The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (25 page)

“Garden City Theater, Pomona.”

“Okay, Larry. Thanks.”

Aiken watched five minutes of feature film, which was immediately followed by a slide reading:

Please do not leave the theater.
You are about to witness a
SNEAK PREVIEW
Your comments will be appreciated
.

The slide dissolved into a title: a montage of colored letters on a silver-green background:

VASILLISSA THE
ENCHANTED PRINCESS.
A fantasy based on an ancient
Russian fairy tale
.
THE MERLIN STUDIOS.

The silver-green background dissolved into orange; bold gray letters read:
Produced by Victor Martinon
.

There were no further credits. The orange dissolved into a blur of gray mist, with wandering hints of pink and green.

A voice spoke. “We go far away and long ago—to old Russia where once upon a time a young woodcutter named Ivan, returning from the woods, found a dove lying under a tree. The dove had a broken wing, and looked at Ivan so sorrowfully that he took pity on it…”

The mist broke open, into the world of fairyland, a landscape swimming in radiance, richness, color. It was real and it was unreal, a land everyone hoped for but knew never could be. There was a forest of antique trees, banks of ferns with the sun shining through the leaves, moist white flowers, beds of violets. The foliage was brown, gold, rust, lime and dark green, and down through the leaves came shafts of sunshine. Beyond the forest was a green meadow sprinkled with daisies, buttercups, cowslips, cornflowers, and far away down the valley the dark wooden gables of a village, the onion dome of a church could be seen.

The story proceeded, narrated by the voice. “Ivan nursed the dove back to health, and received a malachite casket for a reward. When he opened the casket a magnificent palace appeared on the meadow, surrounded by beautiful gardens, terraces of ivory, statues of jade and jet and cinnabar.

“The Czar of the Sea, riding past, saw the palace. Angry at Ivan’s presumption he set Ivan impossible tasks—cutting down a forest overnight, building a flying ship, breaking an iron stallion to the saddle.

“The dove came to aid Ivan. She was Vasillissa, a beautiful maiden with long honey-blonde hair…”

The fable vaulted from miracle to miracle, through battles, sorcery, quests to the end of the earth, the final defeat of the Czar.

There was no sound from the audience. Every eye stared as if seeing the most precious part of their lives. The landscapes glowed with marvelous light: pink, blue, black, gold. The scenes were rich with imagery; real with the truth of poetry. The Czar, a great swarthy man, wore a scarlet robe and over this a black iron corselet embossed with jade. Chumichka, his steward, hopped around on malformed legs, glaring wildly from a pallid sidelong face.

The story swarmed with monsters and creatures of fable: griffins, hedge-hounds, fish with legs, fiery birds.

And Vasillissa! When Aiken saw Vasillissa, he muttered and stirred in his seat. Vasillissa was a beautiful golden-haired girl, swift as dandelion fluff, gay as any of the flowers. Vasillissa was as much a thing of magic as Ivan’s wonderful palace. Like the fairy landscapes, she awakened a yearning that could never be satisfied. In one scene she came down to the river to catch a witch who had taken the form of a carp. The pool was like bottle-glass, shadowed by black-green poplars. Vasillissa stood silent, looking over the water. The carp jumped up in a flurry of silver spray; she turned her head so suddenly that the blonde hair swung out to the side.

“I must be completely mad,” said Aiken to himself.

Vasillissa and Ivan finally escaped the raging Czar. “And they lived happily ever after, in the palace by the Dorogheny Woods,” said the voice. And the picture ended.

Aiken drew a great breath. He joined the applause of the audience, rose to his feet, drove back to his apartment at breakneck pace.

For several hours he lay awake thinking. Magic Vasillissa! Today he had seen her as a blind girl, with silky blonde hair; slight, thoughtful, rather shy. Carol Bannister—Vasillissa. She was and she wasn’t. Carol was blind. Vasillissa had bright blue eyes and could see very well indeed. What a strange situation, thought Aiken, and lay tossing and dozing and dreaming and thinking.

James Aiken was hardly a handsome man, although he had an indefinable flair, the concentration of character that equals color. His mouth drooped at a harsh saturnine angle; he was thin and angular; he walked with a limp. He smoked and drank a good deal; he had few friends, and made no great play for women. He was clever, imaginative, quick with his hands, and the Aiken Special Effects Laboratory was doing good business. He aroused no great loyalty from his employees. They thought him cynical and morose. But a cynic is a disappointed idealist; and James Aiken was as tender, wistful an idealist as could be found in all Los Angeles.

Vasillissa the Enchanted Princess!

He brooded about Carol Bannister. She had not acted Vasillissa, she
was
Vasillissa! And the magic longing rose in his throat like a sour taste, and he knew nothing else in life was as important.

At quarter of ten next morning he drove north on Arroyo Seco Boulevard, up winding Lomita Way to the Krebius Children’s Clinic.

At the desk he gave his name, asked to speak to Dr. Krebius, and after a ten minute wait was ushered into an austere office.

Krebius rose to his feet, bowed stiffly. “Yes, Mr. Aiken.” No longer the bluff and genial doctor of yesterday, he seemed stubborn and suspicious.

Aiken asked, “May I sit down?”

“Certainly.” Krebius lowered himself into his own chair, erect as a post. “What do you wish?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Carol Bannister.”

Krebius raised his eyebrows inquiringly, as if the choice of topic had surprised him. “Very well.”

“Has she ever done any acting? In the movies?”

“Carol?” Krebius looked puzzled. “No. Never. I have known her many years. My sister is married to the cousin of her father. She has done no acting. Perhaps you are thinking of her mother. Marya Leone.”

“Marya Leone? Carol’s mother?”

Krebius indulged himself in a wintry smile. “Yes.”

“I feel even sorrier for Carol.” Marya Leone, a long-faded soubrette, was known along Sunset Strip as a confirmed and unregenerate alcoholic. A fragment of long-dead gossip rose into his mind. “One of her husbands killed himself.”

“That was Carol’s father. Four years ago. That very night Carol lost her vision. Her life has been clouded by great tragedy.”

Krebius pushed himself back in his chair, his white eyebrows came lower down over his hard blue eyes.

Aiken said in a conciliatory voice, “Do you think there’s a connection? Between the blindness and the suicide? Shock perhaps? Somewhere I’ve heard of things like that.”

Krebius spread his hands in a non-committal gesture. “Who knows? They were high in the mountains, in a lodge that Marya Leone at that time still owned. Carol was fourteen. A thunderstorm came at night, bringing evil emotions. There was quarrelling. Howard Bannister shot himself, and in the next room a bolt of lightning struck through the window at little Carol. She has seen nothing since.”

“Hysterical blindness. That’s the word I was thinking of. Could she be suffering from that?”

Krebius made the same non-committal gesture. Aiken felt in him a lessening of suspicion and hostility. “Perhaps. But I think not. The optic nerve no longer functions correctly, although in many ways it reacts like perfectly healthy tissue. Carol is victim to a unique disability. The cause, who knows? Glare? Electricity? Shock? Terror? In the absence of precedent, I must strike out for myself. I attempt to stimulate the nerve; I have devised special equipment. I love her as my own child.” Krebius leaned forward, pounded the desk for emphasis.

“What are her chances of seeing again?”

Krebius leaned back in his chair, looked away. “I do not know. I think she will see—sometime.”

“Your treatments are helping her?”

“I believe and trust so.”

“One more question, Doctor. How does Victor Martinon fit into the picture?”

Krebius became subtly uncomfortable. “He is her mother’s friend. In fact—” His voice trailed off. “In fact it is said at one time—”

Aiken nodded. “I see. But why—”

Krebius interrupted him. “Victor is helping me. He is interested in therapy.”

“Victor Martinon?” Aiken laughed in such sardonic disbelief that Krebius flushed. “I can easily see Martinon playing in a Salvation Army Band.”

“Nevertheless,” said Krebius, “he assists me in giving treatments.”

“To Carol?”

“Yes. To Carol.” Krebius was once again stubborn and hostile. His eyes glared, his white eyebrows bristled, his chin thrust out. In an icy voice he asked, “May I ask your interest in Carol?”

Aiken had been expecting the question, but had no easy answer ready. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’d rather not answer that question…You can think of it as a romantic interest.”

Krebius’ busy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Romance? Little Carol? A child yet!”

“Perhaps you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”

“Perhaps not,” muttered Krebius deep in thought. “Perhaps not. The little ones grow up so fast.”

“Incidentally,” Aiken asked, “does Carol have any sisters? Or a cousin who looks like her?”

“No. Nothing. No one.”

Aiken said no more. He rose to his feet. “I won’t take up your time, Doctor. But I’d like to talk to Carol, if I may.”

Krebius stared up truculently as if he might refuse, then shrugged and grunted. “I have no objections. She must not leave the hospital. She is in my care.”

“Thank you.” Aiken left the office, went to the reception desk. Martinon was just coming in through the main entrance. At the sight of Aiken his pace slackened.

“Hello, Aiken. What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

“I have business here.”

“So have I.” Aiken turned to the nurse. “I’d like to speak to Carol Bannister. Dr. Krebius gave me permission.”

“I’ll ring for her. You can wait in the reception room.”

“Thanks.” Aiken nodded to Martinon, went into the reception room which opened off the lobby, across from Krebius’ office.

Martinon looked after him, turned, walked into Krebius’ office without knocking.

Time passed. Aiken sat on the edge of his chair, his hands moist. He was extremely nervous, and correspondingly annoyed at himself. Who would come through the door? Carol Bannister? Vasillissa? Was he confused, mistaken, making a fool of himself? The minutes passed, and Aiken could no longer sit still. He rose to his feet, moved around the room. Through the open door he saw Martinon come into the lobby followed by Dr. Krebius. Martinon was pale and glittering-eyed. Krebius looked surly. They marched up the corridor, neither speaking to the other, and disappeared into a room next to Krebius’ office, with
Laboratory
painted on the door.

The corridor was now empty. Aiken went back to the couch, forced himself to sit quietly.

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Aiken?” she asked briskly.

“Yes.” He rose to his feet.

Carol came into the doorway, felt her way past the jamb. In her white blouse and gray flannel skirt she looked like a college freshman; her honey-colored hair was brushed till it shone. She seemed slighter and more fragile than Aiken had remembered, but of course his recollection was colored by the image of Vasillissa, agile, vital, reckless.

She looked uncertainly in Aiken’s direction, with wide, blank, Delft-blue eyes.

“Hello,” said Aiken in a voice that was not quite his own.

“Hello.” She was puzzled.

Aiken took her arm, led her to the couch. The nurse nodded briefly at Aiken, disappeared. “My name is James Aiken. I spoke to you in the hall yesterday.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now.”

Aiken was studying her face. Was this Carol? Or Vasillissa? And if she were Vasillissa, how did Carol see? He made up his mind. It was definite. There was something in the poise of the head, the slant of the jaw that was unmistakable. This was Vasillissa. But she lived in a new country, in a new time, unable to use her magic. The dove with the broken wing.

She moved restlessly. Aiken hastily said, “I suppose you’re wondering what I want.”

She laughed. “I’m glad you came. I get lonesome.”

“Dr. Krebius tells me you lost your sight in a lightning storm—”

Her face went instantly blank and cold. He had said the wrong thing.

“He says that it’s very likely you’ll see again.”

“Yes.”

“These treatments—do they do you any good?”

“You mean, the Opticon?”

“If that’s what they call it.”

“Well, up to three or four months ago I thought I saw the colors. You know, little flashes. But I don’t see them any more.”

“How long has Martinon been working with you?”

“Oh, about that long. He works differently from Doctor Krebius.”