Lost (30 page)

“As in, ‘You've got mail?' ” said John. “No, I doubt it. When I do manage to die, if there's any choice in the matter of the afterlife, I have every intention of traveling on, the farthest spot within my ability to reach.” He pointed out the window of the Tarom flight. They were high enough above the Alps to see early stars. “All those immensities of distance, all the refigured lengths of the past and the present wrapped in transparent sleeves around us. Whatever Terra Infinita I can explore, I'm there, honey, not nosing about my old haunts.”

His chin against her cheek, a cousinly nuzzle: “You're thinking about the ghosts of old victims of Jack the Ripper, trying to get home--”

“I most assuredly am not,” she said, “everything is not fiction for me.”

The stars watched, no comment.

 

They turned left out of the Farringdon Station in Cowcross Street, whose rural name was belied by buildings of blood-colored brick in a kind of budget International style. Still, the street curved pleasingly to the right, as if cows might once have meandered that way. Looming in the sky several blocks to the east, an office block or a tower of council estates made the final statement about the urbanization of the neighborhood, in concrete graver than tombstones. Or was that the Barbican? The clairvoyant's rooms were past a Starbucks, at the top of one of the few remaining buildings that rose only two or three stories.

Ritzi, it turned out, was Moritz Ostertag, an attenuated balding man discreetly made up with powder, doused with lemon verbena cologne. He wore ratty carpet slippers, and around his neck he sported a scarf sewn over with tiny mirrors. “Rasia,” he said, hardening the
a
to make it
Raay-seee-ya
. “But you are takink care of your beautiful self! You are learnink to cope. You are haffink ze facial and ze massage, and, I am zinkink, you are beink ready to touch ze infinite.”

“I am having ze migraine and ze overdraft. Are you booked?”

“I am sensink you vill come. Naturally I turn avay everyvone.” The place was deserted, and deservedly so: it smelled of cat piss. Chutney, thought Winnie suddenly; where
did
that tomcat go? Ritzi Ostertag dipped and swayed around a couple of ferns, moisturizing with a mister. “I am tendink ze vegetable kingdom. Zen I am haffink ze afternoon off and succumbink to electrolysis. Ze betrayink eyebrows, you know. I am haffink to prepare for a ball tonight. I'm goink as Clare Buoyant ze Clairvoyant.”

“I'm in a little bit of a hurry. I've got the kids to collect and, Ritzi, I've brought you fresh trade.”

“Not all zat fresh,” he said, eyeing Winnie from over half-lens glasses, but she was meant to be amused, and she didn't mind.

“She'll be a challenge. Come on, don't turf us out.”

He sighed, putting down the mister and beginning to fuss with a Russell Hobbs electrical kettle painted over with runic symbols. “In ze mood for somevone new I am not beink. But Rasia, I luff you, zo I zay, as you like. You will be havink Lapsang souchong or it's out on ze street with you and your”—he looked Winnie up and down—“bodyguard.”

“I prefer Earl Grey.”

“You heard me.” He lowered some musty purple velvet drapes that looked as if they'd been cut down from prewar theater hangings. The light turned sodden and cancerous. Winnie was reminded
of the bed-curtains in the Scrooge/O. R. painting, and had to suppress a snort. Did Rasia take this bozo seriously? Ritzi lit a few small pyramids of incense and disappeared behind a door. They heard him taking a piss. “It's all zis fortune-tellink, ze tea my bladder is beink tired of,” he called out to them.

Winnie was beginning to realize that this charade was going to cost her money. But since Wendy Pritzke might take it into her head to do such a thing, the cost of the experience would be deductible as a research expense on this year's taxes. So Winnie kept her mental Palm Pilot open. She noted the smells, the light, the dust underneath the radiator. The confusion of images on the walls, Buddhist, Himalayan, druidic; not a bricolage, but a hodgepodge, like a decoration from the inside of a high school locker, vintage Reefer Era.

“Tea,” said Ritzi Ostertag, indicating chairs, pointing: Sit.

Winnie looked about. The place was done up as a genuine tearoom, she guessed, with several small tables covered with paisley shawls, crowded around with unmatched chairs. One corner was fitted out with bookcases and display shelves, stacked with packs of tarot cards and incense sticks. A glass-fronted bookcase, crammed with some old volumes and pamphlets, was guarded up top by a skull and jawbone, real or plastic, jutting its toothy smile. In another corner a computer screen's e-mail display had lapsed into a screen saver featuring flying monkeys out of MGM's Technicolor Oz. Used videos, for sale or rent, were propped up on a windowsill, including
The Sixth Sense, Ghost,
and
Blithe Spirit,
as well as, for paranormal reasons indecipherable to Winnie,
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
.

Ritzi bustled about, but it was a quiet bustling, setting a mood. He took a hand-lettered sign that read R
EADING IN
P
ROGRESS:
P
LEASE
W
AIT
and hung it on a hook on the door, then closed the
door and latched it with a hook. He disappeared, and the music emanating from the back, a techno remix of Shirley Bassey's “Goldfinger,” was replaced a moment or two later with something sounding more like Hildegard von Bingen, sorrowful monks droning in open fourths. Ritzi reappeared, balancing cups of tea on a tray while adjusting the dimmer switch adroitly with his bare elbow. A gypsy he was not, decidedly; it was apparent in the fussiness with which he prepared the tea. He was more likely a marginal scion of a wealthy German family, playing at supernatural games while dining off dividends. The accent, the more Winnie considered, was stagy too; probably he really spoke in that new Euro-English, fairly neutral, betraying little of its origins. “In silence ve drink, ve are not talkink, I am not beink
colored by your remarks,” he said. “Of your silly reservations and your scoffinks your minds to be empty, pliss. Breathe in ze varmth of ze tea and zink of ze nuzzinkness of your life.”

Not hard to do, even for a skeptic. In fact, most days, hard to avoid doing.

Winnie suddenly, again, felt the absence of her cousin, and her worry for him. How she'd enjoy retelling this bit of nonsense to him, were he waiting in the wings to hear it. How far he seemed from her, wherever he was.

The room darkened still, as if Ritzi had summoned a light cloud cover over Cowcross Street. But nothing like Hurricane Gretl or its afterbirth. Just a pressing down against the light, a purring of silence. The tea did smell nice, to be sure. It also cloaked the smell of cat piss.

“Now ve finish our tea,” said Ritzi, eyes closed, drawing out his syllables, “and ve wait, and zen”—he demonstrated—“ve put our saucers upside down on our teacups, and ve turn ze cups over and zet zem down—so—cup reversed, leaves settled. Put your hands on
ze cup made topsy-turvy. Leave behind your past and your future. On ve go, deeper into ze present.”

They did so. Silence. Ritzi murmured to Winnie, stage whisper, “You, breathe.”

She had forgotten for a moment, and resumed breathing.

Upon her hands he placed his greasy palms. She observed his chewed cuticles, the soft wren-colored hairs on his upper fingers glistening in what she realized was candlelight. When had he lit candles? “You come to laugh,” he said softly. “It is no matter. In laughing some muscles relax but other muscles tighten. You must stop laughing, though, if you want to listen.” She hoped she wouldn't belch out a rich imperial guffaw.

“Yes,” she said submissively, as if to a traffic cop brandishing a ticket pad.

“You must listen to yourself when you are ready to listen. Do not listen to me. You are laughing but it is a thin laughter and no one joins in.”

The flying monkeys kept winging, left to right.

“And upon the tea leaves let us look. So.” He lifted his hands and then hers, and set them down—they felt dead, paralyzed—on either side of the saucer. He lifted the cup, a nice ironstone second with a chipped handle and a pattern of blue vines running their mathematically spaced leaves up to the gold-leaf rim. The residue of tea leaves had fallen in a crescent shape.

His voice sounded different. Not inspired, not possessed, just softer, with more hesitations. His stage-German accent had fallen away, she noticed. It made him slightly less preposterous.

“You are a woman in need.”

No surprise there. What woman wasn't?

“You make pictures of things, you arrange everything; you are
like a governess, pushing the wardrobe here, there, rolling back the carpet, directing the sun to fall at this angle and not at that. A stager of effects.”

She tried to still her bucking doubt, for the sake of the money this would cost.

“You move from place to place. You are allowed to do so through luck or financial success. Or maybe you married well. But I think you are, if married, not all that married. He is looking the other way. You arrange his face to turn on you; you require it. He will not look. You need the thing he will not give. You look elsewhere. You move this, you move that. You move a teacup from this table to that windowsill, to ease your heart. You move it back, studying how your heart will feel. Or maybe it is people you move. You paint people, perhaps, on canvas, on little bits of paper? You move them here and there to see how they look. To see how they make your heart feel. I think you are a painter, you paint people.” He looked up briefly, but his expression was blank.

Well, he wasn't doing so bad. Maybe you could say writing stories, even composing dreadful fake horoscopes, was painting people. But this hardly constituted telling the future; it was more like telling the present, if you could give him the benefit of the doubt about any of it.

“Here there is a window, there we find a door. A lot of water, water in all its forms. Rain and snow, oceans and tears, dew in the morning, fog at night. But not the right water. You are barren, you are void. Why are you void? This is not what you should be. Despite your age. It's not too late.”

Rasia stirred, as if she guessed just how uncomfortable this might be making Winnie, though how could Rasia know? She couldn't.

He regarded the tea leaves, as if studying a specimen through a microscope. “You are suspicious, yet you have so much to share,”
he said. He sighed, disappointed in her. “You are full of life, yet you stamp upon it. You are like a sea horse, pretty but rigid, and far smaller than you know. You are only a little person, so stop worrying. As if it matters to the world what you do. It only matters to you. But it does matter, in its small way.” He smiled at the tea leaves, as if seeing the profile of a friend there. “Hello, small thing. Your name is Wendy.”

He looked up for the first time, confused. “Is that a name I should read here?”

“Very close,” said Rasia, who did not know about Wendy Pritzke.

“Or your sister is named Wendy. Is there another man? I see a dark man approaching—”

And riches, and travel, and children and horses and paintings and lovers. “We didn't come for this sort of thing,” said Winnie, alarmed at all that passed for accuracy, and the ache that her gullibility revealed to her. “We came to see if you could tell us anything about this cloth.” She found the brown throw and pulled an edge up onto the table. He recoiled.

“This is nothing to do with you, this is wild nonsense!” he said. He flicked his fingers at it, shooing. But his hands fell on it reluctantly and he closed his eyes.

“Or is it stronger than you?” he said.

“What is it?” said Rasia.

“Hush, you, you interfere with the reception.”

A clock measured out a noon's worth of bells. On the faraway street a truck backed up. Cloud continents shifted, and behind the purple hangings, light strengthened, spent itself, and delivered the room back into séance gloom. Any minute now Ritzi would bring out a Ouiji board from the 1970s and they'd contact Elvis or Madame Blavatsky or Napoleon or James Merrill.

“Is it you with the windows, the doors, the tides of the womb, or is it someone more truly done wrong?” He looked at Winnie without benefit of misty second sight, just with the usual human severity. “You do not seem the type to allow wrong done you.”

“Who ever allows it? Still, wrong is as strong as ever,” she said.

“This thing is a woman's garment.”

“Nonsense. No sleeves, no hem, no collar, no pleats? No bow or tuck or dart or filigree? It's a utilitarian wrap, a bit of sackcloth.”

“It is not a blanket for a baby—”

“I'd hate to be the baby who had to cuddle in that for a blankie—”

“—but it covered a woman's nakedness, before her life was done.”

 

Was she all wrong, was it not the ghost of Jack the Ripper but the spirit of one of his victims? That pretty Irish housemaid killed and her body stowed in the yawning architecture of a home under construction? But this was no woman's body, not even a black skirt and starched apron, nothing but a filthy rag. . . .

 

“Come back here,” said Ritzi Ostertag sternly. Winnie jumped.

“Don't go hiding in someone else's mind,” he said.

“I've had enough of this,” said Winnie. “You're telling us, what, that this is the blanket of some poor woman?”

“I'm telling you,” he said, “it is no blanket. It is her shroud.”

The door came open, the hook-and-eye lock pulled from the jamb. A fellow stumbled in, blinking in the gloom. For an instant Winnie thought it might be Mac hunting them again, but it was a
larger man, with a big loden coat and a staticky stand of fine hair. “Jesus, you've gotten more secret than the catacombs, Herr Ostertag,” he said. American to the nines. “Sorry about the lock. I was leaning on your door to leave you a message.”