A man with ebony skin, a shaved head, and wire-rimmed glasses sits at an ornate writing desk at the back of the room. He looks up as I enter the salon.
“Bonjour, I have an appointment with—”
“Welcome, darling. You are even more beautiful than Ruth described. I am Oscar, the proprietor, along with my partner, Robert. We operate a full service salon and spa in the back of the inn.” He stands as I approach and offers his hand. Oscar speaks with the accent of an English gentleman, and there is a special kindness, something unique in his eyes.
“Ruth has engaged me to give you a complete makeover. Let’s get you started right away.” He leads me through a door at the back of the lobby and down a hallway lined with dressing rooms with bells tied to yellow ribbons hanging from brass handles. “You will find a dressing gown inside. When you are finished changing, follow the sign into the salon, where I will be waiting.”
I change into a long cotton robe and walk down a hallway, with an entire wall stenciled with flowers and vines intermingled with the words: Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty, that is all ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know.
“Those are the squires of the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal, Oscar tells me.”
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows I see an enormous cathedral with twin towers looming above the buildings of the old town.
“Beautiful view.”
We pass stations with hairdressers in uniforms curling, cutting, teasing, blow drying hair, and tending to the feet and nails of an assortment of clients, male and female.
“You have lovely hair, but it is too straight and drags on your face. We will do some layering around the front, clean up the line, and add a few warm highlights.” He leads me to a shampoo station and adjusts a lever beneath the seat.
“We have a two hour deadline. Ruth advised me you have an appointment for a psychic consultation with Kevin. He is magnificent! He channeled the spirit of my deceased grandmother. Kevin told me to go to the St. Lawrence Bridge, at Rue de la Pere, on New Year’s Eve, where I would meet my soul mate. It was there I met my partner, Robert. We have been together nearly four years,” he says with a delighted lilt, while shampooing my hair with magic fingers.
“What a romantic story. I hope I have the same luck.”
“Ruth is resting in the back room. She was utterly exhausted after Robert finished with her massage. I heard you girls were up quite late last night and had a little too much wine.” He finishes rinsing my hair and wraps a towel around my head.
“Come, dear, follow me to the treatment room.”
Oscar guides me through the salon to a room decorated with leafy plants, bamboo accents, and lines of ceramic pots filled with liquids. The room smells of a mixture of overripe fruit and intoxicating herbs. An overhead fan whirs along with the sounds of a reed flute and the chirping of exotic birds.
“Interesting candles; what are they made from?”
“They are created from a salt shelf in the Himalayas. When a candle is burned inside, it deposits negative ions in the air and creates a homeopathic environment.”
He gestures to a cot covered with starched sheets and a silky coverlet. “Tuck yourself in and let yourself go. I want you to relax, shut off your mind and open yourself to your inner spirit. Take everything off, underwear and jewelry. Soshi will join you shortly for your wax. You can store your valuables in this armoire.
“What lovely earrings. Where did you find them?”
“Mimi, of the boutique Le Petit Jardin, gave them to me as a present.”
“Unusual. Mme. Debussey normally turns a tidy profit on her merchandise.”
“They were a gift from an old beau.”
“Some believe opals to be bad luck, but others believe they have very potent magical properties.
“Strip down, and prepare to be pampered,” he says, and exits the room.
I secure my belongings in the French closet, slip under the sheets, and luxuriate in the feeling of naked skin against cool lilac-scented cotton. Pulling the coverlet up to my chin, I adjust the aromatic sleeping mask over my eyes. Relaxing the muscles through the length of my body, I settle deeper into the cushion. Drums beat softly, the wind blows, birds chirp, an ocean breeze, waves on the beach, a lazy afterglow, a drowsy haze of bliss. I float in a blue lagoon, a pool of deep blue water, the laughter of children...
“Now I get to have my way with you,” a cheerful voice exclaims as the door opens abruptly. Popping my head up from the cot, I lift my mask to see a woman with fierce slanted eyes and a beaming smile, dressed in a white dress with a silver pot in hand. As she moves in closer and roughly pulls the sheet away I notice certain physical attributes, a shadow of excess hair and a hint of an Adam’s apple, that make me question her true gender.
“Spread your legs wide, we’ll do the right side first. Pull the skin back next to the labia; it hurts less that way,” she says, and takes a scoop of hot wax from her pot.
“I don’t think I want it all taken off—” I say, and then I feel the hot wax burn my flesh, followed by an abrupt, breathtaking yank.
“All gone. Now the left. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Up on all fours, doggy style, and we’ll clean up the back. The same routine, pull back on the left cheek, and then the right. Good girl.” She sets down her pot and uses a big powder puff to apply a layer of talc to my waxed skin.
“Would you like the happy ending?”
“The what?”
“Yes... the happy ending.”
I look back to see she is lubricating her latex-covered fingers with a clear liquid. I have no idea what this procedure entails. Soshi glides her lubed fingertips along my freshly waxed skin. She uses her fingers to massage the tender flesh.
“That’s it... lift and arch. Relax, let yourself go, enjoy your happy ending.”
Then, as if awakening from a dream, into... I don’t know what, I flip onto my back and pull the sheet up around me.
“Stop! What are you doing?”
“You don’t need to be so modest; I’ve already seen your goodies.” She rolls her eyes, mutters something beneath her breath, picks up her pot and bustles out of the room.
“She’s all yours,” I hear her say to someone outside the door.
A beautiful young woman walks in the room and introduces herself as Audra, the chief aesthetician.
“We make all of our aromatherapy oils and potions here on site. We extract the oils and resins from flowers, herbs, and plants. It is my job to rid you of the toxins and negative energy stored in your body and to renew your natural balance. The senses offer an entryway to the spirit. Once awakened, the spirit will gradually find its way to the surface.”
She bustles about the room, opening glass vials and jars, and mixing them together in clay pots.
“Remain still while I prepare the potions. My team of specialists will tend to your skin and nails. When they have finished, I will treat you to a body exfoliation, followed by a massage with alternating hot and cold stones. You may nap and have a light meal after I have finished. Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head as Audra adjusts earphones over my head and places a warm cloth on my lower abdomen.
“Good. Then we will begin our session.”
In what feels like a blink of time, I am back in Oscar’s chair.
“True beauty is an illusion,” Oscar tells me. He holds an artist’s palette and applies makeup to my face. “It is the voice and vision of a unique spirit speaking to the world through a mortal image. A few are original true beauties and the rest are clones. You walked into the salon with the face and body of a woman who God gave good physical symmetry, but your eyes were of one who had given up, whose spirit had been crushed. What I see inside you, Alexandra, is a beautiful, sensual, and powerful spirit. You need only follow the outline of the work I have done today. Do not fall back into your old ways. The death of the spirit is the cruelest of deaths.” He leans over my face to pluck a wayward eyebrow hair.
“What
do you think of your new look?” Oscar asks and turns my chair to the mirror. The fair-haired woman staring back at me has eyes etched in black and blood-red lips, pouting with sultry provocation.
“I want your hair wild,” he says, messing it with his hands, “like a fierce warrior princess. Lean over and shake your head. Good. I’ll do a little feathering on the ends.
“Take my advice, dear. Never trust anyone, male or female. Women censor, men conquer and destroy. You are the trap; you trap them, darling. Gay men know more of this because we straddle the chasm. Finish your tea to the bitter pieces on the bottom; it is my secret blend.” He lifts a section of hair and wraps it around a curling iron.
“I lived as a woman for a period of time, so I know what it feels like to exist and breathe as both sexes.
“You must lead, not follow. Embrace the spirit of the Goddess. And never look to the pack for guidance or reassurance. Does the shepherd ask for help from his sheep? Does the queen seek advice from her subjects? Does the clone master turn to his replicas for instruction?” His voice rises to a crescendo of theatrical flare as he exclaims, “No!”
His eyes glow with passion as he observes me in the mirror.
“How do you feel, now that you have consumed the bitter root?”
“Very clearheaded.”
“Good. It has taken effect. One last piece of advice, dear.
“Beauty is a false goddess. She will lead you to many shores, but she cannot teach you how to explore the lands you have conquered.
“Fearlessness is the goddess who carries power. However, she is rarely admired, as she does not seek the drug of admiration, and rarely seen, as she is always on the move.”
“I would like to become that goddess.”
“When you accept your true beauty, others will imitate and follow.” He takes off my smock and shakes the hair to the floor.
“The fireflies?”
“Pardon?”
“You reminded me of something Ramey Sandeley told me about female fireflies mimicking the sounds of other females to lure men not of their species for food.”
“Well,” he says with a wry smile while sweeping up my fallen hair, “Ramey Sandeley should be an expert on that subject.”
He looks down at his watch. “Oh, darling, we’re running late. Go back to the massage area in the hallway next to the dressing rooms and knock on the door. Ruth is probably still asleep.”
I embrace Oscar, thank him for his services, and move through the salon to the massage room. There is no answer when I knock on the door, so I turn the latch and peek inside. As I open the door, I hear the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and a naked man’s back comes into full view. He thrusts his hips against a woman bent over the table with red hair fanning the white sheet and legs spread wide. His pale buttocks quiver with the rhythmic pounding.
“Harder, Robert...” the woman cries out.
Oscar’s soul mate reaches out to grab a handful of thick hair, yanks hard, and lets out a moan as he drives deeper into the body of Ruth Sandeley.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KEVIN THE CLAIRVOYANT
LA VILLE SOUTERRAINE, ’THE UNDERGROUND CITY’, IS A NETHER-world of desire and perception. Anything is possible in the underground. There are no seasons. Nature doesn’t exist. Some inhabitants never leave,” Ruth tells me, as I follow her down a narrow staircase and weave through a labyrinth of tunnels.
There are no commercial establishments along this raw cement corridor, although there is an occasional oddly shaped door with a symbol. The tunnel grows more narrow and steep as it twists and turns downward. The air is damp, cold, steeping with a raw undercurrent of the subterranean. I grasp onto the steel railing and struggle with claustrophobia, and a powerful desire to turn back, to race up to fresh air and sunlight. I cannot fathom an existence beneath the earth.
Ruth stops in front of a door pinned with a clover talisman and knocks three times in quick succession. A woman with a girlish face opens the door and reaches out a slender hand.
“I am Sophia, Kevin’s assistant. He is ready to greet you.”
“Go ahead,” Ruth says. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”
“I will introduce you,” Sophia says, and guides me through a door leading to a cramped office.
The clairvoyant sits at a desk scattered with papers, books, and crystals in all sizes and shapes. A painting of a muscled angel in a red loincloth hangs on the wall above him. The gorgeous spirit shoots up from the sea with wings thrust toward the clouds; his head arched back, gilded hair flowing, with shackled wrists, clenched fists and torn chains. Kevin turns to face me, and I see he is a small man with a compact muscular build and a well fed midsection. His short brown hair is flecked with gray and he is dressed in a plaid cotton shirt and khaki trousers. Around his neck he wears an engraved silver amulet.
“Alexandra,” he says, then gestures to a worn leather chair in the center of the room. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“Thank you. It’s hot outside. But I don’t suppose you concern yourself with the outer elements.”
He moves to a water cooler where he pours me a cup.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Very.”
“First, let me tell you a little about my background and how I work. I come from a clan of psychics, astrologers, and soothsayers originating in the highlands of Ireland. The clan was inbred for generations and the secrets and powers grew within the closed group. For many centuries my people actually lived underground, hidden in natural caves and caverns, and later in an infrastructure of catacombs built into the hillsides. Religious persecution spared no one at an earlier time in our country’s history. To save themselves from annihilation and protect their rituals and beliefs, they were forced into subterranean habitation. That may be why I feel the need to live beneath the earth for a full season each year.
“I am a medium, although I dabble in all forms of the paranormal. However, the gift to communicate with the departed is a rare one, so I focus most of my energy on keeping in close communication with the other side. My experience has taught me that blood relatives, those who carry a direct line of DNA, are the best conduits. Although any spirit can be an excellent guide, as we all carry strands of the same elementary matter. Many times, a number of spirits wait at the gates. Often, it is the noisiest that gets to speak first. If you have psychic tendencies and are open to receiving transmissions, our work here can be quite powerful.”
He looks at me with deep intensity in his sparkling blue eyes. “Have you ever experienced a psychic episode?”
“I have powerful dreams. On occasion, a premonition.”
“Do they frighten you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Interesting. I’m surprised you aren’t aware of certain gifts.”
“Such as?”
“Alexandra, I do not wish to alarm you, but are you aware that there is a spirit in the room that walked in with you?”
I return his direct gaze and attempt to ascertain if he is serious.
“There is a spirit standing next to you on your right side. Can you feel its presence?”
“What does this spirit look like?”
“It is not in human form. I am going into a channeling to see if I can make contact. Relax, sit quietly, and wait until I’ve finished before asking any questions. We do not want to interrupt the flow.”
Kevin closes his eyes and rocks rhythmically, while lightly humming. As the rocking grows in intensity, his voice deepens and his face twists into an expression of severe pain. He opens his mouth and lets out a long sigh as a damp air creeps into the room. “I have made contact with the woman,” he says in breathy voice, devoid of the lyrical qualities of his native tongue.
“She tells me her name is Paget, and she is your cousin and your aunt.”
“I have neither a cousin nor aunt named Paget.”
“She says she is the daughter of your grandfather and your aunt Rhonda.”
I shi
ft in my chair, take my gaze from him and search the room for... something, I don’t know what.
“Do you have an aunt named Rhonda, Alexandra?”
“How did you know?”
“Would you like to hear her story?”
“Yes, please.”
His eyes focus on a spot above my shoulder, and he tips his head a bit, as if to listen intently.
“Paget tells me she was conceived through incest. One day, after learning she was pregnant with her boyfriend’s child, she took a small fishing boat out onto a lake on the property of her adopted family home, jumped into the deepest part and drowned herself. It was the only way she could destroy the legacy of the tainted union of father and daughter, from which she was given her wretched life.”
“Drowned?”
He raises his hand, as though to quiet me.
“Her spirit, tormented by a fateful act, was not able to pass over to the other side. She has stayed as a troubled spirit in the land of the living. Her purpose has been to guide and protect. Paget has followed you throughout your days. She has been there through your struggles, and has witnessed both the cruelties endured as well as the acts of kindness. She has interceded many times on your behalf.”
Kevin takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, nodding his head as he seems to listen carefully. His closed eyelids flicker.
“Paget says a hidden truth, such as hers, is like the seedling of a giant tree. It germinates quietly in darkness and sends out long tangled roots to suck up nutrients. Finally, it bursts forth, casting branches and leaves to steal sunlight from other vegetation. A hidden truth can taint and pollute for generations; its effects can ripple out into the universe. Only a catastrophic act of nature, or man, can destroy it for good.
“She withdraws when she feels you are safe and is drawn back when she senses imminent danger.
The House on Black Lake Page 7
