The Ruby Notebook

by Laura Resau

  “What if he’s everything you ever wanted in a parent? Everything that I’m not?”

  In the weeks after the eventful day in Marseille, my days fall back into a pattern. I wake up early, which is easy since I go to bed early. Layla and I spend evenings together, making Provençal food or flower crowns or found-object mobiles or broken-pottery mosaics. Whatever she’s in the mood for, I go along with it. Sometimes Sirona comes over and teaches us ancient Celtic dances or gives us basic lyre lessons. One night she lit a candle and recounted old Celtic legends in verse. Another time she described all Salluvii’s seasonal festivals, showing us how to cook some traditional specialties. I take dutiful notes to share later with Madame Chevalier and Vincent, who can never get enough of this stuff.

  In the mornings, Layla and I have breakfast together before she leaves for work. Her schedule is more demanding in France than it’s been in any other country. She seems to genuinely enjoy the new challenge of teaching teachers how to teach English. And she’s making more money than ever before, which we need to support our thirty-euro-per-day café habit.

  She’s acting more professional too, for a change. She used to handwrite her students’ worksheets, shunning any technology more complex than photocopiers whenever possible. But here, she’s started going to Nirvana and typing out worksheets, a development that Ahmed finds thrilling, of course. Sometimes she even swings by Nirvana to just chat with Ahmed, enjoying the captive audience who hangs on her every word. Sadly, it’s only a matter of time before she moves on to another man, leaving poor Ahmed alone, with only KnightQuest to comfort him. Still, he’s much more stable and mature than most of her other flings, so I swallow my doubts and let it happen.

  I try to focus on teaching, knowing I’ll have to squeeze in as much tutoring as I can this summer, before school starts in the fall. The lycée students have warned me about the endless hours of studying I’ll be doing once classes are in full swing. The students are friendly enough with me, inviting me to hang out with them after our sessions, but I keep the relationship professional.

  After my morning tutoring, I usually go to Café Cerise and write in my ruby notebook—sometimes observations, sometimes interviews, and sometimes more letters to my fantôme father. I tell him my thoughts and memories, but mostly ask him questions. When will you show yourself? What are you scared of? And even though there are no answers, it feels good to ask. Somehow, I feel as though I know him better with each letter. And with each letter, more remnants of my anger fade, replaced by glimmers of empathy.

  Most days, I cross paths with Illusion. They’re on the streets performing all day long. Apparently, this month is their peak season, when Aix is overrun with tourists here for the town’s summer music festival. Jean-Claude always makes time for an espresso with me, even if it’s just fifteen minutes.

  I’d thought that my meeting with his mother might make him open up more about his brother’s death, but he remains tight-lipped. When I told him about the visit, he appeared devoid of emotion. He listened, with an expressionless face, as I told him how his mother cried, how she and his father forgave him, how much they love him. When I demanded, “Don’t you care that your parents love you?” he muttered, “It’s too complicated for you to understand,” and promptly changed the subject. Since then, our conversations have just skimmed the surface of impersonal things—music, poetry, books. It’s frustrating, even infuriating at times, but probably for the best. The more time I spend with Jean-Claude, the more I realize that what we share is friendship, nothing close to le grand amour.

  Three times, I’ve run into Wendell when he was sketching fountains. He’s been a little friendlier to me since our trip to Marseille, but still guarded. Our conversation starts and stops in awkward fits, leaving me thirsty afterward, hungry, longing for something more.

  In the afternoons, when I stop by Madame Chevalier’s and Vincent’s, they never fail to ask me about Wendell. Beneath their deliberately casual questions—about how he likes art class and how his French is coming along—is the one question they really care about: whether there’s any hope we’ll get back together. The very question I’m carefully avoiding. I don’t tell them what I only admit to my notebook: that I miss Wendell. That I want things to go back to how they were before. And that I have no idea how to make that happen.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of shimmery gold and red. I’m crossing the square toward Madame Chevalier’s, just passing the fountain, expecting to see Illusion coming through the crowd, sparkling with their brass instruments. But it’s just Amandine wearing a red leotard, a short, swirly skirt, and a golden scarf around her waist. She’s walking, without her entourage of Illusion, across the square.

  It’s not until a split second later that I notice who she’s with.

  Wendell.

  I wince, as though I’ve just touched fire.

  They sit down at Café Cerise, smack in front of Madame Chevalier’s window.

  Amandine stretches her hands up like a cat. As Wendell talks, she listens attentively, her head cocked to the side. Wendell has an earnest way of talking. Some people just talk and talk and it doesn’t really matter who’s sitting there with them. But talking with Wendell is like weaving a rope together: you do a strand, he does a strand, and together you make something.

  And I can see he’s doing this with Amandine. Now she’s talking and he’s listening. He’s really looking at her, the way he distinctly wasn’t looking at me on our trip to Marseille a few weeks ago. I can’t see her leaf-green eyes from here, but I imagine they’re locked with his. He smiles his half-smile and says something.

  I realize my feet are stuck to this spot. And I’m gaping. I make myself look away. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. If anyone is hyper cool, it’s the girl who casually does backflips in the street, who turns toilet rooms into art projects, whose flaming red hair could easily be the topic of any love song. The girl who is complicated, smart, talented, gorgeous, and hiding something.

  I take a long breath and make a wide circle around the café, blending into a crowd of German tourists, hiding from Wendell and Amandine. Then I climb the stairs to Madame Chevalier’s, my heart heavy.

  Inside, I sit down on the blue velvet chair. Madame Chevalier has already set up the tea tray on the table between us. There’s a pot of peach tea, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a pitcher of cream. Little rectangular butter cookies have been arranged with care on a rose-rimmed plate. On the table sits a blue glass vase of fresh flowers—lilies—probably from Vincent.

  With shaking hands, Madame Chevalier stirs cream into her tea, the tiny spoon clinking against the china. “Alors, ma petite, why are you sad today?”

  I glance out the window. There they are, Wendell and Amandine, in perfect view. “I’m sorry, Madame Chevalier, but may I borrow your binoculars?”

  With some effort, she takes the leather cord from her neck and hands me the binoculars. Her expression is sympathetic, but she doesn’t seem surprised. She must have seen Amandine and Wendell already. She must have guessed how I’d feel.

  Filled with curiosity and dread, I peer through the lenses. Amandine is leaning close across the table, listening to Wendell intently, her face soft and open. I notice the smattering of light freckles on her nose. It’s strange seeing her so close up, as if I could reach out and brush her cheek.

  And Wendell’s face. I can see the fine hairs on his skin, his individual eyelashes, the tenderness of his earlobes. I’m lost in my intricate observations—well, spying, really—and wishing I could read lips, when Madame Chevalier moves her head close to mine and whispers, “You love him dearly, ma petite.”

  I lower the binoculars to my lap, breathing out slowly. “You don’t know anything about—”

  “It’s free theater out there, Zeeta. I saw you two crossing the square one evening a few weeks ago.”

  She must have seen us coming back from the navette stop after our Marseille outing. Wendell had insisted on walking m
e home.

  “I saw how he looked at you,” she continues. “How he kept moving close to you, only to pull away again. You know, from up here I can’t hear people’s words, but I’ve learned to look deeper than words. I read their gestures, their gazes, their most subtle movements.”

  I shake my head. “Wendell’s obviously moving on. It was my choice to break up with him. Now I have to deal with the consequences.”

  She nods. “You regret it.”

  “It’s not easy breaking up with someone. It doesn’t mean I regret it.”

  She peers closely at my face, as if she’s reading it. “It appears that you do.” She lays her hand on my arm, lets it rest there. “Now, what are you going to do about that?”

  I try to steady my voice. “I’m not going to toy with his emotions. It wouldn’t be fair.” I pause. “C’est la vie, non?”

  “We shall see,” she says, patting my arm. “Remember his vision. You both, soaking wet. Perhaps it’s your destiny to find these waters with him, ma petite.”

  I bite into a butter cookie. “I’m sorry, Madame Chevalier, but I don’t think so.” I try to sound firm. “I can’t ask him to help.” I look up and see her expression—one of deep sorrow, something much bigger than simple disappointment.

  She speaks in a barely audible voice. “I’d like you to ask Wendell. Do it for me and Vincent. Please.” Her eyes gleam, reflecting tiny rectangles of light from the window. “For years,” she says, twirling her necklace around her fingers, “we sent silly messages back and forth. And for years, I hid my true feelings. I had my career, my travels. I assumed he thought of me as no more than a neighbor, a friend. I never dared to show my true feelings. The years go by so quickly, Zeeta. You always think there will be time. And suddenly you’re old. And sick.” She rubs her hand over her face. “Three months ago, I discovered I was dying.”

  Dying? I have no idea what to say.

  “It’s cancer,” she says. “Lymphoma. When it sank in that I would die, I realized I was never able to be with my true love. Was never able to tell him. That is why now, the stories of the magical waters are no longer just an amusing pastime for us. Suddenly, they’ve taken on a deep importance.”

  I swallow hard. “How long … ?” I can’t finish the question.

  “Weeks, maybe months.”

  For a while, I’m quiet. She’s waiting for me to say something. After a drawn-out, wavery sigh, I say, “Make every day a song.”

  She smiles sadly. “What wise person said that, ma petite?”

  “My father.” I look into her watery, clouded brown eyes. “You need to tell Vincent how you feel.”

  “I don’t want to burden him with that. It would only make his mourning worse.”

  There’s a flurry of wings, and Maude flutters onto the railing. Madame Chevalier takes the paper from the vial, brightening as she reads the message. She laughs for a while and passes it to me.

  At the clear fountain

  While I was strolling by

  I found the water so nice

  That I went in to take a bath

  I raise my eyebrows, wondering if Vincent has gone off the deep end.

  “A little inside joke that goes way back,” she says. “It’s a nursery rhyme called ‘À la Claire Fontaine.’ ” She pauses. “Mostly nonsense,” she says, singing it softly, stopping after the refrain, which goes, “So long I’ve been loving you. I will never forget you.”

  She breaks off a piece of butter cookie, feeding it to Maude, who sits comfortably in her lap. “Don’t tell Vincent. He thinks cookies are bad for her merde.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  After Maude finishes the morsel, Madame Chevalier holds out her teacup and lets Maude stick her beak inside. Content with creamy tea and cookies, Maude settles back into her lap. Madame Chevalier pulls out a small piece of tissue-thin paper from a drawer beside her, and a paint tin, and places them beside the jar of water already sitting there.

  “Is there a chance?” I venture. “Chemo or radiation—”

  She shakes her head slowly. “The lymphoma was diagnosed two years ago. I had chemo, and it went into remission. The cancer came back this winter. There was more chemo, this time more intense, more poisonous. It made me terribly sick and tired, too weak to walk up my stairs. I stopped leaving my apartment. What’s worse, the fumes from my oil paints made me nauseous, so I stopped painting canvases. And three months later, they still found cancer cells. I told my doctors I’d rather die than suffer through more chemo.” Her voice crackles, her eyes grow wet. “And here I am, waiting to die. I don’t go outside. I don’t paint.” She taps her tin watercolor case. “Well, except for these little messages for Vincent.” She spreads out some newspaper from a basket at her feet and holds the brush, thinking.

  “What are you going to paint?”

  “What should I paint?” she asks.

  “How about pink hearts and gold stars and exclamation points and Je t’aime, Vincent?”

  She smiles, holding the brush with one hand and petting Maude’s feathers absently with the other. I watch Amandine and Wendell pay their bill and walk away, outside the frame of the window.

  I bring the dishes to the kitchen and wash them in the small sink. Before I leave, I hug Madame Chevalier goodbye, kissing both of her papery cheeks. “You really believe these waters exist?” I ask.

  “I want to believe,” she says. “So very much. I’d almost stopped believing. Then you came into our lives. That gave me hope.”

  “Then I’ll keep searching,” I tell her. “I can do it alone. I’ll try my best.”

  She shakes her head, clucking. “Ma petite, you need Wendell.”

  “But he—”

  “He will do anything for you.” Her voice is so firm, I can’t argue.

  Instead, I respond, “And Vincent will do anything for you.”

  I motion to her brush and paints and the whispery thin piece of paper in front of her. “Tell him everything,” I say, “just in case we can’t find the waters.”

  Then, biting my tongue to hold back tears, I walk down the hallway, past all the Madame Chevaliers gazing at me. As I close the door, I look back to see the live Madame Chevalier picking up her brush and dipping it into the paint.

  In the back street outside Madame Chevalier’s apartment, I lean against the cool stone wall, listening to my heartbeat, breathing in the scent of buttery croissants and melting chocolate from the bakery around the corner, feeling very alive. But not in a good way. In a way that makes me think of all the smells and sights and sounds that Madame Chevalier will have to say goodbye to. All the things that will end for her.

  I let the pent-up tears fall. Tears for Madame Chevalier. And for myself. I can’t bear another goodbye. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, losing people I love. But it doesn’t work that way. Every time I leave a country, it feels like a mass funeral, dozens of deaths every year. Deaths of friendships and daily rituals, favorite foods and special nooks. And then, a plane ride later, I’m dropped into a whole new world of rituals and foods and nooks, while I’m still in mourning.

  It’s more painful with each new country. Each loss brings up a string of past losses. The day I left Ecuador, Mamita Luz packed me a bag of fresh-baked bread to eat on our series of plane rides to France. Silvio gave me a crystal to protect me. Gaby wrapped an indigo alpaca scarf around my neck. And the girls filled my pockets with little treasures—nuts and pebbles and wildflowers. Of course, we assured each other we’d keep in touch, but I knew that after a couple years, our letters would peter out. I knew I’d probably never again see the girls’ chubby cheeks or hear Gaby wheedling customers or taste Mamita Luz’s warm bread. Saying goodbye to Ecuador was saying goodbye to a piece of myself.

  I think again, of my prison of ifs, how part of me was expecting my link with Wendell to die too, how, at the first sign of trouble, I just cut things off with him, assuming our relationship would end soon enough, assuming it might hurt less if I did it myse
lf. Then I remember something else from that day in Marseille. On the boat, Maurice said that love can flow underground, invisible, like a hidden spring. I think of my love for Wendell, my father’s love for Layla, Madame Chevalier’s love for Vincent. I think of this secret river, always flowing, sometimes aboveground, sometimes below the surface. And despite everything, I realize, I want to tap into it.

  Which means I need to look for the sacred waters. I need to do it for Madame Chevalier. For her, the waters mean a chance to fulfill a lifelong love. But beneath that, I need to find these waters for me. I’m not entirely sure why or how. All I know is that I do need Wendell’s help. And if he’s together with Amandine, I’ll have to deal with that.

  I take a few deep breaths, wipe my eyes, and walk down the alley toward the main street. I can almost hear Maurice’s nasal voice, giving me a pep talk. If Dantes had never dared to escape prison, never dared to leap off the cliffs into the icy, raging sea … if he had never looked for the treasure and eventually let go of his bitterness, he would never have reunited, in the end, with the love of his life.

  Back on the square, I glance up at the clock tower, noting that I have a couple hours before my English tutoring session, glad for the time to let my puffy eyes and blotchy face go back to normal. I’m heading to my apartment, just passing Café Cerise, when I catch sight of Amandine and Wendell, standing together and talking. I’d thought they’d left, but they must have been just outside of the view from Madame Chevalier’s apartment. Before I can change routes or find some tourists to blend in with, Amandine catches my eye.

  “Salut,” she says with two pecks on my cheeks.

  Wendell just says, “Hi.” It strikes me that he doesn’t say my name, as if the word Zeeta is too intimate.

  I raise a hand in a limp wave.

  Amandine fills the awkward silence. “What are you up to today?”

  “Just visited my friend. You know, that woman I told you about, Wendell.” My tongue feels clumsy, my words choppy. “The artist. Madame Chevalier.”