The Ruby Notebook (39 page)

My eyes open to sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating dust motes and pooling on the tile floor. Layla’s clinking around in the kitchen, making tea in her pink robe. I raise my head. She meets my gaze, curious, then glances at Wendell, who’s still sleeping. I know she’s dying to quote some Rumi.

In this bright sunlight, last night, with all its water and torchlight and mist and moonlight, seems like a strange dream. I extricate my limbs from Wendell’s and sit up, yawning.

At my movement, Wendell opens his eyes and smiles. He pushes up onto his elbows and stretches. Looking around, he says, “Hey, Layla.” His voice is scratchy and low, and his hand rests on the back of my neck, underneath my hair, his fingers twirling around the silver cord. Our only tangible proof that last night really happened.

“How was your night?” Layla asks.

“Good,” we answer at the same time.

“Anything dazzling happen?”

I look at Wendell. “Nope,” we say in unison.

Layla’s face falls. She wants, somehow, to be part of our happiness.

“Hey, Layla,” I say, feeling generous. “What’s the Rumi quote about the spring and dawn?”

She gives me a stunned look. It’s been years since I actually requested Rumi. But she doesn’t question my motives, simply gets on her Rumi-quoting face and says,

“Thank you, Layla,” I say, explaining nothing, leaving her mystified but content.

After breakfast, Wendell throws on a gray T-shirt that
belonged to one of Layla’s ex-boyfriends. Together we walk toward the square, where the golden, buttery, chocolatey smells of early-morning Aix waft from the
pâtisseries
we pass. The sunlight is fresh and lemony yellow, warming the stone streets. In the Place de la Mairie, we’re greeted with flowers of all colors, spilling out from beneath the striped awnings of the flower market. A light breeze plays with the petals, nudging them here and there. The entire square looks alive, shimmering.

We’re heading across the Place de la Mairie in the direction of Les Secrets de Maude when I notice a crowd of pigeons by the fountain, pecking at birdseed. Through the feathers, I make out Vincent. He’s standing beside something large—an artist’s easel, it looks like. I see the back view of a woman in a purple dress sitting on a stool facing the canvas. At first I don’t recognize her here by the fountain, not framed by her window, without binoculars around her neck. I can’t believe it. Madame Chevalier is
inside
the square. Not just observing it at a distance. She’s inside life, with Maude on her shoulder like a little guardian angel.

“Wendell, look,” I say, pointing.

“Is that Madame Chevalier?” he asks. “Outside? Oil painting?”

We walk closer. Vincent is scattering birdseed while Madame Chevalier is painting and watching him and laughing. When we reach them, Madame Chevalier stands up and kisses us both emphatically on both cheeks. She still
seems weak, but something has shifted. Not only is she outside, and painting, but there’s a lightness to her movements that wasn’t there before.

Vincent embraces us next, wraps us up in his smells of pigeons and dusty old things. “
Merci, merci, merci, mes enfants!
Maude brought me a special delivery this morning”—and here he winks—“and I sent it straight to Madame Chevalier!”

Madame Chevalier sits back down on her stool and says, “Tell us how you found it!”

Wendell and I exchange looks.

“We have to tell them,” I whisper in English.

“But we promised—”

“Come on, Wendell. You know the secret’s safe with them. They deserve to know.”

“Okay,” Wendell says. “Let’s tell them.”

After making them promise not to breathe a word about it, we describe our night, starting with the snake fountain in the courtyard at sunset and ending with how we were blindfolded and brought back here at dawn. The only thing we leave out is the kissing, by silent agreement.

Vincent clasps his hands together. “This morning when I set out birdseed for Maude, I noticed her acting different, excited. And I saw the vial of water, and I knew! I knew!”

We sit on the edge of the fountain and listen to his story, trailing our fingers in the water, our hands touching each other.

“It was early, barely sunrise,” Vincent says. “I’m an early
riser, you see. I knew Maude would fly faster than I could walk, so I sent her with a note taped to the outside of the vial that said
Drink me
. Then I got dressed and went to Violette’s house as fast as these old legs could carry me! And by the time I got there, she’d already drunk the water. She was dressed and had coffee ready for me, and oh, I couldn’t stop looking at her face, all rosy and beautiful. I could actually
see
the color coming back into it.”

Madame Chevalier takes over. “Vincent said, ‘Let’s go to the fountain!’ And I said, ‘Why not?’ and he helped me down the stairs. Then he went back up to get my easel and here we are!”

Vincent gazes at Madame Chevalier, and Maude gives a satisfied coo. Inside the fountain’s water, my hand joins Wendell’s. Madame Chevalier must notice, because she says, “I see the waters worked their magic on you two, as well.”

By the time we make it back to the apartment, it’s midafternoon. Wendell and I lounge on the sofa, kissing and talking and napping and kissing some more, until Layla breezes in, carrying a crinkly white bag from the
boulangerie
. “Spinach quiche!” she announces.

As we set the table, she says, “Oh! Guess who stopped by while you two were out?”

Wendell and I look at each other. “Who?”

“Sirona. She came to say goodbye. She’s leaving town with the rest of Salluvii.”

“Really?” I sink onto a chair.

“Yeah,” Layla says, frowning. “I’m bummed. She was my best friend here. Although I got the feeling there were things she didn’t share with me.”

I nod. “So … what did she say?”

“She dropped off your bag, love. And your backpack, Wendell. Said you left them somewhere. I put them in your room, Z.”

Wendell tries to act casual. “Where’s Sirona going?”

“On tour around Europe,” she said.

After the quiche, Wendell and I go into my room to get our bags.

I pull my notebook from my bag. Sweet relief. A rush of gratitude to Sirona.

“Everything there?” he asks, poking around in his backpack, making sure his camera didn’t get wet.

“I think so.” As I shuffle through the other contents of my bag, my hand rests on the little book bound with red ribbon that I made Wendell. I hand it to him.

“What’s this?”

“A present for you,” I say. “You gave me all those photos in Ecuador, and I realized you should have something from me.”

“Thanks, Z,” he says, surprised.

As he leafs through it, I root around in my bag, looking for lip balm. My hand touches something hard and round and small, attached to a cord. Some kind of necklace. I pull it out. It’s a tree nut hanging from a worn leather cord. A tree nut that looks just like a deer’s eye, a circle of black
surrounded by a brown band. Taped to the cord is a piece of paper.

“Wendell. My
fantôme
left me something else.”

Wendell moves close to me on the edge of the bed, putting his arm around my shoulder. Together, we read it.

I read it three times. “He’s leaving.”

Wendell strokes my hair. “But he’ll contact you.”

“If he ever becomes perfect. Which will never happen.”

I’m not exactly sure why I’m wearing my
fantôme’s
Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Maybe because even though I’m frustrated with my father, I still love him. Maybe it’s my way of telling him I’ll wait for him to be ready to love me. The shirt is
comfortable, the fabric smooth and soft, so threadbare I have to wear a black tank underneath. Wendell keeps poking his finger through the holes to tickle me. I laugh and slap his hand away, secretly waiting for him to poke me again.

A day has passed since we came back from the courtyard party, and we’re walking hand in hand down Rue Mignet, headed toward Les Secrets de Maude to visit Vincent. At the Place des Trois Ormeaux, I catch sight of red sparkles. It’s Jean-Claude, walking beside Amandine. We say our
bonjours
and kiss each other’s cheeks. Amandine looks sad—a huge change from the last time I saw her, at the food market.

Before I can ask her what’s wrong, Jean-Claude says, “I didn’t know you and Tortue were friends.”

“What?” I have no idea why he’s bringing up the mime.

“His Jimi T-shirt. He gave it to you before he left?”

“What?”

“That’s Tortue’s shirt, right?” Jean-Claude steps closer. “
Oui. C’est ça
. I’d recognize it anywhere. He sleeps in it every night. Right, Amandine?”

Amandine says nothing. She looks pale, her eyebrows knitted together.

Gradually, the significance of this sinks into me. Tortue.

Tortue, invisible beneath his mask of paint. Soft-spoken, quiet Tortue. So easy to overlook. I think of that day on the side street, when he noticed I was upset, when he comforted me simply by being there. I think of the tenderness in his voice as he sang “
Au Clair de la Lune.
” It was a kind of lullaby, just what I needed, just what I would have wanted from a father.

What was he thinking? Was he wishing he could have sung it to me years ago? And why would he think he wasn’t good enough to be my father?

And that day at the market, when he told Layla and me the story of Harlequin and Pierrot. Was he still in love with her? Does he believe Layla is his Columbine?

All these questions are making me dizzy. I lean into Wendell for support. “It’s Tortue,” I say under my breath.

Amandine is staring at me.
She knows. She’s known all along
. She must have been the one to put the things in my bag. The
fantôme
. Tortue’s accomplice.

Jean-Claude looks confused. “What’s going on?” He’s obviously been left in the dark.

For a while, Amandine and I look at each other, so many secrets passing between us. Wendell squeezes my hand, a gesture of solidarity.

Finally, I turn to Jean-Claude. “
Ecoute
, I have to talk to Tortue. Where is he?”

“He’s gone.”

My heart sinks. It’s too late. He’s already on his way across the ocean. “Are you sure?”

“He packed his bags and left without a goodbye. Just a note.” He puts his arm around Amandine’s shoulder, draws her in to him. “Amandine’s really upset.”

“What did he say in his note?” I ask Amandine.