Kaleidoscope (9 page)

He nodded. “She put a curse on my first son,
sì.
”

Madame Karitska said nothing; she felt a little sick as Jan demanded more from him.

“He says,” resumed Jan, “that when Luca was born he was terrified the child would bring them every possible misfortune. He has expected every day the curse on Luca will hurt him, his wife, his daughter, he cannot bear to look at Luca or touch him.”

“And why,” asked Madame Karitska, “did this horrible woman put this so-called curse on him?”

This needed time, but at last Jan said indignantly, “This wretched Rosetta wanted Luca's father to marry
her
daughter, who had no dowry.” With a nod to Luca's mother she added, “
She
had a dowry, he quickly married her and spent her dowry to come to America, and for this Rosetta cursed him, with some sort of frightening ceremony. Sons are important— vital—what better to curse?”

Madame Karitska slowly rose from the couch where she was sitting and walked over to Luca's father and placed a hand on each side of his face, turning it up to her. She said coldly, “You understand enough English to hear what I am going to say. Luca is not cursed; it is
you
who have been cursed.
You.
Denied a son. Too afraid to love him. Too afraid to touch him. You have made your house cold as ice; do you not realize he feels this?” To Jan she said, “Is there a word for
paralyze
?”

Jan reached for her Italian dictionary and thumbed through it.
“Paralizzare?”

“Exactly,” said Madame Karitska. “He feels your hate; he is paralyzed by it. He retreats. You want a son who works, earns money, walks, talks? This Luca of yours may, with care, grow up to make more money than you will ever see. He is gifted. Bright. Like the sun.”

He stared at her, stupefied.

To Mrs. Cialini she said, “Bring Luca to him.”

Timidly she picked up Luca and carried him to his father, “Hold him.
Hold
him. There is no Rosetta here, you are in America.
Hold
him,” Madame Karitska told him.

He did not reach out his arms, but he allowed Luca to be placed in his lap. For a moment panic appeared to overwhelm him, and then he looked down at Luca and, feeling the weight of him sliding, grasped him closer. He stared down at Luca and Luca looked up at him and they appeared to examine each other, until with dignity Mario said to his wife, “We go home now, Maria.”

His wife moved toward the stroller but he shook his head. “Me, I carry him, Maria.”

Without a word, or a nod to Madame Karitska or Jan, he walked out of the room, his wife behind him.

“A man of pride,” murmured Madame Karitska dryly.

“Too macho to accept the scoldings of two mere women,” laughed Jan. “We run into this occasionally at the Settlement House with immigrant families who come from male-oriented societies.”

Madame Karitska nodded. “I accept the rudeness, but what now for Luca?”

“Leave it to me,” said Jan. “You've planted real doubts in that man about the curse. I'd like Lou Devoe to see Luca—our part-time child psychologist. She won't charge and I'll see to it that someone drives him to her office and returns him—he'll love the toys there. He needs school, of course, but not until he's freed of his fears to talk, and Trafton has two special schools for the unusually gifted.”

“And then?”

“Why, our dear Mr. Faber-Jones,” she said with a smile.

“Jan,” protested Madame Karitska, “we can't keep asking him to subsidize waifs.”

“Waifs!”
exclaimed Jan. “You call John Painter a waif? The story I heard is that you rescued John Painter just as he was about to be arrested for shop-lifting, heard the song he'd written, and insisted Faber-Jones come at once to hear it, and then to start Pisces Record Company to record ‘Once in Old Atlantis,' a song that's made Faber-Jones even richer, and John Painter rich, too. He owes you, Marina.”

Madame Karitska winced. “I feel no debt—except to the child Luca.”

Jan patted her on the arm. “Don't worry, it's far too early to ask his help.” With a glance at her watch she said, “I've got to rush off now, I've a date with a detective lieutenant whom I dearly love and who has the afternoon off. Call me anytime, Marina,” and with a grin she added, “
Ciao,
Marina!” and was gone.

Once she was alone Madame Karitska smiled at Jan's reminding her of John Painter. A very satisfying experience that had been, she thought, and after a few minutes she walked across the room to her cassette player, sorted through the symphonies to reach a certain song, and, as she flicked on the sound, John Painter's voice filled the living room.

Once in old Atlantis,
I loved a lady pure . . .
And then the waters rose
And death was black and cold.
Once in Indian days
I loved a maiden pure . . .
But white men shot her through the heart
And I was left to grieve.
I saw her once in Auschwitz
Young, dressed all in black . . .
Our eyes met once beside the wall—
The Nazis shot her dead.
She's gone, I cannot find her,
A fortune-teller says “Not yet,”
For life's a slowly turning wheel
And this turn's not for love . . .

 

His voice and the guitar faded away until, with a dramatic sweep of his fingers across its strings he repeated, “And this turn's not for love,” and abruptly the music ended.

Yes, she thought, nodding, she really must approach Faber-Jones soon about Luca, who might, in time, become an equal surprise for him.

7

It was several days later when Madame Karitska found Betsy Oliver lurking in her hallway, too shy to knock and apparently not daring to make an appointment that she couldn't afford. She turned scarlet when she was found, and stammered an apology. “You said,” she began, “I mean you told me—and you're the only one who liked my sketches, and—”

“And I told you I hoped that you'd come back in a week or so to see your sketch framed and hung, yes.”

“You don't mind?” she said eagerly. “Are you busy?”

“My dear, you were
invited
. And I'm free for an hour and do come in. You'll find your sketch on the wall over there,” she told her, pointing. “What's more, there's someone I'd like you to meet.”

She left Betsy standing in front of the casual sketch of her daughter, which looked astonishingly uncasual and professional, now that it was matted and framed. Going to the telephone she was relieved to find that Kristan was at work upstairs in his studio. She said, “The young woman whose work I showed you some days ago is here, Kristan. Would you have a few minutes to give counsel? Could I send her up to you?”

Kristan, always ironic, said, “My snakes would doubtless terrify her. I need a break; I'll come down.”

In a few minutes he noisily thundered down the stairs and walked in, his beard daubed with scarlet today, and giving Betsy a keen glance he said, “So.”

Both of them tried to avoid looking at the bruise on Betsy's cheek.

“This,” Madame Karitska told her, “is Kristan Seversky, who works upstairs and is a professional artist, and I showed him your sketch. Now do sit down while I fetch some coffee for you.”

“I shall be very stern,” Kristan told the girl. “You've drawn only faces?”

Betsy nodded, regarding him with awe.

“No figures yet?”

She shook her head.

“Have you done any work in colors?”

“I don't have any,” she admitted.

“You will need training,” he said. “Classes in life— nudes—figures, but—”

“But?” asked Madame Karitska, bringing in coffee and placing the carafe on the table with three cups. “But what, Kristan?”

“But to earn money to live on now—and for further training . . .” He got up and removed the framed sketch from the wall. “You have more of these?”

“Yes,” said Betsy.

“Good. You're willing to start small?”

“Small?” she echoed, confused.

“I have connections with two greeting card companies here in Trafton, and although it is only summer they begin already to plan for Christmas, and they've a penchant for angels. I would say that one of these companies would be seized with delight at such luminous faces, possibly both of them. They do not pay extremely well, but enough to keep bread on your table, and enough for you take a class when you can afford it, to see if you can draw bodies as well, and to support extending your talent. Here,” he said, and reached into a paper bag he'd brought with him, and from it drew out a hand-carved, jointed figure of a man. “With this you can practice. You see the joints? His figure stands. He sits, and you can sketch him seated. You move arms and legs and sketch him running. With this you can practice how the human figure moves.”

“You mean—” began Betsy in surprise.

“Yes, I lend it to you.”

Betsy stared at him with wide eyes. “But this is so . . . so very
kind
of you.”

“I am not kind,” he said brusquely. “I am only an artist who appreciates. Now I want you to go home, gather up all the sketches you have made, and take them to each of these companies downtown. I have written their names down for you here, and the names of the man or woman you must see, and when you are ready to visit them, here is my phone number; I will call and tell them you're coming.”

Betsy looked overwhelmed and a little frightened, and his voice turned kinder. He said gravely, “I can assure you that if they are in their right minds, one of them will surely be eager to use your work; if not, there is still New York. In the meantime I say to you that your drawings are wonderfully original and fresh.”

“You, too?” she marveled. “Madame Karitska said— but I didn't dare—how can I
ever
thank—”

He cut her off, looking pained. “I return now to my painting,” he announced, and to Madame Karitska with a suddenly teasing, boyish smile, “To my snakes.”

With a nod he opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him.

When he was gone Betsy looked at Madame Karitska with a sense of wonder. She said, “I want you to know that I never expected
help
, or anything like this. I came back for . . . for comfort, I guess. To tell you I refused to go with Arthur— Alpha, I mean—and there was no one else to tell. I just knew I couldn't let Alice—our daughter—go to that place, the Guardian place.” Her hand moved to the bruise on her cheek.

“He hit you.”

Betsy nodded. “He left two days ago. He was furious. It's taken so much out of me, I've felt so shaken and lost—”

“Then I'm glad you came.”

“But now—I was going to look for a waitress job,” she said, and suddenly smiled; her smile was radiant. “Now I have something to go home for, something to do. How can I ever thank you and Mr. Seversky?”

Madame Karitska said lightly, “There are some who say there are no accidents in life, and it may be that we were meant to meet.” With a glance at her watch, “Now you must go home and collect your sketches—I assume you've done more since I saw you—and look to your future, not your past.”

“Oh I will, I will,” promised Betsy.

Madame Karitska lifted the framed sketch from her wall. “Take this with you—on loan—because the frame shows it off so well, it enhances it, and there should be no need for you to frame the others.”
Or
the money to frame them,
she thought, but did not say.

Betsy gathered up the jointed wooden figure—“this will be wonderful to work with”—and proudly added the framed sketch. “You must have appointments, so I'll go, but—” She leaned over and kissed Madame Karitska on the cheek. “But suddenly there's so much to do—and without hiding it from my husband!”

8

Madame Karitska did not often have male clients, and she quite understood that masculine pride was usually involved. She was therefore pleased when a Mr. Jason Hendricks made an appointment, but less pleased when he arrived: the poor man looked pale and emaciated, with a haunted look in his eyes, and she found herself hoping that he did not assume she was a healer of sorts, for he looked very ill.

His first words to her were, “I've gone to every doctor possible,” and she flinched. “I don't have AIDS, I don't have tuberculosis, or parasites or ulcers, I've been tested and tested and tested.”

As gently as possible she told him that she did not deal in alternative medicines—
or miracles,
she wanted to say, but didn't.

“I don't expect that,” he told her coldly. “And I don't know why I'm here. A neighbor said I could at least keep trying.”

She nodded. “An act of desperation—I quite understand.”

“Do you?” he demanded. “Do you?”

“Life has many desperate chapters,” she told him, and looking at him more closely she realized that not long ago he must have been a handsome man, and certainly younger than he looked now. “Perhaps over a cup of green tea we can talk better,” she told him, and went into the kitchen to brew it.

When she returned he was looking over the books in her bookcase with interest. “I see that you have several interesting books on Afghanistan. Have you traveled there?”

She smiled. “My family lived in Kabul for a few years when I was a child. Not entirely by choice; we were refugees and very poor. Do you know the country?”

“Only briefly, as a travel writer, before the Taliban took over.” With relief he lowered himself to the couch and watched her pour him a cup of tea. He said carefully, “You understand I expect nothing from you, but this woman I scarcely know—a neighbor—told me about you, and that possibly—well, frankly,” he added, “I was entertaining the thought of ending my life, which has pretty much happened already.” He added dryly, “But without the last rites. She said you saw things?” With a forced smile and a shaking hand he lifted the cup of tea to his lips, and then put it down before it spilled.

“Have you eaten lately?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing solid. No appetite.”

“Sleep?”

“Only with dread, and nightmares,” and quickly changing the subject, “She said I should bring with me something I've worn for years?”

Madame Karitska nodded. “Yes, and have you?”

“My wallet,” he said, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a worn and shabby wallet. “It's gone everywhere with me for years.” He gave a feeble laugh. “I grow notoriously attached to things, no matter how old, perhaps because I move around so much in my travels.”

She smiled. “I know that feeling . . . old clothes, old friends, old books. One needs constants in a traveling life.”

He seemed to suddenly see her more clearly now. “As a refugee you really would know that, wouldn't you.”

She nodded. “Oh yes. When I was a child I once found a milk white stone, almost translucent; I thought it more beautiful than any jewel—we had no toys— and fortunately it was small enough to carry in my pocket; I cherished it for years.”

He nodded. “That I can understand. I often find the oddest souvenirs to bring back with me, never touristy, but satisfying for some inexplicable reason.” He reached across the table and gave his wallet to her. “It's all yours.”

“Thank you. Now if you will be very still, it's called psychometry, and I must deeply concentrate on what it tells me.”
If the gods are smiling,
she added to herself. “And if you've had many experiences as a traveler there will be many impressions. This may take some time, so please relax.”

Holding the wallet cupped in her hands she closed her eyes and this time added a brief prayer. With concentration, impressions began to surface . . . a restless, intelligent man . . . well traveled, hungry for knowledge . . . curious and talented . . . a woman in a sari whom he'd loved . . . desert sands and— She was suddenly startled enough to open her eyes. Admitting less than she received she said, “But I have to tell you at once the impressions I receive are very strong. What you suffer from no doctor here can help, and no prescription cure.”

Dismayed and shocked he said, “Good God, what is it?”

She said softly, “A sickness of the spirit. Of the soul.”

“The soul?” he blurted out. “But that's—”

“Ridiculous? You do have a soul,” she reminded him.

“Of course, but—”

“Please . . . let me clear up one possibility first. You've not had any extremely traumatic experience lately? Depression, loss, for instance?”

He said bitterly, “Both of those since I've begun—at the age of thirty-six—to feel a hundred years old with this illness, yes. Loss? My health. Depression? I can no longer
work
.”

She nodded. “And you returned from your travels how long ago?”

“Two and a half months ago.”

“And began feeling ill on your return?”

“Actually on the plane home, it was a long flight.”

She said abruptly, “Did you drive here?”

“Is that all you can say?” he demanded. “No, I didn't feel well enough to drive here, I took a taxi.”

“Too weak,” she said, nodding. “I'm going to call a taxi now for us.”

“Look here,” he protested, “I came here—”

“To be helped,” she told him. “We now go to a friend of mine for advice.”

He said accusingly, “I begin to think you a bloody quack.”

She turned at the telephone and smiled. “I've been called worse, Mr. Hendricks. What I gave you was a diagnosis, now we must find the cure.”

“Then you're keeping something from me. Am I going to die?”

But she was already ordering a cab, and he waited in an angry silence.

“We will wait outside,” she told him, “there will be a taxi in four minutes.”

He was even more outraged when the cab drove them only two blocks down to Sixth Street, turned to the right and passed groups of idle young men and boys who looked extremely intimidating, but apparently not to his companion. The cab stopped at a storefront with the sign HELP SAVE TOMORROW. “Please wait,” she told the driver.

With resentment Mr. Hendricks climbed out and followed her into a narrow shop full of cartons of shoes and old clothes hanging on rods, its only occupant a huge black man who appeared to be in charge. He said with a warm smile, “Welcome, Madame Karitska!” and then looked doubtfully at her companion.

“Daniel,” she said, “this is Mr. Hendricks, a travel writer who two and a half months ago returned from Africa, much healthier than he is now.”

Hendricks turned to stare at her. “But I didn't tell you I'd been in Africa!”

“No,” she said, “you didn't have to.”

Daniel looked at Hendricks and whistled through his teeth. “He has the look of death on him, that's for sure.”

She nodded. “And has been tested for every possible tropical disease. You once spoke of a doctor who attends the church that contributes to your store. . . .”

Daniel slowly nodded. “Yes, Dr. Idowi. You really think—”

“It's what I saw, Daniel,” she said softly. “Very clearly.”

Daniel nodded. “If you give me a quarter to make the phone call—the pay phone's just down the street.”

Hendricks, clearly worried, said, “What
is
it you saw? For God's sake tell me.”

But Daniel was already returning. “I tell him good, Madame Karitska. He is very, very interested. Just back from university lecture and has one hour before patients now. You go, he is in his office.” He wrote down the address on a scrap of paper.

They returned to the taxi, whose driver had begun to look anxious, considering the neighborhood, and Madame Karitska gave him the address on Tenth Street.

“Oh, the clinic,” said the driver with relief, nodding, and soon deposited them in front of a large brick building bearing a directory of doctors below its sign.

It was refreshingly cool inside; they took the elevator up to the third floor, and when they entered room 305, Hendricks visibly relaxed at the sight of a perfectly normal reception room with a nurse. The nurse, her face a strikingly dark contrast to her starched white uniform, told them the doctor was waiting for them, and opened the door to his office.

Dr. Idowi was a man in midlife, a tall African American with a fringe of gray beard lining a strong jaw, and bright, intelligent eyes. He rose to shake hands with them and then pointed to the two chairs near his desk. “Please be seated,” he said, giving Hendricks a keen glance, and Madame Karitska a smile. “I have heard of you from Daniel, who has spoken to me about you,” he told her. Gravely he added, “And you saw what?”

“A sickness of the soul.”

With a nod he turned to Hendricks. “And you have been tested for bilharzia, yellow fever, cholera, hepatitis, polio, meningitis, and parasites?”

Hendricks nodded. “Everything.”

Leaning back in his chair he said, “Tell me about your visit to Africa, Mr. Hendricks, your itinerary and what particularly interested you.”

Hendricks shrugged. “If it's important I don't mind. I intended to visit the sub-Sahara, but first I stopped briefly—or so I thought—in Kenya, to say hello to a friend of mine, Colin Birchwood, in the Peace Corps. We were in college together, roommates. . . . He met my plane, he and a young African aide and friend named Funtua. And what Colin told me about their work in the bush, in a village in the interior, so interested me I decided to stay . . . to go back with them to their village and spend a few weeks gathering material there, for a book or at least an article.”

“Go on,” said the doctor.

Hendricks's voice became eager as he continued. “I've always been intensely interested in belief systems, especially native religions, and here was my chance to learn firsthand of what I'd only read about. I mean, they really do live with the spirits of their ancestors, offer gifts to them to honor or placate them . . . such rich material! And then their spirit healers . . .”

“I am not unfamiliar with them,” commented Dr. Idowi dryly. “Pray go on.”

“Colin, my Peace Corps friend, told me of an American doctor who had been there for years, quite revolutionary—at least he would be here in America, I guess—because he'd become interested in the natives' traditional medicine and he felt strongly that it should be combined with our modern medicine. Colin and Funtua took me to meet him, and I actually went with the doctor—and Colin and Funtua—to interview, through him, a diviner, and later we witnessed a healing by a native who communicated, apparently, with antagonistic spirits. I've got notes on all this. I believe the good spirits are called Rohanis, the very bad spirits Shetanis.”

“Black magic, white magic,” murmured Dr. Idowi.

Hendricks nodded. “In America they'd call it witchcraft, I suppose? At least the government there tries to suppress
actual
witchcraft, but this seemed straightforward, all of it. I mean, Colin had experienced terrible headaches—migraines—at one time, and Funtua, whose father was a healer, gave him herbs that had cured him, and he and Funtua—”

Dr. Idowi nodded. “They worked together? Had a close relationship?”

“Oh, very,” Hendricks said. “Colin called him his brother, and Funtua beamed and said yes, they were brothers.”

Amused, Dr. Idowi said, “And did Funtua adopt you, too?”

Hendricks smiled. “As a cousin, at least. He was fascinated, listened wide-eyed to Colin and me talking about our college days, and when Funtua didn't understand a word Colin translated it in Swahili—or maybe Hausa, since Funtua was a member of the Chaamba tribe. He spoke English well but didn't understand American slang, which needed explaining.”

“Chaamba,” mused Dr. Idowi. “And have you brought souvenirs back with you?”

Hendricks shrugged. “A few wood carvings, and a necklace of charms.” He reached inside his shirt and brought out a thin leather cord from which hung a tiny cloth bag. “Funtua called them gris-gris,” he said. “The charms.”

“Yes, I know,” Dr. Idowi said dryly. “It is a Hausa word, and the Chaamba speak Hausa. Until I was nine years old I lived in a village in Africa and am well acquainted with gris-gris. Do you mind if I cut this open just to see what's in it?”

“Not if it helps,” said Hendricks. “But you can't possibly think, if you're talking spirits and sorcery, that anything could reach thousands of miles to affect me!”

Without replying Dr. Idowi produced a penknife and slit open the tiny sack. “Feathers,” he murmured. “These slips of paper are no doubt verses from the Koran . . . a stone . . . and these crumbled shreds of— of
wood
, yes—look like scrapings from the bark of a tree or shrub.” He frowned. “I don't know what they would be.” He reached into his desk and brought out a magnifying glass.