If You Are There Page 21

  “That’s the thing with her. She knows right off. She knows if you got a game going or if you’re the genuine article. She’s pretty sharp.”

  Lucia didn’t know Arlington but had observed him at the séances and knew him to be a quiet man. Yet, here he was talking and talking about Eusapia Palladino and that brute of hers, John King, and she didn’t understand why. “What is it that you want from me, Monsieur Arlington?”

  “I want you to help me.”

  The rain fell harder. The sidewalks were packed with waves of black umbrellas, looking like a flock of birds at sea. A trolley rumbled by on its tracks, the two poles sparking blue fire at the juncture. The occasional motorcar swerved around the slower traffic, belching black smoke and causing the carriage horses to shy and nicker. It was then she saw them.

  On the corner, under the awning, well out of the rain, a bucket filled with plump yellow roses, fresh and perfect, their petals catching the few stray water drops left by the passing umbrellas. She drifted toward them.

  “I want you to come with us to Italy,” he said. “I want you to be a companion to her.”

  “With you? Why?”

  “Sapia is sitting for a bunch of scientists there. Important men. It would help a lot if you were there.”

  “I do not understand.” She admired the roses at her feet. “How would it help?”

  “She feels more relaxed around you. I don’t pretend to understand her feelings. She can be downright confounding or worse—most talented people are. But with you she’s calmer. And it’s important she stay focused if we want our work to be successful.”

  “I cannot just leave. What would Madame Curie do?”

  “I thought of that. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. It might even help their research. We’re going to Tuscany. Beautiful country, ever been?”

  She shook her head.

  “She has three sittings there. It’ll only be two, maybe three weeks at the most.”

  “I do not know, monsieur.”

  He leaned over and drew a single, long-stemmed rose from the bunch and held it out to her. “You’re a servant here, mademoiselle,” his voice changing to a tone she hadn’t heard before, sharp and with purpose. “Think about what I’m offering you. You’ll travel with us as an equal. You’ll be invited into fine homes as a guest. It’s an opportunity to see more of the world. Beautiful villages, old churches. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not more excited.”

  She held the rose and smelled it, clean and delicious. Her mind was whirring: Italy, the sights, a whole new world. She was just wondering how she was ever going to turn him down when there was a loud boom in the street, it sounded like cannon fire, a motorcar backfiring.

  She didn’t see the horses spook, the jolt of the runaway cart, the driver wrestling with the reins as cart, wheels, and horses pitched toward her. In the next instant Arlington dropped the market basket and shoved her across the pavement. She landed on her back in a nest of scattered petals just as the cart careened across the curb and grazed the tall man, knocking him to the ground. The horses galloped off, their eyes wide with terror, the driver fighting to regain control.

  Lucia recovered herself and crawled to Arlington’s side. He was white, his lips drained of color, his right leg twisted at an odd angle. He looked up at her, his eyes glazed with shock. “I think they broke my leg.”

  A crowd had formed around them. A doctor was called. Two men lifted him up from the wet pavement as gently as they could. He shrieked and nearly lost consciousness; the pain was almost too much for him. They brought him into the flower shop and laid him out on a long table. Lucia took off her coat and tucked it under his head.

  When the doctor arrived he took one look at Arlington’s leg and sent his assistant off for a stretcher. “We must get you to my surgery, monsieur,” he said, laying a hand on Arlington’s forehead.

  When Arlington protested, the doctor assured him that he would soon be out of pain. Lucia held his hand as the doctor prepared a syringe and rolled up Arlington’s sleeve. Whatever was in it had an immediate effect on him. He relaxed; his features went slack. As he started to drift off he fought to keep his eyes open. Gripping her arm, he said: “She won’t be able to make it alone. She won’t have me to look out for her.”

  Lucia squeezed his hand. “You can’t worry about that now.”

  “Promise me you won’t let her go alone.”

  She hesitated, and then: “Yes. I promise.”

  He laid back and closed his eyes. A moment later he dropped into oblivion.

  The train to Lucca was nothing like the one that had brought Lucia to Paris three years ago. This train had private compartments with plush horsehair seats, beds that pulled down from the ceiling, and tables that folded out from the walls. Heat came through a vent over the door and shades could be pulled down for privacy. There was a dining car where they were seated at a private table decorated with a rose-colored glass vase filled with flowers. Everything about the train was brilliant, even if Madame Palladino complained that the wine was boring and the chicken cold.

  That first day on the train Madame Palladino taught Lucia how to gamble. The medium had a passion for it, for faro, lansquenet, and monte bank, and showed Lucia how to play all three. Lucia had to admit it was fun, even though she was sure Babusia would not have approved. Madame Palladino gave her handfuls of Italian coins to play with and then won them back over the course of the day.

  “Call me Sapia,” she said after only a few hours of playing. “We will be good friends, eh?”

  They spent the time gambling and gossiping and making frequent trips to the dining car. Lucia had to divide her attention between the game and the passing landscape. Mostly they were traveling through tracts of forests and past wide swaths of fields and farms. There were many small villages and towns and a few larger cities. Then she saw the two soaring towers of Notre-Dame de Reims and nearly dropped her cards.

  While they played, Madame Palladino told her about her second husband, the magician. “We traveled to all the best cities in Europe. The audiences—they loved him. They did not know about his tempers. They knew only his magic. Once he made a snake appear out of nothing. It crawled along the stage. A woman fainted. Then they knew him for his snakes. Big and small, appearing and disappearing. All they wanted was the snakes. They called him brilliant. I called him hard to live with.” Again the infectious laugh.

  “What happen to him?”

  “Fever.”

  “Do you ever contact him?”

  “What for? When he was alive, I had nothing to say to him. And that has not changed. A small man with a big pride.”

  In the afternoon they turned up the lamps and Lucia read to her from the latest roman-feuilleton. She liked the ones set in the English countryside, with governesses and accidents of birth. Later that evening, Sapia ordered coffee with Amaretto and sat back with a sigh, saying that if Lucia liked it, then they would order it every night. Lucia liked it just fine and said as much, which seemed to please her employer. She sipped her coffee while looking out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the passing landscape. All she could see by the sliver of a moon were a few distant twinkling lights and the occasional farmhouse or outbuilding.

  Lucia wasn’t sure what it took to be a paid companion. No one she knew had ever taken such a position. When she was a cook she knew what she was about; she cooked and cleaned and went to the markets. She knew her place, which was among the tradesmen and the servants, where she felt most comfortable. But on the train it was all turned around. She was called mademoiselle. Chairs were pulled out for her, and her luggage was carried. The porters and waiters made assumptions about her station. They thought she belonged there, but she knew otherwise. She felt she was only playing the mistress and it was awkward, like wearing someone else’s shoes.

  When Madame Curie heard about the trip, she seemed genuinely happy for Lucia, proclaiming it an adventure. She didn’t seem at all put out that Lucia was leaving her withou
t a cook or maid. That may have been because she was too preoccupied with the new laboratory to give it much thought. When Lucia asked her about the duties of a paid companion, Madame Curie said she thought it didn’t entail much beyond being agreeable and mending the odd button or two. Arlington, who was still laid up in his hotel room, sent her a bleu that merely said bon voyage, have fun, and don’t take any wooden nickels.

  On the second day of the journey a small, brittle woman knocked at the door of the compartment. When Lucia opened it the woman apologized in a quavering voice and asked to speak to Madame Palladino. Lucia was just about to put her off when she heard Sapia’s voice behind her.

  “Let her in, Lulu.”

  “I do not wish to disturb you,” the woman said.

  “That is quite all right. Please come, sit down.”

  The compartment was taken up by a low table cluttered with teacups and dirty plates. Despite the cramped space the woman was able to slip into a chair next to Lucia and opposite Madame Palladino. She perched there on the edge, her eyes already glistening with tears. “I am Madame Descoteaux. They said you were on the train.”

  “Would you like some water or perhaps tea?” asked Palladino softly.

  She shook her head. “I have come—”

  “No. No need to tell me why you have come. Please, give me your hand.”

  The woman offered a pale hand with pink half-moon cuticles, unadorned, except for a simple gold band on the ring finger. Palladino took it and held it and closed her eyes.

  After a moment or two she groaned: “Poor lady.”

  Madame Descoteaux burst into tears.

  “I am so sorry,” the medium said gently. “You loved him, yes?”

  She nodded. She was too overcome to speak.

  “A beautiful family. He is with you, you know that.”

  The woman stopped crying. “He is here?”

  “He is wherever you go. He is always with you. He says ‘mouse.’ La souris. You understand?”

  The woman nodded and laughed through her tears. “That was his name for me.”

  “He says Madame Mouse is not to worry. He will always watch over you and the children.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He is no longer in pain. He is at peace. And he misses you. But he is right by your side. Always.”

  The woman wiped away her tears and took a big breath. Then she brought Madame Palladino’s hand up to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Now, would you like that tea?”

  She shook her head and rose. “I have taken too much of your time already. And I must get back to the children. You are everything they say you are. And so kind.”

  The woman repeated the words to herself—so kind, so kind—as she slipped from the compartment. Lucia shut the door gently behind her. When Lucia returned to her chair, Madame Palladino picked up the cards. “So where were we?” She began to shuffle, her rings flashing in the late-afternoon sun.

  Lucia watched her for a bit and then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Madame Palladino looked up briefly, patted her hand, and began to deal.

  Porters were scarce when Lucia and Madame Palladino arrived in Lucca three days later. The terminal had fallen into chaos as English and American tourists rushed to employ the few workers who were left after a flu had ravaged their city. Most of the tourists, including Lucia and Madame Palladino, needed help in getting their luggage transferred to a local train that would take them up the valley to Bagni di Lucca.

  The veneer of social intercourse quickly fell away as the situation got ugly and the passengers fought to make the train. Madame Palladino entered the fray with a calm air of authority, which proved to be justified. She was recognized at once by the captain of the porters, graciously welcomed by name, and instantly assigned to one of his men.

  “He knows you,” Lucia said, impressed, looking at the crowd around them still fighting for their luggage.

  “This is Italy. They all know me.”

  Their final destination was Ponte a Serraglio, an ancient resort town, one of many in the valley of the Lima River. As their train made the steep climb into the mountains, Madame Palladino, a frequent visitor to the town, described all the delights that awaited them. “Ah, the casino, dolcezza. So beautiful. And the vapor baths in Bagni Caldi. We will soak all day. You will love it there. Paradise on earth.”

  The train climbed out of the Serchio Valley and up into the hills covered in fir, mossy oaks, and bare beeches, their limbs woven into skeletal baskets by the wind and weather.

  They arrived in the village an hour later. Madame Palladino had sent word to the villa and they were met at the station by a dour-looking fellow in a horse-pulled cart, who greeted them with a little bow and silently loaded up their luggage in the back.

  The fellow joined them on the bench, flicked the reins, and the horse plodded across a stone bridge and up a dirt cart track that led past a villa draped in bare wisteria branches.

  “Villa Fiori,” Madame Palladino said. “He is nice. From an ancient family. She, not so much. Married up. You know what I mean?” Here Sapia crossed her arms and pursed her lips in disapproval.

  Along the way they passed several hotels and quite a few villas, all showing signs of age. It was easy to imagine restless specters floating up the mossy steps or stalking the gloomy corridors of those faded glories that hung from the hillsides like rocky outcroppings. Sapia had something to say about most of them—bits of gossip, scandal, and speculation about the owners or the caretakers. This was the real story of the town, one never found in the guidebooks.

  The view of the town from this higher vantage showed a line of ancient stone and stucco houses, three and four stories high, rising straight and sturdy from the shore of the churning river. Their red tile roofs were complemented by the green slopes of the hillsides. Maybe it was just the fog, but to Lucia there appeared to be an atmosphere of melancholy about the place; the lines were hazy, the streets seemed to melt away, a spectacle of plunging torrents and limestone. But the town had an unreal quality, like a stage set, dramatic and unsettling.

  When Lucia first saw the Villa Ridotta she thought it was a grand house with its blue shutters and carved entryway, firmly planted on the side of a gorge overlooking the river. Yet the inside was shabby, its terrazzo floors worn smooth over the centuries, the rooms furnished with moth-eaten tapestries, and fusty furniture smelling of age and polish. Still, Lucia could imagine a romance about the place. Standing on the wide balcony outside the main room, she was reminded of the weeklies that she and Ania used to read. There was something ethereal and dreadful about the villa and the town below, with the heavy mist hovering over the roiling water and the occasional screech of eagles soaring above the ragged chasms.

  Their rooms were large, comfortable suites on the second floor with four-poster beds and heavy carved oak bureaus and tables. Lucia unpacked for Sapia, hanging her gowns in the armoire and tucking her linens and beautifully embroidered shifts in the bureau. At first she had a hard time calling her Sapia. It did not seem right. But the medium was so warm and winning—and effusive with her compliments—that it didn’t take long for it to become second nature.

  They spent those first few days walking in the town or taking a carriage up to Bagni Caldi, a few kilometers upriver, where they sat in the hot mud bath at the Grand Hôtel or lounged in the grotto for a vapor bath. In the evening Sapia liked to visit the casino where she spent a great deal of her time and money playing baccarat or roulette. Lucia traveled confidently in her wake, soaking in the pageant of the nightlife, noting with pleasure just how far she had come since Dobra Street.

  When they walked up the narrow streets of Ponte a Serraglio, shopkeepers and workers from the spas and hotels came out to greet them. Lucia was surprised to see pictures of Sapia in the gift stores alongside gilded miniatures of the Blessed Mother and the other saints. Apparently, Eusapia Palladino was a celebrity in Italy, a homegrown miracle, recognized i
n even small villages like this one.

  Everywhere they went she was invited in with offers of espresso, a glass of wine, a pastry, or in one case, a bunch of flowers. Lucia missed much of what was said because she didn’t speak the language. She tried to glean what she could from expressions, large gestures, and pantomime and often pretended to understand when she didn’t. Sapia, on the other hand, seemed right at home, introducing Lucia to the townspeople as mia nipote. Lucia was moved when she later learned that mia nipote means my niece.

  One afternoon Sapia stopped to gossip with the eye doctor’s wife and the baker’s wife translating for Lucia as they went along. “They say he keeps a woman in Lucca and his wife is beside herself.” They were talking about the mayor, whose wife had a temper and threw plates. “They say she does not do herself any good by throwing fits. She would do better to look the other way, but she is too proud.” This was a rough translation. A sour smile from the eye doctor’s wife, a sarcastic comment, and Sapia burst out laughing. “She says she has gotten good at looking the other way. She had to. Her husband is an eye doctor and there is an epidemic of near-sighted women in the village.” Lucia laughed at this and they were pleased by her reaction. The baker’s wife hugged her and said something in Italian that Sapia didn’t bother to translate. Later, as they followed the footpath along the river, Sapia slipped an arm through Lucia’s and sighed, mia nipote. At that moment Lucia did not feel like a mill worker’s daughter from Powiśle or even like the cook of famous scientists. She felt like something else, something new, a person she was just discovering.

  They walked on across the bridge and stopped in the middle to watch the rapids below. The recent rains had turned the usually compliant river into a churning torrent. Sapia was leaning on the stone parapet, laughing and making fun of the scientists that were due to arrive that afternoon, when she stopped in midsentence and stared, transfixed by something in the water. Her body grew rigid and she released Lucia’s arm, her black eyes locked on a spot beneath the rushing river.

  “What is it?” Lucia asked. She followed Sapia’s intense gaze to the froth below. There was nothing unusual there, rocks and a pile of tree limbs caught up on the boulders. Beyond it in the shallows, long strands of river reeds waved like hair in the current.