The Ruby Notebook (6 page)

It doesn’t make sense. Parts of speech are jumbled, with nouns and adjectives where verbs should be. I read the verse three times, at first wondering if my French is rustier than I thought. Finally, I begin to suspect that the words are supposed to confuse you, catch you off guard, make you
feel
the poetry more than think about it.

Each poem lasts for pages, nonsensical language that leaps over rules of grammar and flouts standard parts of speech. But the words give me a sense of something mysterious. A sense that life is a dream we drift through, no past, no memories. I read more and more and sink into this feeling as dusk turns into night and I can no longer see the words.

From inside, I hear snatches of starry guitar music. The
notes drift through the open windows, melt into the night. My
fantôme
’s gift makes no sense either, but like the poetry, it gives me the feeling that I’m walking a dimly lit path at night, and before me is an empty castle, waiting to be explored.

I think back to Jean-Claude’s answer about the CD.
You attract mystery
.… Now that I think about it, he didn’t deny putting the CD in my bag. Maybe he is my
fantôme
.

Routines are essential to surviving in a new country each year. In Phuket, there were sunset volleyball games on the beach. In Marrakech, nightly drumming and dancing in the square. Here in Aix, there are my daily, tiny, sugary espressos at Café Cerise in the Place de la Mairie. Today, over my espresso, I’m reading more of the poetry book Jean-Claude lent me. I find myself glancing up from time to time, looking for Illusion.

Instead of Illusion, I catch a glimpse of Layla heading my way. She’s absorbed in conversation with a woman carrying a stringed wooden instrument unlike any I’ve seen before. It looks like a small harp, adorned with intricate carvings of Celtic knots. The woman is wearing a long tunic of red cloth, obviously hand-dyed and sewn with coarse, uneven stitches. Leather strings attached to homemade sandals climb her ankles like vines. A brass snake winds around her upper arm. From a cord at her neck hangs a brass pendant of three interconnected spirals.

In a city where nearly every woman is ultrachic, straight out
of
Vogue
, dressed all in white or black or pale yellow or gray, Layla
would
find the one who treats life as a costume party.

She announces, “This is Sirona!”

“
Enchantée,
” I say. “I’m Zeeta.”

“
Enchantée.
” Her hand feels solid, with callouses at the fingertips. I have no idea how old she is. One moment she looks thirty, younger than Layla, the next she looks old enough to be Layla’s mom. Tiny laugh lines fan out from the corners of her eyes. I can tell right away she’s one of those people who always seems to be smiling.

Layla kisses my cheek and plops down. “Hello, love!” She turns to the woman. “Sit, sit, Sirona!” She waves her arm at the waiter, who rushes over. Layla has that effect on men. It took him ten whole minutes to notice me. This is why, with Layla around, it’s hard to determine whether my
fantôme
could be out there—because a half dozen men’s eyes are glued to our table. And she does look especially stunning today in a dress of raw pink silk from Thailand and a wreath of daisies on her head.

Layla beams at the woman in the odd tunic and says, “Sirona plays the lyre!”

“
Hyper cool,
” I say. It doesn’t take Layla long to sniff out the fringe elements in a new place. The only thing missing now is a clown boyfriend. Of the dozens, possibly hundreds, of boyfriends she’s been through, most have been travelers like us—bards, gyspies, troubadours—mostly penniless, usually musicians, artists, clowns, or some combination thereof. Layla’s a clown magnet. Someday I’d like to know how many
clowns there are in the world, because chances are, Layla’s had flings with the majority.

She drapes her arm over Sirona’s shoulder. “And Sirona’s named after a goddess of the hot springs in southern France!”

No wonder they’ve become instant friends. Layla has some kind of sacred water goddess radar that beeps in her head when she encounters a like-minded soul.

“Sirona knows everything about the history of this place.” Layla’s flushed pink with the elation that comes with making a new best friend in a new country. “Tell her, Sirona!”

“
Eh bien,
” Sirona begins. Her voice is low and calm, soothing to the ear. “Aix. It’s a sort of nickname for Aquae Sextius. Sextius was a Roman general.” She shudders. “Terrible man. Until him, a couple thousand years ago, the Celtic tribes in this area were holding their own against the Greeks and Romans. But he sweeps in and sets up an army camp and claims these springs are his. The Celts were fantastic warriors, but Sextius defeated us, the little worm.”

“You’re Celtic?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook, where I’m scribbling notes.

“My ancestors were the Salluvii—a Celtic Ligurian tribe that lived around here. Sextius and his warriors slaughtered our men. To escape slavery, the women killed their children, and then, themselves.” She winces and lowers her gaze to the lyre in her lap. “A horrible, sad, bloody time.”

“Then how are you here?” I ask.

Sirona looks at me, puzzled. “What?”

“I mean, how can you be a descendent if all the women and children died?”

“You’re sharp.” Her fingers glide over her bracelets, making a clinking sound. “A few of the Salluvii survived, hidden, preserving the ancient traditions of our people.” She plucks a few strings of her lyre. “
Alors
, a few centuries later, the Christians conquered the Romans. Over the centuries, people added new neighborhoods, new architecture, new art, layer after layer of civilization.”

I click my pen against the table. The city must feel tired, always reinventing itself, piling on new identities. “So what’s the thing that makes Aix, Aix?” I ask. “Has anything stayed the same over the millennia?”

Sirona doesn’t hesitate. “The springs. They are its essence, its soul, its timeless core. “People’s ideas about the waters have changed over time, of course.” She shakes her head. “These waters have survived a lot.”

“Like what?” I ask, my pen poised.

“
Ouf!
People were always fighting over the springs, trying to own them, making stupid rules. Those Romans built their fancy bathhouses two thousand years ago.” She makes a face. She obviously doesn’t think highly of Romans, as though they were bullies from elementary school she still resents. “And then,” she says, “when the Christians came along, they claimed the waters were the site of pagan rituals—‘diabolical activities,’ they said—and forbade the use of them.” She rolls her eyes. “And later on, during the prudish
phase, the rulers decided that the waters encouraged debauchery, so they forbade women to use them. And when there were plagues and diseases, everyone blamed the waters.” She shakes her head.

Layla says, “Sounds like a dark time.”

“It was,” Sirona says, sighing. “It was. Luckily, there are those of us who’ve loved the waters through the years,
non?
We see past the fountains and wells and bathhouses and baptismal pools. We know that deep underneath all those layers is what truly counts. The source.” She sweeps her hand over the square, stopping at the huge fountain, where the pigeon man is standing amid a mass of feathers swirling and wings flapping.

“Here comes my family!” Sirona announces as a woman and two men arrive, toting a collection of odd instruments and wearing hand-dyed tunics and rough-hewn leather sandals like Sirona’s. “We’re also a band. We’re called Salluvii.”

“After your ancestors’ tribe?” I ask.

She smiles. “You pay attention, don’t you?” She introduces the man with the silver-flecked beard as Grannos, and the younger one, her son, Bormanus. His girlfriend is Damona, whose brass bracelet snakes up her arm like Sirona’s, and blond hair encircles her head in a braided rope.

They say “
Enchanté
” and “
How do you like France?
” and the basic pleasantries, and then go off to start playing. Sirona picks out a few notes on her lyre; then Damona starts blowing on a long, oval instrument, curved like a mountain sheep’s horn,
with a bar across it that rests on her shoulder. Next, Grannos comes in with a bone flute, and finally, Bormanus with an instrument that looks like a long trumpet.

In the next song, Sirona and Damona shake tiny bird-shaped clay bells as the men play. The ancient melodies sound almost eerie, entirely unlike anything I’ve heard before. It’s an unexpected combination of sounds, almost jarring. It’s not until I’ve heard a few songs that I begin to understand the rhythms, the patterns of notes. The band is obviously well practiced, with each person coming in at just the right time, without even any eye contact, as though they’ve been playing together forever.

While Salluvii is in their second set, Layla leans across the table. “Hey, Z, you think your
fantôme
is out there somewhere?”

I shrug. “No sign of him.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He has phenomenal taste in music. I wouldn’t mind a few more albums of that instrumental guitar.”

My eyes skim over the square, searching for
fantôme
suspects. My gaze lands on the old woman in the window above Café Cerise. Her binoculars are aimed at me. She raises her hand in greeting, as if we’re old friends now. If she were in the square, I’d definitely ask her whether she’s seen my
fantôme
and interview her for my notebook. But she’s always up in that window. She’s a spectator of life rather
than another actor onstage like the rest of us. I simply raise a hand, mirroring her greeting.

My gaze continues to sweep across the square. There’s a group of grinning German tourists, the mime frozen and leaning against the tree, a bunch of children playing tag, a violinist performing classical music, and finally, the pigeon man. My gaze rests on this eccentric old man, another fixture in the square who might impart valuable information.
If
I can barrel my way through the horde of pigeons to reach him. Somehow he notices me through the chaos of birds around him and waves.

I wave back and write down,
Plan to find my fantôme—ask the binoculars lady and the pigeon man if they’ve seen anything
.

I consider asking the mime, too, but I doubt he’d be helpful. He seems lost in his own silent, still world. He’s just a few meters from our table, so I can clearly see his eyes, the only part of his body that’s moving. When his gaze lands on mine, I smile. His eyes dart away and fix on a point in the distance.

I move my head toward Layla’s and whisper, “You must be turning over a new leaf, Layla. It’s the second time we’ve seen the mime and you haven’t seduced him yet.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. Layla flashes a devilish smile in the mime’s direction.

“Layla!” I roll my eyes. “I was kidding! Can we please get through one country without a clown? Please?”

She winks at him, trying to get some response.

The mime stays still as a statue. Now even his eyes are unmoving. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

Layla murmurs, “Don’t worry, love. Not my type of clown. No spontaneity. No playfulness.”

We listen to a few more songs, and when I look up again, the mime has disappeared.

“Nice work, Layla,” I say, grinning. “You scared him off. And I was going to ask him about my
fantôme.
”

She sighs. “You don’t give my clowns enough credit, Z. There’s more to clowns than meets the eye. They’re psychologically complex. All over the world, they’re mixed in with the sacred. Nonsense is one road to wisdom, you know. There’s the Sufi concept of the wandering wise fool, intoxicated by the ecstasy of the Absolute …”

I’ve heard all this before, every time she brings home a new clown. I interrupt. “I’m going to interview the pigeon man now, Layla. See if he knows anything about my
fantôme.
” But when I look again toward the fountain, the old man is gone. Only a flock of pigeons remain, pecking at birdseed he must have left for them on the ground.