The Infinite Now

by Mindy Tarquini

  “The curtain is a lens onto another world. It shifts your focus. I see death the same, a shift in focus. I say lost because those who pass through that lens can never be retrieved, they can only be found. Only at the end of our lives and only if we are very, very blessed.”

  The satchel twitched in the old man’s lap, a bit of the curtain’s velvet spilled out the top. The old man held that bit to his chest. He ran a finger over the fabric, murmured a few words, like he was praying, then buckled the top of the satchel over it. “That girl. The one you met at the guaritrice’s.”

  “What about her?”

  He handed me the satchel. “I don’t know if it will be possible. Don’t know if the girl could even be convinced, but . . .”

  The old man knew. He had to know. He probably knew the moment I looked at the photo he gave me, the one of his wife. Maybe he knew the moment it happened, the moment the guaritrice took her, all those years ago. Maybe that’s why he kept my mother close. Maybe he thought she would lead him back to his daughter.

  Or maybe Tizi was an unknown girl to him. A person the old man thought of as something I hadn’t. A victim. Somebody who, unlike Benedetta, could still be saved.

  I hoisted Carlo’s satchel onto my shoulder. “If the girl can be convinced, I will convince her.”

  Then I went to retrieve Benedetta’s baby.

  The entrance on the alley was locked of course. It was dusty, and rusty, and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. I jiggled the handle. This way, then that. Twisting and turning and rattling and cursing. I flung Carlo’s satchel at it, flailing and frustrated, then crossed my arms, slid down the door, sat on the threshold, and smacked my forehead to my palm, finished before I’d even started.

  The latch gave way, the door swung open. I fell backward, tumbling into gloom, head over heel, scraping knees and elbows and landing with the strangest and softest of bounces.

  I scrambled to my feet, ready to run, but there was nothing there. Not a wall, nor a window, a stick of furniture, or even an echo. Nothing.

  Except Mamma’s curtain, now spilling from Carlo’s satchel, its embroidery glowing in the gathering gray. Patterns traced along it I’d never seen before, bends and curves I did not recognize. I moved to the left, the embroidery faded. I stepped to the right, the embroidery brightened. A path unspooled along the fabric, chain-stitched in bright yellow. An arrow appliquéd above the path pointed to the proper direction.

  I walked through darkness illuminated just enough for me to get by, my gaze fixed to the fabric. Every time I strayed from the path, the curtain faded. Every time I adjusted my course, the light strengthened. I turned corners, followed curves, doubled back, and looped around again. I descended gentle slopes, negotiated soft rises, my sense the edges of the passage were a little beyond my reach, a world away from anyplace I’d ever imagined, and enrobed in a constant and infinite Now.

  A baby cried.

  The curtain quivered. It wrapped around my wrists and spiraled me toward the sound, through the doorway behind the guaritrice’s counter and into the heart of the guaritrice’s lair, the room pillared with fake trees, carpeted in scarlet poppies, and roofed by the ceiling’s painted stars. The guaritrice’s counter was still there, as was the map with the spiraling red Xs. But the chair that reminded me of a toadstool was gone, replaced by a flower-wrapped bower hung from a rafter and swaying gently in the curtain’s soft glow.

  A light switched on behind the beaded doorway. The glow from Mamma’s curtain extinguished. I shoved it back into the satchel, and buttoned the satchel under my coat. Tizi came through the beads, her hair haloed in the glow, a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

  She jumped when she saw me, the slope of her sad-looking eyebrows going steep and surprised. Her cheek was swollen, bruised purple and yellow where the guaritrice had punched her. “You shouldn’t be here. The pharmacy is closed. Did you come to see my little sister?”

  Sister. Cold creeped between us. “Yes, that’s exactly who I came to see.” I put out my arms. “May I hold her?”

  Tizi clutched the bundle tighter to her chest. A tiny fist thrashed, the fringe of a baby bonnet moved, and a cry, plaintive and piercing, filled the room. “Mamma wouldn’t like that. She says when she is gone I’m in charge. She is working hard, you know. A mother must. Especially with another mouth to feed.”

  I stuck out my abdomen and patted where I’d hidden the satchel. “Do you remember the Signora Bruni? The size of her stomach?”

  Tizi nodded.

  “That’s where babies grow.” I stepped closer. “That baby cannot be your mother’s baby. Your mother has always been so slim.”

  The cries got louder. Tizi dumped the baby into the bower like she’d dump a pile of rags and gave the bower a nudge. “Like the fairy tale. When the bough breaks.”

  The baby will fall. Benedetta’s baby.

  I bolted for the bower, my steps elongated and abnormal. The scent of cinnamon filled the air. A hand landed on my shoulder. A breath blew past my ear. “Of course it is not my baby, little one. It’s not a baby at all. It is only a cat, crying for its supper.”

  The guaritrice.

  I shrugged her off, stood on my toes, and tipped the bower’s edge toward me, the cinnamon scent strong enough to be sickening. What I’d thought was a tiny fist became a paw, what I’d thought was a baby bonnet became two soft, triangular ears.

  Tizi giggled.

  The guaritrice snapped her fingers. “Tizi, enough. It is not kind to tease our friend. Find that creature some milk before it gets so loud we can’t think.”

  Tizi’s good mood shriveled. She skittered behind the counter and rummaged among the boxes and bits, a stage prop given her cue.

  The guaritrice returned her attention to me. She clasped her hands in a worried way. “I do apologize. Tizi is getting too old for dolls, so I got her the cat, but she pretends it is a doll, so my efforts are wrong.”

  Dolls. Cats. If Tizi were the old man’s daughter she should have left dolls behind years ago. My head filled with cotton. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  “You thought I’d taken Signora Bruni’s baby. You thought I went to the infirmary, picked her up, and brought her back here.” Every muscle in the guaritrice’s face went downcast, her voice sorrowful. “So hard to be accused of something you did not do, is it not, little one? So bitter. Makes you feel frustrated, hemmed in, powerless to forge the future you think you deserve. Makes you come to me, to a place where you have only been shown kindness and do the same. Accuse. Finger-point. Over tea. Harmless, soul-soothing tea.”

  The cotton cleared. “Your tea is not harmless. It hurts people. It makes people sick.”

  “The influenza makes people sick. A germ you cannot see unless you look through a lens.” The guaritrice looped her thumb and forefinger before her eye, the way I had when I first measured the window in the old man’s attic. “My tea is nothing. It provides a small hallucinatory effect. It makes people forget their pain, forget their failings, forget their fears of the future. This is why you made your bubble, no? To keep yourself safe, prevent uncomfortable changes. But your bubble is not effective. So sad about your brothers, and the old man is so sick.”

  She spread her arms. “Imagine a world like mine, where every day is as we please, for as long as we please, a world where nobody can dictate what we must do. Join Tizi and me. Help us with our work. Be among people who understand your unique gifts.”

  Her voice was smooth and suggestive and cozy as cookies. Yes. We could be family. We could make teas to help people and provide for ourselves. And when we had helped all we could, there would be another town, then another. An infinite number of towns, an infinite number of people.

  Tizi flew from behind the counter and flung herself between us. “Why does Fiora have to come? I found myself a sister. We don’t need her.”

  The scent of cinnamon turned to dung. My head reeled. My stomach heaved. I looked to the bower, to how close I’d come to acc
epting the guaritrice’s fairy tale. “Tizi, listen to me. You cannot keep that baby. She belongs to Signora Bruni.”

  Tizi moved to the bower, her gaze steady and direct and just like the old man’s. “This baby belongs to no one. Her mother left her.”

  “Her mother did not leave her. Her mother died. This baby has a father who loves her and cares for her. Please.” I kept my voice level, my demeanor calm. I reached out my arms. “Let me bring her back to where she belongs.”

  The guaritrice stepped between me and Tizi. “Signor Bruni is away at the war. War is capricious. So much might still happen. Come, little one. It is ridiculous for us to argue. We are three women united in one purpose. The care of this baby, the nurture of each other.”

  Care. Nurture. A core of cold welled from my center. “You called her a thing. A creature. You have no interest in this baby. You have no interest in any baby. Except how you can use them, how they can serve you. The way you use Tizi.” I again charged the bower.

  This time the guaritrice caught me by my braid. “And what have you used, little one? Improperly and alone? You come here with plenty to say, unwilling to pay the price.”

  She yanked me back. The satchel fell from under my coat, landing to the floor with the quietest of thuds. The guaritrice scooped it up. “What have we here? Are you going on a trip, little one?”

  My turn to make a grab for things. I didn’t have to answer the guaritrice’s stupid questions. I caught hold of the leather strap. The guaritrice held on. The top came loose and the curtain fell free. It cascaded to the floor. The guaritrice reached for it, plucked at an edge. The fabric sparked, and a smell like a burned-out electrical circuit filled the room.

  The guaritrice sucked at her fingertips, like they’d been singed. “Tizi. Quick. Grab it.”

  But Tizi didn’t. She scooped the baby out of the bower. “Mamma. No. You said I could keep her. Said she could be mine. Because you—I mean, because I hurt my cheek.”

  “I said we would see. Your cheek will heal. We can find other babies.”

  “But this baby’s mother left her. She did not do what she must. You don’t need that curtain, Mamma. Don’t need anything. You have me.”

  Tizi sounded so lost, looked so . . . alone. And she was holding Benedetta’s baby. “You can come with me, too, Tizi. You don’t have to stay. You’re not a child. You can think for yourself. There’s a whole world out there. Filled with sunlight and fresh breezes.” I smacked a fist to one of the pillars. “With real trees.” I kicked the carpet. “Real flowers. In every color of the rainbow.”

  The guaritrice pointed to Tizi, the gesture final. “Tizi. Pick up that curtain. Now.”

  I stomped my foot. “Ask your mother where you came from. Go ahead. Ask her how she got you, what she demanded in return. Or don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. You can come with me. We can bring Signora Bruni’s baby home together.”

  Tizi whipped around. “Why would I take her anywhere? I went through a lot of trouble to get her. Crossed streets, took the trolley, stood for hours waiting for one of the sisters to see me. This is not my mother’s baby. This baby is mine.”

  Tizi had found her. My head reeled. Tizi was a near child, still in braids. The sisters were so stern. “Why would they even consider you?”

  Tizi showed me why. Her figure filled out. Her face lost its roundness, her affect its innocence. The bruises on her cheek faded. She transformed to a woman, serious and serene enough to fool the sisters into believing she were Benedetta’s widowed aunt. Mature. Capable. Able to accept the responsibilities Benedetta’s baby presented, willing to do what was necessary until the baby’s father came home from war to make his claim. “You don’t know how it is, Fiora. I am here every day. I work so hard. Day and night. Mamma never lets me stop. I’m not like you—Rosina Vicente’s daughter. I’m just Mamma’s, and I do what she tells me.”

  Her tone changed mid-sentence, high, then low, defiant, then humble. She was a singer, searching for the right note, the right pitch, uncertain which mood to take, which attitude would elicit the most advantageous response from me.

  Whoever Tizi had been meant to be, she was now the guaritrice’s tool, strong enough to cross the verbena, brave enough to face an unfamiliar city, outspoken enough to state what she wanted. Able to appear as a youngster, or a woman, to charm, or cajole. And maybe Tizi’s desire for Benedetta’s baby went beyond loneliness. Tizi appeared unaware of how men and women were supposed to be together, but the day would no doubt come when the guaritrice would use her in a more base way to achieve her goals. The day when the babies would no longer be stolen, but produced by Tizi.

  Tizi had learned to become what was needed to get what she wanted. I needed to become what was wanted to do what was best. “The guaritrice stole you, Tizi. You don’t belong to her. You can’t belong to her. You are good, and good can never come from evil.”

  Tizi’s bruises brightened, the swelling on her cheek returned. She winced and put her palm over the injury. “What are you talking about? If I don’t belong to Mamma, who do I belong to?”

  “You belong to Don Sebastiano.”

  Tizi whirled on her mother, her expression angry and accusing.

  The guaritrice laughed. “Do not listen to this foolish, foolish girl, my pet. She only tells you what she thinks will make you give up your prize. She accuses us of hurting people. Us, with our harmless little teas, yet she murdered her mother.”

  She put out her hands, thumbs pinched against their opposite fingers. She waggled them back and forth, the way somebody does when they’re going to tell you what’s what. “I heard what you said. We all heard what you said. ‘You and Poppa live in an old world, with old rules. I will not spend my life sewing, spend it caring for children, worrying what the neighbors think. This is America. A modern world, filled with modern thinking. If you and Poppa will not let me follow my ambitions, then I will find a way to follow them on my own.’”

  The guaritrice’s imitation was perfect, right down to the way I’d planted my hands on my hips, and jutted my chin at my mother. The response of a girl frustrated with her parents, raging and rebellious because she wanted to do more than everybody expected, see more than anybody imagined, a girl caught in a whirlwind of emotion who hurled her accusations without thought. Accusations that landed loud and clear and in the middle of the market.

  And then the girl’s parents died.

  My resolve went boneless and sank me to the floor. “Please don’t take Signora Bruni’s baby, Tizi. She has a place, people who love her. She does not have to be like us.”

  “Do not listen to her, Tizi. Fiora is just like her mother. Do you remember? How Rosina Vicente tried to take you?”

  My head snapped up; my spine snapped back into place. Mamma tried to take Tizi. Mamma had tried to make it right. “Mamma came here.”

  “As you do now, full of stories of another world, a better life.” Red dust spewed from the guaritrice’s mouth, fouling the air in acrimony and coloring her words in venom. “Yet I’d given her everything. We traveled the world, saw places she’d never imagined. Then we came to the don’s tiny village. It was no place, nowhere. Filled with donkeys and dogs and tiny closed-in houses, built one atop the other, like a giant hive. We went for one reason, the don’s curtain. Your mother, she was so talented. Flick of a finger, twitch of a wrist. And we were there. Traveling as we never had. But your mother saw more than she told.”

  Guaritrice nudged the satchel at me. “Put the curtain in there, you ungrateful fool. Go back to your old man, back to your mundane world. Be a good girl and do what everybody tells you to do. I offered you a healthy baby. Take that baby and get out of here. The curtain is mine.”

  A curtain that was now dead, threadbare and void. A curtain that chose its window, chose its burden, chose its master. A curtain, I sensed, that had fulfilled its duty, found a way to live up to the old lady’s bargain, and now wanted me to let it go. “You want the curtain to make a world where you can feed
without ceasing. A world where sickness never fades, where war always continues. You needed my mother, you need Tizi, and you hoped to tempt me. We are what the don calls vectors, a means to your end. Because you cannot work the curtain on your own. You cannot even touch it. You can’t do anything on your own because you need a host to help you.”

  I stepped toward the guaritrice, fingers curled, thinking I’d grab her by the collar, maybe wrap my fingers around her neck. “I didn’t kill my mother. You did. Tizi gave her your tea. You wanted my mother to forget her failures, let go her fears, go on with her day like she’d never met you.”

  I pulled back, went to Tizi, wanting to put my arms around her, to apologize. “Your real mother made a bargain. My mother broke it.” I put out my arms. “Please, Tizi, give me the baby. Take the curtain. Do what you want with it, then let’s get out of here.”

  Everything collapses, every rough-hewn edge wears smooth. I was one girl, regretful of my past, afraid to face my future, overwhelmed by my present. I could not fix every broken thing. I could not fix most of them. But maybe this one thing, I could fix.

  Tizi handed me the baby. She picked up the satchel, pulled out the curtain, shook it out like a tablecloth. She turned to me, head tilted, expression triumphant. “Only modern thinking?”

  Then Tizi turned around, and flung the curtain over the guaritrice.

  Twenty-Nine

  The curtain landed on the guaritrice with the little hiss the burner made when I turned on the gas. The fabric covered her head, her shoulders, all the way to her waist, then shrunk into her, fitted to her form, like batter sears to a hot pan.

  She screeched. The sound shot to the star-painted ceiling and ricocheted from every corner. The curtain sparked, the air grew tingly, and the stenches of singed hair, burnt rubber, automobile exhaust, and vomit knitted into a miasma. A choking, impossible miasma.

  The guaritrice shrank to the floor. She got smaller, melted, like Dorothy’s witch in the Oz book.

  I wanted to run. Wanted to hold the baby close and just . . . run. I got as far as the beaded doorway.