by Keziah Frost
“There is one thing you haven’t been good at, even though you are a perfectionist.”
The same articles that discussed the early responsibilities of nurses also suggested that perfectionism was part of their profile.
“You don’t take care of you. That needs to change. In fact,” Norbert said, looking back at the cards, “influences are at work, and it is already changing.” Aunt Pearl’s expression, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” came back to mind. He would finish off this reading with a flourish of self-confidence.
“You will be on a plane in less than a month. It will be the best vacation of your life.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two of Diamonds:
Others trust you because you are sincere.
Norbert sat in his living room turning the pages of Carlotta’s quaint old book. Its bottle-green cover was worn at the edges, and its pages were yellowed. He had memorized the card meanings, but still, from time to time, he liked to open the book at random and feel the company of the no doubt pseudonymous “H. M. King.” It was such an obviously false and grandiose name. Suggestive of the British “His Majesty the King.” Norbert wondered if the author had been poking fun at himself by it, and reminding his (or her?) future readers to not take themselves very earnestly, either.
Excerpt from The Cards Don’t Lie by H. M. King:
The vast majority of people who get their fortunes told are women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight. There are querents who do not fit this profile, of course, but they are very much in the minority.
People approaching forty have become either more cynical with age, more confident in their own ability to see what’s coming, or more frightened of the future.
Typical querents approach a psychic with either hope or fear predominating. The hopeful querent will face the reader seriously, and be very willing to ignore any false starts and give ample hints once the reader starts down the right trails.
Most people will respond strongly to: “You have a concern about finances.” They will then feel gratitude toward the reader who follows up with “I want you to know that finances will improve in the very near future.”
It would be accurate to tell any querent, “Someone is lying to you,” “There is a great lie in your life,” or “You are lying to yourself about something.” Most young women will give their full attention to the reader who says any of these statements to them because chances are, while they believe no one could detect these facts about them, they are, in fact, all true.
People will feed the reader little bits of information so that he can create a better reading.
On Norbert’s second day, there were another two appointment slots filled. People were signing up and setting aside time, willing to pay twenty dollars to consult him about their lives. With Ivy sleeping at his side, he read the cards, and his customers leaned forward to catch his words. It gave him a feeling of grateful happiness. He had become worthy of people’s attention.
The next querent was a young woman with straight bangs, about twenty-six, named Jill.
“Here you have the Four of Clubs,” said Norbert. “This is the popularity card.”
“Me? Popular?”
Norbert’s smile widened. This young lady was open to his influence, and he could help her to see herself in a new light.
“That’s right. You don’t realize how much people really do like you. You think you are all alone, but actually, there are many who would like to be your friend. Like this Jack of Clubs here.”
“Oh!” said Jill. “Could that be Trevor?”
“Well,” said Norbert, “let’s see. This would be a fellow who seems unremarkable, maybe even boring, at first.”
“Oh.” Jill’s voice went flat. “That would be Kyle.”
“Yes, maybe that would be Kyle. But the thing is, he’s not what he seems.”
“He isn’t?”
“Oh, no. He will surprise you. There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. The cards are saying you should give him a chance.”
As Jill walked away, adjusting her shoulder-strap purse and straightening her skirt, Norbert felt a pang of responsibility and even alarm. That young woman was so susceptible. He had easily steered her away from an unknown (to him) Trevor to an equally unknown Kyle. What had he done? What if Kyle was a psychopath? He wanted to call Jill back, and tell her not to take his reading seriously, tell her to consider it “entertainment,” a game. But she was already gone.
* * *
Natalie, in her early forties, sat down across from Norbert, smiling with her mouth but not with her eyes. In her seven-card horseshoe spread, there were no face cards at all.
Norbert paused, contemplating the spread, and at last he said gently, “Every card you’ve drawn is a Spade. This shows a long-lasting period of grief. It looks like you are—or feel you are—all alone.”
Natalie’s smile vanished as if she had been slapped.
Norbert reached inside his man purse, careful not to disturb Ivy, and pulled out the slender box of tissues he had begun to carry for such moments. Natalie took a choking breath as Norbert handed her a tissue.
“I’ve lost so many people that I’ve loved. Too many to name, by now. It feels like I’m left to watch everyone I love fade out, one after the other. And after so many losses, do you know what I’ve learned? It’s this—when we go, we leave nothing lasting. So many times, after deaths in the family or the deaths of friends, I’ve cleaned out homes and apartments full of pictures of people that no one remembers, journals that no one will care to read, receipts that show that a life was lived and paid for. Nothing lasts. We leave only a few memories with a few people, and when those people go—what’s left? Nothing. Poof. Like a bubble popping in the air. That’s what a life amounts to. So what is the point to all the striving? What is the goddamn point of it all?” Natalie brushed a tear away and raised her voice. “Is it just about finding stuff to do...until we die?”
A man drinking coffee and working on his laptop at a nearby booth looked up with a frown at this outburst.
Norbert turned his smile in the man’s direction, and tentatively patted Natalie’s hand.
As Natalie balled up one tissue after the other in her fist and struggled to catch her breath, Norbert spoke in his soft voice, mesmerizing and reassuring, pointing to the cards and signaling where he saw hope, comfort, gifts that she possessed and direction for the future.
“I’m getting a strong impression of a woman a little older than you, a professional woman, who will help you.”
Natalie looked blank.
“Have you been thinking of seeing a therapist to help you through this time?”
“Oh. Well, my doctor gave me the business card of a therapist who specializes in grief. She’s in Edwards Cove. Do you think I should go?”
“The cards think you should go.”
Natalie left the quiet man with these words: “You do have a gift, Norbert Z. A gift for comforting people and making people feel that their lives count for something. Thank you.”
After Natalie had dried her eyes and left, Norbert felt his worry assuaged. He had sent the grieving woman to a grief therapist. She would be helped, and he was absolved of culpability in her case. He wondered for a moment if he should send all of his querents to therapists, just to relieve himself of the disturbing sense of responsibility he was beginning to feel, for lives all over town.
* * *
Carlotta stopped into the café that afternoon, to discuss Norbert’s work with him.
“Well, tell me all about it!”
“What would you like to know?”
“Well—everything! Your doubts, your questions, the things you find challenging.” Carlotta leaned forward, smiling widely.
“That’s very nice of you.” Norbert’s eyes searched the wall above her head, appearing to lo
ok for a problem or question he might offer her. “You know, I seem to be finding my way.”
“That’s impossible!” she challenged. “You’ve barely gotten started. How can you not have any questions?”
Did he think she’d meant only to launch him, like a mother teaching a kid to ride a two-wheeler down a hill? That he would then be free to cycle all around town on his own? Because that was not her intention at all, and the sooner he understood that, the better.
Carlotta’s plan was that Norbert would be an amusing and ongoing project for her and her Club. They would continue forming him, and he would continue entertaining them and being grateful for their help, every step of the way. He was a mild-mannered man. That had led her to assume he was a pushover. How could she ever have known he hid within his heart the ungrateful secret will to manage his own affairs? She wouldn’t allow it.
“How can I not have any questions?” Norbert spoke wonderingly, as if figuring it out as he talked. Carlotta was struck by how compelling his quiet voice could be, here in his booth at the Good Fortune Café.
“It is strange, I guess, that I’m finding my way, reading by reading. It seems like I’m just relying on all those years of watching and listening—like you said I would. I guess I know more about people and their problems and hopes than I ever realized. Maybe that’s what’s propelling me forward through each reading. I’m not sure I understand it all myself.” He looked with kindness into Carlotta’s eyes. “But if I do have any questions, I promise you, I will ask.”
That last remark sounded so condescending, as if he would be doing her a favor, and not the other way around. He wouldn’t even be in this position if it weren’t for her benevolence. Was he looking so kindly at her now out of a sense of familiarity? Because he had touched on her hidden grief in that practice reading, did he now assume that he had some personal connection to her—or even worse, an advantage over her? It was insolence, that’s what it was. If she refused to visit that desolate place in her heart even with her dearest Summer, she certainly wouldn’t allow Norbert to refer to it—even with a sympathetic glance.
She attempted to stare him down, and found herself sinking into his magnified brown irises. She shook herself free of his compassionate spell. She would not be bewitched. He was a fake, she had created him, and she must remember that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ten of Diamonds:
Your project is gaining traction.
If there was one thing Norbert understood, it was the universal need to be seen, heard and, most of all, encouraged. It was what he had always wanted most, and it was what his customers wanted, as well. There was a world of magic for them in sitting opposite a sympathetic person who would pay close attention to their wishes and talk to them about themselves in the kindest terms. Norbert was learning that as he focused on his querents, his self-consciousness fell away.
The people who sat down across the table from Norbert at the Good Fortune Café all knew, on some level, that they were playing a game, and that it was not real. At the same time, on another level, they very much wanted to believe that there were answers to be plucked from the Universe for them, personally, and that this quiet man dressed in black had the power to do that plucking. And their desire to believe made the psychic reading no longer a game—but, in fact, real.
* * *
The summer advanced, and Norbert’s business flourished. Tourists and residents alike were heard talking about him all over town.
Carlotta overheard a pair of patrons on the second floor of the library remarking in low voices:
“Have you seen him yet?”
“Oh, no! I’d be too scared! Have you?”
“Oh, yes! You really should go! He told me things he’d have no way of knowing. I don’t know how he did it. I came out feeling like I had this new deep spiritual perspective on my life!”
Carlotta walked past with slow steps, running her finger along the call numbers as if searching for a certain volume.
“I know. You’re not the first person to tell me about him. Isn’t it kind of spooky, though?”
Walking down the stairs with her books, she thought, Our Norbert Project is really picking up momentum. I’d better check in on him again. I will reel him in yet. She smiled, and walked with a bit of a bounce to the circulation desk, where she checked out a novel by Gabriel García Márquez and two books on psychic development for Norbert.
Roseanne, who had sat at that post for years, scanned the books and said discreetly, “Carlotta, if you like psychic stuff, have you already seen the fortune-teller at your niece’s café? I hear he’s really good.”
* * *
Margaret heard a couple of tourists in the Art League murmuring to one another.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Do you want to?”
“Sure! I mean, I don’t believe in it or anything. But just for fun! It’s not like there’s a ton of things to do in this town. We’ve gone for the boat ride, and we’ve bought too many wind chimes already.”
“Yeah, let’s do it! People at the Alibi Bar last night were saying he’s really accurate.”
And the pair hurried out of the Art League and took a right, heading in the direction of the Good Fortune Café.
Huh, thought Margaret. We’ve created a psychic!
* * *
Carlotta stopped in at the café a second time to direct her protégé. He met her again with that same ugly self-determination that had surprised her the first time.
“Well, Norbert, I’m beginning to hear about you all around town! It looks like we’ve started you on the right second career!”
“Yes, thank you, Carlotta. I’ll always be grateful.”
Despite her warning that he was not ready to work independently of the Club, the exasperating man held his ground. He claimed to have no questions or concerns to share, and no need for guidance “at this time, thank you very much.”
Carlotta was dumbfounded.
Norbert was changing. There was no denying it. His mealymouthed, soft voice was becoming an asset, endowing him with a hypnotic power. His understated, ignorable presence was beginning to look like a spiritual humility that touched people and added to his credibility. Norbert seemed to be casting a spell over the town. Carlotta thought Norbert had even cast a spell over himself: she wondered if he believed in Norbert Z, just like everyone else did.
* * *
Carlotta spoke in hushed tones before the students arrived at her oil-painting class. She had called Birdie and Margaret to come in early, for an emergency huddle on the Norbert Project.
Carlotta never was very good at whispering. She had been blessed with a voice that was meant to be heard. She could start out a sentence in a whisper, but by the middle, she was speaking at a normal volume. She couldn’t help it.
“He thinks he’s running the show,” she hissed. “He’s not checking in with us. He’s not volunteering any information about the readings. This is not what we planned.”
Margaret and Birdie inclined their heads toward her.
Margaret said, “Oh, dear.”
“Yes,” said Carlotta. “Oh, dear.”
“Well,” moderated Birdie, “everyone needs a bit of autonomy, don’t they?”
“No,” said Carlotta firmly. “Not on my watch. He cannot disregard our instructions.”
“Your instructions,” amended Birdie.
Carlotta continued, “He cannot just tell people whatever he pleases. He cannot be a free agent. He will have to be watched.”
* * *
Norbert’s readings were becoming more fluid. He began to read with confidence. At the same time, he was impressed with how quickly people bared their souls to him.
“Your first name, please?”
“Lindsay. Oh! Let me silence my phone. Just a sec.”
Norbert glim
psed the screen saver on the young woman’s phone: a photo of a black Pomeranian. He thought of an article he had read in Dog Fancy Magazine, quite a few years ago, claiming that dog breeds tended to align with their owners’ personalities. Pomeranians, Yorkies and Chihuahuas were among the “agreeable breeds,” and their owners cared about people’s feelings, tried always to put others at ease, and most perplexing of all: appreciated art. But then, who, if asked, would say they didn’t care about people’s feelings and didn’t appreciate art? Surely, very few.
As Lindsay handed Norbert the cards, and he laid them down one by one, he tested the theory.
“You appreciate art.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Lindsay. “Well, that’s pretty good! I’m an art teacher at the high school, so I guess I do.”
Encouraged by this immediate success, Norbert went on.
“And you are gifted, Lindsay. Why are you not using your gifts?” He had discovered accidentally that this was a line that almost everyone identified with. And Norbert truly wanted to help people to use their gifts.
Lindsay sat back and gave Norbert her full attention.
“Well,” she said, “I do feel guilty that I’m not doing my own art anymore. When you’re a teacher, there’s no time.”
Norbert continued to look at her. Whenever he didn’t know what to say next, he paused and simply looked at people. It was surprising how often that was enough to inspire them to dig deeper, or to tell him something more that he could use.
She went on, “You think I’m just making an excuse?” She seemed impressed with his shrewd ability to detect the truth. “Oh. Maybe I am.”
“You need your own space,” said Norbert. “Like a little studio. It could even be a closet that you clear out and remake into a workspace. If you have the space, and if you show up on a regular basis, and hold yourself accountable...”
“I have that, in my condo. But I never use it. I get distracted by friends, and errands, and TV, and then of course there’s lesson planning... I just never get to my own work.”