Enchantment (37 page)

Mother pulled the bib of her old-fashioned apron up over her face. At once she became unnoticeable. Katerina found it disconcerting. She knew Mother was there, that in fact she was perfectly visible standing by the sink. Yet Katerina had no choice but to look elsewhere, and it was very hard to force herself to continue thinking of Mother, to not allow herself to forget whom she was talking to, and what they were talking about. Then Mother was there again, the apron restored to its place. “I was in my mother’s womb at the time,” said Mother. “My father’s last gift to her. But she taught me. That sometimes the old ways are the only way to stop new evils. So I learned. She died too soon to teach me all, and she didn’t know that much, anyway. But before she died, she introduced me to Baba Tila, in Kiev.”

I had a Tetka Tila once, Katerina remembered. One of the aunts who modified Baba Yaga’s curse. But Tetka Tila lived farthest away of all, and never visited after I was little. She saved my life, but taught me nothing.

“She was very old,” Mother was saying, “but even a powerful old witch like her couldn’t live forever. I was her last pupil.” Mother sighed. “Everyone dies so soon.”

“You keep it secret?”

“The Church, the Christians—they killed witches. Rarely the real witches, you understand. Just old women who foolishly muttered something, or people that had enemies who charged witchcraft just to get rid of them. The real witches could hide from their vindictiveness. But it wasn’t good, the way people hated the very idea of witches. So we kept it to ourselves. I speak as if I were one of them. Not much of one. Do you even understand me? Baba Tila taught me the old language, but it’s been so long, and I’ve forgotten so much.”

“I understand everything,” said Katerina. “Or almost.”

“Now they don’t even believe witches ever existed. That makes it easier. They don’t look for us. There
are
foolish women who call themselves witches and prance around naked—they think it has something to do with talking to the devil! Or some nature religion. They have no idea. They embarrass me.” Mother laughed. “But then, at least they wouldn’t fear us. My husband . . . if he knew . . . your coming here, it threatens to reveal the truth to him.”

“I’ll keep still,” said Katerina.

Mother shook her head. “Too late. Vanya knows, and Vanya will tell his father, meaning no harm.”

“Can’t you ask him not to?”

“Vanya has no talent for lying or even for concealing the truth. We’ll see what Piotr does about it. It’s time he knew.”

They talked more, about what Mother knew about Ivan as he was growing up. “Only that he was important, for some reason. All mothers think that about their children, though, don’t they? Fathers too. Piotr always knew Vanya was something special. Not that he was an easy child. All this running. He wanted to be an athlete. Piotr wanted him to be a scholar. I just wanted him to be good.”

“You all got your wish.” And Katerina thought: A strong knight. A wise mind. A pure heart.

Mother patted Katerina’s hand and smiled. “Oh, yes, praise my child and you know that
we’ll
be friends.”

“I tell only what I know,” said Katerina. “He
is
good. I depend on that. It’s my hope.”

“I was so afraid when he left this world,” said Mother. “I didn’t know he had found you. I only knew he was gone. But then I saw that he was alive, and so I didn’t worry. Whatever need drew him to you—and it has been calling to him, I’ve heard it, since he was little—whatever need that was, I knew that he would be man enough for it, in the end.”

Katerina loved this woman with her simple manner and her deep wisdom, loved her like the mother she barely remembered. Piotr also seemed a good man, though he was so full of his own doubts that Katerina could hardly talk to him. And for the first time in her life, inside this protected house, knowing that Baba Yaga was thousands of miles away, Katerina felt utterly safe and at peace.

She was, in fact, happy. It was not an unfamiliar feeling—she had been happy many times. Standing with her father after a hard day at the harvest, watching the people dance despite their weariness. Delighting in the children, dancing at a wedding, there was often joy in her life. But it was always joy in others, the happiness of a princess glad that her people are happy. Or sometimes it was the momentary peace of confession, of communion, knowing that the God of love had forgiven her and would welcome her to him when her life ended, even if Baba Yaga had found some terrible way to overmaster her beforehand—peace was also a familiar feeling. But here in this house it simply . . . well, it did not end. She would be happy and at peace one moment, and then, the next moment, she would still be happy, still be at peace. She wanted to cry. When Mother showed her to her own room, not one to be shared with Ivan, and offered it to her, she did cry. “No,” she said. “I want to share your son’s room.”

“He already told me,” said Mother. “That you would be more comfortable apart from him.”

Katerina shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. In this house I am comfortable everywhere.”

“Then let me say it another way. He would be more comfortable apart from
you
.”

The two women looked at each other a moment, and then burst into laughter, though for Katerina the laughter was tinged with despair. “All right then,” said Katerina. “My own room for now. But I do mean to be a true wife to your son. However we began, I do mean for it to end well.”

Mother touched a finger to Katerina’s lips. “I know that,” she said. “There isn’t much time in this world, but there is always enough time, if you know how to use it.”

Katerina shook her head. “Not enough time for everything,” she said. “Not enough time with my mother.”

Ivan’s mother reached out and embraced her. “Your mother surrounds you every moment,” she said. “I know, because I feel her love for you in my own arms, around you now.”

Katerina was weeping as Mother gently closed the door behind her, leaving her alone in the room. And that, too, was joy, for there are tears of joy, and tears of peace as well.

Ruth cried bitterly about the broken engagement, and her mother made sure that within hours every Jew in Tantalus knew that Ivan Smetski had broken his vow to Ruthie in order to marry a shiksa, and the first Ruthie heard about it was at the airport, seeing the girl hanging on Ivan like a goiter. Everyone was properly horrified, which helped Ruth’s parents feel better. But not Ruth.

Nor did talking to her friends at school and listening to their almost triumphant response. What do you expect of men? Women as property, men as walking cauldrons of hormones, yadda yadda, she had heard it all before and wasn’t particularly glad to have provided the occasion for more triumphant feminism. What she wanted from them was sympathy—because she still felt, or at least feared, that Ivan was a good man and she had lost a prize. But if he was a good man, how could he leave me? So he must not be a good man. But if he isn’t good, then why does it hurt so much to lose him? Is it just my pride that’s wounded?

Maybe. But she still knew, deep in her heart, that this was not true, either. Because if Ivan came back to her, even now, she would go to him. She wouldn’t
trust
him, but she would take him back. Because she really did love him. And love doesn’t disappear just because of the vile unworthiness of the loved one.

She had always thought Ivan was the kind of man who kept a promise.

Time, that’s what was supposed to heal this kind of injury. Plus keeping busy so the time would pass. A flurry of shopping; but when she got home she didn’t even bother taking things out of the sacks and boxes. A book, another book, another. All dog-eared at page ten or twenty, all stacked beside her bed. She even typed up her résumé in the vain thought that it was time for her to get out in the real world and earn a living. When she typed, “Last position: Fiancée. Reason for leaving: Replaced by shiksa,” she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

“Do what I do,” her mother said. Which is how Ruth ended up at the beauty parlor getting her nails done and her hair cut, dyed, and permed at the same time—which was going to be terrible on her hair and her allergies, but she’d come out of it looking like a new woman.

“You’re so beautiful,” said the old woman next to her. “I can’t think why you’d want to change that gorgeous long hair.”

It was actually a marginally creepy thing to say, especially because of the way the woman looked at her—are there ninety-year-old lesbians who cruise the beauty parlors?—but Ruth was polite. “A change is as good as a rest.”

“So what was it, a man or a job?”

“What?”

“This angry self-destructive action,” said the old lady. “This obliteration of your self. Either you lost a job or you lost a man.”

“Forgive me,” said Ruth, “but . . . have we met?”

“We’re meeting now,” said the old woman. “You need more than a bob-and-dye, sweetie. Get him back.”

“You mean get
him
? Or get
back
at him?”

“Whatever.”

The woman’s eyes were dancing with delight.

And then, abruptly, there was only a wasp sitting on the chair beside her. It walked around the fake leather for a few minutes, then flew out the door.

I’m losing my mind, thought Ruth.

She worried for a little while about a woman who turned into a wasp—or a wasp into a woman, whichever. And then she worried about depression so deep it led to hallucinations, and whether Prozac was really as good as people said it was.

And then she thought about what the woman said. Get him back. Get him back. And for the life of her she couldn’t decide what she herself wanted. Revenge or reconciliation?

She walked along the street, looking for her car. Where had she parked? That’s another sign I’m losing my mind, she thought. Lately I don’t remember things like where I parked or whether I had breakfast. Just since he dumped me. The bastard. That bitch.

Sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall opposite her car, was a homeless woman. No, she was dirty and all, but she wasn’t begging. She was selling. A little cloth was spread out before her, with weird little bags and corked vials and tiny jars stopped up with clay. Ruth stopped and looked at her wares.

The gypsy reached behind her and took out a small piece of paper. On it were written the words
Get him back
.

This was too weird. Especially because a moment later, the words on the paper changed into nothing but meaningless squiggles. The paper said nothing at all, or at least it wasn’t an alphabet she had ever seen before. She must have hallucinated the words she read.

The gypsy held up a tiny bag and pointed to Ruth with her other hand.

“I don’t want it,” said Ruth.

The gypsy woman smiled. She had no teeth.

“This will make him love me?”

The gypsy woman thought for a moment, as if translating laboriously. Then she shook her head, set down the bag, and picked up a little clay-stopped jar.

“
This
one, then?” asked Ruth. “And he’ll forget the bitch and love me?”

The gypsy nodded, grinning.

“How much?” I can’t believe I’m asking. I can’t believe I’m going to buy it.

But there she was, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “Hmm? How much?”

The gypsy just kept smiling.

Ruth pulled out a five. The gypsy didn’t seem to respond at all. A ten? No. A twenty.

What’s happening to me?

The gypsy took the twenty. She looked dubious. Then she beamed at Ruth. She wasn’t
completely
toothless. She had a couple of blackened molars.

“How do I use it?” asked Ruth. “I mean, do I wear it? Eat it? Drink it? Serve it to him?”

At this last phrase, the gypsy nodded vigorously.

“Right, like he and I are going to have a picnic,” said Ruth. She felt cheated. But how stupid did she have to be, anyway? She was buying a love potion from a gypsy street vendor. All because a stranger in a beauty shop had told her to get him back? Ivan has driven me insane. Do I even
want
him to love me?

She was getting into her car, but at this thought she impulsively got back out. The gypsy woman cocked her head and looked quizzically at her.

Ruth pointed to the bag that the gypsy had first offered. “What does that do?”

The gypsy started scratching herself and cackling with laughter. Ruth wasn’t sure whether this meant that Ivan would itch, that someone would tickle him, or that he would turn into a monkey, but in any event, it sounded promising.

Besides, nothing said she had to give it to Ivan. It might be more useful to give it to the shiksa bitch.

Again, she had to know—bake it into cookies? Dash it in his face?

The gypsy pantomimed eating.

“Just like the other one,” said Ruth.

The gypsy nodded.

“The bag gets even, the jar gets him to love me.”

The gypsy held out her hand. Ruth gave her another twenty. The gypsy shook her head. Ruth added another twenty. The gypsy tucked it down into her bosom, then gathered up the cloth, tied the top into a knot, and got up and walked away.

That’s it? I’m the only customer of the day?

Or maybe when she gets sixty bucks from one sucker, she can go buy enough wine to stay drunk for a week.

I’m not going to use these. When would I have a chance? And considering I don’t even know what I want. Maybe I should give him both. Or better yet, make both of them fall in love with me. Then it would be
my
turn to jilt him for the same woman! Now
that
would be ironic.

Maybe what I should have bought is a gun.

The moment she thought of it, it felt like poison in her mind. A gun! For him? For her? For me? What’s happening to me? I don’t want anybody dead. I just want my life to go on.

She dropped the little jar and the little sack into the trashbox she kept on the floor of her car. Sixty bucks down the drain, but that’s cheaper than buying a new dress that I don’t even take out of the bag when I get it home.

Baba Yaga

She was exhausted. If magic had been hard before, it was almost impossible now, so far from Bear’s land. Baba Yaga hadn’t realized how dependent she was on his power till she tried to do magic without it.