“As an acceptable suitor, of course…,” he bumbled. He realized that he was saying too much with little aplomb. He tried to throw back the sleeve of his cape and failed miserably. Viviana giggled again.
“And now I must I leave before I make a bigger fool of myself,” he said and turned to escape.
“Wait!” She placed her hand on his arm. “Is it true her gown has red sleeves and there’s a white dog?”
In response Rinalto plucked a rare striped rose of scarlet and gold from a nearby vase. “She also has your hair.” He handed her the flower and hurried away.
Viviana held the flower to her lips and watched Rinalto head to the door, where he was waylaid by the crowd.
Tonight Rinalto was a shining star. Although he did not know it, he had completely endeared himself to the one person he had hoped to impress.
* * *
Viviana and Rinalto married with her parents’ blessing within the year. On their wedding night Rinalto gave Viviana an exquisite handmade wooden card box made of rosewood, which was crafted with inlaid floral designs. Inside lay Hayl’s original deck, along with a set of Mamluk cards he had painted to match. But Viviana never played the Tarocchi card games that were popular in the salons. She kept her treasured cards in Rinalto’s engraved wooden box instead.
This new type of deck, with its seventy-eight cards, made its way from Milan to Ferrara, Venice to Bologna and Florence, and then throughout Europe. No one ever questioned the cards’ origins. So they stayed hidden, like most symbols do, in plain sight, until one man in France recognized them for what they were.
Justice
Semele’s mouth dropped open in a silent “Oh.”
She had been translating for the past two hours on the train to New Haven when she recognized the name Filippo Maria Visconti. He had been the duke of Milan and had commissioned the Visconti Tarot Decks, the oldest-known tarot decks in existence. They were even named after him. Semele knew this because the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library housed one of the decks—her father, Joseph Cavnow, had been a curator there. On several occasions she had seen the library’s Visconti Tarot Deck, also called the Cary-Yale Tarot Deck after the collector who donated them. Were Ionna’s cards tarot cards?
Here she was heading right toward the Visconti Deck, and she was beginning to sense that it wasn’t an accident.
When the train arrived, she decided not to tell her mother she was in town just yet. First she needed to stop by the library to see the duke’s cards.
* * *
The Beinecke Library’s unusual architecture gave the illusion that it hovered in the air. Strategically placed pyramid columns raised the building off the ground, and instead of windows, opaque marble shielded the sunlight, changing colors throughout the day. The effect always made the library seem alive. Growing up, Semele had called it “the magic square.”
When she walked inside, the marble was glowing like citrine clouds. The towering walls of books rose six stories like a benevolent giant, greeting her like an old friend.
A rush of emotions hit her and tears prickled her eyes. She hadn’t been in this building for years, and still it felt like home. Of all the libraries she visited through the years—and she had been to many—Beinecke remained the most special. Her childhood was wrapped around this building. One of her first memories was of playing with her mother in the courtyard while they waited for her father to be done for the day.
She couldn’t help noticing the parallels between her life and Ionna’s. They were both daughters of librarians, men deeply read in history, literature, and philosophy, who oversaw the largest ancient manuscript libraries in the world. Librarians had served as guardians of the written word throughout the ages, and Semele grew up witnessing her father’s devotion. To her, he was as noble as a knight. Like Ionna’s, her childhood was filled with countless hours in the library, where she would look at the exhibits while her father worked. She had gotten her undergraduate degree in Classics at Yale and she had spent many an hour researching papers in the Beinecke’s reading room. Ionna and her story had brought her back.
Semele approached the information desk, hoping Thomas was in today. She needed a favor. Thomas was the head conservator and the only staff member she could ask. He had worked with her father for years and been a pallbearer at his funeral.
The person behind the desk called his office, and Semele was relieved to learn that he was there. A guard directed her to the lockers and coatracks, where she checked her personal belongings. No bags were allowed.
When Thomas arrived, the sight of him without her father brought a lump to her throat.
“Well, well. If this isn’t the best surprise.” He greeted her with a hug. “You in town to see your mom?”
Semele nodded, although she had yet to tell her mother she was in New Haven. “I need to ask a favor. A client has some really old tarot cards we’re handling, and I was hoping to take a look at the deck.” She didn’t need to tell Thomas what deck she was talking about.
He glanced at his watch; he was most likely busy, but she could tell he didn’t want to say no. “Sure, sure. Let me see if I can have it brought to a meeting room.”
Semele understood the enormous favor she was asking. Usually visiting conservators had to book an appointment with a curator several days in advance to study items from the archives. Mini-microscopes, UV lamps, and other tools were often brought out to assist them.
“Do you need any equipment?” he asked her, ushering her downstairs to the first lower level, the “court level,” where a periphery of meeting rooms and classrooms were located.
“No, just a visual. I only need a few minutes.”
They stopped at the Reader Services desk right outside the reading room. Thomas spoke with the staff member on duty. “I need to request the Cary cards, call number ITA one-oh-nine.”
Thomas led Semele to one of the meeting rooms while Reader Services paged someone to have the item brought from storage.
“I was actually planning to give you a call soon,” he told her. “We’ve been waiting for your mother to come clear out Joe’s office. I’ve called her a few times, left some messages.…”
“I’m so sorry.” Semele couldn’t believe her mother had been such a flake. “I thought she took care of that months ago.”
But she hadn’t. Her mother needed her help to do it, and Semele had abandoned her. She was flooded with guilt.
“I started putting things in boxes,” Thomas said. “Maybe after you’re done taking a look at the deck you can pack up a bit more.”
“Of course,” she quickly agreed, embarrassed. If her father were still alive he’d sit her and her mother down and lecture them both. “I died and you forgot about my office?” She could just hear him. His beloved office. He had two, one at the Beinecke and one at home, and not a day passed when he hadn’t been in either.
But Semele understood why her mother hadn’t come yet—she’d been avoiding the office for the same reason. Neither of them was ready to say good-bye.
* * *
When Thomas showed her the Visconti Deck it felt as if Ionna was standing beside her, whispering Rinalto’s story into her ear. A shiver flowed through her.
Her eyes went to The Lovers card, which showed a couple reaching out to embrace. The woman had blond hair and was wearing a red-sleeved gown. She had a little dog at her feet, exactly as Ionna had described.
Semele took a step back from the table. There was no doubt that the duke of Milan had modeled his cards after Rinalto’s deck. If the duke’s cards had survived, then Rinalto’s original cards—the ones that contained Ionna’s twenty-two—may have survived as well. They could still be out there somewhere sitting on a collector’s shelf. And if they were, perhaps she could find them.
“How many other decks are there as old as this one?” she asked Thomas.
“This old? Only a handful. The Morgan has another Visconti Deck, which you must have seen.”
Semele nodd
ed. She had seen their deck when she had interned at the Morgan Library one summer during college. How was it that she had such intimate ties to two of the places that housed the oldest tarot decks in the world? Somehow they were connected.
* * *
Thomas led her out of the meeting room to her father’s office, and they both grew quiet. He understood how hard this must be. When he unlocked the office door and turned on the lights, Semele felt her father’s presence for a moment. But, just as quickly, the feeling was gone.
“Well, I’ll give you some privacy,” Thomas said. He was already backing away. “Take your time.”
Semele walked farther into the room and heard Thomas shut the door behind him. She had not been expecting to face her father’s memory today—at least not like this. She sat down at his desk and stared at all his things.
He’s been waiting for me to come. She could feel him all around her.
Remnants of him were everywhere … remnants she did not want to lose. She looked at the family photos he had framed and knew she couldn’t pack them away yet. She couldn’t pack anything away.
She ignored the empty boxes on the floor and instead turned on her father’s computer. After seeing the Visconti Deck, she knew Ionna’s cards were out there.
Her father’s password was still active. She logged in to his databases and spent the next hour cross-checking collectors’ information, news sources, and international auction listings. Nothing remotely resembling the cards turned up.
Frustrated, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, spinning around, much like she had when she was a child.
If Thomas walked in on her now, he’d think she was worse than her mother. She hadn’t boxed up a thing, she’d hacked into her father’s computer, and she was twirling in his chair like a six-year-old. The thought made her smile.
Then she stopped and opened her eyes.
The chair was turned away from the desk, facing the back table, where her father’s appointment book rested in the center. She picked up the leather-bound notebook and flipped it open.
Her chest tightened when she saw his handwriting. Her father’s penmanship had always been graceful with its forward and upward slant, his t’s crossed high and long, and open end-marks—traits of a high achiever who loved his work and the people around him. “A scholar and a gentleman” is how he had been described at the service.
The week he died, his writing looked robust and healthy, and this made Semele frown. When someone was sick, usually the illness showed in their writing. Graphologists believed writing revealed every aspect of a person—their mental and emotional states, their physical well-being, even their level of intelligence—and Semele had done enough analysis to agree. Studying someone’s handwriting was like reading their diary.
She checked all the entries in her father’s calendar, looking for clues that pointed toward a looming stroke, but she could find no abnormalities. Her father had died in April. Nothing he wrote that month, or in the months before, indicated he was near the end of his life.
She flipped forward to May. What she saw made her stop.
There, in the first week, her father had marked an appointment:
Marcel Bossard, 1 P.M.
Semele couldn’t stop staring at the entry. The way her father had scribbled the words seemed rushed and agitated, unlike the others. She struggled to grasp the implications. Why had her father made an appointment with Marcel Bossard? How long had they known each other?
Did Theo know?
The questions consumed her. Part of her wanted to call Theo right then and ask if he knew about the meeting. Was this what he had been holding back from her?
She wasn’t sure if she could trust him. She wasn’t sure about anything at this point except that she needed to finish Ionna’s story.
Simza was a seventh daughter and a powerful cohalyi, a witch-wife trained since birth in all things magic. The Rom believed all their people were gifted with supernatural powers, but a seventh daughter possessed the ability to become a great seer.
Every Rom woman was taught to read fortunes from an early age. Their ancestors came from the Far East in India, a motherland of ancient mysticism steeped in Vedic magic, and the Rom carried on this tradition through their travels.
To tell a fortune they would read a person’s palm or gaze into a crystal. The crystal gazers preferred to hold the crystal ball in their hands. They would stare into its depths, opening their minds to truths waiting to be told. Quartz crystals with little to no imperfections were always best. The balls were made of stone that had been washed on the full moon and charged with its light. Palm readers examined the lines of a person’s left palm to determine their innate gifts, and the right hand showed what he or she would make of them. Every etched line had meaning and created the map of that person’s life.
The Rom also practiced the art of reading tea leaves. Tea readings required a special ritual. The tea was steeped, never with any milk or sugar, and then poured into a white teacup. The cup always had to be white or light colored so each pattern could be discerned. The deeper one read into the cup, the deeper one read into the future.
A Rom seer could use anything to see the future—sticks, water, fire, dice, even playing cards. Every seer had a favorite medium, and Simza’s was seashells. She would throw her shells into the air, let them land, and read the pattern. Then she would pick up her favorite shell and hold it to her ear.
“What do you hear, Grandmother?” Aishe, her granddaughter, would always ask.
“The ocean, telling me its secrets. Here, its song sings forever.” She would pass the shell to Aishe so she could listen. No matter how long and hard she did, Aishe was sure her grandmother could hear more.
Simza was also skilled in the art of finding missing people: she would track them down using an object they had owned. People marveled at her ability. Sometimes a child would purposefully hide in the forest and others would run to get Simza. They’d place the missing child’s favorite toy in Simza’s hand, and off she would go to find them, the other children chasing after her skirt.
Simza said possessions were filled with the owner’s spirit, and if she listened closely enough they would whisper in her ear just like the shells. Each time Simza found the missing child without fail.
Aishe would beg her to explain how she did it, but Simza would only say, “The wind is the wild hunter. I follow it.”
Simza practiced all the old ways. She believed power resided in her hair and refused to cut it. She believed every day was special. On Tuesdays spinning fabric was forbidden. On Wednesdays no one was allowed to use a needle or scissors or bake bread. Thursdays were considered unlucky. On Fridays no one could bargain. And on Saturdays no one could wash a thing.
Simza also believed garlic was a powerful charm for protecting against evil spirits, storms, and bad weather. She hung ropes of garlic bulbs outside her family’s tent and wagon. She rarely spoke during the day, but when she did, she would usually go around yelling “Garlic! Garlic! Garlic!” Just saying the word, she believed, was enough to ward off evil.
Nightfall was the only time Simza talked at length; she would join the other elders, telling stories by the fire. The campfire was the center of their lives, where they passed down their history, and in this way, the flame never died.
She always told Aishe she was lucky, for Aishe had red hair. The Rom called it sun-hair and considered it a mark of good fortune. Aishe had gotten her red hair from one of her ancestors, who was not a Rom, but a wandering Sufi woman. She had joined their tribe when they crossed the desert hundreds of years ago. The woman had been near death from thirst, and Simza and Aishe’s ancestors had revived and welcomed her into their band. The story had become a legend in their family, and was one of Aishe’s favorites. She would beg Simza to tell it again and again.
Simza was full of stories, especially stories about their family’s past. She had a special treasure chest, colorfully painted, that had belonged to her own
grandmother, Dinka, and had been passed down to her. It was filled with jewelry, silver spoons, delicate scarves, music boxes, and handmade dolls. Dinka had been the band’s best scavenger and had amassed a large collection of trinkets over her lifetime. Aishe loved to take out all the objects and ask Simza the story behind each one.
One day Aishe pulled out a wooden box filled with strange picture cards that had always fascinated her. “Where did Dinka find this one?” she asked her grandmother.
Simza looked up from the evening meal she was preparing over the fire, a rabbit stew in the big iron pot. “In Milan when she was just a girl,” Simza said. Then she dropped her voice dramatically, as she loved to do when telling a story. “A curse had spread over all of the city, killing almost everyone. The stench of rotting bodies traveled for hundreds of miles.”
Aishe put the wooden box back quickly, afraid to touch it now. Ghostly homes and decaying bodies could only have stemmed from evil spirits.
“Our band had been heading south when they heard the Black Death had taken thousands of lives. Empty houses meant treasure! So they came to Milan to search the cordoned-off areas.”
Aishe gasped. “They searched the houses?” Simza nodded solemnly, but Aishe caught the twinkle in her eye. She knew how much her grandmother loved a rapt audience.
“Every day they were in Milan, the phuri dai, the elder women, would whisper prayers for protection to the four winds and drape the children with charmed amulets to shield them from the bad spirits. Then the children would go off to scavenge what they could. Thousands of gadjos in Milan had fallen dead! It was their bad luck, their prikaza, that a little grandmother had come and killed them all,” she whispered.
The fire under the iron pot crackled and danced in agreement.
Aishe shivered, chilled by the wind, and wrapped herself up in her blanket. Little grandmother was the Rom’s name for a bad spirit. Gadjos were city-dwellers, and the Rom thought them impure and polluted.
“For three days Dinka searched the houses in the abandoned neighborhoods, no easy task with dead people rotting around you!” Simza bulged her eyes for effect and waved the rabbit’s legs, making Aishe squeal. “Dinka was now convinced all the ghost-eyes were watching her. She searched the last house in a panic and rooted out all the treasure. She had turned to leave when the wooden box caught her eye.”
The Fortune Teller Page 15
