by Rex Baron
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1921 Train en route to Los Angeles
“I hope I'm not disturbing you, but the others had wondered where you had got to,” Paulo said, poking his head in the door.
“Just sitting and thinking,” she returned his smile. “How happy I am. Suddenly, everything is so new and different.”
“When we get to California and Los Angeles, we will have a special time. It is a sleepy little Spanish place, in many ways like Portugal. There are fruit groves that stretch for miles to the sea. It is very beautiful, especially at night. You will see.” He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers.
The nights would be hers to do with as she pleased, Lucy thought. It was specified in her contract. She ran her fingers across the clipped, powdered stubble on Paulo’s chin and wondered how often he shaved. She did not know these things about men. She had suitors in Europe, but the wooing was never so intimate. She could never imagine the Prince with a razor in his hand. It was unthinkable. He was always so impeccable. She would have found it repugnant to see him in such a careless state, and yet, this man beside her excited her.
“At least we can be together,” Paulo said, his dark eyes flooding her with emotion.
“Yes,” she sighed, “for now.”
“You sound so sad, as if you were saying goodbye. You talk of being happy, and still your words are so far away. Come, you need to be with your friends and to have something warm to drink. Come,” he said, pulling her up by her wrists. “I will take you where there is music. You see, it is a sure sign that I care for you, that although I would rather be alone with you, I will take you in to the others because you need to be gay.”
Lucy put her arms around him and rested against his chest for a moment. His soft voice was reassuring and kind, like her father's had been so many years before, a voice that knew no struggle for power, a voice that contented itself in being comforting and kind.
“Sometimes the world changes so much, one gets frightened,” he said, “and even someone as splendid as you, like a star in the night sky, needs someone to point the way. We are on a train to California and whatever lies ahead is your destiny.”
Her father had spoken to her of destiny once. They sat down next to a hole he had dug for a dead baby rabbit they found along the garden path. She had refused to give it up, crying and saying that it would have no life, no adult rabbits with babies of its own, all that she thought to be good and right in the order of things. She felt somehow that this dear creature's destiny had been stolen, cut short by some woodsman or a careless gardener who mindlessly crushed its smallness under a wheelbarrow.
Her father coaxed the dead thing from her grasp and gently placed it in the ground. Destiny, he told her in his kind voice, was not the fulfillment of the wishes of childhood, a lifetime of struggles to make illusions into the reality one hoped for. Destiny was more like a space of time to experience being, a being that one feels and knows is true. Time can be a lifetime or a mere moment. It is how the time is used and the awareness that one has of real love that makes the gods in heaven smile. He dried her eyes and walked with her back to the house.
That summer, he burned to death, his destiny remained undefined, his being and kind voice gone forever. Her father’s passing had been mourned by the family in a simple, quiet way. What was left of the body was placed in a closed coffin and memorialized by a small Christian ceremony in the front drawing room. It was over in an hour. Those who came to console her mother drank tea after the service and chatted politely before catching the evening train back to wherever they had come from.
It had been a sad little affair, almost mean in its smallness, compared to the event that surrounded her grandmother's passing. His commemoration had been shrouded in black, with hooded candlesticks and flower arrangements draped or veiled in garlands of mourning, while hers had been white, glistening with silver and bestrewn with lilies. It was a wedding day more than a funeral.
Her grandmother's body had lain on a dais, glowing amidst hundreds of white satin ribbons, surrounded by every lovely white blossom the country had to offer.
Those who traveled to see her were equally large in number, strangers who came from as far away as England and America, negotiating great distances and arriving in Germany a mere three days after her passing.
Lucy overheard a woman from England tell her mother that she had been baking when she heard the voice announcing the demise of the Exalted One. She stopped what she was doing and prepared the flying oil, so that she might leave at once.
At the end of the afternoon, her mother mounted the platform and removed a ring from the dead woman's hand. She placed it on her own finger, then she produced a small silver mallet. Wrapping it in white silk, she tapped the mallet to the elder's forehead three times and chanted something in a low voice.
As the guests filed past the coffin for the final viewing, each placing a silver coin into the casket, Lucy noticed a wooden rod and a scepter of glass lying next to the old woman's body. She had not altered in death the way Lucy had feared. There was no ghoulish shadow cast over her features. She was peaceful and coolly beautiful. She was, as the girl had seen her countless times lying in her lunarium. Perhaps she was simply away on one of her holidays, consorting with friends or visiting some far away place.
Lucy was told by an old aunt that her conjecture was true. The kindly old relation patted her cheek, pleased at the child's grasp of the situation.
“It's just that this time, she has so far to go and has so much to do that it isn't worth the trip back to this place and this body,” her aunt explained. “It is much simpler, for all involved, if she just goes on to the next place and comes back later as someone else.”
“But how can you be sure that she's really gone this time?” the child asked with concern. “What if she comes back and she's already been buried? Where would she go?”
She felt the tears coming, a sadness for the proud woman who had always called her Margarit, never Lucy, like those who cared for her. Her grandmother had always been someone to respect, as one was taught to honor a high official. She would stand when the old woman entered the room and was allowed no more audience than a few moments at a time, because, as she was told, Grandmother found children tiresome.
She had only been close to the older woman during those stolen hours in the lunarium, when she could touch her hair and softly demonstrate the progress in her voice with a fragile, unwavering little song.
She wanted to be certain that her elder would not be left homeless without her fine old body. She wanted to show her, somehow, that she could be of help, even if she had not been given the “Ways.”
“She won't be back this time,” the old aunt smiled. “For one thing, there are all the signs. We all heard the words. We were all told. Your mother will be fine. She is the Chosen one now.”
“But how do you know? How can you be sure?” the child Lucy asked.
“It is said that if a frog jumps out of the casket before dusk, there has been a mistake, but if a winged creature flies into this very hall, it is a sign of a blessing from on high.”
It was to no great surprise that within the hour a butterfly was seen, appearing mysteriously behind the closed doors and windows. The aunt patted the child's leg with satisfaction and winked conspiratorially at the confirmation of her word.
That night Lucy stood in her room and listened to the sounds of celebration coming from the lawn on the side of the house. She could hear the voices of the strange travelers, talking and laughing as they milled about a large bonfire built in the center of the garden terrace. She wondered if each of them had a body lying in a bedroom somewhere, guarded by their family and peered at by some other lonely child.
She watched the party for a long time, until she fell asleep. When she awoke, it was late into the night. She was still seated, cramped in the window seat with her arm resting stiffly against the ledge.
She peered out through the
glass to see the bonfire smoldering in low ashes. A ring of people danced around the fire, their arms linked at the elbows. As the circle spun faster and faster counterclockwise, it became smaller. One by one the number decreased, as if each one had reached an invisible doorway in the turning wheel. She rubbed her eyes and watched in fascination as the dancers raised and lowered their arms in machine-like rhythm. They swept past the low flames and the child realized they were all naked.
•••
Lucy clung to Paulo, comfortable in his arms for a long moment. She wanted to feel secure, but her father's pitiful death and sad little funeral had somehow taught her not to look to a man for strength. She had been raised the granddaughter of a goddess of sorts, and had learned an unconscious axiom, that men were only needed to complete the circuit, like an electrical connection that required a positive and negative pole to allow the current of energy to surge through, exploding into light and limitless power.
Her kind father, with his reassuring voice, had been little more than that in their lives, and once he was gone, he was seldom spoken of again.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Paulo whispered next to her ear.
In the salon car, they found the entire company immersed in a game.
“I hope you're coming to rescue us from this nonsense,” Celia called out to Paulo and Lucy above the laughter of the others.
David waved for them to join in.
“Your young friend, Miss Auriel here, has been regaling us with our fortunes. Mine has been all power and glory, so of course, I think she's very accurate and brilliant besides.”
Ellen Auriel looked up timidly, afraid that she might be seen as overstepping her position as a dresser with no claim to the company of her social superiors, but Lucy only shook her head and smiled.
“It comes from this book,” the young girl hastened to explain. “It's a kind of numerology where the different letters of your name represent certain phrases.”
“Show us how it works,” Lucy said, twining her arm around Paulo's. She shot a glance toward Celia, to be sure the subtle movement did not go unobserved.
“The book shows one here... done in French for Marie Antoinette, whose other names, Jeanne de Lorraine and Archduchess this and that, all add up to seventy-five letters. The divination or fortune translates into these phrases: Malheureuse en France-riche sans trône ni or, pauvres rations, enchainée et décapitée, which means: Unfortunate in France, rich without throne or money, on meager rations, imprisoned and finally beheaded.”
“It's positively ghoulish,” Celia stated with a shudder of contempt.
“There's more,” David cut her short.
“There are six mute letters that don't figure in the message,“ Miss Auriel continued. “Since this was told before her death, the mute letters spell the prophecy: “Her days of death hover over her.”
“Celia's reading calls her the lady of the pearls, but it says the price of virtue and fidelity is high,” David added with a provoking laugh.
“Good solid values,” Celia sniffed. “The price of being an exemplary person is always high. I don't find that so unusual or amusing.”
“Why don't you have yours done Paulo?” David proposed.
“No, no, absolutely not,” Paulo shook his head, backing away, his hands in front of him as if retreating from a growling dog. “My religion does not allow such things. I know it sounds foolish, but I could not do it.”
“At last someone with some sense around here,” Celia stated with emphasis. “What about you Lucy?” she asked. “This sort of thing seems to be right up your alley.”
Taking up the challenge, Lucy wrote her full name on a piece of paper.
David let out a whistle of surprise as he read the name aloud.
“More than impressive I'd say. I'll have you know we are in the company of Marie, Sophia, Theresa, Augusta, Margarite von Dorfen.
The young dresser balanced the book in her lap and scribbled phrases from the glossary. She muttered the combinations to herself while the others prodded her to hurry.
Lucy sat calmly, wondering if she had made a mistake in allowing herself to participate after Paulo had shown his disapproval. Her fear was dispelled as he took her hand and asked Miss Auriel what glorious fate awaited his dear friend.
The birdlike young woman craned her head forward and looked up nervously.
“It says here the name translates into these words: “She shall ride the crest of fame until the tides shall claim her. Ambition extinguishes the flame.”
The company remained silent.
“Is that all?” David demanded. “I mean it's a bit ominous isn't it?”
“There are five letters that didn't get used in the message,” Ellen added hopefully. “They are N, E L, H, and another E.
“That could spell a lot of things,” Celia dismissed.
“It says here that it spells a name,” the little dresser said, firmly closing the book. “It spells the name Helen.”
“You're sure it's not Ellen, your name that somehow got in there in your enthusiasm?” David asked.
The youngster’s face burned red.
“Oh no, I'm sure it has nothing to do with me. There is only one L and an H, for certain.”
“Then maybe it has to do with the Helen of Troy you just performed in Faust,” David said, casting an eye over Lucy's uneasiness. “That would make sense, especially the part about riding the crest of fame. You were a sensation in that role.”
“Yes, I'm sure you're right,” Lucy tried to brighten.
“At any rate,” Celia interrupted, “I think we've had enough of this game. Like an old priest used to say at school... if we were meant to know the paths of our lives, we would have been given a road map the day we were born. So, let's take his advice and leave well enough alone.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
1921 Los Angeles
A cat jumped onto the kitchen table, spilling a cup of milk onto the morning paper.
“Now look what you've done,” a young woman scolded, shooing the cat onto the floor. She wiped the milk from the photo on the front page with the sleeve of her dressing gown and read the caption, carefully identifying each of the persons pictured. She studied their faces, memorizing the details and gently stroked the face of the handsome young man shown holding on to the side of the moving railway car.
She touched each of the faces with the tip of her finger and sang in a low voice, as if quietly putting an infant to sleep with a lullaby.
“You are a beauty,” she said, tapping the young man's likeness with a lacquered nail. She gathered up the breakfast dishes and shuffled to the sink in her slippers. She pursed her lips at her own reflection in the mirror next to the window. She was dark and beautiful with lustrous black hair that hung loosely down close to her waist. She dried the palms of her hands on the florid print of her dressing gown and tenderly poked at the tiny green plants growing in pots along the window ledge.
“How are my little children growing? Fast I see.”
She opened a kitchen drawer and rattled amongst the knives and forks to retrieve a silver spoon. She brushed it against the front of her robe and started digging in one of the potted plants until she unearthed a small hidden object that she rubbed with her fingers to remove the soil, then dipped into a cup of water to reveal a small silver ring.
She placed the ring on her finger, then held it to the sun, admiring its sparkle in the morning light.
She stopped for a moment and listened. A recording of Lucy's voice, singing an Aria from Aida, was playing on the gramophone in the front parlor of the bungalow.
Once again, she turned to the reflection of her own perfectly tanned face in the mirror. She brought the hand with the ring up to her mouth and smiled in satisfaction to see that the ring had no reflection in the glass. She looked down at the silver bauble ornamenting her third finger, then to the phantom hand in the mirror, brown from the Californian sun but
unadorned, except for the dark red lacquer that decorated each fingertip.
“Now we are ready to begin,” she whispered to the cat, as it rubbed up against the Dahlias on her dressing gown. “Lucy, my dear,” she said aloud to the photograph on the kitchen table, “when you get out here to California, you and I shall surely meet. When we do, you will soon discover you are no match for Helen Liluth, and all that is yours will be mine.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1921 Los Angeles
Celia stopped for a moment to watch the endless desert flowing past the train window like a river of sand. One was supposed to find it beautiful, but she could not. The dry, burned earth and rust-colored hills were cruel and without softness, an unrelenting expanse of sameness that demanded a great deal of concentration to understand.
The landscape tested one’s inner mettle, making demands on the body and soul. One could not just say, “Oh look how pretty it is.” This place expected more. She longed for a passing tree or a bit of green to drift along, as if to say, “it's all right now, you can look at me and give up trying to be strong.” The color went on for miles like a drab knitted coverlet of tan wool, unraveling. It made her sad.
Her journal would have to record this somehow, this lonely sameness, but she dared not express her distaste for this place. It was supposed to be jolly and glamorous, and most of all publishable. The journey was meant to be enviable, something others would long to hear about. She wanted readers to secretly admire her for her pluck and daring in taking on such a youthful adventure. David would see, they would all see, that she still had a trump card to play. She wasn't out of the game yet and could play a hand with the best of them.