The Ruby Notebook (8 page)

I smile appreciatively, then get to the point. “You saw me earlier today at that café table, didn’t you?”

Vincent squints at the table, smiles, and says, “You’re observant,
mademoiselle
.”

I pass him the jar of sand. “
Monsieur
, did you see someone slip this into my bag?”

He weighs it in his hand, studying the grains, as if their texture and color might hold some clue.

“I think the same person slipped a CD into my bag a few days ago,” I add.

He hands back the jar and raises a bushy white eyebrow. “Ah. A mystery. How I love a good mystery.” He chuckles. “But no,
mademoiselle
, I cannot offer you any clues to your mystery. Tell me, do you have any suspects?”

I stash the jar back into my bag. “Maybe this boy I knew in Brazil.”

“And he followed you here? Is this
le grand amour?
”

“No!” I say. “It was definitely
not
true love. Just a silly fling. Anyway, I have a boyfriend now.” I skim my fingertips over the water, watch a few feathers float and sink and rise again in the rushing water. Just calling Wendell a boyfriend makes him seem so temporary, as if he could easily go the way of Olivier. But
l’homme de ma vie
, as Ahmed would say, sounds way too dramatic. I snatch my hand from the water, pull out my notebook and pen, and impulsively say, “Vincent, tell me about the love of your life.”

“The love of my life!” He laughs, a big, belly laugh, looking at the pigeon on his shoulder as though he expects it to laugh, too, as though they share an inside joke. “
Eh bien, dis donc
! Why do you ask?”

“So I can remember you after I leave here in a year.” I pause, then add, “Plus, I’m curious.” Then I admit, “And maybe a little confused.”

Vincent laughs again. Another real laugh, a genuine bubbling of joy from deep inside. He takes his time laughing, a full thirty seconds, until the laugh runs its course.

“And how, may I ask, did you choose me,
mademoiselle?
Do I have true love written all over my face?”

I study his face. He has something written on it. Playfulness. Liveliness. Jolliness. But something deeper, something secret, something he’s holding back. “I noticed you and your pigeons. And you seem like a person who knows a thing or two.”

Vincent rubs his chin. “I like you,
mademoiselle. Alors
 … the love of my life.” He reaches down and picks up a pigeon, white with gray spots on its wingtips and tail, and a band of green-purple iridescence around its neck. A tiny clear vial is tied to one of its spindly, salmon-pink legs. “Maude,” he says, gazing at the pigeon.

“Maude?”

“My true love.”

“Is Maude your … wife?” I venture.

He gives another deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body. “In France there exist many kinds of amorous unions, but never have I heard of a man marrying a pigeon.” He whispers to the pigeon. “
Ma Maude, ma petite Maude.
”

It takes a moment for this to register. “This pigeon is Maude? And she’s the love of your life?”

He’s smiling now, a wistful smile. “Maude’s been living with me for, oh, fifty years now. Since just after my wife
died.” He looks at me merrily. “My human wife,” he says. “She died in childbirth a year after our marriage.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Oh, it was so long ago,” he says. “I was twenty. She was beautiful. Hair black as yours. Skin like yours too. She was from the Canary Islands. Maybe she could have been the love of my life, but she was gone before I could find out. I started getting to know the pigeons, feeding them birdseed.” His voice turns serious. “Birdseed is better than croissant or baguette crumbs. More fiber. Produces nice piles of
merde
that wash away easily. The street cleaners appreciate it. Now, croissants and baguettes, they make hard balls of
merde
, little sticky green things that won’t come up.” He holds out a handful of birdseed for me to inspect.

I nod politely and jot down,
Birdseed—good pigeon
merde. “
Alors, monsieur
, how did you know that … Maude … is the love of your life?”

“She was there for me when I needed her. She stuck with me. I let her fly, but she always came back, roosted in my alcove. I need her. She needs me. We understand each other. She makes me feel like myself. And I know she’ll be with me forever, until death do us part.”

“You never get tired of her? Wish for another pigeon?”

“
Ouf!
The new generations of pigeons are a dime a dozen. I like the ones who’ve been with me a long time. These little ones”—he points a finger at each one—“Yves, Irène, Marie—they’re nice, but not like Maude. There’s just something
comforting about Maude, how she looks at me. All the things she knows about me.”

“What’s that vial on her leg for?”

“Ah! It holds messages. She’s a homing pigeon, you see.” He turns to Maude, stroking her feathers. “You work for your birdseed, don’t you,
mon amour?
”

I survey the mass of birds, pecking and waddling. “How can you tell them apart?”

“Eh
bien, dis donc
! How can you tell me apart from your mother? Why, they look completely different! Different colors and patterns and beak size and feather shape and, oh, just that magical thing, that soul thing that makes each creature special. And with Maude, why, I could recognize her even if I were blind. Look! She only has three toes on her left foot! And the way she wobbles on her three toes touches me right here.” He puts his hand on his chest.

He really, truly loves this pigeon. It’s touching. I scribble all this in my notebook.

“And you,
mademoiselle
, what brings you here?”

“We live in a new country every year, my mom and me. This year’s France.”

“Where were you last year?”

“The Andes of Ecuador.”

“
Ah bon?
” Vincent looks excited. “Did you see the Peguche Waterfall?”

I’m surprised he’s heard of it. “As a matter of fact, Layla and I bathed in it with rose petals. To make our wishes come
true.” I leave out the parts about its being a near-death experience. “Have you been there?”

“
Mon Dieu! Non, non, non!
I’ve never left France. My son, now, he’s sailed around the world, lived all over the place. He just came to town a few days ago to make sure I’m still breathing!” He winks. “But back to the waters. You could say that sacred waters are a bit of a … hobby for me.” He leans in, eager. “Now tell me,
mademoiselle
, did the waters of Peguche work?”

“Well. Sort of.”

“Tell me! Every detail!”

I describe how you walk down a forest path to reach the waterfall, how icy cold and tumultuous the water is, how sparkling it looks in the early-morning sun.

Vincent is a sponge, soaking it all up, wide-eyed. Once I’ve finished, he says, “So,
mademoiselle
, you believe in the powers of sacred waters,
non?
”

I shrug. “I’ve been dragged to sacred waters all over the world. My mom’s a water-ritual junkie.”

A radiant smile spreads across Vincent’s face. He strokes Maude’s neck feathers. She makes a warbly purr. Finally he says, carefully, “You are the kind of girl who could uncover secrets. Uncover them yet keep them hidden. Aren’t you?”

I try to think of secrets I’ve uncovered yet kept secret. Nothing immediately comes to mind, but I say, “Sure.”

“And you are also the kind of girl who notices things, unusual things.”

“That’s true,” I say. I do have a suitcase full of notebooks to show for it. “I noticed you,
monsieur
. I noticed the lady with the binoculars.”

With a chuckle, he glances at the window and waves. I can’t tell if she waves back. “The exquisite Madame Chevalier. The famous artist. She was my playmate as a child.”

“You think she might have seen someone slip mysterious gifts into my bag?”

“Quite possible. I’ll ask her and get back to you.”

Before I can ask more, he whispers, “You know the woman who plays the harp in that Celtic band, Salluvii?”

“It’s a lyre, actually. And her name’s Sirona. Why?”

“Well, here’s one more thing for you to notice. That woman and her band. Study them. Write about them in that notebook of yours. Remember them.”

“Why?”

He moves his head close to mine, lowers his voice. “Because,
mademoiselle
, they have a secret deeper and older than you could possibly imagine.” He looks at me, rubbing his chin, as if musing about something.

I wait another moment, to see if he’ll explain, then I say, “Well, I’d better hang up the rest of these posters.”

He glances at them. “You teach English?”

I nod. “Six years of experience. No certificate, but I’ve picked up lots from my mother.”

“I will hire you.”

“Really?”

“I own an antiques shop. One must be able to converse with tourists.” He sighs. “Of course, my son speaks English, and many other languages, but he has no patience to teach me!”

“Well. All right.”

“Come to my antiques shop by the fountain on the Place des Trois Ormeaux. How’s tomorrow afternoon?”

“
Parfait.
”

He presents me with a silver pigeon feather, and then turns back to Maude, the alleged love of his life.

“S
o what’s this
fête
you’re going to tonight?” Layla asks, adjusting her flower crown. She’s already dressed for her own party, wrapped in flowing yards of white cotton, with sparkles over every bit of bare skin. It looks as if she got tangled up inside a fabric store and fell into a vat of glitter. We’re headed to Nirvana for a quick stop before going to our separate solstice parties.

“That group Illusion invited me,” I say. “It’s in a
cave.
”

“
Hyper cool!
”

I nod. “I think I might become friends with that acrobat girl, Amandine.” I don’t mention Jean-Claude, or clarify that he was the one who invited me. I don’t mention his poetry book that makes me think of pathways to castles, either.

“Well, you look magnificent, Z!” Layla eyes my red dress. “It’s good to change your style once in a while. Experiment.”

I force myself to stop tugging at the dress. When I changed into it this afternoon, it suddenly seemed too short, too red, too low-cut. And my old leather sandals from Ecuador look as though someone chewed them up and spit them out. “Here’s the place,” I say, glad we’re cutting the conversation short. I jangle open the door. “Nirvana.”

We duck inside the dark, stale-smoke-laced room. I wave to Ahmed. “
Essalam alikoum.
”

Ahmed gapes at Layla. Not an unusual reaction to my mother, although I didn’t think anything could make Ahmed abandon his online gaming. But my mother does look striking now, all dressed up in her goddess garb. Beautiful and ridiculous at once.

“Layla, Ahmed; Ahmed, Layla,” I say quickly, and add, “Layla’s my mom.”

Forcing his mouth closed, he nods.

“
Enchantée
, Ahmed,” Layla says, offering a glittery hand around his computer monitor.

“
En-enchanté,
” he stutters, looking as though he doesn’t want to let go of her hand, as though he’s completely forgotten the existence of KnightQuest. Truly enchanted.

“So, do we just grab any computer?” she asks.

He comes to himself. “Ah, yes,
allez-y, madame.
” “Come As You Are” is playing softly on his little speakers. “Zeeta,
your computer’s open.” He nods with his chin, but his eyes haven’t left Layla.

“Actually, I’m just making a quick phone call,” I say.

“To the love of your life?” he asks, already punching in the number he keeps on a sticky note by the phone. His eyes follow Layla as she floats across the room to a computer in the corner.

“Yup.”

“Fantastic chairs!” Layla calls out, swiveling like a kid. “
Très amusantes!
”

Ahmed looks pleased. “You may sit on them whenever you like, free of charge.”

Layla laughs and turns her attention to the computer screen as Ahmed watches, smitten.

I pop into the phone booth, shut the flimsy wooden door, and perch on the stool. Waiting for Wendell to pick up, I open Jean-Claude’s poetry book, letting my eyes skim over a random page.

Wendell’s voice is a little breathless, as if he’s just been running. “Hello?”

I slam the book shut, stuff it back into my bag. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Zeeta, hi.” His voice drops to that soft tone, the one that always makes me melt. All last year in Ecuador, we used to talk until late at night, him on his cell in bed and me on the plastic stool in the little phone booth that I’d gotten to know very, very well, every crack in the ceiling and chip in the paint and stain on the tile floor. “What’s up, Z?”

“I bought a dress yesterday. Red. Short. With spaghetti straps.”

He says nothing.

“Is it the one in your vision?”

After a moment, he says, “Yeah.”

“Weird stuff is happening, Wendell. Remember how my
fantôme
slipped me a CD?”

“Your phantom?”

“My ghost. Well, now he’s slipped me a jar of sand.” I pause. “Are you sure you haven’t seen anything else?”