by Mingmei Yip
Miraculously, the man will lose all his judgment, find the woman irresistibly beautiful, and all others ugly and repugnant. Unfortunately, sometimes this love charm can be reversed by a more powerful shaman.
Sabrina’s voice rose in the air, pulling me back from my thoughts. “When Alfredo was madly in love with me, he showered me with money and jewelry. I saved as much as I could and that’s how I’ve survived till now. Unfortunately I don’t have much left. But I won’t need much more, because I am dying.”
Not knowing how to respond, I remained silent.
“But now Alfredo has a new love,” Sabrina said.
“Who?”
“Who else? The one right in front of me.”
“You mean me! What makes you think that? Anyway, I have no romantic interest in him.”
“But that doesn’t stop him from fancying you.”
“But why me?”
“Who needs a reason for love? You’re pretty and daring—also, you look like Isabelle!”
I had assumed that Isabelle was Alfredo’s daughter.
As if guessing my thought, my friend said, “Isabelle was not Alfredo’s daughter, she was my late husband’s.”
Before I could respond, she added, “During the five years Alfredo and I were together when he was completely in love with me, he treated Isabelle like his own daughter.”
“So he married you?”
She laughed bitterly. “Hardly. He was still married to his wife, Penelope.”
“So you were having an affair . . . ?”
She rolled her eyes. “Eileen, you’re so naïve! This happens every day.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, feeling stupid.
“Alfredo didn’t legally adopt Isabelle, he did it by having a witches’ ceremony. “
“A witches’ adoption?”
“A ceremony to merge their blood, so they became blood relatives. Alfredo and his wife didn’t have children and Isabelle had lost her father. She was very pretty and flirtatious, so they attached to each other instantly. Isabelle even called Alfredo Dada. When Alfredo left us, Isabelle became depressed and bitter.”
Sabrina stared at the stone angel guarding her daughter’s grave, her eyes sad. “After they’d become father and daughter, strangely Alfredo seemed to lose interest in me. So I paid Nathalia to cast more spells, but they stopped working. Alfredo didn’t care about me anymore.”
“So he went back to his wife?”
“Not really. Since he’d never actually left her.”
Sabrina sighed, her eyes looking far away over the gravestones to where withered branches from an ancient tree stretched agonizingly toward the sky.
“I haven’t told you the worst of it. Alfredo fell in love with Nathalia, the witch whom I hired to keep him in love with me!”
“How could that happen?”
“Nathalia became so jealous of me and Isabelle that she took away my lover and patron! She left me and Isabelle helpless, loveless, and penniless. A heartless, evil woman. Hateful!”
“But Alfredo gave you jewelry and cash, right?”
“After he left, there was no more coming in, so I had to be very thrifty. I’m a high-maintenance woman. I shouldn’t have to pinch pennies.”
It looked like she was still high maintenance despite being supposedly penniless.
“Now I’m old, so I need to pay for company. You think Diego would stick around otherwise? I’ve turned from a beautiful woman pursued relentlessly by men to an old hag relentlessly pursuing men. . . . Hahaha! Karma, isn’t it?”
Her self-denigration was getting tedious.
“Sabrina, stop putting yourself down—please!”
I shivered as a chilly wind gusted over the cemetery.
Sabrina looked up, her eyes tired. “I’m sorry to bore you with an old woman’s sorrows. Eileen, tell me more about yourself.”
I didn’t think she was really interested, but I told her anyway about my grandmother, Laolao, my teaching job, and about my on-and-off relationship with Ivan. I ended by saying, “My life must not sound very interesting to you.”
But when I looked up I saw that her eyes were round like two shiny coins.
“No!” she said. “I envy you. What a fulfilling and adventurous life! I hope you’ll marry this rich Ivan and have lots of children. I also pray that I’ll live long enough to visit you two in America.”
“You’d be most welcome. But right now Ivan is just a friend, not my boyfriend. I’m not sure I really want to marry him.”
“Of course you should! Eileen, don’t be stupid! You’ve got a rich man, hang on to him! I won’t let myself die until I get your wedding invitation, how’s that?” Then she sighed heavily. “But if you put the day off too long, I won’t make it.”
I patted her swollen hand. “Don’t be so pessimistic, my friend. You never know, life is full of surprises, right?”
“Sorry, but there will be no surprise about this.” Her eyes looked even hollower in the lengthening shadows. “I won’t be around when it happens, but I am sure that you’ll successfully write your book and get tenure. But I know that someday you will accomplish something even bigger and better.”
“Like what, is being a professor and writing books not good enough?”
“I don’t know what it will be, but it will be something completely out of the ordinary.”
“Maybe . . .”
“I’m sure. But it’s getting chilly out here, so let’s go back to my place, now that you two are acquainted.”
“Me and who?”
“You and Isabelle, who else? Trust me, she’s been listening.”
Maybe the dead do listen to us, but whatever they may think about us, they keep to themselves.
Back at Sabrina’s home, after we’d sat down and been brought snacks and drinks by the maid, Sabrina handed me a notebook.
“Isabelle’s diary. Take a look so you’ll have a better idea of her.”
Of course I was curious to read the thoughts of this woman who had died young and whom I’d never met—except somehow we had met, first on the ferry and then when she came into my dream. But it made me a little uncomfortable that Sabrina was so eager to introduce her dead daughter to a stranger from a far-off land. Maybe all mothers love their daughters so much they must share them with the world, whether beautiful or plain, vibrantly alive or long dead.
I caressed the pages of the diary with my hand. “You’re not afraid that I’ll lose it?”
“No, I can tell you’re a very careful person who values what is important. But you needn’t worry, because this is only a copy. The original is locked in my safe. Believe it or not, I haven’t read all of it, so maybe there are things I don’t yet know about Isabelle.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course. Maybe someday I’ll read all of it, but it’s too painful now.”
By my estimate, twenty years had passed. So when would she be ready? Probably never.
“Soon I will be in the place where everything is forgotten,” said Sabrina. “But you will still be here to remember her.”
“But why me?”
“Because I feel that you two are connected in some way. I don’t want you to miss out.”
“Miss out on what?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. But I know that whatever it is, it will be very important for you.”
I was glad for this time with Sabrina because I’d learned more about witches and about her departed daughter. But being around her was spooky, too, with all her talk of how I was connected to the dead girl, who seemed to have decided to haunt me in my dreams.
I’d come to the island to have strange experiences, but I seemed to be getting more than I’d bargained for. Maybe Laolao was right and my destiny was to carry on the family tradition and become a shamaness—whether I wanted to or not. If there is such a thing as destiny, it is chosen for us. It just seemed particularly odd that I had to learn about my own destiny from dead people.
14
/> Isabelle’s Diary
After I left Sabrina’s house I walked to the bus stop and waited almost half an hour for the bus back to my hotel. I was extremely eager to read the diary, but somehow I did not want to take it out where it could be seen by others.
Once I was back in my room, I sat on the bed and immediately opened Isabelle’s diary to the first page.
Dear Diary:
Even when I was young, I felt that I was old. I didn’t know why I thought this until one day I figured it out. It must be that I’ve lived before, in another time and place—probably in ancient China. Everyone who thinks she was reincarnated believes she’d been a beautiful princess, so maybe I was too. That’s what I like to think when I look at myself in the mirror.
When I was little I knew China was on the other side of the world, so I thought I could see my ancient palace if I could dive deeply enough under the sea.
When I saw an illustration of the famous city of the Tang dynasty—Chang’an—I decided that is where I lived as a princess, more than a thousand years ago. I was particularly fascinated by the story of Princess Precious Jade.
When the princess reached thirteen, a barbarian king, having heard about her beauty, asked for her in marriage. But her parents had no heart to send her away to the cold, desolate far north. So they told the barbarian king that the gods would severely afflict any man who took their daughter away.
To hide her in case the barbarian invaded, her parents had a lavish temple constructed for her. Every day she made offerings to the deities and recited sutras. During the evening, she’d invite eminent monks, famous scholars, and poets to gather in the temple’s courtyard. Strolling among the odd-shaped rocks and exotic flowers, the princess and her guests would drink tea brewed with snow from flower petals, while reciting poetry, viewing paintings, and doing calligraphy—flirting all the while.
Her lovers included a handsome Buddhist monk and Li Bai, one of China’s greatest poets. So great was the poet’s love for the princess, that when she died a peaceful death inside the temple, the great poet died the same evening. But the monk was not as lucky, for he was soon executed.
I wished I could live like Princess Precious Jade. I like to imagine living as a recluse in a mountain temple, sipping fragranced tea while conversing with artists and poets. But alas, I am not a princess.
However, now anytime I want I can dive under this noisy world into one of silence and strange visions. The sea has become my temple. Here I feel I really am a princess, the recluse of the sea. . . .
That evening, Isabelle came into my dream again. At first she stared silently at me with her sad, curious eyes, as if we were under the sea together.
“Why do you come to see me?” I asked her.
“I’m your spiritual sister.”
“I already have a sister. Her name is Brenda and she works as a lawyer in San Francisco.”
“That doesn’t matter. We might even have been real sisters during the Tang dynasty one thousand years ago. So you must do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Go to the lake near the small village. Then you’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“How I died.”
“You don’t know yourself? You drowned, remember?”
“That’s what people say, but I think . . .”
“What?”
“There’s this lake near a village.”
“What lake and what village?”
“The village nearest my dada’s castle. And there’s the lake where I supposedly drowned.”
“Who’s your father?”
“You know who. My father. And my lover.”
Just then she vanished and I woke up, feeling distressed. What if the dream was true? Even if Alfredo was not her biological father . . . I didn’t want to think about it.
Though I would never have admitted to anyone that it was because of a dream, I decided I would go to the lake, in case I really could learn something.
The next morning, after having breakfast at the hotel, with the dream still lingering in my mind, I saw an article in the local newspaper.
PRIEST TO PERFORM EXORCISM
The mayor, in response to widely circulated rumors about the ground swallowing up a homeless man and a dog, has decided to engage a priest to perform an exorcism. This was at the behest of area residents who are convinced something supernatural is involved.
No one has yet reported a missing person or dog, and no eyewitness has come forward.
The police continue to investigate.
After hearing this news I decided to postpone my trip to the lake and instead go see the exorcism. Fortunately, as usual on the islands, the weather was pleasant with a light breeze blowing from the south, the most auspicious direction. When I reached the area where the crack had occurred I saw that a small crowd had already gathered under a nearby tree. Its roots extended deep into the ground, as if they were trying to offer comfort to the vanished man and dog. Among the crowd were several men snapping pictures, either reporters or just tourists. Parents held on to tugging children, already bored with waiting.
Finally, a small procession of solemn-faced men in exotic robes approached the area. The head priest, dressed in a white and gold robe, kept dipping a brush into a silver vessel and sprinkling the water on the ground. As he approached I could hear the priests chanting in low, resonant voices.
Soon the simple ritual was over and onlookers began to disperse. To my surprise, however, no one, neither the priests nor the audience, seemed to have paid any attention to the faint cracks on the ground. Somehow I felt I could read them, and they seemed to say:
Shamans dance by the lake
Holding a maiden and a handicapped boy to sacrifice
I wondered if I was having hallucinations, so as a young man walked by I stopped him, and asked, “Señor, do you see those cracks on the ground?”
He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see those cracks over there?”
“Hmmm . . . yes, señorita, but cracks are everywhere, so what’s so special about these?”
He cast me a strange look, then sauntered away, shaking his head. I realized I was going to have to get used to seeing things that other people could not. I sensed that my crack readings—real or imaginary—were telling me something important. But what?
I decided to return to my hotel because I wanted to finish Isabelle’s diary so I could give it back to Sabrina. Though I was fascinated by this thin book, it also evoked fear. I was peering into the soul of a dead person.
Back in my room, I poured a glass of mineral water and braved myself to continue to read Isabelle’s diary. I opened the notebook at random and came upon:
Dear World,
Recently I’ve been having horrible dreams, as if someone is about to die. In one of them I went to answer the door to find a coffin lying on the ground. Inside was a middle-aged woman crying and smiling crazily. She might have looked like my mother, but I wasn’t sure because it was too dark. In another dream I was diving and under a rock I spotted a severed arm with what looked like my mother’s watch on the wrist.
But of course I didn’t tell any of this to Mother. So I have to keep it to myself, which is extremely painful.
I flipped to another page and read:
It’s my birthday today. At breakfast, Mother told me that after Alfredo left she’d had to work as a stripper and a prostitute to keep food on our table.
Why did she choose to tell me this on my birthday?
Mother said it was only when she threatened to tell Alfredo’s wife that he gave her any money. Mother said Alfredo is filthy rich so the pittance he gave her was a slap on the face!
I decided to take matters into my own hands and went to Alfredo, demanding more money. But he turned me down! So much for fatherly feeling. He even cursed at me.
Maybe I’ll tell his wife myself. Then he’ll be sorry.
I was eager to discover what h
appened after the confrontation, so I skimmed through the rest of the diary but found nothing more about it. On the final page I read:
I keep having these bad dreams. Is God trying to tell me something? I’ll go for a dive—maybe I’ll find an answer in the quiet of the undersea world.
It sounded like she was leading up to more unhappiness and I wanted to sleep this night at least without disturbing dreams. So I set the book aside and turned out the light.
The next day I was once again on the rickety bus to Sabrina’s home. She welcomed me and prepared a pot of tea while I waited on her worn couch. I took a few sips of tea before gathering up my courage.
“Sabrina, I need to ask—how did Isabelle die?”
“I told you, she drowned.” She looked down at her hands that were tightly clasped. “I never liked her diving, but it was her passion. She sold some of her photographs to magazines but never made very much.”
“But she must have been an experienced diver. How could she have drowned?”
“She was too smart to have drowned by accident.” Sabrina took a gulp of brandy and grimaced. “I almost have the feeling that Isabelle didn’t want to live in this evil world. I always suspected . . .”
“What?”
She sighed. “Isabelle was pure and innocent. She wanted to believe everyone else was as good as she was. She didn’t belong here.”
I struggled to digest what she’d just told me.
My friend stared at me, her eyes full of misery. “If it wasn’t an accident or she didn’t kill herself, there’s a third possibility.”
“Which is?”
“That she was murdered.”
I shook my head. “Oh no! Why would anyone have killed her? What would be the motive? Did the police investigate?”
