"Under duress, of course," said Madame Karitska lightly, and with a glance at her appointments the next day she suggested eleven o'clock the next morning. "But I'll see her on one condition, my friend."
"What?" he said eagerly.
"I'll tell you after I've seen her—at eleven o'clock tomorrow."
With a sigh Faber-Jones said, "I'll make sure she's out of bed by ten. And thank you."
The next morning, at only a few minutes after eleven, Madame Karitska opened the door to Faber-Jones's daughter, who hung back, looking sullen. She said, "My father sent me, I'm Laurie."
Madame Karitska smiled. "You mean he insisted, don't you?" and thought how very attractive the girl was, her long black hair tied back with what looked a shoestring, tall and slim in faded jeans and a white shirt and sneakers.
"Well," said Laurie defiantly, "he said either you or a psychiatrist, as if I've not seen enough of them. He said you told him—"
"Oh do come in, it's ridiculous our standing here," Madame Karitska told her.
The girl followed her into the living room, her glance swiftly running over the wall of books, the two couches facing each other across from the square coffee table. "He said you're a psychic," she told her. "Are you going to read my palm or something?"
How little they know each other, thought Madame Karitska, and merely said, "Would you like tea or regular coffee or Turkish coffee? I'm simply a good friend of your father's, I'm fond of him, and I owe him my help."
"I don't need any help," the girl said curtly.
Madame Karitska smiled. "You were not very happy at the Guardians of Eden, were you? Or at college?"
She shrugged. "Okay, you win that round. I'll have Turkish."
"Turkish it is. And sit."
Madame Karitska took her time in the kitchen preparing the coffee, giving Laurie's hostility equal time to cool. When she returned it was to place the carafe on the table and sit down opposite her. "Have some if you'd like," she told her indifferently. "In the meantime, have you something small that you've worn for a long time?"
With a shrug the girl removed a ring from her finger. Ignoring the coffee she handed it across the table.
Madame Karitska held it, closed her eyes, and concentrated, waiting for the expected impressions of anger to diminish and something of character to surface. Spoiled, rebellious, yes, she thought, but there was also an impression that she had inherited one interesting trait from her father. Putting down the ring she said, "I believe you have a gift for organizing."
"Who, me?"
"Who else?"
Laurie shrugged. "Well, I guess at the commune I did—a little," she admitted. "I liked the commune."
"What did you organize?"
"Just the kids—sometimes. And a protest march; they left it up to me, making the placards and signs, that kind of stuff."
Madame Karitska nodded. "And have you any plans as to what next?"
"I'm not going back to college," Laurie said defiantly.
"Then I wonder," said Madame Karitska, "if you'd give me ten days—no questions asked—ten days of your time to work at a job that's available."
"It's not baby-sitting, is it?" she said suspiciously, "because I said I liked kids?"
"I said no questions allowed," Madame Karitska reminded her.
Laurie sighed heavily. "Everybody wants to get into the act."
With a smile Madame Karitska said, "A pity, isn't it? Well—yes or no? Eight o'clock to five P.M, for ten days."
"Eight in the morning to five, are you kidding?"
"Yes or no?"
"How do I know if I'll like it?" demanded Laurie.
"Oh but you won't like it," Madame Karitska told her, startling her.
Laurie suddenly laughed. "I didn't expect that."
"I was being honest. You won't like it."
Laurie frowned. "Ten days, and then I can quit?"
"Of course. That would be the agreement."
Cautiously the girl said, "So where is this job, can you tell me that much?"
"Actually I'll show you where right now, but only if you agree, first, to those ten days of your time."
Laurie leaned over the table and poured thick Turkish coffee into a cup, took one sip, made a face and then, "Okay, if it's just ten days—like Russian roulette, isn't it? and I've nothing else to do."
Madame Karitska nodded. "Then I'll take you there now."
'All right, I've got my car."
"I saw it," said Madame Karitska, amused, a late-model convertible gleaming outside, and said gently, "I think it best that we walk."
Locking the door behind her, she and Laurie began their stroll down Eighth Street, neither of them speaking until they turned into Sixth Street to face the clusters of idle men along the sidewalks, smoking, tossing coins and talking; if they had learned to be polite to Madame Karitska, the sight of Laurie produced a volume of piercing whistles, to which Laurie said, "What the hell is this? Are you crazy, this slum?"
"Patience," said Madame Karitska, and guided her across the street to Help Save Tomorrow, where a truck had pulled up to the storefront and Daniel was unloading cartons of used toys and clothes.
"Daniel," said Madame Karitska, "this is Laurie, and she is going to spend ten days with you helping."
Laurie turned to look at her in astonishment. 'Are you serious?"
Daniel smiled his broad friendly smile and said, "Never thought such a pretty girl would offer help. It's blessedly kind of you, miss."
Since Madame Karitska reached for a carton to carry into the store, Laurie had no choice but to grasp one of them and follow her. "If you think this is where I work for ten days you're mad."
"Quite mad," agreed Madame Karitska. "Careful with that carton, I see it has some china in it."
"But what does he do with all this . . , this junk?" she asked, shoving the carton onto the counter.
"Sell it for pennies or give it away," replied Madame Karitska. "You've arrived just in time to help unpack these cartons if you'd care to begin now."
"You really expect me to—" Cannily she stopped and said, "Would this count as one of the ten days? I mean, today's half over."
"Why not? He can certainly use you," and before Laurie could protest she said to Daniel, "Laurie's car is parked in front of my house. When you close at five o'clock would you mind walking her safely back to it?"
"My pleasure," Daniel said, beaming.
Madame Karitska, envisioning just how much would be left of a late-model convertible on Sixth Street
said, "You'd better take a cab here in the morning, Laurie."
Daniel, slitting open a carton, shouted, "Man, look at this! A getting-married dress and nearly new! We're in luck today."
Trapped, Laurie accepted the bridal gown he'd thrust at her and said, "So what do I do with it?"
"Hangers over there," Daniel said, pointing, and Madame Karitska quickly left.
Once at home she put in a call to Faber-Jones at his office, and when she reached him she gave him her terms. "You recall there were conditions?"
He said eagerly, "You've seen her, then. All right, what are they?"
"For ten days no contact with her, my friend. She's consented to lend me ten days, and she has a job to do. No phone calls, no contact, no interference, no reminder of her previous life, you understand?"
"But that's horrible, Marina," he said, "I'll worry constantly." "Let me do the worrying," she told him; as she would, even though she utterly trusted Daniel to look after her.
"But what on earth did you . . , well, prescribe for her?" "Shock treatment," said Madame Karitska crisply, and hung up before he could ask more.
Nevertheless Madame Karitska could not help but wonder during the next days how this child of luxury-would react to the challenge presented to her. She thought it possible that Laurie would keep her bargain, being a Faber-Jones, but nothing had been said about attitude, and eight hours at Help Save Tomorrow would be a challenge indeed, and yet. . , and yet..
.
Curiosity as well as concern had deepened by the fourth day of Laurie's indenture, and curiosity won. Madame Karitska walked over to Sixth Street
and turned down it toward Help Save Tomorrow and stopped halfway down the street, startled by what she saw. Laurie was on top of a high step-ladder outside Help Save Tomorrow with three teenaged boys below—skinheads, all of them—watching, laughing . . , taunting her? Laurie was hanging a sign over the store, a new one, and Madame Karitska stood very still, holding her breath, wondering if the boys were about to pull the ladder out from under Laurie—this was Sixth Street, after all—and then she realized they were not taunting her, they were steadying the ladder for Laurie. They were helping.
"Well, well," murmured Madame Karitska, and quickly retreated before she could be seen, and as she made her way back to Eighth Street
she braced herself for her next appointment, which would not be an easy one.
She found Betsy Oliver already waiting for her in the hallway, her eyes red-rimmed. "I've just come from the funeral," she said. "Arthur's funeral."
Madame Karitska, unlocking the door, said, "I'm deeply sorry, Betsy, do come in. We'll talk, shall we?"
It was doubtful that Betsy even heard her; she walked into the living room and sat down on the couch and buried her face in her hands. "I feel so guilty, Madame Karitska, I feel just awful."
"Which is quite natural," she told her.
"Yes, but you've heard that he deliberately ... I mean, he wanted to die? He'd still be alive if—"
This was going to be taxing, acknowledged Madame Karitska, and said, "Do you mean he'd be still alive if he'd not chosen to move to the Guardians of Eden, or still alive if you went with him? Which?"
"I think—" She stopped and blew her nose.
"Think what?"
Betsy said helplessly, "He must have been so lonely without us, me and Alice."
"Betsy, it was his choice to leave you and go, remember?"
"Yes, but he might—"
"Stop," said Madame Karitska sternly. "There is such a thing as fate, and there is such a thing as character. We each have our own destinies to work through; he had his, you have yours. Haven't you been happy lately?"
"B-but I feel so guilty at having been happy, while he—"
Madame Karitska firmly interrupted her. "How is it going, your artwork?"
Betsy said miserably, "Last week they hired me full-time— to sketch for Easter and birthdays and Valentine's—and I've been going two nights a week to the Trafton School of Art to— Oh, how can we talk about this at such a time!"
Madame Karitska smiled faintly. "Because you've been creating a ven- good life for yourself and your daughter."
"Yes, but Arthur—"
"Betsy, life happens. I, too, had a husband whose death was questionable. We had a very comfortable marriage and were relatively wealthy, or so I thought. I look back on it now with more perspective on how it ended."
"Ended," murmured Betsy, startled to hear something personal from her.
"Yes, he was killed in a car crash, and that, too, could have been deliberate, for he'd made some very foolish mistakes. I think he lacked the courage to tell me he was virtually bankrupt. He was an expert on diamonds, a diamond merchant, but not an expert on the stock market, or on options, in which he'd heavily invested without mentioning it to me at all. He invested not only carelessly but recklessly, and after my settling with his creditors there was almost no money at all. Only a handful of diamonds, very fine ones, fortunately. By selling them one by one, I managed to survive. When I arrived in this country and in Trafton I had just four diamonds left. And still have one," she added, not without humor. "But a certain perspective is needed about tragedies, Betsy, for they happen to nearly everyone. Eventually you have to learn, try to learn, that it's the eternal things that matter, and among them courage."
"But why?" demanded Betsy. "Why?"
"Because we're drawn to certain people, not always happily, and they to us, and not always by accident."
"What do you mean, 'not by accident'?"
"There are some philosophers—mystics," said Madame Karitska, "who believe that we choose our lives before we are born. To learn what has to be learned."
Betsy said desperately, "But what have I learned from Arthur except grief?"
"Well, for starters," she said lightly, "you've come in touch with your own self, you obeyed something deep inside of you, which was new for you: an uneasiness about Arthur and the Guardians of Eden that brought you to me. And later, in spite of his fury, you did something very, ven' difficult. You took a firm stand and said no to him. You've been growing up, Betsy," she said softly. "Think of it that way. And Alpha— Arthur—made his choice."
"But he made the wrong choice."
She nodded. "And that's what he learned. And there is nothing you can do except to mourn, accept, and make your own life without him."
"And Alice with no father," Betsy said sadly.
"He left her, too," she reminded her softly.
Betsy sighed and rose from the couch. "You can't really think we choose our lives?"
Madame Karitska smiled. "It helps one over the bad patches," she said lightly.
"I'll think about it," Betsy said. "Maybe I should read some books. At least I don't feel so .., well, hysterical."
Madame Karitska said, "You may even stop hating yourself, given time."
Betsy nodded. "I do hate myself now, don't I."
'And the best antidote is your work, Betsy," she pointed out. 'And I see you've let your blond hair grow long again, and it's lovely."
Betsy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you—and I don't feel quite so guilty now."
"Good," said Madame Karitska, and saw her to the door. It had been a long morning and there were two appointments still to come, and there had been a mysterious long-distance call, a secretary making an appointment, late the next week for a Mr. Smith, about which she felt uneasy. She was about to close her door when Kristan pounded down the stairs—his hiking boots were always noisy.
He said, "I read about it in the newspapers, she just left you, didn't she? Is she okay?"
"She will be," she told him.
"I just might give her a ride home," he said. "She had to sell their car, you know, she couldn't afford to keep it." Ha flew out of the front door and she heard him shouting to Betsy.
For anything to pry Kristan loose from his painting was certainly startling. For Madame Karitska this was the second surprise of her day—she liked surprises, and entered her apartment smiling.
13
The people who came and went on Eighth Street
al- ways interested Madame Karitska, and she soon became aware that a very attractive young woman had moved into one of Mrs. Chigi's unfurnished apartments diagonally across the street from her. The girl looked alive and interested in life and without pretension as she cheerfully carried groceries up the steps, usually in faded jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, her long golden hair swept into a ponytail. Since nothing was completely private on Eighth Street
, Kristan reported that her name was Kate and she was rumored to be a writer of some sort, doing research, or so her landlady believed, and had rented the two rooms on the second floor.
Her arrival on Eighth Street
was only three weeks old when Madame Karitska responded to a knock on her door one morning and opened it to find her neighbor standing there.
"Hello," the girl said eagerly, "I'm Kate Margus and I'd like to make a two-hour appointment with you. Could you tell me how much you'd charge?"
A startled Madame Karitska said, "That's certainly unusual; may I ask why two hours?"
"Because I've just learned what the sign 'Readings' on your window means. I hear that you're a psychic, and a good one, and I'm hoping you can help me."
Both amused and curious Madame Karitska glanced at her watch. "I've forty-five minutes until my next client. Why don't you come inside—I won't char
ge you—and explain why a two-hour appointment." The girl was, after all, a neighbor, but two hours would be taxing indeed if she understood what psychometry entailed. As the girl followed her into the living room she said, "Neighborhood gossip reports that you're a writer?"
"Embryonic," she said. "I mean, I've had a few articles published, but. . ." Giving the wall of books a startled glance, as people so often did, she seated herself on a couch and said, "I guess I should first ask if you've heard of Charmian Cowper."
This was unexpected. Madame Karitska, about to offer coffee or tea, abruptly sat down. "Charmian Cowper! Good heavens yes!" she exclaimed. "Surely the most brilliant actress of our time—of my generation certainly, or even of the last century. She toured Europe when I lived there, I saw her twice on the stage. Unforgettable!"
Kate nodded. "She sang, too, in one of the few films she made. . .. Wonderful throaty voice. That's why I'm here."
Puzzled, Madame Karitska said, "Because of Charmian Cowper?"
The girl nodded. "She died in 1989 at the age of sixty-eight, only three months after her last performance as Lady Macbeth. And my mother, Ellen Margus, died a year and a half ago, and . . , and I inherited a small black trunk—"
"Trunk?" echoed Madame Karitska, thoroughly mystified now.
"Yes, and in my mother's will ..." Here she burrowed into a pocket and brought out a slip of paper. "In my mother's will she left me—and I quote—'a trunk that / inherited—as you will now, my dear—and on the interior of the lid inside I've glued an envelope explaining from whom / inherited it. You'll find the key to the trunk in the china cookie jar in my kitchen. I believe you will find its contents of interest, and since I can leave you so little money I feel a few of the objects can be sold now. With discretion.' "
Thoroughly puzzled now Madame Karitska said, "And what did you find?"
"I opened the trunk and in the envelope was a copy of Charmian Cowper's will, sent to my mother by Charmian Cowper's lawyer following her death, and bequeathing the trunk to her oldest and dearest friend Ellen Winston Margus—that's my mother," she explained, " 'with love and gratitude.' "
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