your feet.

“Two for two,” he says with a grin.

Like the last building, there’s no buzzer on this one. No one answers the door, no matter how loud we knock.

“I’m beginning to see a pattern here,” I say.

“On to the third one?” Wendell asks, glancing at his watch.

“Plans with your host family later?” I ask, trying not to sound resentful.

“Amandine.”

“Hmm.” I want to ask straight out what’s going on with them. If they’re just friends, or more, or on the way to more. I clamp my mouth shut, because really, it’s none of my business. Anyway, I’m having fun with him, and I don’t want to ruin it.

The third house is just four meandering blocks away, on Rue du Gibelin. The face over this door is the nicest by far. It’s a bashful lion, resting his curly-maned head on two cute paws. He looks painfully shy.

“This one is straight from
The Wizard of Oz,
” Wendell says.

“Right! The cowardly lion. Only this was carved a few centuries earlier.”

“True,” Wendell says, and then, “Weird face over door? Check.” He looks down near our feet. “Spiral in sidewalk? Check.”

“Lack of buzzer?” I add. “Check.” Then I knock on the door, expecting no answer. But on our third round of knocking, a head pokes out an upper window on the third story.

It’s Damona. “
Bonjour
, Zeeta!” she calls out.

We call back up to her, exchanging pleasantries, and then giving our story about Wendell’s art project. “We heard there was a fountain in the courtyard of this building,” I shout. “Mind if we come in to sketch it?”

“
Bien sûr,
” she calls back. “I’ll be right down!”

I look at Wendell and whisper, “Incredible! It’s Sirona’s son’s girlfriend. She’s one of the band Salluvii. Which Vincent believes is
immortal.
”

Wendell’s eyes widen.

Damona and Bormanus appear hand in hand and greet us with kisses on the cheeks. “Come in,” Bormanus says, leading us through a passageway that opens up to a courtyard filled with flowers and trees.

“Here it is,” Damona says, waving her hand.

It’s a rectangular fountain, featuring the face of a bearded man with his tongue sticking out. It’s similar to the face over
the first door, only this face has a giant beard, like Santa Claus. And his expression seems more lewd than grouchy. The hole where the water would come out is on his tongue. The basin of the fountain is dry, containing only a few spades, a rake, and a watering can. “We use it as storage for gardening tools,” Damona says apologetically. “Will it still count as a fountain for your project?”

“I think so,” Wendell says. He flips open his sketchbook and starts drawing. Shadows first, of course.

“Mind if I watch?” Damona asks, leaning over. The triple-spiral pendant slips from the neck of her tunic.

“Any other fountains or water sources here?” I ask. “Maybe some springs?”

“No. This is it,” she says. Her gaze falls on Wendell’s sketch pad. “You draw beautifully.” She turns to Bormanus. “Look, isn’t it lovely?”

And as the three of them talk about Wendell’s art classes, I stand up and wander around the courtyard, scanning the stone walls for hints of water. I peek behind bushes and trees, through flowered vines, cracked clay pots, rusting garden shovels. Nothing unusual.

“So have you two lived here for a while?” Wendell asks. His French flows naturally now, getting better every time I see him.

Damona nods. “With Sirona and Grannos. We’re always traveling, though. A couple months here, then we leave to play somewhere else. We have houses in a few different towns around Europe.”

I wonder how they can afford a few different houses on a salary that consists of people’s spare change.

“How long have you all been playing together?” Wendell asks.

“Oh, ages!” she says, smiling at Bormanus, taking his hand.

Once Wendell finishes the sketch, they lead us back to the entrance and out to the street.

Damona lingers, looking like she wants us to stay, but Bormanus waves and says, “
Au revoir.
”

Damona adds, “
Bon courage.
”

“
Merci,
” we call out, walking away. “
Au revoir.
”

“
Au revoir.
” Arm in arm, they wave, finally closing the door.

Wendell and I walk around the bend, and when we’re out of earshot, I burst out, “Wendell! I can’t believe Salluvii lives there! This is too much to be a coincidence.”

“Something’s going on,” he agrees.

“We have to get inside those other courtyards!”

He gives me a half-smile. “Snoop?” he asks.

I smile back, thinking of our detective work in Ecuador. “Snoop,” I say. “How about tomorrow at three?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t miss a chance to snoop with you, Z.”

Our eyes meet for a stretched-out moment, and then we both start laughing, and it feels
hyper super cool
.

The next afternoon, Wendell and I knock on the doors under the gagging-man face and the devil face until our
knuckles are bruised. No one answers. And no one comes into or out of the building either. Yet it’s clear the buildings aren’t deserted, because some windows are open. Not to mention that someone has to water those geraniums.

“Can we go to Madame Chevalier’s?” Wendell asks, rubbing his knuckles.

“Sure.” I stopped by her apartment earlier today and was relieved to see her back to her usual self. She assured me she’d just caught a little cold and was already feeling better.

“She won’t mind?” he asks. “I mean, since she’s famous and everything?”

I laugh. “Wendell, she can’t wait to meet you. And don’t worry about a thing. She already adores you.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, um …” I hesitate, wishing I could cram my words back into my mouth. “Just—I guess because you’ve agreed to help.” I flush. “And your art connection,” I add.

An hour later, Wendell and I are in Madame Chevalier’s tiny kitchen, cutting up a melon and rinsing cherries and arranging them on a china plate. Wendell and Madame Chevalier have hit it off right away, as expected. He raved about her self-portraits, taking a half hour to walk through her hallway. Unlike me, he immediately recognized that they were all pictures of the same person.

“It’s amazing,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. “In each painting, you can see the essence of Madame Chevalier, whether she’s sixteen or sixty.”

Vincent is sitting beside Madame Chevalier in the blue velvet chair by the window. They’re pointing out the goings-on in the square to each other, chatting and laughing, and sinking into the little space they create together, a sunlit cocoon of jasmine perfume and butter cookies and milky tea and iridescent feathers and pigeon warbles. Their conversation meanders to Maude, cozy in Madame Chevalier’s lap, to the soap opera in the square, to shared childhood memories, and back again to Maude.

“I can’t figure them out,” I say to Wendell in a low voice. Madame Chevalier’s English is great, and she has sharp hearing.

“What do you mean?” he whispers, putting the remaining cherries on the plate with the melon.

“How happy they are together, but they won’t admit it. They act like Maude’s the reason they’re even friends. And even with only a few weeks or months left, they still won’t admit it.”

Wendell picks up the plate of fruit. “It’s not easy to see the truth about yourself.” He looks right into my eyes as he says this. “They’ve been stuck in this pattern for fifty years. Maybe they’re scared what would happen if they changed it.”

“
Mes enfants!
” Vincent’s voice comes from the living room. “Where are you? We have lots to talk about!”

Wendell grins and glances at them, there by the window. Even having barely met these old people, he feels real fondness
for them. It’s obvious. I can’t imagine Jean-Claude looking at them this way, much less taking the time to indulge them in their sacred waters mission.

As soon as Wendell brings them the plate of fruit, Madame Chevalier pats his knee and says, “Wendell, dear, would you make me some tea, please?”

“
Oui.
” As Wendell goes into the kitchen, she leans in to me and whispers, “You know, the waters could help you, as well.”

“I don’t want eternal life. And I’m healthy enough.”

“No! I mean healing you two. Your relationship.”

Vincent murmurs, “Legend says the waters can give you clarity, understanding of yourself, of others.”

Madame Chevalier nods emphatically. “They can even heal old wounds in your heart.”

Before I can respond, Wendell comes back into the room with a tray of cups and saucers. “The water’s heating up now,” he says.

“Such a nice boy,” Madame Chevalier says, tousling his hair as he sits down beside her.

“Let’s figure out our next move,” I suggest, trying to get us back on track. We’ve already told her and Vincent about the dry fountain at Damona’s, and the spirals in the sidewalks, and how no one was home at the other two houses. “I still think we should just ask Sirona about the waters,” I say. “She obviously has some connection to them. And she’s a good person. We could just explain why we need them.”

“
Mais non!
” Vincent bellows. “
Non non non non non!
”

Madame Chevalier is shaking her head and frowning deeply. “Oh,
ma petite
, how do you think they’ve been able to keep their secret for millennia?”

“By not telling a soul!” Vincent says. “Keeping it to themselves.”

“With a secret so huge,” Madame Chevalier adds, “you must see that they would do anything to protect it.”

“Anything,” Vincent agrees.

Madame Chevalier raises an authoritative, ring-adorned finger. “You must promise us you will not tell Sirona or any of them that you know about the waters. It could be very dangerous, life-threatening, even.”

They’re taking this conspiracy theory stuff a little too far. “Listen,” I say. “Sirona’s my mom’s friend. She’d never hurt me. Or anyone, for that matter.”