The Saturdays (5 page)

“The fat bronze goddess on the upstairs landing was brandishing the gas lamp like a hand grenade. Downstairs I heard my father shout, ‘Why don't you move your queen?' and knew that he was playing chess with Tante Amélie. I turned back to my room and closed the door behind me. Nothing was going to stop me now. I went over to the window and opened it again. Aged ivy covered the walls at either side, and, scared to death, in my clumsy old-fashioned clothes, I reached out among the leaves till I felt a strong stem like a cable, stepped over the iron grille in front of the window, and with a breathless prayer, began my descent. Very awkward it was, too. I made a lot of noise, and all the sparrows in the ivy woke up and flew chattering away. About six feet above the ground the ivy ripped away from the wall, and down I went with a crash into a fuchsia bush. I sat there listening to my heart and waiting for the entire household to come out with lanterns.

“But nothing happened! After an eternity I got up and stole out of the garden. Both the knees had been torn out of my stockings, I was dirty, and my hair was full of ivy twigs, but it didn't matter.

“In less than five minutes I had arrived at the carnival! It was even better than I had hoped: full of crowds and bright lights and noise. The carousel with its whirling painted horses and its music was like nothing I had ever seen before. I rode on it twice and when I screamed with excitement nobody paid any attention because they were all doing the same thing. After that I bought a ride on a camel. That took some courage, as I had never seen a camel before and did not know that they possessed such sarcastic faces. Have you ever ridden on one?”

“Never,” said Randy.

“You must try it sometime. It made me a little seasick but I enjoyed it. Then I went and watched the dancing bear softly rocking to and fro on his hind paws like a tipsy old man in bedroom slippers. There was too much to see; I was dazzled, and just walked about staring blissfully.

“I was fascinated by the fortune-teller's booth. It was really a large wagon with a hooped roof which you entered by a pair of wooden steps. On one side there was a large placard bearing the words: ‘Zenaïda, world-renowned seeress and soothsayer! Advice and prophecy on affairs of business, or the heart. Palmistry, cards, or crystal as preferred.' On the other side there was a life-sized picture of a dark, beautiful woman gazing into a crystal globe. I hesitated only a moment, then I mounted the steps, parted the flaps of the tent, and entered. Inside the tent was draped with shabby shawls of many colors; overhead a red glass lantern cast a murky light, and at a small table sat a gypsy woman glittering and jingling with earrings, clattering bracelets, and necklaces. She looked almost nothing like the picture outside. She was older, and her fingernails were dirty. I was dreadfully disappointed.

“‘What do you want, kid?' she said. Her voice was hoarse and rough as though she had spent her whole life shouting.

“‘To—to—have my fortune told,' I stammered.

“‘Got any money?' asked the woman doubtfully, looking at my torn stockings and dirty dress.

“‘Yes,' I said.

“‘Let me see it,' she demanded.

“I brought the gold piece out of my pocket. The gypsy examined it craftily; then she smiled a wide, delighted smile. One of her teeth was black.

“‘You must have found that in a well-lined pocket,' said she.

“At first I did not understand what she meant. Then I was angry.

“‘I never stole anything in my life!' I told her. ‘My father gave it to me for a present.'

“‘Your father? He is a rich man?'

“‘I suppose he is,' I said. ‘I don't know. I never thought about it. Anyway I don't think I want you to tell my fortune after all.'

“Quick as a cat the gypsy sprang from her chair and barred the entrance.

“‘Forgive me, mademoiselle,' she wheedled. ‘I didn't realize—Your clothes are torn and you have such a dirty face. Come and sit down; I'll tell you a fortune you'll never forget: splendid, wonderful things are going to happen to you. I see luck shining all around you!'

“Well, who could resist that? In spite of myself, I was soon seated opposite Zenaïda, my dirty hand in her dirtier one. Before she began to read my palm she called out in her harsh gypsy voice, ‘Bastien!'

“A young man's face appeared at the entrance, and Zenaïda said something to him in a strange language. The young man nodded, looked at me, and burst out laughing. Then he disappeared.

“The gypsy lived up to her word. Never was such a fortune told to a human being! Jewels, lovers, fame, travels into far countries, all were promised to me, and I sat there like a half-wit believing every word.

“‘I must go,' I said at last. ‘Please take what I owe you out of this.' I gave her the gold piece trustingly. And that, of course, was the last I ever saw of it.

“‘We will drive you home in the wagon,' said Zenaïda, smiling. I could hear Bastien hitching up the horses outside.

“‘No, thank you,' said I. ‘It's not far, only a little way. If you will give me what you owe me I will go.' I realized that the music had stopped, and a sound of hammering and clattering had taken its place. The carnival was being dismantled. I had been in the wagon for a long time.

“‘We will take you home,' Zenaïda insisted. ‘It's almost midnight and we must be on our way anyhow. Where do you live, and what is your father's name?'

“Like a fool I told her.

“Bastien called to the horses, and the wagon began to move; the red lantern swinging in a slow circle overhead.

“I was so busy thinking of my glittering future that it was some time before I realized that we must have left my house far behind. When I began asking frightened questions the gypsy came close to me and grabbed my arm. She told me that I was not going home, but far away, till my father was ready to pay a price to get me back. When I cried and struggled she called Bastien and they bound my wrists and ankles and tied a rag over my mouth. All night I lay on the floor in the dark feeling the wagon lurch and sway, and hearing Zenaïda's snores and Bastien's voice swearing at the horses. I was sick with terror.

“I remained with the gypsies for three weeks. The first day Zenaïda unbraided my hair, took away my shoes and stockings, and dressed me in gaudy rags. She pierced my ears for brass earrings, and, stooping down, picked up a handful of earth and rubbed it across my face. ‘There!' she said. ‘Now even a gypsy would think you were a gypsy!'

“In spite of her, and in spite of the letter I was forced to write my father during the second week, telling him where to leave the ransom money if he wished to see me again, I enjoyed many things about those three weeks. The wagon and the travel and the going barefoot! The sound of rain on canvas overhead; the noise and smell of the carnival: a noise of bells and talk and music; a smell of garlic and tobacco and people and that camel! But the bad things more than overshadowed the good. Zenaïda was cruel, and so was Bastien when he got drunk, which was often.

“One fine day we came to a small town in the Loire district. There was a big cathedral on the square, I remember, that looked huge and disapproving beyond the carnival's tawdry, jingling whirl of light and music.

“When Zenaïda was telling fortunes in the wagon Bastien was supposed to keep an eye on me. I had to stay near the wagon, or run the risk of a bad whipping. But on this particular evening, Bastien, a little tipsier than usual, went to sleep under the wagon with his head on his hat. I saw my chance and wandered away. I had no thought of escape. I was too dirty and dispirited, and I had no money; my sheltered life had taught me nothing of fending for myself or what to do in an emergency. However, for the moment I enjoyed myself watching the familiar sights of the carnival and the many unfamiliar faces.

“Suddenly I saw something that made me gasp!

“Standing under a gas lamp at the outskirts of the crowd was a tall man with a beard. In his hands were a small sketchbook and a pencil. It was Monsieur Jules Clairon who never could resist a carnival!

“I ran to him bleating like a lost sheep. ‘Oh, Monsieur Clairon, save me, save me, and take me away from here!'

“Poor man, he looked horrified, and who can blame him? I had accumulated the dirt of three weeks.

“‘I don't know any gypsies!' said he. ‘How do you know my name?'

“‘But I'm the
princess,
don't you remember?' I cried idiotically. And then I explained.

“‘Good Lord!' he said, horrified. ‘I knew nothing about your disappearance. I left Saint-Germain early the next morning on a walking tour.'

“He took me back to the house where he was staying, and the landlady scrubbed me and gave me clean clothes, while he got the police and went back to the carnival. But Zenaïda must have found out what had happened, for the gypsy wagon had disappeared. Nobody ever saw it again.

“As for me, I was rushed home by train the next day. I was embraced by my haggard father, who was relieved on two accounts: first because of my safe return, and second because the ransom money had never been collected. All my aunts wept over me wetly, and I had to have my hair washed every day for two weeks, but in spite of everything I was glad to be home.

“When my father begged Monsieur Clairon to tell him how he could reward him, Monsieur Clairon replied, ‘Allow me to paint the portrait of your daughter.' So that is how it came about. Later on it was he who persuaded my family to send me to school in England. I went to a convent there for seven years which, though it would have seemed dreadfully strict to you, was heaven itself as far as I was concerned.”

Mrs. Oliphant opened a pocketbook like a giant clam, extracted some money to pay the bill, and clapped it shut again. “That's all,” she said.

Randy rose slowly to the surface and emerged from the story dreamily.

“It was wonderful,” she said. “Things like that never happen to us. We lead a humdrum life when I think about it. It's funny how it doesn't seem humdrum.”

“That's because you have ‘eyes the better to see with, my dear' and ‘ears the better to hear with.' Nobody who has them and uses them is likely to find life humdrum very often. Even when they have to use bifocal lenses, like me.”

It was dark when they came out. The rain had stopped but the streets were still wet; crisscrossed with reflected light. The shop windows were lighted too. In one bright rectangle floated a mannequin in a dress of green spangles, exactly like a captured mermaid in an aquarium.

“I go up and you go downtown,” said Mrs. Oliphant when they came to Fifth Avenue. She held out her hand. “Thank you for coming to tea.”

“Oh, thank you
very
much for inviting me,” said Randy. “Could I—would you let me come to see you someday?”

The old lady looked pleased. “Do come, child. Come by all means, and I'll show you the brass earrings Zenaïda made me wear. I kept them for luck. I have a lot of interesting things: Javanese puppets, and a poison ring, and a beetle carved out of an emerald, and the tooth of a czarina—”

“The tooth of a czarina!” cried Randy, stopping dead.

“That's another story, my dear,” said the old lady exasperatingly. A big Brontosaurus of a bus clattered to a pause. “This is mine,” said Mrs. Oliphant, climbing on it and waving her hand. “Good-bye, Miranda!”

Randy crossed the street and boarded a big Stegosaurus going the other way.

At home she went straight to Rush's room. He was having a peaceful half hour before dinner reading, with his feet on the radiator and the radio going full blast. A voice that made all the furniture tremble was describing the excellence of a certain kind of hair tonic.

“Are you worried by the possibility of premature baldness?” inquired the voice in intimately confidential tones that could be heard a block away. “Does it trouble you to see your once luxuriant hair thinning out—”

Randy snapped off the radio. “You don't have to worry about that yet awhile,” she said.

Rush looked up from his book. “Huh? Oh, hello. Have a good time?”

“Wonderful. Guess who I met?”

“Mickey Rooney,” said Rush.

“No, silly. The Elephant. Only I'm never going to call her that again.”

“Oh, just the Elephant.” Rush was disappointed.

“Not just the Elephant. She's swell, she's a friend of mine now, and I'm going to see her. She was kidnaped by gypsies and lived with them for weeks.”

“Recently?” inquired Rush, startled.

“No, no. Years ago when she was a little girl in France. I'll tell you about it after dinner. And look, she sent you these. All of you I mean.”

“What are they?” said Rush, taking a bite.

“Pitty foors,” said Randy. “I think it's French. For cakes, probably.”

“Pitty foors,” repeated Rush mellowly, through chocolate custard. “Not bad, not bad at all. So she was kidnaped by gypsies, was she? Do you think the El—Mrs. Oliphant would care to have me come along with you when you go calling on her?”

“I know she would,” said Randy. “And, Rush, let's go soon and often.”

CHAPTER III

Saturday Three

“I can't say I care much for opry,” said Willy Sloper after a considering silence. His voice sounded a little different than usual as he was lying flat on his back under the second-floor bathroom basin. The joint leaked. Like everything else about the house: the creaking, trembling stairs, the peeling wallpaper, and the unobliging furnace, the plumbing had lost its youthful bloom and efficiency long ago. The joints leaked, the hot-water faucets were likely to hiccup, and hot water to come out in brief scalding bursts, while the cold-water faucet in the Office bathroom could never be turned off entirely, but dripped all day and all night, like the moisture on a dungeon wall, wearing a rusty path on the enamel.