The Ruby Notebook (12 page)

The lesson drags at an excruciating pace. As Jean-Christophe warned, Vincent is not exactly a linguistic prodigy. Afterward, Vincent ceremoniously pulls out a little piece of whisper-thin paper. Then he digs out a fountain pen from beneath rolls of yellowed lace and uncovers a jar of ink from behind a heap of rosary beads. “One moment, one moment,
mademoiselle,
” he mumbles, peering through his spectacles at his script.

I stash the English book back in my bag and stand up, ready for some fresh air. And I have to get home to make the
pistou
for tonight’s dinner with Layla. My basil is already wilting. Curious, I peer over his shoulder. “What are you doing, Vincent?”

“Sending a little note to Madame Chevalier telling her you’ve accepted her invitation for Monday.” He blows on the paper to dry the ink. “She doesn’t get out much these days. She likes to know what’s going on outside the square.”

“I can drop it at her house on my way home,” I offer.

He chuckles, rolling up the paper and stuffing it into the tiny vial on Maude’s leg. “Oh,
non. Merci, mademoiselle
, but Maude can deliver it much faster than you or I.” He pats Maude’s head with a fingertip. “Remember? She’s a homing pigeon. Microscopic bits of magnets in her brain tell her where to go, and how to get home.” Maude stands patiently still as he screws on the cap. “See how I put the vial on the leg with the missing toe? I constructed it to weigh exactly as much as a pigeon toe! She flies better with it, so I leave it on.
And it’s waterproof! After decades of sudden storms and birdbaths, no water’s ever leaked inside!” He smiles, satisfied.

Maude hops around, looking happy to be of use. Vincent tosses her in the air and she flies out of the shop, into the courtyard.

I run outside, following her flight path with my eyes, watching her go. She catches the wind and soars over the rooftops. “How long will it take her?”

“Only a minute! She can fly one hundred kilometers per hour.”

“She always goes straight to Madame Chevalier’s?”

“
Bien sûr!
” He gives me a mischievous grin. “Well, sometimes she takes a detour. Stops at her secret places on the way back.” Chuckling, he says, “Oh, how she loves Madame Chevalier. Who else feeds Maude cookie crumbs and lets her sip tea?” He shakes his head. “Birdseed, I tell her. For the
merde!
” He turns to me, his eyes wide. “
Viens!
I’ll show you something.”

As we walk inside, some pigeons flutter from his arms to the ground as others rise to take their places.

He bends over and sorts through piles of stuff—glass fishing floats, ancient books, maps, statues. “
Ouf!
Here we go.”

He reemerges, sneezing and holding an old photo album. Eagerly, he opens it and puts on his glasses. The pages are clear plastic, encasing tiny paintings on tissue paper. He flips through hundreds of pages, each filled with a dozen minuscule
watercolor paintings. “We correspond almost every day,” he says. “When Madame Chevalier is in town, that is.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, since—why, I suppose since my wife died. Since I got Maude.”

I peer over his shoulder. Each painting features something different, but always something you might see on the square—Salluvii, cherries, a tuba. Each tiny masterpiece is intricately detailed.

“I send Madame Chevalier little messages and she sends these back!” Vincent says proudly. “It’s an honor, you know. She’s a brilliant artist. She’s traveled the world. Her work is in the best museums all over Europe and America. Probably on every continent! I’m just an old school friend. She’s nice enough to amuse me with these little messages.” He runs his hand over the album, smoothing the plastic and chuckling to himself over some of the paintings.

I comment on Madame Chevalier’s fine artwork, then glance around the room, trying to imagine a lifetime packed with so much junk and so many pigeons. “Do you ever get tired of all this stuff? Do you ever wish for something new and different and exciting?”

“
Mais non!
” He glances around, as though the objects might take offense. “I love my treasures. This is who I am. These things reflect my soul. I still discover new things every day. Look at this!” He digs in a cedar chest, pulling out an ancient shaving set, an old-fashioned doll with curled black
lashes, and finally a carved box of dark wood. He blows off the dust and rubs it with his shirt. “Don’t remember where I even got it—a flea market somewhere. Maybe even a trash bin! Every few years I take out this box, polish it, clean the velvet inside, set it on a shelf to see if anyone will buy it. Secretly, I hope they don’t!” He grins. “One year I discovered a spring inside, and little metal gears. So I got out my magnifying glass and headlamp and music box manual and fixed it. And wouldn’t you know it, it played
‘La Vie en Rose!’
”

He hands me the box. I lift the lid. The melody starts and spirals out of the red velvet, like a rose unfurling, like a thousand petals bursting out. I close my eyes and listen as he sings along in a raspy, earnest voice. “
C’est lui pour moi. Moi pour lui …
” He’s for me, I’m for him … 
“LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA la la la la la LA …
”

The song ends and I close the box. “
Super cool,
” I say, really meaning it.

“
Oui! Imagine!
I discovered this music hiding inside! This, after years of looking at it!” He clucks. “No, Zeeta, the things I choose have lifetimes of hidden mysteries.”

I hand it back to him.

There’s a flap of wings and he says, “Oh, look, here she comes!” Maude darts back into the store and lands on Vincent’s shoulder. The expression on his face is truly one of
le grand amour
.

“M
mm. Your
pistou
is extraordinaire, Z,” Layla says, twirling the green-flecked pasta into her mouth. The evening sunlight illuminates the feast I’ve made, spread out on the table on the roof patio
—pistou
, endive salad, and potatoes au gratin.

“
Merci,
” I say, pleased. There’s still a thin coat of sweat on my face from rushing around the kitchen and darting up and down the stairs carrying the dishes. My hand’s still aching from smashing the basil in the mortar and pestle. Deliciousness comes at a price.

Beyond our patio table, patchworks of red tile roofs stretch far into the rosy orange sky. Treetops rise from hidden courtyards, little islands of translucent green. It’s golden and
comfortable up here above the city, the slightest breeze whispering through my hair.

“Hey, are we on for the Entremont tour with Sirona tomorrow?” Layla asks, spooning more
pistou
onto her plate.

“Sure,” I say, remembering how pleased Vincent was at this news.

My eyes rest on the jar of sand from my
fantôme
, which I’ve stuck a candle in to form a centerpiece. The flame whips in the breeze but is protected enough by the glass that it stays lit. “Oh!” I blurt out, suddenly remembering my latest gift. I forgot about it in my rush to make the
pistou
. “Layla, my
fantôme
left me something new!”

Her eyes widen. “Let’s see it!”

I jog downstairs and grab the T-shirt from my bag. Back up on the patio, I hand it to Layla, breathless, and settle back down in front of my
pistou
. “I found it after you left me at the café.”

Layla takes the T-shirt, stares at it, and pokes her fingers through its many holes. Held up to the light, it looks practically transparent. “This is weird, Z.”

“I know. Why would someone give me a grubby old T-shirt? It’s kind of icky. But at least he washed it first.”

Layla has a strange look on her face. “That’s not what I mean, Z. It’s that—I had a shirt exactly like this … years ago.” She rubs the fabric against her cheek. She seems to have forgotten her
pistou
. “I’ll never forget it. When I was backpacking around Europe, I only had three shirts and a
pair of old jeans and a skirt and cut-off khakis. I hardly ever washed the clothes. They were like a second skin. I was so bummed when I lost my Jimi shirt.”

I take another bite of
pistou
. “Where’d you lose it?”

She closes her eyes, thinking, and then, with surprising certainty, she says, “Greece.” For a moment she strokes the worn fabric, lingering in some memory. Suddenly, her eyes fly open. “I gave it away. To J.C.” She pauses, her face pale, and then speaks again, in a bewildered voice. “That night, he came out of the water and pulled a guitar from a nook in the rocks. He played for me, and we talked, and … you know. At some point, he was cold. I searched in my bag and gave him my Jimi Hendrix shirt. It was nearly sunrise. He fell asleep on the sand, wearing my shirt. I blew him a kiss, then left. It was the last time I saw that shirt. The last time I saw J.C.”

I’ve dropped my fork. I’m staring at Layla, practically speechless. “My father? He’s my
fantôme?
”

She looks at me, her eyebrows knitted together. “Zeeta, love. The odds of us being in the same place at the same time are minuscule. It can’t be the same T-shirt.”

My words tumble out. “My father could have been the first person who told you the troubadour story.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Z.”

I keep talking. “The sand could be from the Greek beach.”

“Z. Let it go.” Her voice sounds almost desperate. “Please.”

“You’re the one who’s always talking about the universe making things happen.”

“I thought you’d let this father thing go, love.” She twirls her hair up in a knot, then loosens it again. “Why would we want some man coming in and complicating our lives?” She hands me back the T-shirt. “Hopefully, this is the last thing you’ll get. Let’s forget about it and just enjoy life here.” She scoops up a forkful of pasta, but as much as she tries to act casual, her hand is shaking.

The next morning, in the bus on the way to Entremont with Layla and Sirona, I clutch my bag tightly in my lap. I almost didn’t come today, but even though I’m still annoyed at Layla, I don’t want to miss Sirona’s tour of Entremont. And it will be good to get out of the city, walk in nature, distract myself from my confusion over my
fantôme
, Jean-Claude, Wendell.

I haven’t been e-mailing Wendell as much lately, but he’ll be here in two days. Thinking about his arrival ties my insides in knots, so I try to avoid it. I’ve also been pushing away any thoughts that the
fantôme
could be my father. Layla’s right, I’ve decided. It’s too unlikely.

Through the window, I watch the green hills and occasional farmhouses and red-tile-roofed houses outside of town. Meanwhile, Layla and Sirona are deep in conversation in the seats ahead of mine. Sirona is decked out in a blue raw cotton tunic, belted with silken, braided rope. She’s gotten a
few stares from other passengers on the bus but doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least.

I pull out the book Vincent gave me.
Curiosités d’Aix-en-Provence
. I take a moment to appreciate the book—its cover of deep red cloth, frayed at the corners. The lettering is gold, with a gilded border of swirls and vines. It smells ancient and musty, like an attic. The binding is loose, the pages uneven, coming unstitched at the center. Carefully, I flip to chapter nine.

In ornate script, the chapter title reads, “
Les Eaux Magiques.
” The Magical Waters.

It takes concentration to read, with the bus bumping along the highway. And the book’s written in old-fashioned French, somewhat stiff and convoluted, with unfamiliar conjugations. In Morocco, I learned to read and write French well, but I was only nine at the time, so we never reached old, formal French. I squint at the page, moving my finger along like a child, whispering the words.