The Fortune Teller's Fate

by Audrey Berger Welz

  We both watched the group head down the broad avenue, giggling. Catherine smiled as if remembering her own youth, but I felt a small stab of wistfulness wishing I were here with a group of my own friends.

  We followed the girls toward Steeplechase Park where, at its entrance, an enormous face grinned at us with its bizarrely wide red mouth. Catherine winced at the sight, but she bravely marched under it into the park, past the tall spiral of the Dew Drop. Ahead of us, the school girls were already scrambling onto the mechanical horses of the Steeplechase ride, and soon we heard their shrieks of delight as their mechanical steeds raced neck and neck along curving steel tracks. I tugged at Catherine’s hand, but she merely shook her head. “I think that’s for younger folk than me,” she said. “Why don’t we walk around a little and see the sights?”

  A little downcast, I agreed. We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering around, stopping every now and then for a lemonade in the shade of a pagoda or to watch children riding the brightly painted horses on the merry-go-round. I wanted to walk out onto the beach, but Catherine soon said the bright sun gave her a headache. I think the bathers made her nervous, though their costumes seemed quite modest to me.

  Catherine was hungry, so we ate hot dogs and clams in Feltman’s Bavarian Beer Garden under the shade of a big maple tree. Catherine even allowed the waiter to talk her into a beer. Though she insisted on lemonade for me. I saved a napkin as a souvenir.

  By the time we left, the sun was beginning to drop toward the horizon. I pleaded once again for Catherine to go on just one ride with me.

  “How about the Ferris wheel?” she said finally, and I nodded eagerly. We joined the line and soon were climbing into a brightly painted cage that rose jerkily higher and higher as others climbed into the cars below us. From the top of the wheel, I could look down at the Steeplechase and a big swimming pool. Across Surf Avenue, a tower soared up from the center of Luna Park, like a pink and green confection. “That’s called the Electric Tower,” said Catherine. I wondered why, but I’d soon find out: as we walked along Surf Avenue after getting off the Ferris wheel, it suddenly flickered to life with thousands of lights glowing in circles.

  The lights drew me in. It was as if I were hypnotized, but soon that spell broke and another was born. Coming slowly toward us was an enormous elephant led by a small man wearing a purple turban and robes. Catherine shrieked and stepped back, but I was transfixed. The great creature passed so close to me that I swore I could see the fine hairs around its eye. They were bright brown against the elephant’s wrinkled gray skin. For a moment, I felt it looking into my own eyes, as if it knew something about me that I myself didn’t know. When it finally passed, I was in such a trance that Catherine felt the need to ask if I was all right.

  “Oh, perfectly.” I smiled, pulling myself together. I knew how kind Catherine had been to bring me here. It was clear that she found this city of sand alien and a little frightening, though she did her best to cover it up. Across the promenade, a calliope was playing circus music. Above the sound of this giant air organ, I could hear a woman scream. We were told a man had just stuck his head inside the mouth of the tiger. I wanted to see this for myself. I loved cats, but Catherine said she preferred them much smaller.

  Looking around for something less scary, I saw a booth decorated with tarot symbols. “Fortunes Read,” the sign said. A woman with a dark gypsy face and long, thick hair with streaks of gray stood in the doorway, smiling at us. “Good evening, ladies. Shall I look into your future?” she said in a husky accented voice. Catherine nodded and pulled out some coins. She went into the booth first. I asked her in a soft voice what the fortune-teller had said when she came out, but she just smiled mysteriously and shook her head.

  The fortune-teller gestured to me just as a man with a giant serpent wrapped around his neck approached her and whispered something in her ear. I could see Catherine wanted to leave but didn’t know how to maneuver our exit without causing a scene. In Catherine’s brief moment of indecision, I quickly ducked my head and peeped it through the low entrance of the booth. Inside I found myself in a dim candlelit room, draped with colorful fabrics like a tent. From behind a narrow table, the woman gestured to a stool across from her. I sat down, and she took my hand. But when she looked at it, she frowned and shivered and then said nothing for what seemed a very long time. Finally, she dropped my hand and stood up. From a mirror on the opposite wall, I could see the beady eyes of the serpent peaking its head in. It was as if he had come to eavesdrop on our conversation.

  “There is nothing I can tell you,” she said. “You belong on the other side.” Then she turned her head in the opposite direction as if I should understand the meaning and walked away.

  More puzzled than annoyed, I reemerged into the dazzling lights of Luna Park. I stood still for a moment, listening to the music, the lion’s roar, the voices of barkers. A strange elation seized me, a feeling as if I were on the edge of something momentous.

  “Come this way, little lady,” a voice rasped, startling me; I turned to find a weasel-faced man standing only inches away from me. “Come see the woman with no head.”

  Catherine turned pale and grabbed my hand, and I followed her meekly back toward the tram. We said little on the journey back home. Catherine seemed tired and withdrawn. I shut my eyes, and images from the evening flickered in front of me as the tram rattled through the dark streets.

  From that night on, I felt a growing restlessness, a hum in my whole being that seemed almost audible. I sipped tea with Catherine and her friends, and I watched the people passing on the streets outside the trattoria’s front window, but still, I felt very far away. I didn’t know where I belonged, but I knew that it was not here.

  It was on a chilly November Sunday, that I finally made up my mind. Catherine had gone out that evening. “I’ve been invited to play bridge with the Ostrovs,” she’d said, standing in the doorway, already in her fur-collared winter coat. “Would you like to come?”

  I remembered the Ostrovs vaguely. They’d come for a dinner at Catherine’s brownstone in the spring. He did something in shipping. His wife was a small dark-haired woman. I felt rather certain that they’d talk all evening about the old country, and for some reason this subject, usually so dear to me, left me feeling restless and bored.

  “No, thank you,” I said now, a little too quickly. “I…I think I tired myself with too much walking this afternoon. I thought I’d stay in, and write a letter home.”

  Catherine brightened. “Your father would so appreciate that, and I know the Ostrovs would like you to send their regards as well.”

  With a gesture rare for her, Catherine embraced me briefly. I closed my eyes, feeling the soft fur of her collar against my cheek, inhaling the familiar jasmine and lemon of her scent. Suddenly I knew I would never see her again.

  The sound of the front door opening and closing had been like a signal. Late fall chill and evening blues seemed to unexpectedly flood the room. I felt restless and moody. On an impulse I didn’t quite understand, I started up the stairs. Gripping the banister, I limped slowly to the top floor, to Catherine’s bedroom, which I’d never entered before. I hesitated a moment, then pushed the door open.

  A heavily carved sleigh bed dominated the room. The walls were covered with gilt-framed photographs of stiffly posed, richly dressed women, children wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, and sharp-eyed men in military uniforms. In the back was a photo of four men in dark fur hats. They stood holding rifles behind the body of an enormous bear that lay as if sleeping on the snow. “Royal Hunting Party, 1884” was written in faded ink in the margin below.

  Though the daylight was still stronger here, shadows were forming in the corners of the room. I found a box of matches on the dressing table, struck one, and lit the gas wall sconce above it. The clutter of carved boxes, enameled tins, and jars of face cream suddenly became too much for me. Like ghosts, the stiff l
adies, the hunters, the fallen bear, all came alive, and in their shadows all I could see was decay. I took a deep breath.

  There was a little writing table by the window, where there was still a little light. I sat down in the chair, took a sheet of Catherine’s stationery, and dipped her fountain pen into ink.

  I’m sorry, Catherine. I need to find my own life, and I can’t see it here.

  Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.

  —Donatalia

  I went to my bedroom, hid the note inside my book of fairytales, and quickly prepared my belongings.

  And before the sun had a chance to find its way through the blinds and into Catherine’s bedroom, early the next morning I put the note on her dining room table. Then like a seagull I spread my wings, flew down the hall like my mother had taught me, and gently opened and closed the door behind me.

  Chapter 13

  Goodbye Again

  I looked up at the brownstone. I remembered with a pang of guilt that Catherine had already ordered a turkey—a twenty-seven-pounder, she’d said proudly—for November 27, my birthday.

  I hoped Catherine would have other friends to celebrate it with. I didn’t expect her or my father to understand. Was I a bad person for leaving? It didn’t really matter; I knew I couldn’t stay another hour. Ever since that evening when I had looked into the elephant’s tawny eye and heard the fortune-teller’s words, I’d felt trapped in Catherine’s brownstone. I felt as if I were holding my breath, as if my lungs would burst.

  There were other reasons to go, more rational ones. Catherine had carelessly left a letter from her sister in Russia lying on the table in the front hall. My father and Archie had been forced out of their own company, she wrote, and Catherine would have to make do with the money he’d sent with me. I knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep me fed much longer, and I didn’t want to be a burden. All our futures looked grim.

  I was angry at the world for stealing my dreams, but anger was no longer enough. To build new dreams, I’d have to become someone new, and I couldn’t do that here, where every ornament on the shelf, every picture on the wall, pulled me back toward Russia and the life I’d lost. Now that I could walk again, I wanted to run.

  ¯¯¯

  It was cold that gray November morning. Milkmen in their horse-drawn carriages were clanging their way up and down the streets as I walked to the landing where I could take the ferry to New Jersey to Exchange Place in Jersey City. The wind off the river sent chills through me, making me glad I was wearing my babushka, like any good daughter of Russia.

  I was afraid but determined. I had never traveled such a far distance here by myself, but I reminded myself I had made it across an ocean and I was Katya’s daughter.

  At the train station on the other side, I handed some money to the man behind the counter. “How far south can I go?” I asked, using my dictionary. Seeing as winter was near, I thought my decision to go to a warmer climate made sense. It would be something new after the harsh winters of St. Petersburg. I surprised myself, for I had been a directionless compass several hours prior when I’d closed the door to Catherine’s brownstone.

  Knowing I had made a decision gave me a slight boost of confidence.

  “Savannah,” he answered, “but you’ll need another nickel.”

  “Why of course,” I thought. “George and Mary Bradley live in Savannah.” So, I slipped my hand into my bag, and I bought the ticket.

  The Bradleys had spoken so fondly of Savannah and if that didn’t work out, there was always Archie’s New Orleans to explore. And then I realized I didn’t even have the Suttons’ address. I had always contacted them through my father and Archie’s factory in St. Petersburg, and that had been taken over and we had received not a word from either of them recently, only the letter from Catherine’s sister. That was worrisome and I hoped temporary, but for now I had to think about what was best for me and accept that I was alone.

  All I knew of Savannah were stories from my childhood, that it was south of New York City, there probably wouldn’t be ballet in Savannah, and the Bradleys had made their home there. “If Mary Bradley liked it, that was good enough for me,” I mumbled to myself. Then I realized other people behind me were getting impatient and they too had someplace to go and were anxious, so I stuck my change quickly in my bag and stepped aside.

  I wandered the station. The train would leave in ninety minutes. I kept glancing over my shoulder for anyone trying to find me, but I was just one more head in the mass of people. Thirsty, I found a water fountain next to a store with souvenirs and maps of the United States. I asked the clerk if he would point out Savannah, and I counted the states between New York and Georgia.

  I walked toward the waiting room. I sat in a hard chair, my head in my hands. A drunk next to me threw a bag under my seat. The empty bottle of beer inside made a clinking sound against the floor. “All aboard the train for…” was all I could hear over the loudspeakers; the announcer seemed to be mumbling from some underground cave.

  I thought about the ship and crossing the ocean. How I felt lying on the cold marble floor, my leg throbbing, listening to the faint sound of the grandfather clock passing out time. I wondered about the emerald brooch Lillya gave my mother. It had vanished. And where might Hervé be? Sunk in my own grief, I couldn’t see that what was happening might have been God’s plan from the start; that an entirely different life was meant to grow out of the one I’d thought would be mine.

  I was awakened from my daydreams by the sound of the announcer calling the passengers going to Savannah to board the train. People came scurrying from all directions in the station toward Track 11. A heavyset woman stepped on my foot and I wanted to cry, but I realized crying was now a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had to stay focused. My life depended on it.

  Some persons in the crowd looked as if they knew what they were doing and where they were going. Others like me were a bit more tentative, unsure they had heard the announcer correctly. Assessing the situation, I decided to rely on the seemingly kind gentleman I noticed at the top of the steps who was examining each person’s ticket before letting them pass. “He’ll let me know if I am in the wrong place,” I said to myself, quite proud that my instincts seemed to be in prime condition even if I was not.

  Chapter 14

  I sat by the window and stared out, hoping to avoid conversation. I was fidgeting with my clothes trying to get comfortable and needed a tissue to wipe the few beads of sweat that had formed at the top of my brow when I realized I had packed my handkerchief in my bag that was above my seat.

  “I’m Mrs. Butler,” said an attractive woman with gray hair and bright blue eyes who had taken the aisle seat next to mine. In her hand was a delicately stitched lace hankie. “I always pack two or three for trips just as these. It’s impossible not to get flustered. Don’t worry, I have more,” she said with a big smile.

  I was surprised to hear a Russian accent. Still, I just nodded a thank you, took the kerchief from her extended hand, wiped my brow and cheek, and didn’t speak.

  Looking out the window, we passed one factory after another and more run-down apartment buildings than I knew existed. Clothes were hanging off of staircases blowing in the wind. I saw some dogs fighting. They seemed so viscious, but perhaps they were fighting for their lives? Who was I to judge?

  We passed fields of corn that had already been harvested and structures that my dictionary called a “silo.” It was the first time I had seen the American countryside. The leaves were either crisp or a deep red-brown and had mostly fallen off the branches. The landscape was rather barren. Still, I had the urge to stick my head out a window and breath in what I suspected would be the smell of sharp country air.

  I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want anyone to find out that I knew only the Bradleys in Savannah, and I didn’t know where to find them or if they’d even be there. I had no clue where I was going or
what I’d do when we arrived. In a sense, I was like a runaway, though that seemed funny—for all I really wanted was to run home into my father’s arms, feel Mme Strachkov’s hand on the small of my back, and hear her correct my French.

  After sitting silently for several hours, listening to the squeaky wheels of the train pushing us forward, Mrs. Butler politely offered me a lemon drop. It was the type of candy older American women seemed always to have little containers of in their purses. In New York City, when I rode the motorbus, I’d see grandmothers pulling lemon drops out of their purses, offering them to their grandchildren. I believe they were hoping the taste of lemon mixed with sugar might sweeten the children’s sour dispositions.

  I was extremely hungry, and out of reflex I put out my hand imagining its sweet and sour taste in my mouth. “My name is Donatalia Petrovskaya,” I said cautiously. “My family is from St. Petersburg, and I’m on my way to see some friends.”

  “Ah, St. Petersburg”—Mrs. Butler drew out the last word—“my favorite city. “Much livelier than Odessa,” she continued in Russian, “which is where I come from. I was born Irina Anjelika Rusakova, but ‘Mrs. Butler’ is much simpler in the South. Oh, but how I remember those carefree summer days playing in the Black Sea.” She paused for a second as if to smell the fresh sea air even though we were on a train passing through a drought-ridden countryside. After she seemed certain she had gotten a proper whiff, she continued with her question.

  “Have you ever been to Odessa, Donatalia?”

  “My family used to go there when I was young,” I told her, but what I omitted was that we quit going after my mother passed away. I suspected it was too painful for my father. Still, I think Mrs. Butler could read my body language and she changed the subject.