Free The Ruby Notebook by Laura Resau

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 apen 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 tellme 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,