The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free PDF
Author: Laura Resau
His mouth stays in a sensual pout even as he smiles at me. He runs his hand through his black curls, revealing, for a second, a thick white scar across his forehead. Then the curls fall back into place, just grazing his eyebrows.
“I’d better finish collecting the money,” Amandine says, pecking my cheeks and skipping away as people shower coins into her hat. Apparently in Aix, people kiss once on each cheek in greetings and salutations. I’ve noticed it can take a long time for a large group of people to greet each other here, with all the kissing going on.
I turn to the accordionist. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“My stepfather.” He smiles again. “I’m Jean-Claude.”
“Zeeta,” I say, registering his initials, J.C., out of habit, although of course he’s way too young to be my father. Just a couple of years older than me.
“
Enchanté
, Zeeta,” he says formally, shaking my hand. Enchanted to meet you. Not pleased. Not glad. Not happy.
Enchanted
. Magic seeps into even the most mundane interactions in this language.
“
Enchantée
, Jean-Claude,” I say, turning to a fresh page in my notebook. It’s a relief to look away from his eyes. They’re disconcerting, like two perfect circles of sky.
“I noticed you sitting at the café yesterday,” he says.
He noticed me? I wonder if he could be my
fantôme
. Idecide to take him by surprise. “Yesterday, in the square, did you notice someone slip a CD into my bag?”
He cocks his head, amused. “You attract mystery,
non?
Could it have been from an admirer, perhaps?”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Just a
fantôme
.”
“Ghosts can be tricky,” Jean-Claude says. “They’re good at not being seen.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where are you from?” he asks, thankfully changing the subject.
“Everywhere and nowhere.” One of my standard responses to a standard question.
“So that’s why I can’t pinpoint your accent.”
“It’s mostly Moroccan. That’s where I learned French. My mom and I lived there a few years back.” I’m very conscious not to let my gaze linger on his face. It’s disturbingly handsome, especially those eyes that pull you in like blue pools. “How about you?” I ask.
“I too am a wanderer. All of Illusion wanders.”
I twirl my pen. “Tell me about Illusion.”
“We are each a bit of kindling.” His eyes skim over the others in his band as they stand around talking and putting away their instruments. “Our music is our fire.”
As I jot down his answer, he doesn’t question what I’m doing. Not only does he not question it, he whips out his own notebook from his back pocket, a small spiral one. No one has ever matched my notebook with another notebook.
There’s an instant bond between us wanderers, I’ve noticed. An understanding of how to leap into conversations, tograb hold of the day with passion, to hurl yourself into adventure—because you know that once you move, everything changes. And then you have to do it all over again. Which is why there’s also a hint of sadness in wanderers’ eyes, the exhaustion of being a cup that’s emptied out when you leave a place and filled again in a new place only to be emptied again.
Jean-Claude is scribbling now, his eyes closed. His notebook is so tiny you’d think he could only fit about seven words per page. And how can he follow the lines and keep from running off the page with his eyes closed? I try to peek, but his handwriting is minuscule.
He shuts his notebook, glances up, and smiles. The sun catches a bottle cap sewn onto his sleeve as he waves at someone over my shoulder.
I turn to look. It’s the mime. The man breaks his frozen posture to wave back.
“A friend of yours?” I ask.
“
Oui.
” Only he says it “
Ouais,
” like “Yeah,” the cool way to say yes. “His name’s Tortue.”
“Tortue?” Turtle’s an odd name. “As in the animal?”
Jean-Claude nods. “Tortue’s like a father to me and
“I’d better finish collecting the money,” Amandine says, pecking my cheeks and skipping away as people shower coins into her hat. Apparently in Aix, people kiss once on each cheek in greetings and salutations. I’ve noticed it can take a long time for a large group of people to greet each other here, with all the kissing going on.
I turn to the accordionist. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“My stepfather.” He smiles again. “I’m Jean-Claude.”
“Zeeta,” I say, registering his initials, J.C., out of habit, although of course he’s way too young to be my father. Just a couple of years older than me.
“
Enchanté
, Zeeta,” he says formally, shaking my hand. Enchanted to meet you. Not pleased. Not glad. Not happy.
Enchanted
. Magic seeps into even the most mundane interactions in this language.
“
Enchantée
, Jean-Claude,” I say, turning to a fresh page in my notebook. It’s a relief to look away from his eyes. They’re disconcerting, like two perfect circles of sky.
“I noticed you sitting at the café yesterday,” he says.
He noticed me? I wonder if he could be my
fantôme
. Idecide to take him by surprise. “Yesterday, in the square, did you notice someone slip a CD into my bag?”
He cocks his head, amused. “You attract mystery,
non?
Could it have been from an admirer, perhaps?”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Just a
fantôme
.”
“Ghosts can be tricky,” Jean-Claude says. “They’re good at not being seen.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where are you from?” he asks, thankfully changing the subject.
“Everywhere and nowhere.” One of my standard responses to a standard question.
“So that’s why I can’t pinpoint your accent.”
“It’s mostly Moroccan. That’s where I learned French. My mom and I lived there a few years back.” I’m very conscious not to let my gaze linger on his face. It’s disturbingly handsome, especially those eyes that pull you in like blue pools. “How about you?” I ask.
“I too am a wanderer. All of Illusion wanders.”
I twirl my pen. “Tell me about Illusion.”
“We are each a bit of kindling.” His eyes skim over the others in his band as they stand around talking and putting away their instruments. “Our music is our fire.”
As I jot down his answer, he doesn’t question what I’m doing. Not only does he not question it, he whips out his own notebook from his back pocket, a small spiral one. No one has ever matched my notebook with another notebook.
There’s an instant bond between us wanderers, I’ve noticed. An understanding of how to leap into conversations, tograb hold of the day with passion, to hurl yourself into adventure—because you know that once you move, everything changes. And then you have to do it all over again. Which is why there’s also a hint of sadness in wanderers’ eyes, the exhaustion of being a cup that’s emptied out when you leave a place and filled again in a new place only to be emptied again.
Jean-Claude is scribbling now, his eyes closed. His notebook is so tiny you’d think he could only fit about seven words per page. And how can he follow the lines and keep from running off the page with his eyes closed? I try to peek, but his handwriting is minuscule.
He shuts his notebook, glances up, and smiles. The sun catches a bottle cap sewn onto his sleeve as he waves at someone over my shoulder.
I turn to look. It’s the mime. The man breaks his frozen posture to wave back.
“A friend of yours?” I ask.
“
Oui.
” Only he says it “
Ouais,
” like “Yeah,” the cool way to say yes. “His name’s Tortue.”
“Tortue?” Turtle’s an odd name. “As in the animal?”
Jean-Claude nods. “Tortue’s like a father to me and