Dark Plums (19 page)

She dreamed of an arctic cloud, and this merged with early infantile memories. As a baby, no one had ever touched her enough. She half-remembered howling for hours on end in her crib, crying out to be touched and fondled.

“
Mamá
…” she heard herself sobbing while Elena, in pale satin, lay back against bed pillows and gazed right through the child, as if she were transparent. Her mother was apparently entranced by the red roses on the mantelpiece.

“
Cállate, Adriana
,” scolded the servant as she pulled the child away. “
Tu mamá está enferma
.”

They were still living in Santiago then, in the big house that belonged to her father's family. But her father had already left for the United States.

One night Adrianne and Alfredo went out alone to a jazz club. A trio was playing blues, and the music filled her with its substance. “We've got to stop this way of life,” she said. “I can't stand it anymore. Since Michelle moved in, you've almost stopped painting.”

He sipped his rum and soda. “I've got to treat you better,” he mused, rubbing his calloused finger along her inner arm. “You know I suffer when you do, baby, even though I've been kicking you in the ass. We've been leading crazy lives. Something has to change.”

“Yes,” she said.

There was a glimmer of light, she thought, at the end of the tunnel.

The hard piano notes and the muted sax rubbed along her bones.

The next day she came down with severe menstrual cramps. Michelle hit the streets, but Alfredo let Adrianne rest. He stayed home with her, cooked her chicken broth, filled her hot-water bottle, and then went out for a short time, only to return with several long-playing Beethoven records. He massaged her stomach, and later on in
the evening when she was feeling a little better, he made love to her. To her surprise, she had an orgasm and let herself flow with it as if waves were breaking over her, breaking her into pieces, carrying her with their flow.

Afterwards, she felt very sleepy and relaxed, healed in some mysterious way. She dozed off. When she woke up, he was in the studio painting. He worked late into the night while she lay awake in bed listening to Beethoven symphonies, trying to penetrate beneath the sound into something she could not fathom, something that held the keys to an essential mystery.

She got out her old wooden rosary, prayed with it, then put it under her pillow.

She dreamed of a small child of indeterminate sex, bundled in leggings, snow jacket and mitten, its face and head hidden by a green woolen visored cap. The child was running clumsily past her along Eighth Avenue. A huge black Doberman leapt forward, and in a flash there was a crunch of bones. The child shrieked. Blood seeped through the child's torn layers of clothing as it lay sprawled on the snow. Just before dawn she awakened and clutched at Alfredo for warmth. Instead, she felt Michelle's soft breasts and Alfredo's fingers on the girl. Adrianne bit into her pillow to keep from shrieking out loud. She could smell the fresh menstrual blood which stuck to her thighs.

If she didn't get out, she would go crazy.

To escape them both, Adrianne holed up in her hotel room. When Alfredo called, she told him that her period was still painful and that she needed to be left alone. She slept a great deal—a dull, heavy sleep—and went out to the movies.

On the third day when she peered through the drapes, the sky was swollen with heavy clouds. The turquoise-colored walls of her room closed in oppressively. She rushed out into the street bundled in her good fur coat, her leather boots, and her gloves. Her hair streamed over her face, obscuring her vision. A fierce wind nearly swept her off her feet.

The Flamingo Bar was empty except for an old man, and so she went outside again. The streets were nearly deserted. She enjoyed the force of the wind. It seemed to release all her pent-up feelings. She
might take a subway down to the Brooklyn Bridge. Then she could jump off the bridge and end this nightmare, which seemed to roll on and on like celluloid film. But if she were to die now, perhaps the film would only roll on into the next life.

Why did one man have the power to arouse so much anguish in her, she wondered.

On the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sixty-Third Street, she glimpsed a woman who looked like Eileen from Dominic's. Even in her heavy coat, the woman looked painfully thin, with matchstick arms and legs and a haggard white face half-hidden by enormous glasses. Eileen had been almost plump. Nonetheless, Adrianne called out across the street “Eileen!” The woman turned her head.

“It's me, Adrianne.”

The woman did not recognize her. She seemed drugged. A man in a topcoat, head down against the wind, nearly stumbled against her. Adrianne watched the woman clutch his arm while the man shook her off and hurried on.

Bracing herself against the wind, Adrianne kept on walking. She thought of Max, the old German, and she was consumed with a sudden longing to be with him. Ah, she was a fool not to have chosen him because he had truly cared for her. To be loved seemed a treasure beyond price. But she was not worthy of Max, she thought. The wind was bitter as it blew against her face, chapping her skin.

As she rushed along the street, with no idea at all where she was going, she told herself in desperation that Alfredo
must
love her, and Michelle was only a cruel test.

“It is only an illusion that he loves you,” whispered a voice inside. But the illusion felt warm and soft, like gossamer. “Pity,” a voice that sounded like Max's whispered. “Have pity. Be kind to yourself.” Her fingers and toes were numb with cold, and her boots hurt her feet. Although she was aware of the cold, at the same time she did not seem to be part of her body and a strange peace began to fill her. She wandered uptown into an unfamiliar neighborhood along Tenth Avenue.

“Pity,” whispered the voice through the freezing wind.

It took all her strength to keep on believing in Alfredo's love because she had to battle constantly against her perceptions. “Love
on earth is an illusion,” whispered the voice. “Love causes anguish, and only our illusions shield us from its pain.” The voice's presence enveloped her, like a cloud in its embrace.

“Palmist, psychic, and spiritual healer,” said the hand-let tered sign outside the first-floor apartment with its dull green scuffed door on West 84th Street. Adrianne rang the bell. A heavyset, swarthy woman, whom Adrianne thought looked like a gypsy, opened the door.

“Yes.”

“Can you read my palm? Or do a psychic reading or a healing?”

The gypsy woman looked at her dubiously and said, “Come in.”

They walked through a narrow entrance into the living room which smelled musty and was crowded with furniture. There they sat down at a round table covered with a fringed red cloth.

The gypsy wrapped her black shawl more tightly around her large breasts. She wore a dress of flowered silk. A silver amulet hung from a heavy chain around her neck.

Adrianne looked at the woman's full face and noticed a large mole on one cheek. The gypsy's wavy black hair, streaked with grey, hung below her shoulders. “How much is a reading?”

“It depends. What do you want?”

“Well, a palm reading,” said Adrianne with hesitation.

“That costs three dollars.”

Adrianne fumbled in her purse and found three single bills.

“Gimme a dime—a quarter—something silver. That brings luck,” said the woman in a husky voice.

Again Adrianne rummaged and found a quarter.

“I am Rosita. Relax. Don't be frightened, honey. Tell me your name.”

“Adrianne Torres,” she blurted out. Then too late, she wondered why she had told the woman her last name. Lately she was so scattered, hardly aware of what she was doing. She'd been going around in a daze, acting on compulsions and blurting out stupidities. She was barely able to cope any longer. Couldn't cope with the tricks. Couldn't cope with Michelle or Alfredo.

“Adrianne Torres is a nice name. Don't be scared, Adrianne. Relax.”

Adrianne looked down at the worn Persian rug. A light patch near her feet had been bleached of color.

The woman smelled of garlic.

Don't come so close to me, Rosita, she thought. You're appraising the value of my fox coat, which I should not have worn, and the pearl earrings with tiny diamonds that Alfredo gave me.

“Your mind is wandering,” said Rosita, bringing her back to the present. “Relax. You gotta trust me.” It was as if the gypsy could read her thoughts. Jarring. Her head ached.

Rosita asked her to hold out both hands flat on the table, palms up. She examined the lines closely with a magnifying glass which cast white circles on Adrianne's skin. Then she took Adrianne's right hand between her soft warm ones, turned it over to look at Adrianne's oval polished nails, and then back again.

“There is darkness around you,” said Rosita. “Darkness around you for a long time. You got children?”

“No.”

“You had one that died?” Rosita looked closely at her.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, I thought so. I see your whole life like colors in a pattern. This is a dangerous time for you. You could have a bad accident or even die. You gotta be real careful, honey.” She looked away, concentrated in thought. “I'm telling you what I see.”

Sighing, Rosita took her hand again while she gazed into a crystal globe on the table. Rosita's fingers were pudgy. She wore a thick gold wedding ring. Her nails were square with chipped blood-red nail polish. Adrianne could feel pulsations through the gypsy's fingers.

“You love a guy, but he don't treat you right.”

From the look of pain on Adrianne's face, Rosita must have known she'd hit the mark.

Mark.

She had always been an easy mark. A thousand lovelorn people must have passed through Rosita's door.

Spit in her face.

Run. Hide her face in Rosita's lap. Adrianne was trembling. She should have eaten a solid meal instead of taking only a cup of
coffee and doughnut at noon.

“Help me, Rosita, I'm going crazy,” she felt like blurting out. Adrianne loosened her grip from Rosita's and groped in her purse for a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

Psychic shit, Adrianne was sure Alfredo would say. Who cares? Can't cope. Can't cope.

“You look frightened, honey. Trust me. Rosita ain't gonna hurt you.”

Adrianne inhaled and tried to stop trembling. She was crazy to have come here. She should have gone to a shrink.

“
Alfredo, let me stop taking diet pills.
”

“
You'll gain weight.
”

“
So what.
”

“
Listen, baby, I'm your brains. You don't know how to wipe your ass without me.
”

She wished she could be born again as a fragile, undersized girl, wasp-waisted, with huge dark beguiling eyes and silken hair. Then people would realize when she was hurt and they would want to protect her. No one did now. Even though she'd lost more than thirty pounds since last summer, she was still large and people seemed to think her sheer size protected her. She wondered if Rosita's stolid appearance also hid a refined sensitivity.

Her head ached.

“Can you help me clear away the darkness?” Adrianne asked.

“You gotta trust me.”

“I do.”

Rosita looked at Adrianne intently and said, “You don't know how to trust.”

“I want to trust you.”

“That's what Rosita needs to hear.”

Only unhappy people went to fortune tellers. Maybe she should run away right now. All around her were dangers. Some evening her sensing radar might be off and she might pick up a murderer who would stuff her mutilated body into a garbage can.

Then who would give a damn? Alfredo would rage and say it had been her fault because she should have immediately sensed
the trick's character. He would rage and get crazier. Would Alfredo love her more if she died? Should she pack herself into an airtight container and have herself shipped to him?

Weird thoughts.

Help me, Rosita.

In a nearby room, a baby started crying.

“
You belong with me, baby. When you're with a trick, just think of me and know that you're doing this for both of us.
”

Every girl needs a man. Without one, she is nothing. She is alone without ballast, a cipher, a freak. Adrianne's thoughts swirled her away from the room and then back again into the ruddy brightness of the crystal.

“Can you help me?”

Rosita spoke slowly. “You need a healing service,” she said. “But it cost plenty money. I gotta pay my helpers. I don't know if you got the money. You need the service to drive out evil spirits. They're ruining your life.”

“How much does it cost?”

Rosita looked straight into her eyes, and again Adrianne felt as if she were being x-rayed. “You got money. Don't tell me you don't got money,” she said. “You got a beautiful fur coat that cost a lotta money. I can see you got money, but that don't make you happy.”