The Ruby Notebook (9 page)

He speaks, his voice eerily serious. “One thing I learned, Z, is that I can only tell you the future if, for some reason, you need to know it.”

“I need to know it.” I run my fingers through my hair, frustrated. “First you change plans, then this
fantôme
starts giving me things, and—I don’t know, I want to know what’s really going on.” I look at the ceiling, and add quietly, “And not just with my
fantôme
, but with us. You and me. Will things be different? Will … ?” I let my words fade.

He hesitates. “I’ve just seen glimpses of things, Z. Things that don’t make sense. Colors and lights, nothing distinct. Some people, but no one I recognize.”

I sense in his voice that I won’t get anywhere, so I leave it be. Outside the thin wooden booth, I hear Layla chatting with Ahmed. I can’t hear their words, but it’s obvious from the rise and fall of their voices that Layla is charming him and he’s becoming putty in her hands.

“Hey, I should go,” I say. “I’m trying to be frugal until I get some tutoring jobs lined up.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Love you,” I whisper.

“Love you too,” he whispers back. And then, so faintly that I wonder if I’ve imagined it, he says, “No matter what.”

Illusion seems comprised of the kind of people whose parties wouldn’t start until nine or ten but would then last until dawn. It’s nine-thirty, and I’m walking along a dark, deserted street, hoping I won’t be too early for the
fête
. I’m in the medieval part of town now, the oldest
quartier
, where the roads are extra narrow. One street is called Fly’s Elbow in the old Provençal language; it’s so narrow that even a fly buzzing through would get its elbows stuck.

Following my map, I make three rights in a row, spiraling into an ancient part of town I’ve never been to before. A medley of fantastical faces carved in stone peer at me from nooks over doorways—angels, demons, monsters, mermaids, saints, bearded men, lions, dragons, cherubs.

When I reach the address, the shades are drawn; they’re red velvet, like the curtains of a stage before the first act. A small sign in the window reads CAFÉ ETERNITÉ. I push on the heavy door. It creaks open.

I step inside.

I’ve never been to an opium den, but this is how I picture one. Shadowy corners, little pools of candlelight through red glass orbs. A golden-red luminescence. Low, Middle
Eastern music playing. Hookah smoke drifting, each breath a different flavor—cherry, vanilla, clove. Burgundy carpets draping the walls. Pillows with gold tassels and silk brocade scattered around low tables. A few people sitting cross-legged on the fringed rugs, drinking tea and murmuring, reclined on sequined cushions.

I clutch my bag, which contains Jean-Claude’s poetry book and my ruby notebook. I want to sit in a corner and write about this place, but I force myself to keep moving, into the next room, where the smoke forms a thick veil. Toward the back, I can barely make out a narrow spiral staircase that descends into what must be the
cave
. The metal stairs quiver beneath my feet as I walk down.

The
cave
actually does feel like a cave. A low ceiling caps rounded, half-crumbling stone walls, and a few tapestries are hung in odd spots, over what are probably holes. An old man is playing his violin like a fiddle, the notes bubbling and bouncing like champagne fizz. People are dancing and clapping and jumping around him. Some of them are performers I’ve seen on the streets—a harpist, a contortionist, a magician.

The tables have been pushed aside to make room for the dancing. Around the edges, a troupe of muscular hip-hop dancers are eating cake. Next to them, two puppeteers are passionately kissing, their puppets abandoned on a cushion. In the far corner, a juggler squats, tossing lit candles and teacups in the air. From what I can tell in the dim light, most of the people are a few years older than me.

Through the gyrating crowd, I spot the members of Illusion. The gypsy dancer girl and the tuba player are swaying in an embrace, their lips all over each others’ necks. Amandine is swirling alone, barefoot, wearing a red dress that is actually shorter than mine.

I wave to her, but her eyes are closed in a blissed-out state. I look around for Jean-Claude. There he is, at a table in the corner. “Zeeta! You came!” He smiles and stands up, weaving through the dancers to greet me. He kisses me on both cheeks and leads me back to his table in the shadows. “And the poetry? It touched you?”

I pass him the book, hoping my sweaty hands haven’t left marks on the cover. “I love it. I didn’t understand much, though.”

“You’re not supposed to understand it.” He waves his hand. “Simply experience it. Like smelling the moon.”

“Right.” I look around. “Nice place.”

“Isn’t it? The owner of Eternité lets us use it for our
fêtes
. I live on the second floor with the rest of Illusion.” He smiles. “You should come by sometime. The apartment’s our base for playing music this summer. The hub of our wheel. The center of the daisy. The pit of the cherry.”

“Where do you live the rest of the year?”

“We wander. Mostly around the Mediterranean. Near sea light. Warm places call to us. Spain, Italy, Portugal.”

I open my notebook to a fresh page. “Why red?” I ask, twirling my pen. “For the costumes, I mean.” Now I’ve forgotten about my shabby shoes and too-short dress. With a
pen in hand and an open notebook, I’m instantly in my element. I can ask anyone anything.

“
Rouge.
” He meets my gaze. “It’s the color of passion. Of blood. Of joy. Of anger. Of the ripest, richest, juiciest berry. Of our music.” He sips his tea. It’s chai, with a warm ginger-clove smell that mingles with his spicy cologne. “We set people’s souls on fire with our music. Like a bite of chili, you know?”

I jot down his answers in my notebook. As I write
fire
, my skin feels as though I’m sitting too close to a flame.

Someone plunks a tiny cup on the table. Jean-Claude pours me some chai and swirls in milk from a little brass pitcher.

I take a sip and say, “Tell me about your family, Jean-Claude.”

“My old family was a weary dandelion that I blew and scattered into many pieces. My new family is Illusion.”

“Earliest memory?”

He pauses to think. Our heads are close now, since the music is loud. Finally, he says in a dreamy voice, “Hundreds of silver fish on shaved ice. Cold scales, glistening. The smell of the belly of the sea.”

“Where?”

“In Marseille, the market near my childhood home.”

Marseille is the port city just south of here. According to my guidebook, it’s full of drum music and warm spices and bright fabrics from North Africa and other Mediterranean countries.

“Enough about me.” Jean-Claude’s head moves even closer. “Tell me, Zeeta, what first set your soul on fire?”

Just the kind of question I might ask someone for my notebook. But not a question I want to answer. I raise one shoulder in a shrug and say, trying to sound mysterious rather than dull, “Who knows.”

Suddenly, I’m aware of how hot it is in this
cave
, with so many people dancing, sweating. Despite my wisp of a dress, heat is rising inside me. Clutching my notebook, I stand up and say, “
Excuse-moi
, Jean-Claude.” Without explanation, I move away, through the dancers, wishing I had my indigo notebooks with me. They’re filled with Wendell. This ruby notebook contains nothing about him. And the remaining pages want to be filled with new fiery things.

Why didn’t I pick beige?

I
interview a jovial capoeira dancer, a pale celloist, and a wild-haired fire-eater, then move on to Jean-Claude’s friends in Illusion. Since the gypsy dancer and the tuba player are inseparable, I interview them at the same time. Sabina is Romanian, nineteen years old, with a throaty, warm voice and gentle brown eyes. She’s wearing a golden tank top and a flaring crimson circle skirt that skims her ankles, which are adorned with silver charms.

Her Parisian boyfriend, Julien, is a bit older, his sun-pinked skin covered in a smattering of freckles, his hair a ruddy shade of red, cropped close to his head. His capri pants are made of patched-together scraps of velvet and satin, with sequins stitched at the cuffs. He and Sabina tell
me that they’ve both traveled all over Europe, that together, they speak eight languages, English included.

I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and ask, “How do you know who you are?”

Sabina and Julien give me puzzled looks. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“If you’re always changing, always moving?”

They look at each other. “Julien reminds me,” Sabina says. “And I remind him.”

“But how do you know you’ll still get along? I mean, in all these different places?”

Julien doesn’t hesitate. “You are what you love. I love Sabina and my sister and my music. That won’t change.” It’s amazing how in French, you can say these things, and they don’t sound sappy but simply like a statement of romantic facts.

Just then, Amandine bounds over in her red dress and perches at the edge of the table. “
Bonsoir
, Zeeta!”

As she kisses my cheeks, I catch Jean-Claude approaching out of the corner of my eye. He slings his arm around her shoulder and tousles her hair.

Amandine glares at him and smooths out her hair, which is loose and tumbling to her waist.

I smile and close my notebook. Amandine’s even prettier in this
cave
, the candlelight making her red hair glow, setting off her green eyes. Her hair must be heavy, but she holds her head high, like a ballerina.

While her gaze stays on my face, her hand darts out and messes up Jean-Claude’s hair.

“
Eh!
” He jumps back.

She grins at him impishly. “That’s what little sisters do,
non?
”

As he runs his fingers through his curls, I can see traces of some kind of product, a gel, maybe. He must have taken time to style it, arranging the waves just so, making them appear casual, effortless. “Do that again,” he tells her, “and I won’t make that
tarte aux fruits
for dessert tomorrow.”

Amandine ruffles his hair again, teasing, “And I’ll take back that vest I spent two weeks making you.”

It’s an old tuxedo vest, faded red and covered with iridescent beads. He wears a white tank beneath that shows off his arm muscles. Somehow cute French guys get away with wearing clothing that other men in the world wouldn’t touch for fear of appearing girly.

“You made that vest?” I ask Amandine, impressed.

“Sabina and Amandine are the geniuses behind our costumes,” Julien says.

“Not true,” Sabina insists. “Amandine is. She designs them. I just help sew them.” She raises her eyes to Julien. “And you give me moral support,
amour.
”

Amandine imitates the romantic gaze, making goo-goo eyes at Jean-Claude, tossing aside her hair. “And you,
amour,
” she says with an exaggerated eyelash flutter, “sit around eating
tartes aux fruits
, watching us work.”

Jean-Claude rolls his eyes and reaches his hand toward her, but she ducks away.

There’s something Peter Pan–ish about these young people forming their own family, goofing off and surviving together, dancing and playing music and roaming the streets all day.

Suddenly, Amandine’s eyebrows furrow. “Has anyone seen Tortue tonight?”

The others shrug, shake their heads.

“He said he’d come to the party. I hope nothing’s wrong.” In a flash, Amandine moves across the room, leaps a meter high, grabbing the railing of the upstairs floor, and swings her feet up and over the edge, disappearing from sight.

It takes me a minute to remember who Tortue is. Then I remember. Turtle. The mime. I turn to Jean-Claude and ask, “What’s Amandine worried about?”

Jean-Claude lets out a long breath. “Tortue feels like a piece of wet wood tonight.”

“Wet wood?”

“He must dry out again before a spark will ignite him. And when it does, he’ll be able to make any instrument burst into flame.” Jean-Claude runs his fingers through his black curls. There’s that scar again. It’s slightly curved, like a sliver of moon. “It’s like this with him,” he continues. “Tortue’s specialty now is being perfectly still and silent. Like a piece of wood drying in the forest. We wait for him.”