This was it. Just a few steps separated him from the famous Madame Fetelian. He hesitated for a few more seconds. As he glanced out of the window, he saw that he had chanced to park right in front of No. 84 on the Rue Joseph Claes.
“Well, here goes!” he said to himself. “What now? Ring the bell and go in – or not?” He had asked himself countless times throughout the twenty-minute journey. He had booked the appointment by phone for seven thirty. He was, as always, exactly on time. With a sudden impulsive motion, he was out of the car, and before allowing himself another chance to think, he was ringing one of the bells at the battered door of No.84.
The door creaked slowly open by itself, revealing a plump, fiftyish woman with white skin, jet-black eyes and raven hair; her brightly painted full red lips overpowered her other features.
“Good evening, sir. Entrez, come in, please! Welcome!” She kindly invited him in, her broken and rather eccentric French made near incomprehensible by a heavy foreign accent. The woman indicated the half-open door at the back of the dark hallway. He stepped hesitantly into the unknown building, wondering what he was getting into. As if understanding his misgivings, she hopped nimbly in front of him in the half-darkness and led him forward. Flinging wide the door of her flat, she signaled that he should enter.
The room was also buried in twilight. What the dimness allowed him to see clearly was the wonderful carved plaster ceiling, a remnant of past glory, and the delicate geometric designs of the parquet flooring that brought to mind the reception rooms of an old-time bourgeois mansion. It had certainly seen better days. Its shabby furnishings reflected the impoverished magnificence of the building. On the back wall of the room was a huge window, two of the panes at the top decorated with beautifully coloured stained glass. Some bits must have been broken and had been replaced with cheap clear glass. The lower part of the window was covered with tiny embroidered curtains, tattered by time.
With an elegant gesture, Madame Fetelian invited him to sit on one of two rickety chairs at a table in the centre of the room. Keith reluctantly sat down on one of them, which accepted him with a crackling grunt, as she took her place directly opposite him. On the table was a white lace cloth, a book and a small bowl of golden chrysanthemums. He tried to examine the details of her face in the meagre light of the single lamp on a side table. Apart from the extraordinary lips, her eyes drew his attention; they radiated a special serenity, calmness and sobriety which also characterised her tone of voice and her bearing.
“Well, sir, tell why you come to me? Why you want my help? Do you want to reach someone from the other side?” She asked as simply as if offering a cigarette or a glass of beer.
“Yes...” gulped Keith. “I… I… I would like to reach…”
“Enough, sir,” she interrupted him. “I do not need names. I will try to contact beyond and see if there is a spirit wants to visit us. I regret, we do not have luxury to choose them; they choose us. If someone was very close to you in life and you truly cared for them, they will come. Very quick. Someone you think very often. It usually happens,” she said gently. Keith remained watching her, silent and sceptical. She must discern in his expression a strong dose of doubt, even perhaps mockery of this whole procedure. But she was not intimidated.
“Just relax and try to pay attention, please. Stay calm, do not talk, and do not say a word. Bring your mind to the person you want to reach. Try to relax, clear mind of all other thought,” she repeated, and somehow her eyes transfixed him as though for hypnosis. As she went on speaking softly, Keith began to feel different. Strange. It seemed as though she had inexplicably transferred all her own tranquility, a sort of nirvana, to his body. His arms and legs seemed to have fallen asleep.
The medium closed her eyes briefly. He watched her with growing anticipation for whatever might be coming. Two minutes passed, three... The room remained sunk into complete silence, a quiet with a new-found peace, a peace that Keith was unable to explain. He could not even hear the street traffic outside. He had completely surrendered to the moment, abandoned all his doubts, with no idea what to expect.
Suddenly, the psychic startled him with a profound sigh. But he remembered her advice not to move or distract her, not to speak. Then a light breeze arose, forming a small whirlwind surrounding the table. Keith’s eyes widened with apprehension as he felt it chilling his face. The rest of him was immobilised. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He saw with his own eyes the edges of the white lace tablecloth beginning to stir in the inexplicable air currents. The petals of the flowers rippled slightly. At the same time, he felt a strong shiver begin in the soles of his feet and rise rapidly towards the upper part of his body, flashing upward along his spine. The hairs on his head rose even more and his body began to tremble. He watched silently, frozen, a little scared. She raised her eyelids at last. She looked him straight in the eye with wide-open, bulging eyes. What power there was in such a look!
The psychic immediately perceived his reactions.
“Nothing to be afraid!” she said. Then, “Someone is here with us!” she said in a slow eerie voice, and smiled happily. “Ah, yes, someone!” she said. Keith looked at her, unable to make any movement, his pupils dilated.
“I am sure!” repeated Madame Fetelian, speaking in a slow unnatural voice. “She says that she had to leave you suddenly at Christmas time. That she never had the chance to say a last goodbye to you. She says she regrets it so much, and the terrible pain it caused you. She says she still carries… something… with her. Something red… a flower… maybe like a flower she had given you ... or you gave to her. That she will keep it forever with her to remind her of all the beautiful moments you shared together.” She spoke in the same unearthly voice. Keith’s lips had parted, his mouth dropped open in amazement. He felt his lower jaw tremble uncontrollably. He wanted to ask a thousand things at once but could not find his voice. Finally, he croaked, “Is she well where she is? Tell her that I love her!” was all he could manage through his quivering lips.
“She says she's well where she is. That she is content there and she watches you constantly from afar. She says you must take care of yourself. She warns you about – an ascenseur – a lift? Strange! About a lift and water, lots of water.” Still with her serenity intact and the expressionless face, she continued, “You will fight and save yourself… you will do well.” Now the most uncanny change occurred in her voice; it lost the thick accent, became light with a strong Irish lilt... “I will never leave you for a second; I will watch over you and protect you. And you will not die, because there is something you must do. A task, a mission! You must complete it. This was your purpose in coming to Earth. This is why you were born… You must persevere until the end...”
The medium stopped speaking and looked him in the eyes. Her tone changed. In her own voice she said, “It is incredibly strong, this message! Does this mean anything to you? I hope it is useful in some way.”
“I don’t know what it means – what lift? Ask her! What water? I don’t understand...” stammered Keith, his voice full of despair. “I don’t know what any of it means... I think you are a charlatan, Madame, and spouting a lot of nonsense about warnings and lifts and missions. My Maeve never spoke of such things! A cruel thing to do! To exploit a man’s need to reach for the one he loved and lost!...” He could not continue.
The woman gave a painful gasp and began moving her arms as if to push something away. “No, no!” Now her voice was faint and eerie – and Irish. “Oh, do not doubt me! Remember Il Sole, and a little red velvet box? And the people cheering for us? I still wear your ring! It is part of me forever...”
Keith felt his face turn pale. How could anyone but Maeve – what was happening here? His mind was a jumble. “Ask her... what is all that about a mission? Oh, never mind – tell her I love her so very much, then and now and forever, and that my life is completely empty and useless without her!” he cried hoarsely, tears running down his face.
Madame Feteli
an’s eyes commanded calm, then she silently brought her forefinger to her lips, urging him to be quiet. She seemed to be again trying to concentrate on communicating with the unknown spirit. She closed her eyes and appeared to listen for a while, as if trying to hear something from the beyond. Seconds of absolute silence and terrible tension followed.
“You will understand what the mission is when it is time for it. You must be very careful. Something will entangle you into a very hard and difficult path. Something will try to stop you. You must not let anything stop you. Take all necessary measures... love...” The light voice faded.
Madame Fetelian’s posture was strained, her voice deepened and slowed. “She say that she always with you even when you are not aware of it. That she will love you forever. But she must leave now... leave us... losing slowly... I miss the...” she whispered. “Lost... sends you all her love... leave us now...” she said in her strong accented French, and closed her eyes.
Huddled on his chair, Keith felt caught up in a web of love and hope and enigmatic warnings, as the cold breeze brushed his face. The medium was lying back in her chair, very white and still, her red mouth a startling contrast in the dim light. The room sharply reverted to how it was when he began his visit just a few minutes earlier...
The impossible experience had left him speechless. Keith was unable to move or articulate a word. Tears still trickled from his eyes.
Suddenly, the medium opened her eyes, shook herself and smiled.
“Are you all right? Would you like some water or a soft drink or coffee?” asked Madame Fetelian, understanding his plight. This type of reaction was not uncommon among her clients, especially new ones.
“No, no, thank you,” he said in a voice that came from his innermost guts. “I’ll just pay and leave.”
“I hope I help you... I hope spirit who visited us and what she said will bring you some peace of mind. Did you take its meaning?” asked the medium with some curiosity. The messages had been so very clear and bright.
“Probably...” faltered Keith, still shocked by the experience. “Most... somehow... I do not know, I can’t... so soon. I will have to think... Thank you very much though. Thank you for everything!” he stammered and, lurching up from his chair, he reached for his wallet and drew out fifty euro. Dropping it on the table, he looked desperately for the door. The woman showed him out with a wave of her hand and he made a relieved exit. He burst out of the dilapidated building still visibly upset and shaken by the experience, but with a heart strangely tranquil. It was the first time since Maeve’s death that he had felt that way.
He walked to his car and collapsed in the driving seat, feeling like a lifeless tangle of rags. He sat motionless with eyes fixed through the windshield of the car on the desolate, poorly lit alley that stretched before him.
“What was that? Was any of it real? Is it possible?” he asked himself again and again. It would take him some time to understand and assimilate what had happened. If it had happened. He was unable to find any kind of explanation. All he could say with certainty was that it had all seemed to take place before his own eyes. He had not imagined it, not dreamed it. He was sure that something unusual and remarkable had happened that night. The strange woman certainly had no information about his past. But what she had said was all accurate. Had his sweet Maeve actually been present in that shabby room in some inexplicable way? She had spoken in her own voice, she had not forgotten him, she loved him still, even where she was. In spite of the ruthless injustice of their separation, she was beside him, with his every movement, every step, protecting him from any pitfalls, just as he had felt her during those few months when he’d had the precious joy of having her beside him, alive.
That sweet reminder was enough to keep him tossing and turning all night. The whole episode was so dreamlike – the setting, the voices – his longing for her must have created the incident out of his own desire. “Missions and water – mourning takes strange forms… I wanted her so much...”He tried to put the episode out of his mind. She was dead and gone and he would never be really alive again. He thought he heard a soft sigh, but it was just the wind hissing around the window. He had been hypnotised. That must be it.
The next morning, he awoke heavy-eyed and troubled, but plunged into the clean, straightforward calculations of numbers at the office, where there were no fantasy voices or stained glass windows and jumbled-up messages.
****
Following Keith’s departure, Madame Fetelian glanced at her table and noticed some debris of fallen golden petals and decided that the bowl of chrysanthemums too had seen better days. As she lifted the bowl, she observed something small and red on the spot where it had been. A red rose petal. She never had roses in the house, she did not like the heavy perfume. She shrugged and tossed it in the bin. She must have picked it up on her clothes as she passed a flower seller.
CHAPTER TEN
Fifth Stop: Montgomery – Sévérine
At the next stop, Keith was already so closely crammed in by the bodies of the travelling public that he was unable to observe the new ‘performance’ by the automatic doors while the train paused at the station. All that was offered to his senses was the sound of Lily Allen’s Hard out Here and the unbearable assault on his nostrils by Chanel No.5 which suddenly pervaded the already suffocating atmosphere of the cramped carriage. Combined with the sealed windows and the lack of ventilation, it brought on a queasy feeling, even on a stomach empty of breakfast. “Crikey, instant asphyxia! What a horrible smell! What does that ghastly perfume remind me of…?” mused Keith.
****
Poseidon swimming pool, Brussels,17th January, 1976
In a corner of the changing room, Élodie tucked a stray curl under Sévérine’s tight cap with trembling hands. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered to the little girl who was pulling at the tight straps of her plain blue bathing costume. The pink one with flowers they had bought together had been much prettier, but Papa had exploded, “Must you deck the kid out like a bleeding rosebush?” And the offending garment had been replaced.
Little Sévérine was terrified. She clung to her mother’s hands as they made their way out into the huge swimming pool filled with echoing shouts and squeals, the sounds of splashing magnified to monsoon strength, and the overpowering smell of chlorine, rubber and wet wool. “It’ll be fine, darling,” Élodie said, as her husband seized the child by her tiny arm. But she knew it would not be. It never would be.
It was a bitter Sunday morning in January, but the great building housing the proud new Olympic-sized Poseidon Swimming Bath in the Tomberg district of Brussels was kept at a balmy eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit, so her shivering could not have been from the cold. It seemed as large as the ocean, with lanes marked out by ropes. The grey sky overhead was revealed through a high dome of glass panels. The water was simmering bright blue. There was so very much of it.
“Come along, child, up you go!” and Sévérine found herself suddenly on the highest diving board, so high that the other people in the pool were just dots, her feet planted on the jute matting. Far below, the glossy surface trembled under the fixed gaze of her own blue eyes. It was much deeper than any ocean, too far over her head to even imagine.
“Let’s go! We talked about this. You just move your arms in front and the water will hold you up!” her father bellowed from below.
Her mother was standing helplessly next to him, so far below, white-faced, her hand covering her mouth. If only she could put a stop to this! Something terrible would come of it. It was so obviously dangerous. The child was so little. She looked up at him, imploring, “Please let her start down here, it’s too deep, she’s only six, Frédéric. It’s too high, you know it is...” but her voice trailed off. He wasn’t listening. He never did. She might as well be invisible and inaudible.
He glanced at her briefly, somewhat surprised at her daring to intervene, but his black eyes were fixed on the little figure trembling on the board, sending spa
rks of anger in her direction. “God almighty! Just like her mother. Une poule mouillée. A boy would have been in and swimming by now,” he growled. Then he shouted, “Get on with it! Jump in!” He knew absolutely that as soon as she hit the water, her survival instinct would kick in and she would swim. “The end justifies the means – that’s the basis of human life,” he declared.
Élodie d’Ydekem was half his age. A shy little girl, she had been raised in the lap of luxury and indulgence by her wealthy family. Early on, she had discovered that in that household of assertive personalities, the best thing was not to be noticed at all. She was all too conscious of her shortcomings, aware that she was both physically fragile and not very clever; she wasn’t even beautiful. She had few friends and understood the reason: she was too much in need of support.
While she was struggling with her lessons in her last year of secondary school, someone recommended a tutor, a brilliant promising young professor. With his winning ways and aura of knowledge, to the intense gratitude of her parents who welcomed him into their social milieu, Frédéric Moret entered her life and got her through her exams. When she had achieved her diploma, he confidently assumed that, when he proposed to marry her, her parents would be delighted.
She could never explain that from the start he had vaguely alarmed her. Their relationship was established: the superior, ruthless educator and his tremulous, unsatisfactory student. Little Sévérine came along seven years later, by which time Élodie had faded into a silent inanimate doll, meekly submitting to whatever he cared to dish out. She hushed the baby so it would not disturb him, and the two of them lived in their house hiding like a pair of mice, never knowing when Frédéric might erupt in a temper.
The Next Stop Page 9