The Fortune Teller

by Gwendolyn Womack

  The e-mail sounded apologetic enough. What could he do, fire her? She was his best appraiser, a consistent workhorse who hadn’t taken a day off in over a year except to attend her father’s funeral. Mikhail would get over it. She hit send.

  Death

  Six months ago her mother had called in the middle of the night crying hysterically that he was gone. Her parents had been to a gala at the Beinecke that evening, and Semele could hear the champagne-slur in her mother’s voice.

  They screamed over each other, Semele yelling that she needed to call an ambulance and her mother trying to explain that she already had.

  “He’s gone. He’s gone” was all she could say.

  Semele had launched out of bed and driven straight to New Haven with a coat over her pajamas. When she arrived the police were there. Her mother couldn’t stop sobbing until Semele finally got something to calm her down.

  The coroners had already taken her father away.

  Semele had missed him—missed his last breath, his last moments. She had just talked to him the day before, having no idea it would be their last exchange. She barely managed to get through that first week, to make the funeral arrangements, to medicate her mother and put her to bed. No one, not even his internist, had seen her father’s stroke coming. He was gone without warning, and her mother was comatose, barely able to attend the service.

  Semele found the adoption papers three days later. She had been working all day in her father’s home office, going through his bills and bank accounts, and looking at insurance policies. Her father had always taken care of those things, and now Semele had to help her mother manage life without him.

  The papers were in his bottom drawer.

  At first she didn’t understand what she was looking at. She saw her name alongside her parents’ names on a certificate issued the year she was born. Then she realized. It wasn’t a birth certificate. Her parents were not her real parents.

  The words on that page shattered her. She had grown up as Daddy’s little girl, his faithful shadow, and knowing he died carrying this secret felt like losing him not once, but twice. Now, in some ways, she didn’t feel like she had a mother either. She didn’t have anyone.

  That night Semele had wanted to march into her parents’ bedroom, wake her mother up, and scream until she told her the adoption was a lie. But her mother was asleep, thanks to the Ambien.

  The discovery was too much. She was already in a fragile state. So she set the adoption papers in the center of her father’s desk, next to the checkbook and credit cards, the safe-deposit-box key and all the other important papers. Then she went to her bedroom and packed.

  Her mother’s younger sister was staying with them for the month. Semele assured herself that her aunt could take care of her mother without her. When she was certain her aunt was asleep, Semele left. The eighty-mile drive to Manhattan passed in a blur of anger and tears. Looking back now, she realized she was lucky she hadn’t gotten into an accident.

  The subsequent phone calls from her mother were both maddening and heartbreaking—the sobs, the begging, the long voice mails asking Semele to come home so that she could explain. Semele told her she would come when she was ready. She was too raw from the loss of her father and really didn’t want to know. Whatever her mother had to say would only make the pain worse.

  So they went months without speaking at all. Occasionally her mother would break down and call, begging her to come home so they could finally talk. Usually she would phone on a Friday after dinner and drinks with girlfriends. Semele always used work as an excuse to ignore the calls. Her first assignment after the funeral was in Amsterdam, the trip where she met Sebastian.

  In Amsterdam she was a recluse. She threw herself into her work to mask her hurt. Sebastian managed to drag her away every once in a while to show her the sights. One of those trips was to an exhibit of playing cards at a local museum. Inside the minimalist space, rows of glass boxes showcased eighteenth-century playing cards under pin lights. She would never forget their story.

  At that time, women who were too poor to care for their children would leave the baby on the doorsteps of churches, or at the houses of good townsmen, where they knew the child would be cared for. Often the mothers couldn’t afford stationery, so they would tuck a playing card into the baby’s swaddling with a message, usually with the child’s name and their reason for leaving the baby. The mother always begged the stranger to save the baby’s life.

  Semele read each card in the exhibit:

  Please, I cannot afford to feed him. He has not eaten in three days.

  My son must live. His name is Jan.

  Save her.

  Feed him.

  Help him live.

  Please open your hearts.

  The messages were all similar.

  Halfway through the exhibit Semele gave up on hiding her tears. What broke her heart the most was the story behind the cards that were cut in half. A halved card meant the mother had kept the other half as a way of telling the caretakers she would try to come back for her child one day.

  The exhibit had hit Semele hard. Her real mother had abandoned her at birth. Would her card have been cut in half or left whole?

  The question haunted her for months afterward. She thought of all the children who faced the world without their mother or father, and now she was one of them. Suddenly her whole childhood, her whole life, didn’t make sense. Who was she really? Now she was ready to find out.

  She decided to send her mother a text instead of calling her; it was cowardly but easier:

  Hi Mom, decided to come home. Have a few days off from work. Will see you tonight.

  Within two minutes her mother texted back with an upbeat reply:

  Wonderful news. Usual time?

  Semele could feel her emotions churning. She used to take the train to New Haven once a month to visit her parents, always the 5:22 with the 7:07 arrival. Her dad would pick her up and her mother would have dinner ready. Joseph would uncork his favorite wine and they would talk for hours.

  She texted back: Yes.

  Why she didn’t tell her mom she was already in town, only ten minutes away, was because ten minutes felt too soon.

  With a new city comes a new life. Aishe began hers in Paris.

  On the road outside of Styria she met a nice German family traveling to France and they offered to let her accompany them. Aishe helped cook and clean at the campfire and take care of the small children in return for safe passage. When they arrived in Paris, Aishe said good-bye to her friends and declined their invitation to continue north. Paris was the only place she wanted to be.

  The first year she squatted in the forest, on the edge of the city, with all the other beggars. Every day she would walk to the markets to play her harp or sell wooden flowers she had made from fallen branches. Some days she would earn a coin and other days she would not. When too much time went by with nothing, she would dig into Dinka’s chest and find a trinket to trade for bread.

  She befriended other squatters at her encampment who taught her to speak French. “Wandering Angel” became her nickname because she always had the harp in her arms and Dinka’s colorful chest strapped to her back like a pair of boxed wings.

  One day, while playing on a street corner near the market, Aishe looked down and noticed two coins in her basket. She was giddy that she would eat for the first time all week. Just then, a woman nearby dropped her purchases, spilling oranges and pears on the ground.

  Aishe rushed to help her. With nimble hands, she put all the fruit back in the woman’s basket. Aishe accepted the woman’s thanks but was secretly wishing for a pear.

  She turned back and saw a young boy snatching her two coins.

  “Arrête!” she screamed. The boy dashed off, disappearing into the market stalls. Aishe returned to Dinka’s chest, which she often used as a stool, and sat down. She could not keep her tears at bay.

  Patrice Brevard was keen enough to know the girl had lost
the coins on account of her. She also knew from her matted hair and filthy clothes that this waif needed more than two coins. She had heard Aishe strumming the harp and thought how well the girl played. Her employer, Mme Helvétius, enjoyed having unusual entertainment in her salon. Perhaps if the girl bathed and was given a proper dress, she could play for their guests.

  Before Patrice could question her judgment, she approached Aishe. “I’m afraid you lost your coins because of me.”

  “Do not worry, Madame, I will earn more,” Aishe said bravely, wiping her eyes.

  Patrice could hear the accent in her voice. “Do you have family?” she asked.

  “No, I am alone.” Aishe eyed the fruit and her stomach rumbled.

  Patrice held out a pear, which Aishe grabbed, barely able to utter a “thank you” before shoving it into her mouth.

  Patrice watched her devour the fruit. “Your playing is quite lovely. I could offer you a few days’ work if you would like.”

  Aishe’s eyes grew round, as pear juice dribbled down her chin.

  “I am the housekeeper at a salon in Auteuil, a village not far from here. I could give you a maid’s dress and a proper bath, and you could stay for a few days until we see how you get on.”

  Aishe jumped up. “Oh yes, Madame. Thank you! I will do whatever you wish.”

  Patrice stepped back to allow more air to come between her and Aishe. That dress would need to be burned. “You will assist me and my maids and play music for our guests in exchange for room and board.” Aishe nodded vigorously as Patrice turned away. “Now come along before I change my mind.”

  With the pear stuck in her mouth, Aishe gathered Dinka’s chest and her harp and hurried to follow.

  And so it was. If life was a game of chance, Chance had just offered itself up to her.

  * * *

  Aishe played the harp in the salon for one hour in the afternoon and one hour in the evening. She had no idea who the people were or why they came and went.

  In the evenings the voices became loud and hearty; there was talk of a revolution in some place called America and that France would perhaps undergo the same. The afternoons were less boisterous: a poet would recite his work, or a playwright would come with a troupe of actors. On quiet days the guests would gather around gaming tables to play cards.

  The salon’s owner, Mme Helvétius, was a striking beauty, even in her sixties, and easily commanded the room. She dressed in the exaggerated fashion of the day—wide panniers with a cinched waist, and a tall wig adorned with gaudy feathers—with the wise wink of a woman who understood that sometimes it was necessary to look foolish.

  All the great minds of the day attended her salon. Auteuil was a charming resort village, and Parisian elite flocked there to escape the stench of Versailles. The palace had fallen into severe decline, becoming an odorous cesspool where aristocrats and servants alike often took to relieving themselves in the stairs and corners. Much of the court no longer wanted to attend.

  Philosophers, writers, artists, astronomers, and physicists all mingled in Mme Helvétius’ blue-and-white parlor. Many days the salon held as many as fifty people, each eager to connect with like minds. Paris was entering its Age of Enlightenment, a new order in which brilliant ideas reigned supreme, and the conversations happening in Mme Helvétius’ salon could cut through the powder on any man’s face.

  The men who gathered there were Freemasons, a fraternity dedicated to deciphering the order of nature and humanity’s place within it. At present, they were studying the priests and philosophers of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome to understand the knowledge of the ancient world.

  A pastor and Freemason named Antoine Court de Gébelin loved to air his thoughts at the salon. On this particular day, however, he sat in quiet repose and enjoyed Aishe’s playing.

  Aishe was stationed near the door with her harp. The sunlight streamed through the window behind her, and her fingers flew over the strings with easy grace. When two young gentlemen entered the room, she almost played a wrong chord.

  She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept wandering to the taller of the two men. She couldn’t help it. He looked just like the husband she’d conjured in her dreams all those nights with her cousins. Now here he stood in the flesh.

  When they locked eyes she did play the wrong chord. She quickly covered her mistake but caught him smiling. He seemed to know he had been the cause.

  He was introduced around the room, and Aishe overheard that he was from Russia and his name was Andrej Cernik. A thick accent laced his French. Andrej continued to stare at Aishe the whole time he spoke. His attention made her blush. When his gaze drifted to her hand, she knew he was wondering how she’d gotten such a horrible scar. She wished she could cover it. Every day, the scar reminded her how alone she was, how her family was lost forever.

  She closed her eyes and played faster, imagining Simza dancing and twirling like a dervish as she had loved to whenever Aishe let her music fly.

  Court de Gébelin stood up and hovered at the table where a small group had gathered to play cards. He stared at the deck spread out before Mme Helvétius’ hands.

  Mme Helvétius glanced up with an inquisitive smile. “You wish to play?”

  “These cards,” he said.

  “Aren’t they intriguing? I bought them on my last trip to Germany. They’re called the tarot.”

  Court de Gébelin picked up one of the painted cards and read the words under the image. “The Hermit.” It showed an old man holding a lantern in the dark. Then he picked up another of a magician. “The Magician,” he murmured.

  Court de Gébelin had never seen these cards before. To the average eye they looked exotic.

  “May I?” He derailed the game, taking all twenty-two face cards and laying them out together. By now everyone was crowded around the table; even Aishe had stopped playing.

  Court de Gébelin grew convinced that the cards were symbols, and that hidden within them was a secret wisdom from remote antiquity, from Egypt. He shared his belief with such conviction that soon he had everyone in the room convinced of his hypothesis.

  Mme Helvétius looked at her cards with newfound curiosity. “How did such cards come to Europe in the first place?”

  “Must have been the gypsies,” Andrej’s friend proposed.

  Aishe smiled at that but remained silent.

  Andrej noticed. “You find that idea amusing?” He stepped closer to her.

  Turning pink, Aishe demurred but said nothing. Her people had not traded these exotic cards. She had seen only one of these decks in her life, the one in Dinka’s chest.

  Andrej’s gaze swept over her red hair and delicate features. “Would you play for me once more? I have never heard such beautiful music.”

  Aishe nodded shyly and began to play a soulful Rom melody, one of Simza’s favorites, a tune called “Find Me in the Wind.”

  As Aishe played, Court de Gébelin became even more certain he’d made a miraculous discovery, and he announced that he would write about the cards in his next volume of essays. The essays would start a wildfire that would soon burn through Paris and into Europe and beyond.

  That day in Mme Helvétius’ salon, two stars collided. Antoine Court de Gébelin met my descendent, and the future of fortune telling was born.

  Message to VS—

  Interesting call from Beinecke.

  Reply from VS—

  Excellent. Notify me when back in NY.

  She should have them by then.

  Temperance

  Semele could almost hear the harp playing, the scene was so vivid in her mind. She had rushed to translate Aishe’s story but was unable to finish before it was time to head to her mother’s. As she rode in the cab, she wondered what happened to Aishe after Mme Helvétius’ salon. Had she stayed in Paris? And what happened to the cards in Dinka’s chest?

  The cab turned down her street, interrupting her thoughts. They arrived at a two-story turn-of-the-century classic New England ho
me in East Rock near Yale. The house had been a constant in Semele’s life. Over the years, her parents had lovingly renovated every room and painted the outside powder blue. The color only made the house, with its wraparound porch and original woodwork, more picturesque.

  The porch light turned on and Helen came outside.

  Semele couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her chest. She still wasn’t ready.

  Her mother hurried to the curb before Semele could shut the door. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, giving Semele a hesitant squeeze, unsure if her embrace would be welcome.

  Semele hugged her back. “You too,” she said automatically.

  Like Semele, Helen was petite in stature and wore her hair pixie short. She always dressed in linen pants and flowing batik blouses that made her look as if she were on vacation somewhere fabulous like Morocco. But tonight her colorful blouse and pristine makeup couldn’t hide the strain in her eyes. She looked thinner and more fragile than the last time Semele had seen her, which made Semele’s guilt return tenfold. She had abandoned her mother in her most desperate time of need.

  Helen watched the cab drive off. “What, no bags?”

  “I figured I’d wear whatever is here,” Semele lied. She had no clue what clothes she had in her old room.

  Her mother assessed her. “You look exhausted.”

  “Just a little tired.”

  They headed up the brick walkway. Once inside, Helen made a beeline for the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind chicken,” she said, as if Semele had come home for their usual dinner and they hadn’t been estranged for months.

  “Sounds great.” Semele grimaced internally. Baked lemon chicken was her mother’s go-to. She always paired it with warmed spinach salad and quinoa.

  “I invited Macy to join us,” Helen called out.