Kaleidoscope Read online

  She said softly, "He lives in a strange world." When the mother opened her mouth to speak, Madame Karitska signed to her to be silent while she regarded the child thoughtfully. After a few minutes she went to the telephone and dialed the number of the Settlement House, where Jan worked on Saturday mornings, and asked to speak with her.

  "Marina, what a surprise," said Jan.

  "You're busy, I know," she told her, "but I wonder if—this noon, or after your work ends—you could come and confirm ... I have a small boy here who has never talked, quite neglected, his name is Luca. I'd like to know what impressions you receive psychically."

  "Sounds interesting," said Jan.

  "I'd guess he's about six years old," continued Madame Karitska. "An Italian family. The mother doesn't speak much English. I don't know about the husband, but it could be difficult."

  "Not really," said Jan cheerfully. "You're forgetting that I spent my junior year at college in Italy. I'm not great but I'm good enough to be resident translator at the Settlement House."

  "I had forgotten," admitted Madame Karitska. "I've one other request. In your children's day school you have what I can only describe as an electric keyboard, a laptop piano the children play music on?"

  "You bet. Good idea—it's a rare child who doesn't react to music. So I'll be leaving at noon and come directly," promised Jan, "and hope your mysterious small boy can be there by half past the hour."

  "My fervent thanks, Jan," and hanging up the phone Madame Karitska returned to a frightened mother. "It's all right," she told her soothingly. "Your son interests me very much, and I've asked a friend to come and see Luca later today. Please? At—" Again she drew a clock and sketched in the hour with lines.

  She was not comforted. "My husband no like, no."

  "He must come, too," Madame Karitska told her sternly.

  "If he does not come we will cross the street and make him come. This is his son, is he not?"

  "But you tell me nothing, nothing."

  Madame Karitska smiled. "I say this—no institution for Luca."

  The woman brightened. "Dear God, a miracolo?" and for a moment Madame Karitska feared that she would kiss her hands. To avoid this she helped her lift Luca into his stroller.

  "Tell me," she said, "can Luca walk at all? His legs..." She pointed to them. "Yes? No?"

  His mother looked suddenly mischievious in the glance she gave her, and much younger. "When Mario go," and her voice was conspiratorial, "Luca passeggiata." She thought a minute and then, "He take steps." Abruptly her face saddened. "But Mario, I think he want not even—" She broke off and Madame Karitska watched her push the stroller down the steps and across the street. Nor even to live, thought Madame Karitska. A serious business, and upsetting, and she returned to her kitchen to rescue her spinach quiche from the oven before her next client arrived.

  At quarter past twelve Jan's car drew up to the brownstone, and Madame Karitska went out to meet her, considerably cheered by the sight of her. She was currently wearing her pale blond hair long, and it charmingly framed her piquant face; she was also, Madame Karitska noted, carrying the long toy piano board under one arm, and a book in the other.

  "My Italian dictionary," she explained, handing the latter to her. "Just in case. What's it all about, Marina?"

  "That," she said, "is what I hope we can find out," and led her inside. "The child is without schooling and virtually an invalid, and yet, and yet..." Glancing out the window, "They come now, and thank heaven the father is coming, too."

  "Not happily," said Jan, looking over her shoulder. "And the child in a stroller? Why doesn't he carry him for her?"

  "Apparently," said Madame Karitska, "he doesn't care to even touch him." He did indeed look furious, his wife submissive but yearning, the boy as passive as usual. Jan at once went out to help pull the stroller up the steps, and the three of them entered, the father grudgingly.

  "I not like this, my wife make trouble for us," he said, his English superior to hers. "The boy is not good in the head, he is nothing. Malo. Evil."

  "This is Jan," said Madame Karitska calmly, "and your wife is very upset about sending Luca away; surely you know this?"

  He shrugged. "A man needs a son who will work one day, can walk, talk, earn his living. He is diverso. Different. She will not listen."

  Madame Karitska gave him a curt glance and told them to sit down, and with a nod to Jan she went into the kitchen to bring out a pot of coffee. When she returned, Jan was holding the child's hand and smiling at him and he was staring at her without expression. To prevent the parents from speaking she gave them each a slice of cake and a cup of coffee, and sat down to watch.

  Jan's face was showing a growing astonishment. "It's like .., like ..." and to his parents, "You say he never talks, but does he make sounds?"

  His mother shrugged. "He will sometimes . . ." She struggled for a word. "Like a bumblebee?"

  Jan nodded, and walked over to the keyboard that she'd already plugged into an electrical outlet, and placed it on the child's lap. Grasping one of his fingers she pressed it to a key, and at the sound of the musical note the change was astonishing. A sense of blissful wonder swept over his face; he moved his finger to the next key and then to the next; a little melody developed and then a second finger joined the first to make a chord, and his face was pure delight. Kneeling beside the boy Jan lifted her gaze to his parents and said, "He has been making music in his head—in his head, silently, and it's . . , it's . . ."

  The father made a face. "So? What is that mean, he is pazzo—crazy?"

  "No," Madame Karitska told him, "gifted." And to Jan, "When I got through to him this morning he was singing every word of John Painter's 'Once in Old Atlantis.' Silently." And to the mother, "You have a radio?" Si—si.

  Jan said dryly, "I can top that, Marina, he paid no attention to me, he was busy constructing what I swear were chords from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Near the end of it, when it rises higher and higher, a part I love." Placing the child's hands on the keyboard again, "Can you say the word music?"

  The boy looked at his father in terror, but Jan pressed his finger harder. "Music. "

  His lips contorted, moved, and with effort he said, "Mooick."

  There was silence until his father said angrily, "What is this you do? Look at him," he said accusingly, "he is cursed, I tell you. Evil. Rosetta said any son of mine—" He burst into Italian, passionately waving his hands, the only understandable word Rosetta, recurring over and over, while Jan looked more and more shocked.

  "My God," she murmured, and when he faltered she said, "Rosetta Dellaripa .., in the small mountain town where they lived she was a strega—a witch."

  He nodded. "She put a curse on my first son, si."

  Madame Karitska said nothing; she felt a little sick as Jan demanded more from him.

  "He says," resumed Jan, "that when Luca was born he was terrified the child would bring them every possible misfortune. He has expected every day the curse on Luca will hurt him, his wife, his daughter, he cannot bear to look at Luca or touch him."

  "And why," asked Madame Karitska, "did this horrible woman put this so-called curse on him?"

  This needed time, but at last Jan said indignantly, "This wretched Rosetta wanted Luca's father to marry her daughter, who had no dowry." With a nod to Luca's mother she added, "She had a dowry, he quickly married her and spent her dowry to come to America, and for this Rosetta cursed him, with some sort of frightening ceremony. Sons are important— vital—what better to curse?"

  Madame Karitska slowly rose from the couch where she was sitting and walked over to Luca's father and placed a hand on each side of his face, turning it up to her. She said coldly, "You understand enough English to hear what I am going to say. Luca is not cursed; it is you who have been cursed. You. Denied a son. Too afraid to love him. Too afraid to touch him. You have made your house cold as ice; do you not realize he feels this?" To Jan she said, "Is there a word for paralyze?"

>   jan reached for her Italian dictionary and thumbed through it. "Paralizzare?"

  "Exactly," said Madame Karitska. "He feels your hate; he is paralyzed by it. He retreats. You want a son who works, earns money, walks, talks? This Luca of yours may, with care, grow up to make more money than you will ever see. He is gifted. Bright. Like the sun."

  He stared at her, stupefied.

  To Mrs. Cialini she said, "Bring Luca to him."

  Timidly she picked up Luca and carried him to his father, "Hold him. Hold him. There is no Rosetta here, you are in America. Hold him," Madame Karitska told him.

  He did not reach out his arms, but he allowed Luca to be placed in his lap. For a moment panic appeared to overwhelm him, and then he looked down at Luca and, feeling the weight of him sliding, grasped him closer. He stared down at Luca and Luca looked up at him and they appeared to examine each other, until with dignity Mario said to his wife, "We go home now, Maria."

  His wife moved toward the stroller but he shook his head. "Me, I carry him, Maria."

  Without a word, or a nod to Madame Karitska or Jan, he walked out of the room, his wife behind him.

  "A man of pride," murmured Madame Karitska dryly.

  "Too macho to accept the scoldings of two mere women," laughed Jan. "We run into this occasionally at the Settlement House with immigrant families who come from male-oriented societies."

  Madame Karitska nodded. "I accept the rudeness, but what now for Luca?"

  "Leave it to me," said Jan. "You've planted real doubts in that man about the curse. I'd like Lou Devoe to see Luca— our part-time child psychologist. She won't charge and I'll see to it that someone drives him to her office and returns him— he'll love the toys there. He needs school, of course, but not until he's freed of his fears to talk, and Trafton has two special schools for the unusually gifted."

  "And then?"

  "Why, our dear Mr. Faber-Jones," she said with a smile.

  "Jan," protested Madame Karitska, "we can't keep asking him to subsidize waifs."

  "Waifs!" exclaimed Jan. "You call John Painter a waif? The story I heard is that you rescued John Painter just as he was about to be arrested for shoplifting, heard the song he'd written, and insisted Faber-Jones come at once to hear it, and then to start Pisces Record Company to record 'Once in Old Atlantis,' a song that's made Faber-Jones even richer, and John Painter rich, too. He owes you, Marina."

  Madame Karitska winced. "I feel no debt—except to the child Luca."

  Jan patted her on the arm. "Don't worry, it's far too early to ask his help." With a glance at her watch she said, "I've got to rush off now, I've a date with a detective lieutenant whom I dearly love and who has the afternoon off. Call me anytime, Marina," and with a grin she added, "Ciao, Marina!" and was gone.

  Once she was alone Madame Karitska smiled at Jan's reminding her of John Painter. A very satisfying experience that had been, she thought, and after a few minutes she walked across the room to her cassette player, sorted through the symphonies to reach a certain song, and, as she flicked on the sound, John Painter's voice filled the living room.

  Once in old Atlantis,

  1 loved a lady pure . . .

  And then the waters rose

  And death was black and cold.

  Once in Indian days

  Í loved a maiden pure . . .

  But white men shot her through the heart

  And I was left to grieve.

  I saw her once in Auschwitz

  Young, dressed all in black. . .

  Our eyes met once beside the wall—

  The Nazis shot her dead.

  She's gone, I cannot find her,

  A fortune-teller says "Not yet, "

  For life's a slowly turning wheel

  And this turn's not for love . ..

  His voice and the guitar faded away until, with a dramatic sweep of his fingers across its strings he repeated, "And this turn's not for love," and abruptly the music ended.

  Yes, she thought, nodding, she really must approach Faber-Jones soon about Luca, who might, in time, become an equal surprise for him.

  7

  It was several days later when Madame Karitska found Betsy Oliver lurking in her hallway, too shy to knock and apparently not daring to make an appointment that she couldn't afford. She turned scarlet when she was found, and stammered an apology. "You said," she began, "I mean you told me—and you're the only one who liked my sketches, and—"

  "And I told you I hoped that you'd come back in a week or so to see your sketch framed and hung, yes."

  "You don't mind?" she said eagerly. "Are you busy?"

  "My dear, you were invited. And I'm free for an hour and do come in. You'll find your sketch on the wall over there," she told her, pointing. "What's more, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

  She left Betsy standing in front of the casual sketch of her daughter, which looked astonishingly uncasual and professional, now that it was matted and framed. Going to the telephone she was relieved to find that Kristan was at work upstairs in his studio. She said, "The young woman whose work I showed you some days ago is here, Kristan. Would you have a few minutes to give counsel? Could I send her up to you?"

  Kristan, always ironic, said, "My snakes would doubtless terrify her. I need a break; I'll come down."

  In a few minutes he noisily thundered down the stairs and walked in, his beard daubed with scarlet today, and giving Betsy a keen glance he said, "So."

  Both of them tried to avoid looking at the bruise on Betsy's cheek.

  "This," Madame Karitska told her, "is Kristan Seversky, who works upstairs and is a professional artist, and I showed him your sketch. Now do sit down while I fetch some coffee for you."

  "I shall be very stern," Kristan told the girl. "You've drawn only faces?"

  Betsy nodded, regarding him with awe.

  "No figures yet?"

  She shook her head.

  "Have you done any work in colors?"

  "I don't have any," she admitted.

  "You will need training," he said. "Classes in life—nudes— figures, but—"

  "But?" asked Madame Karitska, bringing in coffee and placing the carafe on the table with three cups. "But what, Kristan?"

  "But to earn money to live on now—and for further training . .." He got up and removed the framed sketch from the wall. "You have more of these?"

  "Yes," said Betsy.

  "Good. You're willing to start small?"

  "Small?" she echoed, confused.

  "I have connections with two greeting card companies here in Trafton, and although it is only summer they begin already to plan for Christmas, and they've a penchant for angels. I would say that one of these companies would be seized with delight at such luminous faces, possibly both of them. They do not pay extremely well, but enough to keep bread on your table, and enough for you take a class when you can afford it, to see if you can draw bodies as well, and to support extending your talent. Here," he said, and reached into a paper bag he'd brought with him, and from it drew out a hand-carved, jointed figure of a man. "With this you can practice. You see the joints? His figure stands. He sits, and you can sketch him seated. You move arms and legs and sketch him running. With this you can practice how the human figure moves."

  "You mean—" began Betsy in surprise.

  "Yes, I lend it to you."

  Betsy stared at him with wide eyes. "But this is so .., so very kind of you."

  "I am not kind," he said brusquely. "I am only an artist who appreciates. Now I want you to go home, gather up all the sketches you have made, and take them to each of these companies downtown. I have written their names down for you here, and the names of the man or woman you must see, and when you are ready to visit them, here is my phone number; I will call and tell them you're coming."

  Betsy looked overwhelmed and a little frightened, and his voice turned kinder. He said gravely, "I can assure you that if they are in their right minds, one of them will surely be eager t
o use your work; if not, there is still New York. In the meantime I say to you that your drawings are wonderfully original and fresh."

  "You, too?" she marveled. "Madame Karitska said—but I didn't dare—how can I ever thank—"

  He cut her off, looking pained. "I return now to my painting," he announced, and to Madame Karitska with a suddenly teasing, boyish smile, "To my snakes."

  With a nod he opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him.

  When he was gone Betsy looked at Madame Karitska with a sense of wonder. She said, "I want you to know that I never expected help, or anything like this. I came back for .., for comfort, I guess. To tell you I refused to go with Arthur— Alpha, I mean—and there was no one else to tell. I just knew I couldn't let Alice—our daughter—go to that place, the Guardian place." Her hand moved to the bruise on her cheek.

  "He hit you."

  Betsy nodded. "He left two days ago. He was furious. It's taken so much out of me, I've felt so shaken and lost—"

  "Then I'm glad you came."

  "But now—I was going to look for a waitress job, " she said, and suddenly smiled; her smile was radiant. "Now I have something to go home for, something to do. How can I ever thank you and Mr. Seversky?"

  Madame Karitska said lightly, "There are some who say there are no accidents in life, and it may be that we were meant to meet." With a glance at her watch, "Now you must go home and collect your sketches—I assume you've done more since I saw you—and look to your future, not your past."

  "Oh I will, I will," promised Betsy.

  Madame Karitska lifted the framed sketch from her wall. "Take this with you—on loan—because the frame shows it off so well, it enhances it, and there should be no need for you to frame the others." Or the money to frame them, she thought, but did not say.

  Betsy gathered up the jointed wooden figure—"this will be wonderful to work with"—and proudly added the framed sketch. "You must have appointments, so I'll go, but—" She leaned over and kissed Madame Karitska on the cheek. "But suddenly there's so much to do—and without hiding it from my husband!"