by Toby Barlow
The girl nodded.
“Make it vanish.”
Noelle looked at her, bewildered. “How?”
The old woman took a vial of pink-colored sand out of the pocket of her dress. “You clap some of this, and when you do, you tell it to go away.”
“The glass can hear me?”
“How am I supposed to know what a glass hears?” Elga scoffed. “I’m not a glass, stupid. Just try.”
The girl held open her hand and Elga poured the sand into her palm. Then Noelle stared at the wineglass for a moment, trying to concentrate on it. It seemed odd and impossible, but the old woman was insistent. Giving the glass as evil a glare as she could muster, Noelle clapped the dust together in her hands and shouted, “Disappear!”
It vanished. The mantel was bare. Noelle did not have time to be amazed before the nausea came up fast and she retched onto the rug. Elga sat down beside her and patted her leg. “Good, good. Don’t worry about that,” she said, nodding toward the vomit on the floor. “The maid will get it.” Then Elga took the Riesling bottle again and went back over to the mantel. As she poured the wine, the glass reappeared.
Noelle looked confused. “So it was only a trick?”
“Did it feel like a trick to you?” said Elga, returning to the couch.
“No,” said Noelle, rubbing her sore stomach.
“Then it wasn’t a trick.” Elga went over to the closet. “Tricks are for Gypsies. You know what one of the charlatan Gypsies’ favorites is? They sneak a worm under their tongue, then they find someone sick and tell them, ‘I can suck the illness out.’ When they suck at the sick person’s flesh—shoulder or arm, it doesn’t matter—they pull that worm out of their mouth, show it to the sick person, and tell them that was the illness. The charlatan gets paid and the sick person dies.”
She pulled out the rest of their bags. Her luggage looked ancient: the carpetbag’s canvas was faded and restitched; her other bag’s leather was stained with mud and cracked wax streaks. Both were covered in a hundred scars and scuffs as though they had been kicked across the entire continent. Beside them, Noelle’s unsullied new suitcase gleamed as white as an egg.
“I am so sleepy. I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” said Noelle, crawling up onto the bed and curling herself around a pillow.
“I’m telling you, don’t trust the Gypsies, don’t trust anyone. That’s what I’m saying. Bah. It doesn’t matter, sleep if you want,” said the old woman. “But Max will be here soon and then we have to go.”
“Go where?” asked Noelle, sitting up. “Are we leaving?”
“No,” said Elga. “But we’ll pack the camp up in case we need to leave in a hurry.”
“Where are we going?”
Elga gave the girl an impatient glance, clearly tired of her questions. “Well, first we have to find you a damn chicken,” Elga said, emptying the bureau of clothes.
“Are we eating chicken?”
Elga stopped and gave her a frustrated look. “What are you, some comedian? No, we won’t be eating the chicken.”
Noelle pointed to the gun on the bedside table. “Are we going to kill it?”
“Oh no; well, yes, eh, we are going to do a little killing.” Elga looked at the pistol for a moment, thinking it over. “But I don’t think I need that stupid gun.”
V
She lay in Will’s bed for a long time, contemplating staying there all day, not ready to rise and go through the motions again. Her muscles and bones were tired and sore from their passionate exertions, and she was not sure if she was strong enough for all the spells. Also, she was tempted to see if she could do it without tricks, perhaps this time the simple bond of affection could work? The thought was hardly new, she had often been tempted, and even tried it from time to time before the doubts struck and she found herself once again lacing her lovers’ chicory coffee with nutmeg hallucinations and spitting spells into the pages of their Bibles.
But there was some element of what she and Will had both shared, and the way they were together, that made her wonder if this was not different. She had liked the way his hands had held her, pushing and pulling her body. There was reassurance in such strong, demanding need. She had liked the rhythm they had found, steady and forceful without feeling in any way automatic. She liked too the way his eyes moved over her body as they made love, not staring or overly attentive—which some men were out of their pure wonder at the luck of being with her. Nor did he make love with his eyes shut tight—which she had always found insulting—but instead it felt as if they were two animals running wild through some thick, shadowy wilderness, repeatedly catching each other’s glances as they raced on, always reassured to find they were still so close together.
Amid all this, she sensed the seeds of a pure bond with him that she knew her many tricks would only taint and dilute. But the heavy rhythms of history called to her as she lay on the bed, tugging at her the same way she imagined the past pulled at opium addicts and alcoholics. No matter what the scientists say, heartbeats and appetites show that we are made as much of habit as either blood or flesh, she thought to herself as she rose from the bed and began to retrace the practiced patterns of old.
She began by pacing out the perimeter of the apartment, thoughtfully plotting all her careful geomancy. Then she sang knots of simple spells into the apartment’s corners. She hummed and chewed on strands of his hair pulled from a hairbrush and then opened a tea bag and sprinkled the dry leaves on a pair of old family photos she found in the desk. After letting them soak up the image, she collected the leaves and steeped them in hot water with mustard seeds and drank it down. Afterward she opened the kitchen window and stood over the sink, burning three fifty-franc notes. She heavily doused the ashes with black pepper and sang the old backward songs as she washed it all down the sink. Squatting, she urinated in the doorway to the bedroom, then sprinkled white flour across it. It left an ochre paste that she scrubbed into the floorboards while she sang some more. She wrote out a pair of small, crooked blessings—the first she wrapped between the tines of a dinner fork and hid it in the recesses of Will’s sock drawer, and the other she slipped into the inner band of a gray fedora that hung by the door. She pricked her finger with a pin and squeezed a drop of blood out, which she meticulously dabbed above the bathroom mirror. Sitting at his desk, she sketched a primitive drawing of Will surrounded by abstract oval shapes and, folding it up, tucked it into the back of a picture frame. She placed a complete suit of his clothes out on the bed and, lying naked on top of them, brought herself to another sexual climax. Then she hung the clothes up again, chanting softly as she set them neatly back into his closet. After that, she napped, exhausted from her exercises, rising a little over an hour later to shower and dress.
She was combing her hair when she heard the key in the lock. She didn’t know if Will would be happy or upset to find her still in his home, but she knew much of their new relationship would be defined by whatever expression he wore when he found her there. It was the moment of first return, a critical test in any union. She tried to fix a simple look on her face, nothing too intense, no needs or expectations embossed on her gaze, only the sort of simple, friendly expression you’d like to see as you walk through your door, a smile that only says, “I am yours.”
What she saw was Oliver.
“Oh, hullo,” the tall man said, briefly pausing for a double take. Will came in behind him, taking the key out of the door.
“Hello, Oliver. Hello, Will,” she said with a small but friendly smile.
Clearly embarrassed, Will looked beet red. She could tell Oliver had invited himself over and that Will was awkward and uncomfortable. But then Will made a gesture that surprised her. Striding over in a couple of steps, he gave her a warm hug and kissed her forehead. It was only a moment, but like every embrace, it told a story, and this was a most surprising one. It said he was glad to have her there, he had missed her, and he was sincere and even devoted. She had not expected him to be that strong, or
even that clear. Perhaps he was not such a lost rabbit after all.
Then he stepped back and blushed again, grinning. She watched Oliver observe it all, a slightly bemused smile crossing his own lips as his head cocked slightly to the side. He understood. It was decided. Theirs was not the bourgeois romantic triangle that the modern cinephiles might expect. It was a much simpler thing: she had been with Oliver and now she was with Will. The small wordless gestures, Will’s touch, holding one another, had made it all apparent to the three of them in the room within seconds.
“Well, then,” said Oliver, raising an eyebrow as he glanced around the apartment, “where is your telephone hiding? Oh yes, I remember. Excuse me for a moment.” He strode over to the desk phone and dialed a number. “Salut, je suis bien à l’Arc? Je suis à la recherche d’un homme noir qui porte un costume bleu et est assis dans votre hall. Oui, pouvez vous me le passer … Hullo, Red, it’s Oliver. I picked up Will. We’re headed over now … I understand. Thanks. How is she? Any better?… Oh dear. Well, maybe see if you can coax anything coherent out of her. Very curious what she has to say … Yes, I’m sure you’re doing all you can. All right, then, we’ll be at the hotel in ten or fifteen minutes. Thank you.” Then he hung up. “We should get there soon, but first I need a moment,” he said, leaving Will and Zoya alone.
Will shook his head, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, he wanted to make a phone call and I thought you might be gone.”
She kissed his cheek. “It’s fine, he doesn’t care. Oliver is one of those modern men, you know, he’s used to passing women around like candies at a party.”
He pulled her close. “I’m not like that.”
“Really?” She smiled and kissed him again.
The toilet flushed and Oliver came striding back into the room. “Will,” he said, “before we go, I suggest you use your washroom here, they’ve got one where we’re headed but it will make your flesh crawl.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” Will said. Zoya suspected Oliver was trying to create a moment alone with her, which she was happy to avoid. Jealousy could be declawed and defanged with simple tricks, though she suspected Oliver only wanted some token acknowledgment that despite her moving on, their exchange had not been completely superficial. She found even the most cavalier sorts still hated to let things pass completely unspoken. Everyone wanted to put a meaning to things.
“Okay, then let’s be off. The cab should still be out front. I’ll go make sure. Zoya, what a nice surprise to see you. Amazing and wonderful.” Oliver kissed her on the cheek and left, clearly in a hurry.
Zoya took Will by the lapels of his jacket and kissed him hard. “Why don’t you come to my apartment tonight, whenever you finish with him.”
“I don’t know how long we’ll be, last time I went off with Oliver, I was gone all day.”
“Later is probably better, right?” She smiled. “Come by anytime; if it’s after dinner I’ll give you dessert.”
“Okay, after dinner, then.” He grinned and kissed her.
She scribbled down the address and slid it across the table. She felt bad playing this trick on him, she could sense it was unnecessary. But again ancient habits drove her to a well-practiced routine, for whenever circumstances allowed it, she liked to have new lovers stay in her bed for one night. When they saw the sad conditions she lived in, generally shabby, run-down lodgings in unsavory quarters, the men’s protective impulses took over and they pulled her in closer to their lives. She remembered how poor Leon had spent less than an hour in the squalid hovel she had behind the park stables before announcing that he would lease her that apartment in the 5th.
She felt a little guilty watching Will fold up her address and tuck it into his wallet. She was still tempted to stop him, to hold back the spells and let things unfold naturally, if only to see where they would go, but she knew it was too late for that and so she bit her tongue, staying silent as he took his gray hat off the hook, kissed her cheek, and went out the door.
Once she was alone, Zoya caught her breath. The work was done. There was no room for romantic sentiment, she reminded herself, it was only about survival. But the feeling that she had committed some unseen error nagged at her, for the emotions she held for her rabbit were becoming quite real and substantial; small lightning sparks jolted about in her blood at the simple thought of him. This wasn’t good. She sniffed the air, and all she smelled was trouble.
VI
Riding along in the taxi, Oliver was already focused on other things. “Do you know anything about dementia?”
“Not much.” Will shrugged, relieved that they wouldn’t be talking about Zoya.
“As you’ll recall, I asked Ned’s friends, the jazz boys, to keep an eye out for her. Well, they found her, or rather the hotel owner did and called them up. Apparently Ned was discovered lying in the common bathtub at the end of the hallway talking incoherent gibberish. The woman said she is sounding completely bonkers. Ned, I mean, not the hotel owner. Actually, the whole thing is a bit loony. First Boris and now this, well, one doesn’t need to be paranoid…”
As the cab took them over the river and they headed up toward the Latin Quarter, Will tried to recall all that had happened over the past week. If these really were the last days he would spend in France, it was quite a way to go. Paris had always provided more than he could hope for: from afternoons spent walking in the Parc Monceau to evenings with hot beef bourguignon to nights with curvaceous brunettes taking off their cotton slips in his apartment, the city had given generously. Now, though, he was experiencing bewildering new dimensions of life here, far beyond anything he had ever imagined.
He had read somewhere about how reporters during the wars grew addicted to the intense, chaotic drama inherent to battle and once peacetime arrived these journalists slowly lost their minds amid the quiet and solitude, eventually throwing themselves out of windows in the capital cities where they’d been covering various slothful legislatures with their various voluminous farm bills. Will wondered if, once he returned to America, life in those quiet suburbs of Detroit might drive him mad too. After all, once you’ve raced through the streets of Paris rushing from a sweet, sexy Russian valentine to a delirious lesbian double agent, backyard barbecues might lose their charm.
A block off the river, they pulled up in front of the hotel, a run-down-looking four-story building. There was no sign. “This is the Arc Hotel?”
“Afraid so,” said Oliver, handing the cabbie some francs.
Inside the small lobby, they found Red waiting. The musician filled them in as he led them up the stairs. “She has been going nonstop like a broken record. I thought one of the jokers staying here might have slipped her something, but the lady says Ned only came in yesterday and didn’t talk with any of her neighbors.” Red pushed open the door to the small hotel room. “Take a look.”
Inside, the small woman lay on the bed, curled up tightly in the fetal position, her eyes wide open. Flats was sitting beside her, holding her hand. The only sound in the room was her rattling on in a raspy voice, the words barely discernible. Flats got up and Oliver gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed and, leaning over, put his ear to her mouth.
For the next fifteen minutes, none of the men said a word as Oliver sat listening. Other than Ned’s noises, the room was as quiet as a Quaker meeting. Finally, Oliver sat up, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but I had imagined she would be more lucid.”
“She was talking better earlier, clearer anyway, though it still didn’t make any sense,” said Flats. “It’s probably worse ’cause she’s tired now. It’s like she’s stuck under some spooky spell.”
“No need to be superstitious,” said Oliver, getting up. “There’s always a logical explanation.” He began poking around the room, opening the bureau drawers and digging into her pockets. In her small black purse he found some business cards. Will noticed him discreetly tuck one into his vest. “Has a doctor been called?”
“We were waiting for you.”<
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“Why was that?” asked Oliver.
“Well, if the doctor came and took her away we felt there was a solid possibility you wouldn’t pay us what you promised.”
Oliver grinned, took out his wallet, and started counting out bills. “My, my, Red. I’m sorry you ever doubted my word. I thought we were friends.”
“Yes,” Red said, taking the cash. “You are my friend, Oliver, that is true fact. A hundred percent. But that is only one thing you are. And I was raised never to trust white people, and never to trust rich people, which is another two things you happen to be.”
“Oh, you overestimate me.” Oliver smiled. “But I suppose you do make some sort of anthropological sense.” He looked at the woman lying on the bed. “In any case, there’s probably no harm done. She seems beyond any doctor’s abilities. Maybe a shot of adrenaline would wake her up. Any idea where we could find some?”
The black men shook their heads. Oliver got out his fountain pen and wrote an address down. “Okay, well, let’s try this. Since all our accounts are now squared, ask the manager to let you use the phone and call this number for an ambulance. Ask for Jerry, he can take her to the American Hospital over in Neuilly.”
Oliver gave Ned’s curled-up body a pat, then put on his hat and headed out the door. Trailing down the stairs after Oliver, Will suddenly felt like a young, earnest Dr. Watson scrambling behind a distracted Sherlock Holmes. Will had loved those detective stories as a boy, but he realized there was one significant difference: Holmes’s cases always involved a single mystery that he plucked apart with logic, grace, and wit, whereas Oliver never solved anything, each riddle only perpetuating deeper ones, which he clumsily fumbled at until they all came down on both their heads like piles of hatboxes tumbling off some great armoire. It was annoying.
As he reached the street, he saw Oliver striding fast down the block, past the busy sidewalk cafés and bars. Will ran to catch up.
“What’s the hurry?” asked Will.
“I have an appointment.”
