Anhelo, Legado, South America, 1928
With her eyes closed, all she could see were waves of brown. The woman sitting across the table from her wasn’t troubled or damaged in any particular way, as that color sometimes indicated; her spirit and her future simply seemed featureless.
“Vidente, you have been quiet for a long time,” the woman said tentatively. “If you see bad things, you must tell me. I must prepare.”
Putumayo was stuffed with patrons and was as loud as Miea had ever experienced. Of course a table was available for her party. Hensis had called ahead to make sure that was the case.
Okay, Miea thought, as the host seated them, I don’t mind throwing my weight around a little.
The table was in a corner to the right side of the stage with a clear view of the enormity of musical equipment on it. The stage was so full of paraphernalia Miea wasn’t sure how the performers were going to fit onstage, let alone play their instruments. She hadn’t heard of the act they’d come to watch. Were the musicians very small, maybe even invisible?
A waiter came and Camara and several of the others ordered a variety of intoxicants. Miea ordered a barritts, her favorite soft drink. She had intoxicants on occasion but never in public (and they were very much in public; Miea had never taught herself to ignore the many heads that turned in her direction whenever she entered a place).
Dyson, in a show of support, ordered a barritts as well, as did Sinica. Miea was a little surprised that Sinica was sitting with her at the table. Usually, both he and Hensis positioned themselves elsewhere when she was out. She glanced around and found Hensis on the other side of the room.
Not long after their drinks arrived, the lights went down, and the band – all normal-sized people – walked onstage, stepping gingerly around the mass of equipment. Without saying a word to the audience, the musicians swung into their first song. As was typical of tzadik, the beat, performed by three percussionists, was propulsive. The wash, however, performed by three string players, was tender, almost plaintive. About a minute into the first song a musician stepped to the edge of the stage and blew into an instrument that Miea had never seen before. It had a neck that curved upward to a long, flat opening. Miea expected the instrument to make a rich, reedy sound, but what came out was chittering, almost like the call of the tiny purisma.
Miea leaned toward Dyson. “What is that thing?”
“He calls it a barsuk. He invented it – that’s what’s getting them so much attention. Amazing, isn’t it?”
The barsuk player stepped back after a long bit of improvisation, and two surprisingly tall women began singing in unison. At first they seemed only to be vocalizing, but soon Miea discovered a pattern in their phrases; they were singing backward.
“What kind of machine lets them do that?” she said to Dyson.
“It’s not a machine. They’re doing it themselves.”
“They’re singing backward together?”
“Can you imagine how much practice that takes?”
Miea simply shook her head in wonder. Looking around, she noticed that the audience seemed transfixed. Some were dancing, some were shouting, but all seemed in thrall. Except Hensis, who maintained diligent watch, as did Sinica. And a man in the other corner of the room. And a woman standing about twenty feet behind her. Each bore the unmistakable attentiveness of the royal guard. Had her parents increased her security detail without mentioning it to her?
The song continued for easily twenty minutes, introducing new sounds and counter-rhythms as it progressed. Finally the music seemed to converge. What were once layers became a unified blend, and then, with an explosion of percussion, the song ended. At its conclusion, one of the percussionists threw a drumstick into the audience – straight in Miea’s direction. Delighted, she reached out for it, only to have Sinica dive across the table to intercept the stick before it got to her, knocking over her barritts in the process.
Instantly, Hensis and one of the other people she assumed to be a guard converged on the stage, drawing a great deal of attention to themselves. The band seemed intimidated by this and the percussionist who’d thrown the drumstick held up his hands to show he’d intended no harm. By this point he’d recognized Miea and seemed mortified by what he’d done.
The concert continued a few minutes later once it became clear to Miea’s bodyguards that she had never been in danger. The muttering among the crowd ended as a new song began. However, Miea found she couldn’t give herself to the music as she had before.
Hensis and Sinica had never overreacted like this before. Obviously her father was much more concerned about what was going on with the Thorns than he’d acknowledged to her.
She opened her eyes slowly and her vision began to fill again with color. The violet and red of the tapestry that hung on the far wall. The ochre and bronze of the pottery on the shelf. The cobalt and white of the figurines on the cupboard. The terra cotta of the antique cazuela and the copper of the chafing dish, both presents from a grateful recipient of her services, neither of which had felt fire in Vidente’s home. The saffron of the sash that billowed over the window. The crystals and pewters and golds and greens; the room was a rainbow visible nowhere else in the world – a Vidente rainbow. A rainbow for a woman who sensed color beyond her eyes and who liked those colors expressed in the finest things available. Vidente’s home was her palace, a testament to her station as one of Anhelo’s most prominent and prosperous citizens.
Finally, Vidente focused on Ana, the woman seeking her help who, in contrast to the brown that Vidente saw with eyes closed, wore a bright orange frock with lemon embroidery. Ana had called on Vidente several times in the past year and she’d encountered her at church and in the shops. At all times, Ana wore brilliant clothing. She wants color in her life, Vidente thought. How sad that she doesn’t seem able to hold any in her soul.
“I am not seeing bad things, Ana,” Vidente said, tipping her head toward the woman.
“But you have been so quiet.”
Vidente patted the woman’s hand. “Sometimes the images come very slowly. That doesn’t mean you have anything to fear.”
Vidente truly believed that Ana had nothing to worry about regarding her future – except that it was likely to be a life without incident. The brown was everywhere. Sometimes darker, sometimes lighter, but always brown. The color of inconsequentiality and an abundance of self-doubt. For reasons Vidente couldn’t discern, Ana wouldn’t absorb the colors she wore so boldly in her clothing, though she seemed entirely capable of doing so. There were places Vidente didn’t plumb, for the sake of Ana’s privacy, but she guessed that if she looked there she might find why the woman avoided what she so wanted.
Ana’s brow furrowed and she looked down at her hands. Vidente wanted to offer her something, some suggestion that days more vibrant lay ahead. Vidente never lied to anyone during a reading, even when she believed the person wanted to hear a lie. However, she had many times kept searching and searching until she found a way to offer something promising.
“I am not finished, Ana,” she said as the woman looked up at her. “I will use another technique with you today. I need to look farther with this technique. I may not open my eyes or speak with you for several minutes.”
“I will be patient, Vidente.”
Vidente closed her eyes again. Usually, what she saw in colors was enough to give her useful messages for those who requested readings from her. The colors had always been reliable to her. Sometimes, though, she needed to extend her vision. If she sent herself deeply enough into the space outside of herself, she could see actual images. Occasionally, entire scenes played out in front of her. Vidente had come to learn that these visions weren’t nearly as reliable as the colors; unlike the colors, they were mutable. Still, they sometimes offered direction when none other was available.
The waves of brown appeared again. Like molten chocolate wending its way through a sea of caramel. It was necessary for Vidente to look past the color. She focused intently on the darkest of the brown and in doing so made the message of the brown drop away. It was like stepping through the fog and coming to a clear space. Here, though, the space offered only shadow. She could see the faintest movement. Was that a man? Ana wanted a man so badly; one who would finally erase Oscar’s humiliation of her. The image Vidente saw here was so indistinct, though, that it could as easily be a deer, a sloth, or even a vegetable cart.
Vidente concentrated further, pushing her soul toward the shadow, encouraging her will to be in the same place as the shadow. Something was definitely moving around and she could now see that the shape was human. Male? Female? Young? Old? None of that was clear. Nor was it clear why there was such a veil over Ana’s future. This had nothing to do with the woman’s health. Vidente would have seen that in the colors. For some reason, the spirits did not want to offer the images they usually gave so generously.
She so didn’t want to disappoint Ana. Once a month Ana came to her, gaily dressed and bearing a tray of the delicious pastries she made, eyes gleaming with hope but shaded by desperation. Vidente always found a vision to encourage her; the visit of a favorite nephew, a celebration Ana would attend, the birth of a neighbor’s child. These visions were never what Ana truly wanted, but she always left Vidente’s house viewing the world with a little less desperation. And she always came back.
Several minutes passed, but the images remained indistinct. I must go beyond sight, Vidente thought. She rarely used the process she was considering, and she was not entirely comfortable with it, but she knew it was possible to close her eyes completely. To allow her other senses to tell her what her vision did not.
Vidente tipped her head slightly and felt herself falling backward. With this sensation of falling came absolute blackness. There were no colors here, no shadows, nothing nearly so brilliant as brown. It was as though she had never seen anything at all, ever in her life. The feeling of unease that always accompanied this technique rippled her skin. Vidente had never stayed long in this place and she knew she could not linger here now. However, there had to be a reason why the other techniques eluded her, and she would spend a few sightless moments here for Ana’s sake. She liked the woman too much to let her go away with nothing.
She felt cooler suddenly, as though someone had opened all the doors and windows of her home at once. The air was different. It was crisper and thinner. It smelled of loam and oak. Vidente knew, though she wasn’t sure how she knew, that she was somewhere very far away. Was Ana going on a trip?
Maybe to some distant mountains in Europe or even America? The only thing Vidente knew for sure was that no place in Anhelo or anywhere near it had air that felt this way.
Just on the edges of her hearing, Vidente found the sound of moaning. These were not moans of pleasure. Nor were they moans of pain or suffering. The moans held a sense of sadness and loss, but not the dissonance of true grief. As she extended herself to try to make more of this sound, Vidente felt a moist softness on her forehead followed by a silken brush across her face and then warm pressure. Moments passed and she felt the same series of sensations again. More moments passed and the experience repeated itself. Each iteration felt slightly different but materially the same.
As this happened for the fifth time, Vidente caught the scent of perfume. A floral and consciously unrefined smell, one that announced itself as its bearer entered a room and lingered for many minutes after the visit was over. It was unmistakably Ana’s latest perfume. No one else in Anhelo wore it. But the scent was not coming from the Ana who sat across the table from Vidente. It came instead from the scene Vidente sensed in her temporary blackness and it grew stronger as Vidente again felt the pressure on her body. Vidente heard a sob and then the pressure lessened. Soon the smell of Ana’s perfume diminished. It was then that Vidente realized that Ana was a part of this scene, but she was not the focus of it.
Kisses on the forehead. Unreturned embraces. Repeated multiple times.
Vidente’s eyes opened involuntarily, causing the colors in the room to close on her vertiginously.
“Vidente, your expression; it frightens me.”
Vidente tried to stop the swirling of colors, tried to fix her eyes on Ana without scaring her further. “You have no reason to be frightened,” she said.
As her vision corrected, Vidente saw Ana’s hand go to the cross at her neck. “How can I believe that when you go into your trance for a long time and then come back looking like the devil was chasing you?”
Vidente took Ana’s free hand and clasped it with both of hers. “Believe me when I say that I didn’t see anything that should cause you fear. I just couldn’t get a clear image for you and this frustrated me.” Vidente stood abruptly, holding the side of the table to guarantee that she wouldn’t stumble. “I am sorry, Ana, that I could not do better. Maybe next month.”
Ana rose slowly, thanked Vidente, and left, her eyes more clouded and confused than when she entered. As soon as the woman was gone, Vidente sat down again, feeling the need to close her own eyes once more, but worried about what she would experience if she did so. If what she’d already felt was true – and it was important for her to remember that only the colors were always true – she would soon take a journey that would send her to a place of crisp, oaken air.
And then, before Ana changed her perfume again, Vidente would die