The Fortune Teller's Fate

by Audrey Berger Welz

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  On the fourth morning, the sun sparkled through the sheer net over my cabin windows. I spent a little more time on my morning toilette and realized I was growing tired of my self-imposed exile. By lunchtime, the rumble in my stomach convinced me to look for the à-la-carte restaurant my father had boasted of. I’d never been to the Ritz Carlton in Pall Mall, but I could believe that the dining room the steward led me to was just like it. A huge rose-colored Art Nouveau skylight flooded the room with light. The fresh-cut flowers on the tables with bright snapdragons reminded me of our garden.

  I ordered a chicken salad sandwich with melon and trimmed off the crust of my bread with my knife, as Madame always did for me. A sharp-faced Russian woman at the next table asked me how I could be so wasteful. “Think of all the starving people in our country,” she said. “For some of those poor wretches in steerage, that would be a meal.”

  When I returned to my cabin, I crawled under the covers and wished all my misfortune away. But I kept hearing the voice of the woman I sat next to at lunch. Think of the people below. Wanting to block her out, I got up and opened the stateroom window and I listened to the wind whistling lonely Russian folk songs while blowing across miles of empty ocean.

  I began to count. It was something I did whenever I was unhappy or had a thought I wanted to push out of my head. I had reached 8,003 when I was startled by a knock at the door. I opened it to find a young man dressed in a stiff cabin boy’s uniform, and looking decidedly awkward, he handed me an envelope. I opened it and drew out a thick cream-colored card; on it, in peacock-green ink, an elegant scrawl: Would Madame Petrovska do Captain Knuth the inestimable favor of being his guest at his table in the main dining salon that night?

  “Tell Captain Knuth I’d be delighted,” I told the cabin boy and looked through my purse for a coin to press into his hand. As soon as he’d gone, I splashed my face with rosewater, as my mother always had. It made me feel close to her. Today I felt she was smiling down on me. I changed the ribbon in my hair several times before I finally settled on the royal-blue satin that reminded me of the sea at Odessa.

  I had been prepared to sulk the entire trip, maybe even the entire year; yet despite myself, I found the corners of my lips turning up. How exciting it would be to sit in the grand dining salon at the captain’s table!

  I imagined the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversations, elegant ladies whispering intriguing secrets. There’d be an orchestra melting into the floorboards, and maybe even a mysterious boy staring at me from across the room. I gave myself a mischievous grin. My father would be shocked to hear my thoughts. But I was alone, and I believed I deserved a little indulgence.

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  There were hours to pass before dinner, so I decided to take a walk. On deck, I saw a family playing charades. We used to play that game at home and at parties, so I stood off to the side where I could watch them without being noticed and began to play along, too. They were trying to act out the story of the Firebird. Without thinking, I began to dance. When I glanced up, I felt my cheeks turn bright red. I’d caught the eyes of a handsome gentleman, who was smiling directly at me. I quickly straightened my dress and hair, nodded, and walked briskly back to my room with as much dignity as I could muster.

  He must be at least twenty years older than you! I scolded myself, but I was already taken by his bright hazel eyes, and his challenging smile. I might have been a sulky, unhappy girl, but I was a teenager nonetheless, and I couldn’t help but act like one. I didn’t expect to see the man again; however, the encounter had put a smile on my face and shaken me out of my gloom.

  Without my knowing, my father had taken several of my garments to one of the best dressmakers on Nevsky Prospekt before we left and had them outfit me with everything I’d need for an elegant ocean crossing. “Make sure she’ll look the part in New York City, too. We want everyone to see that we know how to dress in St. Petersburg,” he told the dressmaker.

  Madame, a more practical kind of lady, warned me to dress conservatively on the crossing and save my finery for New York. “A real lady doesn’t draw attention to herself on board. One modest dinner gown, a walking skirt, and two or three shirtwaists are all you should need. Oh, and some sensible shoes for walking on deck—I know it’s a big ship, but it’s still a ship on the ocean, and you don’t want to risk a fall. Oh, and pack plenty of wraps, the sea breeze gets chilly, especially after the sun goes down.”

  I just nodded. Finery was the last thing on my mind. I was still in shock and miserable at the thought of leaving and hardly noticed the clothes my father was so proud of. But now, as I was about to step out, I was glad for my father’s forethought and pushed Madame’s voice out of my mind.

  I pulled out a long velvet dress in a pale yellowish green. It had a wide square neckline and was trimmed with gold brocade and abalone buttons. Over it, I wore a short satin cape the color of heavy cream, edged with fur dyed to match the color of Siberian pine needles. I fastened a simple strand of pearls around my neck, and at the last minute I pinned the simple circle brooch with the small emerald to the dress’s bodice. It once belonged to Lillya, Vladimir’s mother, who then gave it to Katya, my mother. How I hoped some of their charm and charisma would be channeled through the stone and cast an aura around me. I glanced in the mirror. Feeling satisfied, I took a deep breath, opened the door, and waited to see what the evening would bring.

  Chapter 9

  When I closed the cabin door behind me, it was as if I were seeing the ship for the first time. How could I not have noticed the paintings in their gilded frames, the soft green walls, the leather club chairs, the skylights in the high ceilings, and the beautifully painted filigree mirrors? I looked at my reflection and was surprised to see a young woman staring back at me. Had this happened in these few short weeks?

  My heart started to pound when I entered the dining room. At the head of a long central table stood a distinguished gray-haired man with a friendly, weathered face waiting to greet me. Introducing himself as Captain Knuth, he gallantly gestured to the chair beside him. All around the table, other passengers were taking their seats, the men in formal suits and the women in simple but elegant evening gowns. I silently thanked my father for insisting that he buy me new clothes for the journey.

  With its high ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and decorative balcony, the room looked like a grand ballroom. Candles flickered softly down the center of long tables, making the crystal sparkle.

  An orchestra was playing, and waiters in white uniforms were running about carrying silver trays. The captain introduced me to the table. Every seat had been taken except for one—the chair next to me. The captain glanced at it, then caught my eye and shrugged. I leaned over to read the card: “M. Hervé Fleury.” I hoped my neighbor would show up; perhaps I could practice my French.

  We’d just been served beet soup with parsley and sour cream when a voice begged my pardon, and someone pulled out the empty chair next to me. Turning, I found myself looking into the same hazel eyes I’d seen that afternoon. I could feel my cheeks getting hot. Seeing the mischievous gleam in his eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder if M. Fleury had arranged to be seated next to me.

  He glanced at the music program on the back of the menu and smiled. “It looks as if I may be just in time,” he observed. “They’re playing a French waltz, Toujours ou jamais, always or never.” Leaning toward me flirtatiously, he murmured, “I’ll hope for toujours…”

  I knew he was being very forward, but his playfulness set me at ease, and soon we were chattering away in a mixture of English and French, hardly paying attention to the courses being placed before us one after another. M. Fleury lived in the countryside near Paris, he told me, where he bred, trained, and sold horses. He was on his way to America on a buying trip, looking for new stock. “They’re breeding some very good Thoroughbreds in Virginia,” he said.

  I told him about my
pony Sasha and our dapple-gray Orlov Trotter in St. Petersburg, and his eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re from St. Petersburg? There’s no more beautiful city, no? At one time I had hoped to live there myself.” He paused and gazed out into the distance, as if he were seeing some faraway place. Then he seemed to recollect his manners and began asking about my life in St. Petersburg. I told him I was a dancer and that my father was sending me away because of the political unrest at home.

  “He promises me he will take me to study in Paris in a few years,” I said. M. Fleury seemed to know all about the Imperial Ballet, and his interest was so flattering I found myself telling him about my recital at the Winter Palace where I danced with my friend, Vladimir Vronsky. I realized at once that the subject was a mistake. As soon as I said Vladimir’s name, my stomach started doing flips just as it did whenever he was near. I looked down at my plate, hoping M. Fleury wouldn’t notice.

  Wanting to change the subject without being too abrupt, I began telling him about Vladimir’s mother instead. “Lillya Vronsky, Vladimir’s mother, is a celebrated horsewoman—you might have heard of her. Her husband is a tightrope walker, and together they own the most famous circus in all of Russia, the Vronsky Family Circus.”

  M. Fleury was silent for a moment, apparently concentrating on removing a tiny bone from his fillet of sole. “I think I’ve heard that name before,” he said finally, “though I can’t recall exactly where.” I suspected he was just being polite, but nevertheless he listened attentively and asked in detail more than I could answer. He asked about Lillya’s riding, the breeding of her horse, about her husband, and how the circus was doing in these changing times. He has very good manners, I thought, showing such an interest in me and my friends.

  I didn’t need a lot of encouragement to talk. I hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone in days, and since the captain had invited me to his table, I could tell my father I was only being polite. Sooner than I wished, coffee and after-dinner drinks were being served.

  M. Fleury asked if he might have the privilege of being seated next to me again the following evening, I quickly said yes. I didn’t want to think about it too much. Besides, he had charm, and when he spoke I got goosebumps on my arms.

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  The next morning, I woke up, threw some water on my face, brushed my hair, and pinned it up in a twist. I practiced my French and studied my books, looking for phrases I could use that evening in conversation. I knew M. Fleury was too old for me and I too young for him, but that fact didn’t stop the butterflies I got thinking about the dashing figure he cut in a morning coat. He was entertaining, yes, and when I spoke with him I could almost pretend I wasn’t as miserable and upset as I had convinced myself.

  Before going to lunch, I went through my wardrobe, thinking of what I might wear to dinner. I settled on a soft lavender dress, remembering how M. Fleury had talked about the lavender fields in the South of France.

  The sharp-faced Russian woman chose to sit next to me again. I’d wished she was anywhere else, but I could hardly say so. Almost immediately she started talking again about “the people below.”

  “Do you mean in the third class?” I asked. “They have more modest accommodations…”

  She started to laugh sarcastically. “Modest! They’re packed in like sardines—and are mostly peasants, Jews, poor Europeans. Many are just trying to escape conscription into the czar’s army. Others are looking for a better life because the work conditions in the factories are so bad. Textile mills are the worst.”

  I opened my mouth about to argue; surely my father cared about the people who worked for him. But I realized I had little real knowledge of his factory—I’d never really thought much about my father’s business. And I couldn’t help remembering some of the things I’d heard Archie say. And for wages that hardly keep them fed… Besides, admitting that I was a daughter of a factory manager would hardly improve her opinion of me.

  Wanting to prove her wrong, I asked the waiter for two more sandwiches and an apple. “If you would, please wrap them in a cloth for me,” I said. “I’d like to eat in my cabin.”

  He looked at me oddly. He must have thought I was really hungry. I didn’t usually lie, but somehow in this situation it seemed all right.

  For several hours, I paced along the promenade deck, carrying the little bundle of sandwiches, trying to work up my nerve. I stopped to watch other passengers playing shuffleboard and children skipping, and I visited the grandfather clock to make certain time continued to move forward. I approached the stairs straight ahead and looked left and right before quickly taking two flights down to the second-class deck; then, collecting my courage, I inched my way slowly down another flight.

  It was the chill from the ice-cold rail that woke me up and pulled me out of the dream I had been living in. I looked down and saw a mass of people huddled together, trying to stay warm. Some were lined up on benches by a long table, eating bowls of something, perhaps cabbage soup. The smell rising from their quarters was mixed with a faint odor of urine and vomit.

  I realized how absurd it was for me to offer them two sandwiches and an apple. What had I been thinking? And how would I choose which of these hungry people to give them to? By now dozens of faces were turned upward, staring at me. Alarmed, I began to step back up the stairs and ran right into a middle-aged man who tried to take my arm. I didn’t know if his intentions were good or evil, but I kicked out at him, my foot easily reaching his jaw. The bundle of food fell out of my hand and bounced down the stairs. I didn’t stay to see who caught it. I ran back to my cabin as fast as I could.

  In the genteel comfort of my room, the door locked behind me, I realized that the man had probably just been trying to help me. I felt ashamed.

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  I sat next to M. Fleury—or Hervé, as he insisted I call him now—at dinner that evening and the next, though after the first time I retrieved my manners and spent time talking to my other tablemates as well. Many were leaving Russia, like me, and we all lied as to the reason we were going; to visit long-lost relatives, help a sick brother or sister, do some business, or see the sights. It was clear none of us were telling the truth, but we didn’t know where any of the others stood politically. As a result, we kept the dinner conversations resolutely light, strangely so, considering the temperature of our country. None of us would admit we were fleeing in fear, nor did we mention the name Lenin.

  Having been miserable for what seemed like months, I was happy to play my part in keeping the dinner conversation frivolous. By now I was becoming a real chatterbox. I could see the hard lines of Hervé’s lean face soften when I laughed at his jokes, making him look younger. The minute he sat down next to me, a girlish whimsy shone through my unhappiness, though while alone in my cabin, I still pined for St. Petersburg.

  I spent the days quietly, reading and sleeping and writing in my journal. I ventured out for a brisk walk along the promenade deck and up and down the staircases at least once every day—if I hoped to dance in New York, I had to stay strong. I avoided the Carlton, not wanting to run into that woman again, but her words kept intruding. Why did she think it was her duty to educate me in the miseries of the world?

  I thought about the little stone church my father and I attended and how at the end of each service a basket was passed for donations. My father had always been so generous; I’d assumed that since I was his daughter, his good graces covered me, too. With all I’d lost and left behind, wasn’t that enough?

  Chapter 10

  After my ill-fated trip to steerage, I felt edgy and rebellious. I was sick and tired of the endless cycle of guilt and self-justification. I had told Hervé how my father loved to play poker with his friends and business partners, and his eyes had lit up. “Did you play this game also?”

  I’d laughed. “Not a chance! In St. Petersburg proper ladies play vint—what you’d call Russian whist—and drink lemonade.”


  With an exaggerated Gallic gesture, Hervé had swept the idea of whist away. “Bah! That’s old-lady cards. I will teach you to play the vrai poker, like a modern girl, non?”

  At the time, I’d blushed and changed the subject. But now, when Hervé sent a message to my room, inviting me to be his guest in the first-class smoking lounge at two that afternoon for a game of cards, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. It was time I joined the modern world, I told myself. Surely the liberated women of New York wouldn’t think it wrong!

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  The lounge was quiet and intimate, furnished in leather club chairs and dark wood. The windows were covered with deep red velvet drapes, but the skylight on the ceiling let in plenty of light. At this time of day, the room was almost empty. Hervé nodded to a gentleman in a corner booth, smoking a pipe and reading a German newspaper. The sweet smell of the tobacco made me think of my father. Why hadn’t I learned to play poker with him? Despite what I’d told Hervé about ladies playing vint, I wasn’t so sure my father would approve of what I was doing now.

  The combination of regret and guilt clouded my mood for a while, but Hervé was a good teacher, and it wasn’t long before I was enjoying myself. Two German men Hervé knew came and joined us. They complimented me on how quickly I’d learned, though the younger one said, laughing, that I’d have to work on my poker face.

  Time passed quickly; I was surprised when the clock on the wall chimed five. I wanted to write a letter home before dinner, so I excused myself. Assuring Hervé that I could make my way back to my cabin on my own, I left him starting up another round with the two German men, who were ordering whiskey and ale as I left.

  In my cabin, I tried to write to my father, but nothing I wrote sounded right. I crumpled sheet after sheet of stationery. Finally, I gave up and started dressing for dinner. I had just finished when I heard a knock on my cabin door. I opened it to find the shy cabin boy outside, holding a small parcel and an envelope. “M. Fleury asked me to bring you these,” he said.