Song of the Shaman (8 page)

“I don’t know. My eyes were closed.”

“What about Kwami and Jacob? What happened after they said who they were?”

“Everyone sat still.”

“But Francesca had a different experience.”

Zig said nothing.

“Why do you think that was?” Bruce asked.

Zig scratched the back of his head. “Well, everyone has so many lives. Thousands and thousands of them. Right now, everything you do and even think shows up in your next life. For reasons you already know but can’t remember.”

Bruce nodded.
This was a fifth grader? Where did he get these ideas from?

Zig drank his water and continued. “I think Francesca forgot she lived when that volcano
erupted—”

“Mount Vesuvius,” Bruce offered.

“Yes, that’s the name. She brought back to her mind that time in her life.”

“It must have been terrifying for her. She fainted in the playground.”

“But that’s just it—she’s still here!” Zig gripped the armrest. “Nothing really happened to her, back then or now. She’s here again, this time in Brooklyn.”

“So you’re saying…”

“It’s just like a dream! A very, very, very long dream. We keep dreaming these different lives and adventures until we wake up.”

“Wake up?”

“Then we don’t have to be thousands of different people doing a thousand different things anymore.”

Bruce put his notes to the side. He stared at the boy.

“Zig, do you belong to a church?”

“No.”

“Have you had any religious instruction?”

“Er, no, just swimming and tennis.”

“Yet you believe in God?”

Zig jerked his head back. “I don’t have to be taught what to believe. I know what I know!”

Bruce massaged his jaw with his big hands. There was one question he was eager to ask.

“What about you? Says here you were an Indian
man—”

“Singing songs by a fire.”

“Could you see your surroundings? Were you alone?”

Zig looked down at the floor.

“No, I wasn’t alone, but everyone was asleep.”

“Can you remember the song?”

“I think so…”

“Would you mind if I recorded you singing the song? For my report, of course.”

Zig shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Bruce hastened to open a file cabinet under his desk and took out a small portable cassette recorder. He opened the deck and removed an old tape, rewound it on the end of his pencil, put it back into the machine, and closed the lid. Then he pressed the red and black record buttons and moved the cassette deck close to Zig. Zig closed his eyes and began to hum, then to sing, a soft, tuneless lamentation, his voice unlike a child or a man’s. It was as if an instrument flowed through him from a faraway land.

At once the sound transported Bruce to another time and place. The air was thick with herbal smoke. He saw himself peeking through a slit in a tent, watching, listening to a tribal ceremony, taking notes on a damp piece of paper, the ink skipping, notes he needed for his dissertation…

When the singing ended Bruce stopped the tape. Fascinated, he looked at the boy. Zig was motionless.

“I’d like to talk to you some more about this, Zig. Zig?”

1899

Panama City, Panama

IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT when Louise and her father finally went to bed. Charles continued to grumble and cling to logic. Seeing that Maud was stable at once pleased and baffled Charles, and convinced him not to disturb Benjamin’s service. Louise found it impossible to sleep thinking about all that had happened. She replayed scenes in her head, picturing Benjamin’s rigid expression when he grasped Father’s arm. At dawn she tiptoed from her room to Maud’s doorway and found Benjamin sitting in the same place she had left him—his body statuelike, unflinching. Louise was afraid to enter the room when he opened his eyes.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

His face glowed. “Everything was just like Grandfather said.”

He was exhilarated and she sensed it, too. He spoke of how through his song he had communicated with the spirits that beset Maud well into the night. Louise hung on every word.

“Were you able to drive them out? Are they gone for good?” she asked, inching over to him.

“Only time will tell. Grandfather said I must feel it to know. There can be no doubt.” Benjamin skimmed the disheveled room.

“But he taught you the way to heal.”

“About herbs and songs—yes. He also told me that in Sibo’s world there is no teaching or learning, because there is no belief. There is only certainty.” He paused for a moment, then added, “When one becomes the flute, the song of healing can flow through to others.”

She looked down at the scratched wood floor.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”

“But you do. Because you are here with me, you do.”

He was looking deep into her again, past her eyes and face, past her insecurities and heartache and emptiness. He looked until she felt something real, a point of light inside her. She felt the gentle warmth from that small beam spread over her entire being.

MAUD’S PROGRESS WAS STEADY but slow, making Benjamin’s stay longer than expected. He awakened in Louise a passion for drawing despite her father’s claiming it a frivolous activity. Rosa got used to the smell of boiling herbs in the kitchen alongside her pots of stew. Charles reimmersed himself in his work at the canal. Even Maud, feeling better at last, resumed her natural state of coquetry, soaking up the attention of the handsome young shaman and making eyes at him when he rubbed her forehead with his tinctures. Louise made her medical journal entries, but more and more her descriptions veered from words to portraits of Benjamin. As the days passed they grew more comfortable around each other. Benjamin started recalling bits of his early childhood in the city before he went to live in his grandfather’s village. While lingering in the garden one afternoon he had a sudden memory.

“I remember running along a thicket of bushes that led to paned doors…very much like the ones here.” Deep in thought, he turned his head as if he saw himself run by, his expression softening into that of a child’s.

“Perhaps our garden is similar to the one you grew up in. These courtyard designs were probably typical in San Jose, too,” Louise said, thinking how fate took him out of the stifling atmosphere of colonial customs and society and brought him to a magical place. How lucky he was.

A week after the bookcase fell there was another strange occurrence. It was Independence Day, and Louise, sorry that her sister was missing all the colorful costumes and dance, returned early from the grand
fiesta patria
with silky ribbons and a bouquet of torch ginger flowers to surprise Maud. As she entered the house she was shocked by a queer sight: an enormous sea turtle was parked in the middle of the parlor floor! On clumsy legs the olive leathery creature stood its ground, blinking its ancient hooded eyes at her with a dreamy wisdom. She too blinked, frozen in her steps. How could it have gotten inside? Where did it come from? At that moment Benjamin came in through the garden door. He saw her confusion first, then the turtle. Immediately his excitement grew. He spoke rapidly, emphatically, while Louise tried to piece the meaning together:

a great honor…the sign he was waiting for…the Primal Mother is here…a reminder that She provides for all our needs…just as the turtle cannot separate itself from its shell, turtle magic helps unite heaven and earth…awaken the senses on both a physical and spiritual level…now he is seeing what he should…hearing what he should…sea turtles carry the symbolism of water…

Louise’s head was spinning. “What is the symbolism of water?” she asked.

He took his eyes off the reptile and focused them on her. “It’s the power of the female energies, of reproduction.”

She watched as Benjamin knelt down and murmured gently to the turtle, thanking it for its message. She felt transported in his presence. He had a reverence for all of life that she found utterly alluring, tender and romantic. She wanted to stand closer to him, to touch him. He said he had to help the turtle get back to the sea. He coaxed the creature out of the house and she stared after him until he disappeared from sight. She was in awe of him. She was in love with him.

“WHAT ARE YOU DRAWING?”

Louise shut her sketchbook.

“Benjamin! I didn’t know you were there.”

It was just after breakfast. He had come up behind her while she sat outside on the terrace, drawing. She’d thought she was alone.

“May I see it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Please? I’d like to, if you don’t mind.”

“You won’t like it…”

Louise opened the book to a half-finished portrait of him. She viewed it with him looking over her shoulder as if someone else had drawn it. She did not recognize the complexities, the intricate detail and emotion that flowed from her into the drawing. She saw not an idle sketch but a sensitive work of art. More than that, it was evident that she was in love with her subject. He stood behind her for what seemed an eternity. Her face became hot.

“Is this how I am to you?” he asked.

Louise opened her mouth but no words came out.

“Then I must show you how you are to me.”

Sweet notes from his flute encircled her head. Gentle, lyrical notes danced into a sensual yet mournful melody. It seeped through her skin and flowed in her blood, its beauty making her dazed and dizzy with the notion that he, too, felt the same for her.

AT DAYBREAK THE NEXT MORNING Charles appeared outside Louise’s bedroom impeccably dressed in a morning coat and matching waistcoat, dark trousers, white turnover shirt collar, and black floppy bow tie. His hair, moustache, and beard were neatly trimmed and smelled of pomade and bay rum.

“I have some urgent business to attend to in Balboa. I shouldn’t be long, but tell Rosa not to expect me for supper.” He removed a stack of papers from under his arm and straightened them on the hall railing. “I’ll be dining with a colleague in town before returning home. Rosa will stay here with you and Maud
until—”

“Oh, Father, Rosa needn’t stay!” Louise cut in. She reached out to straighten his tie, sure that the colleague was a lady. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Rosa will stay.” He brushed her hand away and tucked the papers back under his arm with a militant air. “How is Maud this morning?”

Louise turned her back. Four months had passed since her twentieth birthday. He expected her to be an exemplary young lady—when would he treat her like one?

“Well enough. She wants to have breakfast on the terrace.”

“Excellent! My little Maudy! Can she take the stairs?” Charles gleamed beneath his spectacles.

“You needn’t worry. Benjamin and I will help her down.”

“Good! Now I can send that young man back to his grandfather. A rig will take him to Guabito by the end of the week.”

Louise felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Friday is too early! What if Maud has a relapse? Do we want to be left to the whims of the local doctors again?” She wrung her hands. Would the dour hospital image change his mind? Charles gazed at his shoes, stroking his beard.

“No, I suppose not. But if she’s well enough by Friday he will return to his village without haste.” He fingered his timepiece through his suit pocket. “I must go. Tell Maud I’ll see her before bedtime. Promise.” He patted Louise on the arm and hurried away, shoulders bent as if he were some commander rushing off to battle. When would her life cease to be at his mercy? She kicked her door closed and dragged the bedroom curtains aside. Down in the garden Benjamin was trimming a vine of flame-colored flowers.

2006

Brooklyn, New York

RUSHING TO THE SUBWAY she rang both Roland and Marcus several times—their cell phones went directly to voice mail. Her text messages went unanswered. Grace’s line bounced to voice mail, too. Was the whole agency out to lunch? For Marcus and Roland to be unavailable was not good. In the dank station she reorganized the contents of her bag and picked invisible flecks of lint off her raincoat. Forty minutes late to the restaurant. Gotham had been her recommendation, too. She was sick of the starched power scene at Sparks and at Smith & Wollensky, the medieval slabs of bloody meat hanging over the edge of heavy plates. Hopefully the artsy Greenwich Village energy would help revive Aeon’s declining image. There would also be a good supply of hip young women to keep Karston’s eyes busy. She peeled a scrap of milky nail polish off her thumbnail and checked her cell for the umpteenth time, despite there being no signal underground. Why won’t they answer? She wondered how the creative presentation came off without her. The international campaign was by far some of her best work—sexy, clever, right on target for JetSet’s new branding. All night long she’d edited a barrage of speculative commercials; the booming music track still throbbed in her head. The No. 4 train pulled into Union Square. It was raining again. Outside, wet drops pelted her umbrella and sounded like a staccato dialect.
“Hercule, serva nos.”
Zig quoted Latin. It’s not offered until seventh or eighth grade at Excelsior. Water trickled in long stringy streams off her umbrella. What else did he know? She imagined him playing “real pretend,” leading his friends in a game so real one of them actually passed out. She imagined the panic on the teachers’ faces, pictured Zig scrambling off the ground, dazed, and then his stoic silence. Maybe he sees things other people can’t see. To him this was not make-believe. Gotham’s triangular awning came into view, prompting a sharp twist in her gut. Something had gone wrong.

Sheri strode into the airy restaurant filled with a stylish lunch crowd. The maître d’ appeared just as she spotted Roland at the end of the crowded bar. Roland, a fair-skinned African-American man with freckles and velvety brown hair, and Sheri were the stars that won the JetSet account ten years ago. He was the kind of account guy every client wants on their business—smart, always available, and malleable. In the muted light his complexion appeared sallow; his freckles more like an outbreak of the measles. He was alone. Twirling a drink in his right hand, his cell phone pressed to his left ear, he listened intently to whoever was on the other end. Could they have eaten so quickly? Sheri moved past the tables toward his slight figure. Skilled waiters balancing bold plates of vertical food crisscrossed in front of her. Her eye caught the wasted gaze of a woman in a 1960s Diane Arbus photo
. Girl in a Shiny Dress.
Sheri tossed her bag on the bar and slid onto the stool next to Roland. He did a double take when he saw her and changed his posture.

“She just walked in. Yeah. Right. Okay. See you at two-thirty.” He flipped the phone closed and laid it on the bar.

“That was Marcus. JetSet went with Ogilvy. We lost the account.”

Roland picked up his drink and took a long swallow. His full lips twitched and darkened when he was stressed, and he compulsively pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. His declaration hung in the air, as incomprehensible to her as Latin.

“Ogilvy! How…how could that be?” She glanced around to anchor her thoughts. “We were in the final round
of—”

“Karston saw their presentation yesterday. Apparently Ogilvy blew him away. He raved about their test commercials. Said they would ‘blaze the trail for the next phase of JetSet Air.’” Roland stomped the bar’s brass footrest. “I knew it. I knew something was up. It was obvious when they canceled lunch. Ours was just a courtesy presentation.”

Roland drained his glass. A cautious bartender found a lull in their conversation and wandered over.

“Would you like a drink, Miss, or would you like to see the menu?”

The last thing Sheri had was a swallow of black coffee.

“I’ll have Absolut and tonic.”

“Same here.” Roland flicked the empty glass away from him. The bartender swept it somewhere under the counter and hurried to prepare their order. Sheri was speechless; the news cut like a knife. Moments later the bartender reappeared and placed two generous drinks in front of them.

“What was their reaction to the creative? The TV campaigns?” Her hand shook as she took a sip from her glass. The liquor felt good flowing down her throat.

“Jude and Thom were amused at times, but you could feel the tension. Karston just sat there; he never cracked a smile. Asshole.” Roland snatched up his cell phone, scanned it for e-mail, and tossed it back on the bar.

“I called and texted you guys a million times.”

“I got your text message—right in the middle of Marcus ranting like a freaking lunatic. What happened anyway? You ran out of the meeting like a bat out of hell.”

“Zig got into some trouble at school. I had to get over there.”

“Isn’t he at a private school? What kind of trouble could they have? Shit, you pay them to keep your kid out of trouble. Marcus was pissed.”

Sheri glared at him. “It’s not like you guys never presented creative to Karston before. Those spots were award winners! They could easily sell themselves!” She steadied her elbow on the bar, ran nervous fingers through her hair. Marcus, with his skinny head and Nazi chin, couldn’t care less about the creative process, about turning a slither of an idea into beautiful pictures and words. He hinged his bets on his close relationship with Karston. They both went to Stanford, played golf at the same country club, took vacations together, attended each other’s weddings. She couldn’t tell if Marcus knew about Karston’s advances.

“What about the music? Did you tell him Sting agreed to do the final cut?”

Roland spread his arms.

“We couldn’t get the CD player to work.”

“What!
I cued it up!”

“Marcus accidentally pressed the power button. The settings were lost and nobody knew how to reprogram the damn machine. Karston took a call on his cell while Marcus was scrambling.”

Her eyes met Roland’s. They both knew what fate had in store for them. A third of the agency’s staff was devoted to working on JetSet business. Come Friday thirty or more people would be let go, Sheri and Roland included. All the stress she had been dealt today—at work, at Zig’s school—was so surreal, so bizarre it was funny. She took another gulp of her drink. Laughter burst from her lips. It was infectious. Roland joined in.

“Looks like curtains for us, huh, partner?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Speak for yourself.” The vodka loosened her tongue.

“You won’t survive the boot. You’re not that cute.”

“That’s all right. I just have to be cuter than you.”

“Karston won’t be checking you out anymore either.”

Sheri stopped laughing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows he’s hot for you. He was all over you after the shoot at Celadon.”

“You weren’t there…you went back to the hotel.”

“Aha! That’s what you thought! On my way out of the restaurant I spied a cutie at the bar and hung around for a little while. When her date came back from the men’s room I got up to leave in time to see Karston breathing down your neck.”

“So why didn’t you rescue me, Batman?”

“A multi-million-dollar piece of business? Unlimited expense account? Two-week shoots in LA? Hell, I wasn’t gonna mess that up. You’re a big girl. You could tackle him.”

“I wish his effing wife would tackle him.”

Roland threw his head back and howled. A group of Japanese tourists nearby turned to stare. He groaned. “This is just great…just fucking great.”

She was frightened and at the same time relieved. The relentless grind was coming to a screeching halt. What was called “a living” had to be redefined whether she liked it or not. She had every reason to be concerned. There were huge credit card bills. Tuition. A mortgage. Health insurance costs. But for some reason instead of worry a weight lifted off her. She felt like she was floating, watching the drama unfold from afar.

Roland snatched his coat from the bar counter.

“I gotta get out of here. There’s a two-thirty meeting on OfficeMax.”

She started to say why bother but changed her mind. She needed some space.

“I’ll stay and finish my drink.”

“Whatever. See you at the guillotine.” Roland went to pick up the tab. Sheri put her hand on his arm.

“I got it.”

“It’s about time! Thanks, Mother Teresa.”

“Don’t mention it, Judas.”

He flashed a half-sarcastic smile, dug in his breast pocket for a Marlboro Light, and popped one in his mouth. She watched his slim silhouette glide along the bar and out the entrance. The lunch crowd had died down; there were just a few couples hurrying to order from the prix fixe lunch menu before it expired. The dynamic atmosphere abruptly changed to solemn, as if it were almost closing time. She called the waiter over and gave him her AmEx. This might be her last receipt to put in for reimbursement. Sheri finished her drink and headed for the door.

BLACK FRIDAY CAME AS PREDICTED. News of the JetSet Airways loss blew through the office like wildfire. Staff stumbled around in a paranoid daze, whispering in corners, awaiting the final doom. Everyone pitied her, rubbernecking whenever they passed her office, looking for signs of emotional wreckage. Late that afternoon Marcus charged into her office and shut the door. She barely heard his ill-rehearsed speech; her thoughts revolved around all the years she spent at Aeon, building the small, unknown shop into a powerhouse creative agency, only to watch it backslide into its original heap. In less than a year he would be begging her to come back to salvage the ruins. No way. She was done with Aeon, regardless of how bleak the job market looked. Marcus’s dry lips moved but the audio was off in her head. She noticed how blank and rubbery his forehead was; how vacant his icy blue eyes were. He mumbled on about downsizing the department… some new executive search firm…six months’ severance…

Sheri stood up from behind her desk.

“Save it, Marcus. Just give me what I’m entitled to and I’ll walk.”

He sprinted out of her office. The sense of liberation she had before was still with her. She opened her writing journal and scribbled all over the page, easing her tangled nerves with swirling spirals and hangmanlike stick figures, spindly trees, and snake-ish vertebrae. Drawing like this comforted her, reminded her of when she was a little girl lying on her stomach on the living room floor, squares of golden afternoon sun framing her as she drew, making the figures seem to leap off the paper. It kept her loneliness at bay, being absorbed in the detail and placement of every shape. Strangely enough, her very best ideas all started with these simple lines. Her eyes drifted over the neat white office. She was so used to her place here, the space she carved out for herself. At forty-six, could she work for someone new, learn a whole new company culture, new accounts, new bureaucratic BS? The thought was grim. And what about Leatrice? She’d have to let her go. There’s no telling how long it would take Sheri to find a job. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them back. She would never give anyone at Aeon the benefit of seeing her cry.

Sheri took a last look at her wall of metal friends—the unbending Andy and Clio Award statues, the One Show Gold Pencils, the winged man on the London International Award. Each stood gleaming under archaic track lights, reflecting years of endless nights in editing sessions and hunched over light boxes staring at photo slides. Zig’s face floated by on her computer screen saver—fresh, alive, spirited. He was not just another trophy. Not just another title she could add to her name. Her love for him was the greatest joy in her life. It was the only thing that mattered.

The room dissolved. She pictured those mothers who went on field trips and carried pretzels and M&M’s in Ziploc bags. Mothers who barely combed their hair and wore the same jeans every day, who knew all the supermarket guys by name, who faithfully dropped their kids off at school and picked them up at 3:00 p.m. Could she be one of them? Even for a little while? She got six months’ severance. She’d get something from unemployment and could borrow from her 401K. Their lives would have to downsize drastically while she figured out her next move. But this was the chance she had yearned for—time to spend with her son. And with what was happening at school she needed to be available for him, physically and emotionally. By being at home more she could keep him grounded; then maybe he wouldn’t have to escape to a fantasy world of “real pretend.” Yes, at last she could sort out his inexplicable behavior, find the meaning behind his amazing stories. Though her mind sailed into rocky, uncharted waters, somehow it felt good. It felt right.

Sheri closed her journal, spun around to her computer, and pressed a few keys on the keyboard. In seconds her entire history at Aeon vanished into cyberspace. Soon after, the HR woman came by with flattened cardboard boxes for Sheri to fill and exit papers to sign. While she was reviewing the forms the IT guy snuck in to remove her computer. As soon as they left Sheri pushed the boxes behind her door, cleared out her file cabinets, bookcase, and desk and threw everything in the trash. She walked out of Aeon the way she walked in thirteen years ago—with a bag on her shoulder and a coat over her arm.