Kaleidoscope Page 8

  8

  Madame Karitska did not often have male clients, and she quite understood that masculine pride was usually involved. She was therefore pleased when a Mr. Jason Hendricks made an appointment, but less pleased when he arrived: the poor man looked pale and emaciated, with a haunted look in his eyes, and she found herself hoping that he did not assume she was a healer of sorts, for he looked very ill.

  His first words to her were, "I've gone to every doctor possible," and she flinched. "I don't have AIDS, I don't have tuberculosis, or parasites or ulcers, I've been tested and tested and tested."

  As gently as possible she told him that she did not deal in alternative medicines—or miracles, she wanted to say, but didn't.

  "I don't expect that," he told her coldly. "And I don't know why I'm here. A neighbor said I could at least keep trying."

  She nodded. "An act of desperation—I quite understand."

  "Do you?" he demanded. "Do you?"

  "Life has many desperate chapters," she told him, and looking at him more closely she realized that not long ago ha

  must have been a handsome man, and certainly younger than he looked now. "Perhaps over a cup of green tea we can talk better," she told him, and went into the kitchen to brew it.

  When she returned he was looking over the books in her bookcase with interest. "I see that you have several interesting books on Afghanistan. Have you traveled there?"

  She smiled. "My family lived in Kabul for a few years when I was a child. Not entirely by choice; we were refugees and very poor. Do you know the country?"

  "Only briefly, as a travel writer, before the Taliban took over." With relief he lowered himself to the couch and watched her pour him a cup of tea. He said carefully, "You understand I expect nothing from you, but this woman I scarcely know—a neighbor—told me about you, and that possibly—well, frankly," he added, "I was entertaining the thought of ending my life, which has pretty much happened already." He added dryly, "But without the last rites. She said you saw things?" With a forced smile and a shaking hand he lifted the cup of tea to his lips, and then put it down before it spilled.

  "Have you eaten lately?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Nothing solid. No appetite."

  "Sleep?"

  "Only with dread, and nightmares," and quickly changing the subject, "She said I should bring with me something I've worn for years?"

  Madame Karitska nodded. "Yes, and have you?"

  "My wallet," he said, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a worn and shabby wallet. "It's gone everywhere with me for years." He gave a feeble laugh. "I grow notoriously attached to things, no matter how old, perhaps because 1 move around so much in my travels."

  She smiled. "I know that feeling . . , old clothes, old friends, old books. One needs constants in a traveling life."

  He seemed to suddenly see her more clearly now. 'As a refugee you really would know that, wouldn't you."

  She nodded. "Oh yes. When I was a child I once found a milk white stone, almost translucent; I thought it more beautiful than any jewel—we had no toys—and fortunately it was small enough to carry in my pocket; I cherished it for years."

  He nodded. "That I can understand. I often find the oddest souvenirs to bring back with me, never touristy, but satisfying for some inexplicable reason." He reached across the table and gave his wallet to her. "It's all yours."

  "Thank you. Now if you will be very still, it's called psychometry, and 1 must deeply concentrate on what it tells me." If the gods are smiling, she added to herself. "And if you've had many experiences as a traveler there will be many impressions. This may take some time, so please relax."

  Holding the wallet cupped in her hands she closed her eyes and this time added a brief prayer. With concentration, impressions began to surface .., a restless, intelligent man . . , well traveled, hungry for knowledge . . , curious and talented .., a woman in a sari whom he'd loved . ., desert sands and— She was suddenly startled enough to open her eyes. Admitting less than she received she said, "But I have to tell you at once the impressions I receive are very strong. What you suffer from no doctor here can help, and no prescription cure."

  Dismayed and shocked he said, "Good God, what is it?"

  She said softly, 'A sickness of the spirit. Of the soul."

  "The soul?" he blurted out. "But that's—"

  "Ridiculous? You do have a soul," she reminded him.

  "Of course, but—"

  "Please .., let me clear up one possibility first. You've not had any extremely traumatic experience lately? Depression, loss, for instance?"

  He said bitterly, "Both of those since I've begun—at the age of thirty-six—to feel a hundred years old with this illness, yes. Loss? My health. Depression? I can no longer work."

  She nodded. "And you returned from your travels how long ago?

  "Two and a half months ago."

  "And began feeling ill on your return?"

  "Actually on the plane home, it was a long flight."

  She said abruptly, "Did you drive here?"

  "Is that all you can say?" he demanded. "No, I didn't feel well enough to drive here, I took a taxi."

  "Too weak," she said, nodding. "I'm going to call a taxi now for us."

  "Look here," he protested, "I came here—"

  "To be helped," she told him. "We now go to a friend of mine for advice."

  He said accusingly, "I begin to think you a bloody quack."

  She turned at the telephone and smiled. "I've been called worse, Mr. Hendricks. What I gave you was a diagnosis, now we must find the cure."

  "Then you're keeping something from me. Am I going to die?"

  But she was already ordering a cab, and he waited in an angry silence.

  "We will wait outside," she told him, "there will be a taxi in four minutes."

  He was even more outraged when the cab drove them only two blocks down to Sixth Street

  , turned to the right and passed groups of idle young men and boys who looked extremely intimidating, but apparently not to his companion. The cab stopped at a storefront with the sign HELP SAVE TOMORROW. "Please wait," she told the driver.

  With resentment Mr. Hendricks climbed out and followed her into a narrow shop full of cartons of shoes and old clothes hanging on rods, its only occupant a huge black man who appeared to be in charge. He said with a warm smile, "Welcome, Madame Karitska!" and then looked doubtfully at her companion.

  "Daniel," she said, "this is Mr. Hendricks, a travel writer who two and a half months ago returned from Africa, much healthier than he is now."

  Hendricks turned to stare at her. "But I didn't tell you I'd been in Africa!"

  "No," she said, "you didn't have to."

  Daniel looked at Hendricks and whistled through his teeth. "He has the look of death on him, that's for sure."

  She nodded. "And has been tested for every possible tropical disease. You once spoke of a doctor who attends the church that contributes to your store. .. ."

  Daniel slowly nodded. "Yes, Dr. Idowi. You really think—"

  "It's what I saw, Daniel," she said softly. "Very clearly."

  Daniel nodded. "If you give me a quarter to make the phone call—the pay phone's just down the street."

  Hendricks, clearly worried, said, "What is it you saw? For God's sake tell me."

  But Daniel was already returning. "I tell him good, Madame Karitska. He is very, very interested. Just back from university lecture and has one hour before patients now. You go, he is in his office." He wrote down the address on a scrap of paper.

  They returned to the taxi, whose driver had begun to look anxious, considering the neighborhood, and Madame Karitska gave him the address on Tenth Street

  .

  "Oh, the clinic," said the driver with relief, nodding, and soon deposited them in front of a large brick building bearing a directory of doctors below its sign.

  It was refreshingly cool inside; they took the elevator up to the third floor, and when th
ey entered room 305, Hendricks visibly relaxed at the sight of a perfectly normal reception room with a nurse. The nurse, her face a strikingly dark contrast to her starched white uniform, told them the doctor was waiting for them, and opened the door to his office.

  Dr. Idowi was a man in midlife, a tall African American with a fringe of gray beard lining a strong jaw, and bright, intelligent eyes. He rose to shake hands with them and then pointed to the two chairs near his desk. "Please be seated," he said, giving Hendricks a keen glance, and Madame Karitska a smile. "I have heard of you from Daniel, who has spoken to me about you," he told her. Gravely he added, "And you saw what?"

  "A sickness of the soul."

  With a nod he turned to Hendricks. "And you have been tested for bilharzia, yellow fever, cholera, hepatitis, polio, meningitis, and parasites?"

  Hendricks nodded. "Everything."

  Leaning back in his chair he said, "Tell me about your visit to Africa, Mr. Hendricks, your itinerary and what particularly interested you."

  Hendricks shrugged. "If it's important I don't mind. I intended to visit the sub-Sahara, but first I stopped briefly—or so I thought—in Kenya, to say hello to a friend of mine, Colin Birchwood, in the Peace Corps. We were in college together, roommates. ... He met my plane, he and a young African aide and friend named Funtua. And what Colin told me about their work in the bush, in a village in the interior, so interested me I decided to stay .., to go back with them to their village and spend a few weeks gathering material there, for a book or at least an article."

  "Go on," said the doctor.

  Hendricks's voice became eager as he continued. "I've always been intensely interested in belief systems, especially native religions, and here was my chance to learn firsthand of what I'd only read about. I mean, they really do live with the spirits of their ancestors, offer gifts to them to honor or placate them .. , such rich material! And then their spirit healers..."

  "I am not unfamiliar with them," commented Dr. Idowi dryly. "Pray go on."

  "Colin, my Peace Corps friend, told me of an American doctor who had been there for years, quite revolutionary—at least he would be here in America, I guess—because he'd become interested in the natives' traditional medicine and he felt strongly that it should be combined with our modern medicine. Colin and Funtua took me to meet him, and I actually went with the doctor—and Colin and Funtua—to interview, through him, a diviner, and later we witnessed a healing by a native who communicated, apparently, with antagonistic spirits. I've got notes on all this. I believe the good spirits are called Rohanis, the very bad spirits Shetanis."

  "Black magic, white magic," murmured Dr. Idowi.

  Hendricks nodded. "In America they'd call it witchcraft, I suppose? At least the government there tries to suppress actual witchcraft, but this seemed straightforward, all of it. I mean, Colin had experienced terrible headaches—migraines— at one time, and Funtua, whose father was a healer, gave him herbs that had cured him, and he and Funtua—"

  Dr. Idowi nodded. "They worked together? Had a close relationship?"

  "Oh, very," Hendricks said. "Colin called him his brother, and Funtua beamed and said yes, they were brothers."

  Amused, Dr. Idowi said, "And did Funtua adopt you, too?"

  Hendricks smiled. 'As a cousin, at least. He was fascinated, listened wide-eyed to Colin and me talking about our college days, and when Funtua didn't understand a word Colin translated it in Swahili—or maybe Hausa, since Funtua was a member of the Chaamba tribe. He spoke English well but didn't understand American slang, which needed explaining."

  "Chaamba," mused Dr. Idowi. "And have you brought souvenirs back with you?"

  Hendricks shrugged. "A few wood carvings, and a necklace of charms." He reached inside his shirt and brought out a thin leather cord from which hung a tiny cloth bag. "Funtua called them gris-gris," he said. "The charms."

  "Yes, I know," Dr. Idowi said dryly. "It is a Hausa word, and the Chaamba speak Hausa. Until I was nine years old I lived in a village in Africa and am well acquainted with gris-gris. Do you mind if I cut this open just to see what's in it?"

  "Not if it helps," said Hendricks. "But you can't possibly think, if you're talking spirits and sorcery, that anything could reach thousands of miles to affect me!"

  Without replying Dr. Idowi produced a penknife and slit open the tiny sack. "Feathers," he murmured. "These slips of paper are no doubt verses from the Koran .., a stone . . , and these crumbled shreds of—of wood, yes—look like scrapings from the bark of a tree or shrub." He frowned. "I don't know what they would be." He reached into his desk and brought out a magnifying glass.

  "Damn," said Hendricks suddenly; and they looked at him in surprise. "I can tell you what they're for; how could I have forgotten? They're what cured Colin of migraine headaches. Headaches, nightmares—my God, the headaches I've had! I could have cured myself of them, if I'd remembered."

  Dr. Idowi nodded. "Yes, but I'd like to have this analyzed in my lab, since you're consulting me." He frowned. "I would also like to see the wood carvings you returned with."

  "Look here," Hendricks said, "are you suggesting voodoo of some sort?"

  "Voodoo," said Dr. Idowi coolly, "is a religion of the Caribbean. It's true that elements of it from Africa have been incorporated into it—but also corrupted," he added distastefully. "We are dealing with Africa now, not the Caribbean." With a glance at his watch he said, "My next patient is due shortly, but I ask two things of you. I want you to return tomorrow at two o'clock, and I think it might be of interest to Madame Karitska—and perhaps useful—to return with you, since it was she who ... If you have the time?"

  Madame Karitska nodded. "I'll make time."

  "But as for you, Mr. Hendricks," he said, "I wish you to deliver to me today, this afternoon, the wood carvings—all of them—that you brought back with you from Africa. If I am occupied, please leave them with my nurse."

  "Oh for heaven's sake," grumbled Hendricks.

  "Yes," smiled Dr. Idowi, "for heaven's sake."

  Madame Karitska had two clients the next morning, but between their arrivals and departures her thoughts returned to Jason Hendricks. If she could acknowledge that her gift of clairvoyance was a mystery, she was not as skeptical as Hendricks about anything equally as strange as his illness. There were dimensions to life that even physicists conceded were undiscovered as yet; the mind was a powerful instrument, given to depressions and illusions, hopes, desires and suggestion. It was like a half-empty room, ready in children to be filled with optimism or pessimism, tricks of thought, despair, joy, rejection, love, buried memories that could be triggered by an aroma, a voice, a word ill-spoken, a mood, a dream. She found herself intensely curious as to what Dr. Idowi might find, and what would happen to Jason Hendricks if he found nothing to help him.

  At a few minutes after two o'clock that afternoon she and Mr. Hendricks were ushered by the nurse into Dr. Idowi's office. He had a pleasant hello for them and bade them be seated, and after giving each of them a thoughtful glance he reached down and brought up a basket from beside his desk. To Madame Karitska he explained, "These are the wood carvings Mr. Hendricks brought to me yesterday."

  To Hendricks he said, bringing them out of the basket one by one, "Several of these are very handsome, especially the masks. I congratulate you on your taste and acumen."

  Hendricks said, "Harmless, then? I don't know whether to feel relieved or discouraged. I'd begun to think, overnight, that you might find a clue to this horrible wasting away, which is what it feels like."

  "On the contrary," said Dr. Idowi, "may I ask if by chance you had a mustache when you were in Kenya?"

  "Mustache!" He gave a derisive laugh. "Yes, briefly. Less shaving, less nuisance."

  "Then we have this," said Dr. Idowi, and brought out the primitive carving of a man, roughly eight inches in height, its body very short, its head large. "Madame Karitska?" he said.

  She leaned closer to look at the disproportionate head and
then glanced at Hendricks, frowning. "The same shape of the head as his, but those tufts of what—grass?—attached under the nose, are they supposed to be a mustache?"

  "Yes . . . Tell me, Mr. Hendricks, have you kept this carving near you where you live?"

  "Near me? Well, yes, on the lamp table next my bed."

  Dr. Idowi turned the carving sideways. "You notice the large convoluted ears?"

  Hendricks laughed. "My ears—if that's what you're implying—certainly aren't that large. What's the matter with them?"

  Dr. Idowi sighed. "I have to tell you, Mr. Hendricks, that when witch doctors make an effigy of a person whom they want to die, they place Abrus seeds in their ears." With a tweezer he brought out a small, hard red seed. "This is an Abrus seed. There is also one in the other ear."

  Hendricks stammered, "That's ridiculous; I met no one who wanted to kill me."

  "African natives wear no mustaches, Mr. Hendricks."

  "I tell you, there couldn't be anyone—"

  "Then consider this," continued Dr. Idowi, shaking out the shreds of bark from an envelope. "The lab has analyzed these scrapings that were given you for headaches."

  "Yes—I only wish I'd thought to use it."

  "Lucky for you that you didn't or you'd be dead," he said calmly. "The lab analyzed this. They couldn't identify what it came from, it being foreign to them, but its substance was only too familiar to them; they diagnosed its toxic substance as a digitalis-like glyoside. I suspect it came from the Mukoso tree. ... If it was placed in a glass of water, wine or beer, and you drank it you'd be dead very, very quickly. I think," he said gently, "that you somehow met with a very bad spirit." Hendricks, gaping at him in shock, said, "But who?" "Perhaps—from what I hear of Madame Karitska's talents, she can tell us. There is first of all the carving, the effigy of you, Mr. Hendricks, and someone very powerful carved it, hoping for a slow death for you, and if that failed, if you were only sick and turned to the medicine that was supposed to be for headaches, but are the roots of what would be Mukoso in Kenya, this would have done the trick and finished you off neatly and forever." He handed the carving to Madame Karitska. "Can you tell us who did this?"