The Ruby Notebook by Laura Resau Read Free Book Online Page A

“No sign of him.”
    She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He has phenomenal taste in music. I wouldn’t mind a few more albums of that instrumental guitar.”
    My eyes skim over the square, searching for
fantôme
suspects. My gaze lands on the old woman in the window above Café Cerise. Her binoculars are aimed at me. She raises her hand in greeting, as if we’re old friends now. If she were in the square, I’d definitely ask her whether she’s seen my
fantôme
and interview her for my notebook. But she’s always up in that window. She’s a spectator of life ratherthan another actor onstage like the rest of us. I simply raise a hand, mirroring her greeting.
    My gaze continues to sweep across the square. There’s a group of grinning German tourists, the mime frozen and leaning against the tree, a bunch of children playing tag, a violinist performing classical music, and finally, the pigeon man. My gaze rests on this eccentric old man, another fixture in the square who might impart valuable information.
If
I can barrel my way through the horde of pigeons to reach him. Somehow he notices me through the chaos of birds around him and waves.
    I wave back and write down,
Plan to find my fantôme—ask the binoculars lady and the pigeon man if they’ve seen anything
.
    I consider asking the mime, too, but I doubt he’d be helpful. He seems lost in his own silent, still world. He’s just a few meters from our table, so I can clearly see his eyes, the only part of his body that’s moving. When his gaze lands on mine, I smile. His eyes dart away and fix on a point in the distance.
    I move my head toward Layla’s and whisper, “You must be turning over a new leaf, Layla. It’s the second time we’ve seen the mime and you haven’t seduced him yet.”
    I shouldn’t have said anything. Layla flashes a devilish smile in the mime’s direction.
    “Layla!” I roll my eyes. “I was kidding! Can we please get through one country without a clown? Please?”
    She winks at him, trying to get some response.
    The mime stays still as a statue. Now even his eyes are unmoving. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.
    Layla murmurs, “Don’t worry, love. Not my type of clown. No spontaneity. No playfulness.”
    We listen to a few more songs, and when I look up again, the mime has disappeared.
    “Nice work, Layla,” I say, grinning. “You scared him off. And I was going to ask him about my
fantôme.
”
    She sighs. “You don’t give my clowns enough credit, Z. There’s more to clowns than meets the eye. They’re psychologically complex. All over the world, they’re mixed in with the sacred. Nonsense is one road to wisdom, you know. There’s the Sufi concept of the wandering wise fool, intoxicated by the ecstasy of the Absolute …”
    I’ve heard all this before, every time she brings home a new clown. I interrupt. “I’m going to interview the pigeon man now, Layla. See if he knows anything about my
fantôme.
” But when I look again toward the fountain, the old man is gone. Only a flock of pigeons remain, pecking at birdseed he must have left for them on the ground.

“W endell!” I say suddenly.
    “What about him?” Layla asks, sipping her third espresso.
    “I haven’t e-mailed him yet today!” Usually, it’s one of the first things I do in the morning. And now the sun’s overhead, which means it’s already noon. Layla and I must have been idling here at the café for a couple of hours now. I have no excuse for forgetting about my boyfriend. I drop some coins by my empty espresso cup, say goodbye to Layla, and hurry toward Nirvana.
    As I enter the dim room, the bells jingling, Ahmed glances up from the computer. “Oh, I’m glad you’re all right, Zeeta.” He sips his sweating can of Coke with a bendy straw. “You’renormally here much earlier. What will the love of your life think?”
    I give a friendly shrug, then settle into my chair, which reeks of old cigarette smoke. Three e-mails from