The Ruby Notebook (5 page)

I turn to look. It’s the mime. The man breaks his frozen posture to wave back.

“A friend of yours?” I ask.

“
Oui.
” Only he says it “
Ouais,
” like “Yeah,” the cool way to say yes. “His name’s Tortue.”

“Tortue?” Turtle’s an odd name. “As in the animal?”

Jean-Claude nods. “Tortue’s like a father to me and Amandine.”

“She’s your sister?”

“Like a sister.”

“What about the stepfather you mentioned?”

After a beat, he says, “My parents are part of my old life.
The life I’ve left behind.” He rubs the scar on his forehead, as if trying to erase it. “And your family?”

“Just me and my mother. Layla. We’re more like sisters. The kind of sisters who fight a lot,” I add with a cynical grin. “You probably noticed her—the blond one?”

He nods. “I thought you two were friends.” He squints at me. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen. And you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Don’t you miss your home?” I ask. “And your parents?”

“Not at all. It’s
liberté absolue
. Ultimate freedom.”

His name rings through the noise of the square. “Jean-Claude!
On y va!
” It’s the gypsy dancer girl, calling to him.

Jean-Claude blows out an “
Ouf!
” through his pursed lips, then kisses both of my cheeks. Even though that’s how everyone here says hello and goodbye, my face burns.

“There will be a
fête
Friday night, Zeeta. For the summer solstice.” He scribbles an address on the inside cover of a small, old book. Looking back up, he runs his hand through his dark curls, once again revealing the scar, the only flaw on his otherwise perfect face. When I know him better, I’ll ask him about it. Stories about scars are always good notebook material. People can pick and choose their memories, but they’re stuck forever with the ones linked to their scars. The reminder’s there every time they look in the mirror, or take a shower, or rub their hand absently over their skin.

I trace the tiny, nearly invisible scar on the back of my hand. In Guatemala, I was spending the weekend with
Paloma’s family in her grandparents’ village, and as we were cutting firewood in the forest, my machete bounced off a stone and slashed my hand. When I showed my bleeding hand to Paloma’s father, he tore off his T-shirt and wrapped it tightly around my wound. It didn’t hurt too much. Despite its depth, it was a clean slice. He carried me three kilometers through the woods back to their pickup truck.

Strangely, it was a good memory, him carrying me, worrying about me, murmuring to me that it would be all right. I glimpsed what it would be like to have a father, his smell of sweat and soil and pine wrapping around me, the warmth of his chest under my cheek. He stayed with me at the hospital as the doctor cleaned the wound and stitched it up. She told him, “Señor, your daughter will be fine, but she will probably have a small scar.” He didn’t correct the doctor, simply nodded and held my good hand, and I closed my eyes, not in pain, but bliss.

I try to study Jean-Claude’s scar more, but hair is hiding it. He presses the book in my hand. “
Viens
, Zeeta. Come to the
fête. S’il te plaît.
” Please.

I look at his scrawl. After the street address, he’s noted that it’s beneath Café Eternité. In a
cave
. Before I realize that
cave
means “basement,” I think of a real cave, imagining the cave Wendell and I were in last summer.

And then I remember Wendell. I’m supposed to be an expert at fitting him into any conversation. I push this fact from my mind and focus on the address in my hands. “
Merci,
” I say, not committing to anything yet.

“Return the book at the
fête
!” Jean-Claude calls over his shoulder, then follows his friends out of the square.

I watch Illusion leave, a mass of glittering red, growing smaller and smaller and disappearing down the street. I check
Make some friends
off my list. Now all that’s left are the cute little jars of yogurt and finding the
fantôme
.

A
few hours later, after a quick trip to the
boulangerie
for a baguette and the
charcuterie
for chicken, I swing by Nirvana. Ahmed is dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, gazing longingly at turquoise posters of seascapes taped to the walls, the only splashes of color in the room. They’re the kind of posters you might find free at a travel agency—Mediterranean ports with painted fishing boats, whitewashed domed chapels on hills, colorful houses built into cliffs over the sea.

“This heat is
insupportable!
” he says in greeting.

“Why don’t you take a day off, Ahmed? Go to the beach? It’s only an hour away.”

“Oh, too much work.”

I look around. “I’m the only one in here.”

He grins. “Exactly. It’s hard work keeping you in constant communication with the love of your life.” He looks back at his screen. “Anyway, that young, crazy part of my life is over.”

I laugh, trying to envision Ahmed as young and crazy, then settle down at my computer and open my e-mail.

Wendell’s sent me another photo. He must have sent it during the pool party. The photo is artistic, even though it was taken on his phone—a red rose blooming in the foreground with a blurred pool scene in the background—wet skin and bikinis and sparkling hair and hot dogs and shiny cans of soda and a green lawn. He’s written a few lines.
Sorry about the change of plans, Z. I love you. I can’t wait to see you. Love, Wendell
.

Nice rose
, I write. I’m at a loss for what to write next.
So
, I begin.
How long’s your hair now?

I’ve wondered this recently. If hair grows at the rate of a centimeter a month, Wendell’s should be nine centimeters longer now, practically down to the middle of his back. He wears it in a braid, like the men of the Ecuadorian Andes, where he was born. Of course he’s sent pictures of himself over the past year, but never a backview with the braid. It’s these little things I’m curious about, these small surprises.

Do you still use that cinnamon soap? Do you still go through a tin of Altoids a week?

This is shaping up to be the world’s most boring e-mail. I take a deep breath and write about what I really want to
know, what I’m circling around.
Someone dropped a CD of guitar music into my bag. It’s weird. I wish you were here already to talk about it. Have you
—I hesitate, let my fingers rest on the keyboard, imagining his reaction to what I’m about to write. He’ll sigh, close his eyes, shake his head. And he won’t answer my question. I write it anyway.—
had any visions of a mysterious CD?

He doesn’t like when I ask him to tell the future. Call it what you will—fortune-telling, divination, prophecy. For years this power scared him, but last summer he found a teacher in Ecuador who showed him how to use it. And for a year Wendell’s been practicing. Some people would find this thrilling, but he insists it’s more a curse than a gift. He’s promised he’d warn me if he ever saw Layla or me in physical danger. But in relationships, he refuses to let his visions get involved. They’re more likely to screw things up, he says. I can’t help but wonder if he saw something in a vision that made him freak out and decide not to live with me and Layla.

Biting my lip, I add,
Or visions of anything else this summer?

At home, Layla’s at the table making mobiles out of bits of glass and pebbles and old metallic chocolate wrappers. My
fantôme’s
guitar music is blasting so loud, Layla doesn’t even hear me come in. “Layla!” I shout.

“Z!” She looks up and turns down the music. “Did you find out who your admirer is?”

“If you mean the
fantôme
, then no.”

She twists a piece of wire with her pliers. “Hey, you know what this music reminds me of?”

“No idea.”

I’m expecting her to quote Rumi, or recount a weird dream, but instead she says, “The music your father played me that night on the beach.”

I blink. “Does the music jog your memory, Layla? Help you remember anything else? Like his name? What J.C. stands for?”

She snips a strand of wire with scissors and twists it around a pink pebble. “Mundane details like names didn’t seem to matter that night … with that music and the ocean. Remember, I was drunk on the moon’s reflection.”

“Right,” I sigh. “The moonlight-induced altered state of consciousness. I forgot.”

In Morocco and Chile and Laos, I was sure I’d run into my father any day on the street. I assumed he’d track me down and we’d all three live happily ever after. When I got older, I eventually accepted that it wouldn’t happen. Last summer’s search with Wendell gave me a renewed glimmer of hope. But at least Wendell knew the geographical region where he’d find his parents. My father, on the other hand, could be anywhere in the world, one of billions of men. So I’ve put the idea of a father into a coffin. Buried him. Mourned for him. Gone through all the stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression—and accepted that it’s just me and Layla, forging our way in this world.

The few times I’ve brought up my father with Wendell, he says that what matters most is the people—in my case, person—who raised you and loved you … the ones you want when you’re scared or hurt or sad. It’s been a big role for Layla to fill, and she’s done the best she can, considering her flightiness. And I try, with my notebooks, with my friendships, to fill in all the gaps.

The CD ends and Layla pauses in her wire-twisting to press play. Again the music starts, and she smiles, as though she’s settling into a hot bath or biting into a steaming baguette. “You know what this music does, love? It opens the window in the center of your chest and lets the spirits fly in and out.”

“Tell Rumi my window’s stuck shut.”

“Oh, Z. That’s impossible.”

“Better yet, tell him the window’s not really there. It’s painted on, like those trompe l’oeils.” I saw one on a building earlier today at the edge of
le centre-ville
—downtown. From a distance the painting looks like a real window, but once you get close, you see it’s a mural, tricking your eyes into thinking there’s depth.

Layla holds her mobile to the window. “Ta-dah!” she announces. The light catches the foil and glass, bits of trash transformed into art. It makes me think of the glittering costumes of my new friends, Illusion. Of my invitation to the
cave
party. Of the poetry book in my bag. And of the boy who gave it to me, who knows nothing of Wendell.

After a late dinner of spinach quiche, I climb up the tiny staircase to a glass door that opens to a little rooftop patio. It’s dusk and the air smells like cinnamon and cumin, wafting up from the Moroccan restaurant down the street. Yellow lights flicker on one by one in the windows below. I open Jean-Claude’s book. It’s French poetry by Luca, who I’ve never heard of. I flip to a page marked with a gold string.