Authors: Lara Parker
does not see he is about to fall from the precipice high above the
water. Do you think he is afraid?”
“I don’t know,” said David, staring hard at the image.
“Aha, the Chariot,” the gypsy said, taking up another of
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David’s cards. “It is a powerful prince, riding beneath a starry
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canopy. He sits in a swift carriage, and it is pulled by Sphinxes,
one black and one white, defi ning the two sides of his nature,
the conscious and the unconscious.”
“Are Sphinxes like Phoenixes?” David said sarcastically.
“Th
e card suggests a trip of some nature, usually by car, over
land and water, leaving his kingdom behind to perhaps drive
through the gates of hell where Inanna descended. As you can
see it is a lonely card and evokes the myth of Phaethon, who
stole his father’s chariot of the sun—”
“Hey, wait a minute!’ ” cried David, jerking up out of his
chair. “Where did all that come from?”
“I told you, she sees things,” whispered Jackie.
“It’s some kind of trick.” David became more restless as he
watched the gypsy shuffl
e the cards again.
She turned to Jackie. “And now young lady, what have you
here?” Jackie’s hands were shaking, and David could tell she was
beginning to question her choice because she pulled out two
cards and put them back. Th
en at last she laid out her two, sat
back, and bit her thumbnail.
“It’s only a game,” said David. But Jackie’s face was clouded,
and her lips were pressed together.
“Ah, the Lovers,” said the gypsy, glancing at the two of
them. “An angel with scarlet wings and hair afl ame hovers over
a boy and a girl standing— naked and vulnerable.” And she
traced the image with the yellowed nail of her index fi nger, as
Jackie studied the card with David looking over her shoulder, his
hand on her arm. “Th
is card goes with the Fool,” said the gypsy,
smiling at David. “Do you see how the trees bear fruit and
fl owers? Do you think this is their exile from the Garden?”
Jackie nodded, her eyes wide. “I— I think so.”
“A temptation of the heart. Listen carefully, young lady. One
partner is chosen and another rejected.”
“How can I choose between two if there is only one?” Jackie
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said, and David studied her face even though she did not look at
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him.
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“What ever the choice,” said Magda, tapping the card, “it
must not be made lightly.”
It was all too solemn, and again David felt the walls of the
library were closing in, as if the leather volumes were nearer
than before. Th
e gypsy’s fawning manner annoyed him. He
knew a fortuneteller preyed on gullibility and superstition, and
that what ever she said could be said to anyone who would take
it to heart.
But Magda was already holding Jackie’s second card in her
hand and shaking her head, mumbling, “Great diffi
culty. A hard
road ahead for the lovers.”
“Why? What is it?” said Jackie, a stricken look in her eyes,
for she had already seen the image of the furry- legged and
bearded satyr who had goat horns and the wings of a bat. “Th
e
Dev il!” she whispered.
“Yes,” breathed the gypsy, “it is the Dev il. A challenging
card meaning many things when paired with the Lovers, be-
cause you see they are matching.”
David and Jackie both stared in dismay at the two cards side
by side as Magda spoke in a cautionary tone. “Both the Angel
and the Dev il fl y above the innocent couple. Both spirits are
winged. But, whereas in the Lovers we see innocence and hope,
in the Dev il’s card the two lovers are transformed into creatures
of the underworld.”
Jackie became agitated. “Th
ey have chains around their
necks, and they have sprouted horns! What does it mean?” she
asked.
Magda sighed and her dark eyes were glittering when she
spoke in a harsh tone that was almost reproachful.
“Why do you ask me? In your heart you must already know.”
She tapped the Dev
il’s picture with her yellow fi ngernail.
“What do bat’s wings mean to you?”
Jackie’s eyes fi lled with tears. “Bat’s wings? I— I don’t
know. His face . . . his face is evil, his ears pointed like a wolf ’s.”
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She sucked in her breath. “He’s so ugly.”
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Lara Parker
Th
e gypsy leaned in, eager to connect with Jackie, who was
shivering now. Again David tugged at her to leave, but she was
so caught up in the reading that she simply shook her head and
remained transfi xed, her face a mixture of fascination and fear.
“But do you see the chains are loose?” Magda said gently.
“Escape is possible.” And she patted Jackie’s hand.
David had stopped listening because he sensed Jackie’s dis-
tress. Now he was feeling dizzy, the incense was overpowering,
and the gypsy’s face was composed of cubist shapes that glowed
in the lamplight.
When he looked up from the card, Jackie had vanished.
Th
anking the gypsy, he stood quickly and turned to go,
hoping to catch Jackie in the hallway.
“Young man?” Magda was calling him back. “One more
word . . .”
David hesitated, then, not wanting to be rude, returned to
the table. In the lamplight the gypsy’s skin seemed darker, her
nose more beaked, her odor more rank. Her black curls fell
around her face and her beady eyes still held the same certainty
mixed with the same craving for admiration. He wondered
whether she meant to keep him there all night.
“I did not tell you the truth about the portrait.”
“You know where it is?”
“It is in the green car.”
“You don’t mean that horrible painting—
the one of a
werewolf— but it was eaten by rats.”
“Th
en there is great danger. To Quentin and to you.”
David hesitated, then— searching Magda’s eyes for some
clue— fi nally asked her, “Do you know how we can get out of
this . . . this
time
?”
“Th
ere will be a test. Of maturity. Of courage.” She tapped
the card of the Fool.
“Oh, please, that’s no answer.”
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“Th
en here is the answer you have been waiting for. Th
e
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artist who gave the painting to Quentin was named Charles
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Delaware Tate. I knew him well. For many years the painting
was in my possession.”
“Why you?”
“Th
at is another story. What I have to tell you is that the
artist could not bear to part with his masterpiece. It had robbed
him of his soul. And so, he painted another.”
“You mean there were two?”
Magda’s eyes fl ickered, then gleamed. She licked her lips as
though she was fi nally satisfi ed to have won his attention, and
David asked, “Is the artist . . . I mean, is he still alive?”
Th
e gypsy leaned in and whispered, “He lives in the tower.”
And she raised her eyes to the ceiling.
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F o u r t e e n
Curious now, David was on his way up the stairs when a har-
ried waiter handed him a tray piled high with empty glasses
and said, “Here. Take this to the kitchen.” David realized he
still wore the chauff eur’s jacket and he had been mistaken for a
servant. He was about to set the tray down when he reasoned a
servant’s garb might give him some secrecy while he searched
for Jackie and a way out of this nightmare. Maybe she was right.
If they had been sent back in time for a reason, and if he allowed
himself to be caught up in the unfolding drama, perhaps they
would fi nd some answers. On a whim, he reached for a still fi lled glass and drowned the contents; the champagne tasted like
fl owers.
He was astonished to fi nd the kitchen bustling with activ-
ity; at least twenty cooks were at work around a great cast iron
stove that was one he did not know, and the cabinets were not
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the tiled surfaces the house had now, but sanded wood. All the
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family silver that he had never seen anywhere but tarnishing in
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the buff et was polished and brimming with the fanciest off er-
ings. Silver trays overfl owed with canapés and crystal decanters
glowed with sherry. Swimming in a giant bowl was a frothy iced
punch, the elaborate silver ladle resting on a bed of gardenias.
Seeing his uniform was a way to remain unnoticed, he fi rst
fi lled his tray with glasses, then strolled into the drawing room.
It, too, exuded an air of gloss and refi nement; however, the
room was cluttered with glamorous objects from the Orient. He
was surprised to see much of the same furniture was there, but
there were also Art Deco rugs and elegant antiques that were
unfamiliar. Two huge porcelain leopards reclined by the fi re-
place, and palm trees sprouted from Chinese planters.
Above the mantel was a portrait of a beautiful young girl
with golden hair and a heart- shaped face, the one he had seen
dancing, and he realized she must belong to the family. Busying
himself with collecting glasses, David listened to three restless
young men who were talking boisterously. He could see they
were close to his own age and wore what must have been college
attire, white linen pants or knickers and sports coats with bow
ties. Th
ey appeared to be quite inebriated, and they ignored him
just as everyone else had done while they admired the girl in the
painting.
“What a doll,” said one.
“I’ve heard she’s already done two talkies. And left the
theater.”
“Well, she does have the voice for talkies, and she is
shameless.”
“Shameless and honest. Certainly not her father’s daughter.”
Th
ey all laughed and shook their heads, as if they had never
known such a woman. David wondered who she could be. “Too
bad she’ll get nabbed along with her bootlegging dad.”
“Damn, she don’t care. She’s so proud of her nerve, she’ll
probably drive you to the blind pig in her own roadster.”
“Shhhh, keep your voice down.” One of the men who wore
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a dark suit with a high collar glanced over at David, who turned
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Lara Parker
quickly toward the kitchen, but the man reached for his tray
and took a glass of champagne.
Another man in a plaid sports coat and matching vest, com-
plete with a carnation in his lapel, turned to his companion, who
wore a pink waistcoat, a straw hat perched back on his head, and
puff ed on a cigar. David had an uncanny suspicion that they
were in disguise, that this was not their usual attire; he had a
feeling that they were plotting something.
“When do the boys get here?” said the man in the plaid
jacket.
“Ten- oh- fi ve. So be ready.”
“Yeah. We’ve nailed them three times in a row serving beer,
wine, and whiskey to more than a hundred guests.” He lifted
his glass in proof. “And the whiskey is all in the cellar of that
big empty house down the road?”
“What booty! Fifteen hundred cases of Canadian shipped
on a schooner from Rum Row and fl oated ashore.”
David was curious. He wondered if they were bootleggers.
“Well, it won’t be no tea party,” said the man in the pink
waistcoat, winking at his companion. “Do we get to take a little
home?”
“Nope. Just like in any ordinary speaker, every bottle is sup-
posed to be smashed.”
Th
e man in the plaid jacket looked over his shoulder at
David, who turned his back and set the glasses on the table.
Th
en the man leaned in to the third gentleman, the slim dark-
haired man in the black suit. He spoke in a whisper. “So, Jay,
are you with us to night?”
“Sorry. I don’t share the Klan’s thirst for violence.”
David was surprised at what he thought was a mention of
an infamous or ga ni za tion.
“What are you, one of those intellectually mongrelized lib-
erals? Or just a wet blanket?”
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Th
e man in the dark suit sighed and then took a swig of his
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champagne. “If a liberal is one who accepts Catholics, Jews,
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radicals, and foreigners in general, as well as the Negro, I sup-