Praise for Silvia Foti's
Order of the Tarot
Chronicles
The Diva's Fool
"With a whiff of orange spices,
the flipping of some Tarot cards, and a sip of herbal tea, reporter Alexandria Vilkas
is off and running again, investigating a murder mystery that makes for one hell
of a wild night at the opera. Silvia Foti has created a real winner…. You’ll laugh,
you’ll cry, but above all, you’ll love it." –Michael A. Black, author of Melody of Vengeance
"Tarot cards, murder, and a reporter
with a box full of incriminating evidence lead the reader to a magical world where
the paranormal proves more powerful than traditional crime solving methods. …a fun-filled
story with plenty of action and vibrant characters. …witty, suspenseful and an all
around terrific read!" –Scarlett Dean, author of Invisible Shield
"The Diva’s Fool casts a powerful spell impossible to break until the
last page is read. Magical, yet grounded in reality, the book takes the reader behind
the scenes of
"…a window of delight on
backstage at the
Skullduggery
"A fast-paced fictional tale of mystery that just
about any Chicagoan can enjoy. It's a serious suspense with a good dose of
humor added. I recommend Skullduggery." –Joe Kulys, Southwest News Herald
"New Age
philosophies and murder mix when the first Mexican mayor of
"A
crystal skull that may have supernatural powers,
The Diva's Fool
By Silvia Foti
Overture
The
doorbell tinkled as I entered, but The Wizard acted as if he hadn't heard it. I
wasn't offended or surprised–I'd gotten used to his moments of focused concentration.
He lifted the woodsy perfumed broom, its knobbed handle gleaming, and swept
about three to six inches above the floor, leaving crumbs and dust behind. He remained
intent on finishing his task, whistling a gleeful melody as he brushed the air
with a whoosh to right and left. After observing him for several moments, I
still could not figure out why he swept in such an odd fashion.
Gemstones, herbs, incense, and Tarot cards crammed the studio's
shelves. Cinnamon spice laced the air from a fat, red candle flickering in the
corner next to the blazing fireplace. The place held an aura of high-mindedness
mixed with whimsy, and I loved the incorruptible way it made me feel.
Slowly,
methodically, The Wizard swiped the space above the well-worn wooden floor. Absorbed
in his work, over and over he sang in a deep tone, "Be gone…away…fly…leave."
When he had swept the last corner with a curlicue swirl, he approached the
center of the room, lifted the broom waist-high, parallel to the floor, and
rotated his body, eyes closed, muttering a prayer.
Suddenly,
his eyes popped open. "Alexandria Vilkas," he cried. His joy charged
me like a mug of steaming tea. "Come in, come in."
"Hello,
Master." I stepped forward and quizzically looked at him.
With
indigo eyes and a snowy beard trailing to his heart, he wore jeans and a thick
ivory wool sweater. Dots of perspiration rimmed his brow, and when he wiped his
clammy forehead, he mussed his stiff, white hair. He upended the broom, holding
it like a pitchfork. "It's the New Moon, time to clear away the detritus
from the last cycle and usher in our new desires. Your timing is impeccable–I've
just cleared away the negativity."
I
smelled dust bunnies. "Cleared away the negativity?"
"From clients, mostly. Dump every problem! By the end of the
moon cycle, it's an astral mess." Breathing deeply, he spread his arms and
looked around. "Much better, isn't it?"
"If
you say so."
Looking
me over from head to toe, he lamented, "You are a wet undine, aren't you?"
My
hands flew to my hair, drenched all the way down to my waist from the heavy
snow outside. I could imagine how terrible I looked, but I shoved those
thoughts aside to talk about this momentous occasion.
"It's March 4th," I said. "The big day."
"Hmmm."
"Please, you're not going to put it off any longer, are you?"
He motioned toward the leaping flames in the brick fireplace that
engulfed two crackling logs in an orange blaze. "Very well. Take off your
coat and dry it by the fire."
Once we settled on his zebra-patterned couch, he showed me his new
ten-inch crystal ball set atop a pewter stand that an artisan had sculpted into
a trio of jesters.
"Oh, how beautiful!"
"Ordered it by catalogue."
From my past year of studying with my master, I knew the crystal
ball did not contain any magical properties. All the hocus-pocus, if you want
to call it that, came from The Wizard's mind, trained with rigorous study and
capable of sustained concentration.
I nodded, regarding the folds of a black velvet, hooded cape
hanging next to a wall-mounted sconce of a dragon. The Wizard had added those
to the decor since my last visit seven days ago. He always added something new…last
week he hung ornamental flower fairies in front of the window. The week before,
he rearranged his essential oils into a pyramid.
"It's March 4th," I said again, as if that would make
The Wizard hurry.
"You must be patient. Tell me all you have learned this year."
I could tell he was fishing for a certain answer by the way his
forehead creased like an accordion; but I had no idea what he wanted to hear. "We've
been working with Tarot cards, their aspects of astrology, elementals,
symbolism, numerology, colors, reversals, dignities, and correspondences–what
they mean individually, and how they interact with each other in a spread."
"And what else?"
"We've covered ritual work and meditation, fortune-telling
versus divination, and path-working. You also had me shooting guns and picking
locks."
The Wizard folded his hands together and looked me over. "I'm
sorry, but I don't know that you're ready."
What did I say wrong? "But you promised!"
"Initiation is not an exact science. It's true that we've
been studying together for 365 days, but you are not ready. Not yet."
He may as well have pricked my hope with a needle and deflated it
until it crumpled into a rubbery puddle. "What else do I need to do?"
The Wizard massaged his chin. "You must pass a test."
The acids in my stomach whipped my breakfast of Baltic rye bread
and farmer's cheese into an acrid soup, but I swallowed hard because I trusted
my master. He would give me a test I had a chance of passing. "What sort
of test?"
"Tell me about the story you are working on."
He often assigned me spiritual
exercises that applied to my occupation as a journalist. As a reporter for Gypsy
Magazine, a bimonthly in
"If you are ready to live
a life of service."
Our lessons always came back
to the topic of service and helping others. I knew this. Why did he repeat
himself?
"The story is always more
than just about your byline, Alexandria Vilkas. It is about how readers will
benefit from the information. By the same token, entering the Order of the Tarot
will not make your life easier. Your own needs and wants must be subjugated for
the betterment of someone else."
I heard only "The Order
of the Tarot." "The Order of the Tarot? That's the first time you
uttered the name of the secret society."
The Wizard nodded. "It
goes by many names, but that is the one you will know it by."
"What does it do? How
many members does it have? Are you going to let me join today?"
The Wizard held up his right
hand. "All in good time. First, you must pass the test. Oh, and there's
one more thing."
"What's that?"
"Since the Order of the
Tarot is a secret society, you are not to discuss it with anyone, not your
mother, not your friends, not your boss, not your boyfriend. No one. Do you
understand?"
I nodded, wondering if he
weren't being a bit overdramatic, but I swore to keep my promise. "I don't
have a boyfriend."
"Never mind that."
The Wizard glanced at his
crystal ball, polished it with his sleeve, and picked off an imaginary piece of
lint, perhaps one that contained my negativity. Then he leaned in, as if pulled
by an invisible force. "Oh, my," he gasped and he looked at me in
awe.
"What? What?"
I focused on the three jesters
holding the crystal ball, as they stood frozen in their dancing positions.
"Your test is
two-pronged. Do you want a reading on what you can expect?"
"Yes, please."
The Wizard smiled. "Very
well."
He reached into a nearby
wooden cabinet and pulled out a deck of Arthurian Tarot cards wrapped in a
black silk scarf. He made a big show of unveiling the cards…shuffling,
whispering a petition, and asking me to cut them into three piles using only my
left hand. With a flourish, he flipped over the top cards from each of the
three piles onto the black silky folds.
The Page of Swords (The Adder)
appeared first, followed by the Ten of Spears (The Green Knight), and the Three
of Cups (The Dressing of the Sacred Spring). From my previous year of studying
the Tarot, I knew the meanings of these cards, but I was curious to hear my
master's interpretation.
"After this story, your
life will never be the same," he announced. "You will become a
servant to those in jeopardy of malevolence…supernatural and mundane. Shall I
continue?"
Gulping, I nodded.
The Wizard drew his eyebrows
together and proceeded in a clinical monotone. "You are the Page of
Swords, an inconspicuous witness to important events, a clever spy to make
sense of unexpected plot twists, an active person with a sharp mind and a gift
for learning secrets. You endure a ten-day struggle, an awesome task of life
over death that demands courage and diplomacy. During that time, a handsome
married man seduces you, presenting you with an item as a gift. If you suppress
personal desires, you will be positioned to help victims of cruelty,
immorality, and ruin. When your mission is complete, pay homage to the spirit
of the spring."
Despite the warning I sat back
and grinned, like I'd just discovered a special present on my lap left by one
of the flower fairies hanging near his window. The Wizard had been grooming me
for this moment all year long, and now I hovered on the threshold of enlisting
into the elite, secret society that fought supernatural evil forces. I'd heard
rumors about it shortly after I started working for Gypsy Magazine and
made it my mission to find out more so I could do a story on it. I remembered
being surprised to hear The Wizard admit he was in a position to help me gain
entry into the clandestine organization, but that I could never write about it.
"Wow! Sounds like the
story is everything I've asked for. And for ten days!"
The Wizard studied the spread,
gazed into his crystal ball, and shook his head with a "tsk, tsk."
"Do not underestimate
your attraction to the married man. You have known him in a previous life; that
is why his pull is so strong."
I inhaled sharply, now
beginning to appreciate the test that lay ahead. I knew exactly which married
man he was foretelling–that's what filled me with dread. Bruno Scavoro, a trustee
of Gypsy Magazine, had enough magnetism to flip-flop the earth's poles. I
just hoped he didn't have the capacity to derail me from what I wanted
most–membership in the Order of the Tarot.
"You said this test was
two-pronged. What did you mean by that?"
"Earning
the degree of the Fool involves two challenges. The one with the married man is
the easier of the two. The other you will recognize when you see it. See me
after it manifests itself."
Chapter One
Day One:
Sunday, March 23
Carmen Dellamorte lay on her stomach, her nude body covered only
by a large pink towel. She gripped the end of the table with such intensity
that her knuckles turned bone white.
"Miss Diva, por favor,"
Jorge, her masseur, purred. He warmed peppermint oil between his hands and
rubbed her shoulders. "You must try to relax."
"Relax?" murmured Carmen into the donut-shaped face
pillow, her olive skin glistening. "This opera is bad luck, I tell you."
I sat at her side taking notes on this Sunday afternoon, doing
writer's research on her passion for Tarot cards. In two hours, the diva would
give her final performance at the Chicago Lyric Opera House as Verdi's Lady
Macbeth. Her nerves were as frazzled as the fringe on her opera costume hanging
nearby. In the center of the dressing room stood a three-foot tall cardboard
box, taped along its seams with wide packaging tape.
I fidgeted in the plush burgundy armchair and looked around Carmen's
dressing room–wigs rested on foam skulls, along with several dozen long-stemmed
red roses in glass vases wrapped in wide crimson ribbons. Fruity perfume and
peppermint oil laced the air. I lifted the foam skull lying next to me, and
placed it on Carmen's vanity table.
"Miss Dellamorte," I began. "About your interest in
the Tarot cards."
"Not now, cara mia,"
she said. "I am ordered to relax by this madman."
I
had no other choice but to watch the massage with the hope that she'd allow me
to begin the interview soon. I spotted the diva's Tarot deck on the ledge of
the upright piano…she had flipped over two cards, the Fool and the Hanged Man,
and I wanted to ask her about that. How strange that she displayed these two
particular cards.
She looked at me sideways and said, "You know about the
ancient curse on this play, don't you? The one that forbids you from saying the
name of the production?"
I
nodded. It was one of the reasons my editor, Alyce, sent me here. She hoped I'd
witness something supernaturally ill fated during this cursed opera. "It's
not just an article about the Tarot cards," Alyce told me three weeks ago
when she first gave me the assignment. "It's about the Macbeth opera, the
curses that surround any production of The Scottish Play. See if you can
interview cast members on their feelings about performing in a show with a
400-year-old curse."
To
help Carmen relax, I spoke slowly and calmly. "During its first production
as a play in 1606, a castrato playing Lady Macbeth–because women weren't
allowed on stage–was stricken with fever and died. Since then a curse forbids
anyone to pronounce the performance's title while in production."
Alyce would love that Carmen was worried about this curse before
her last performance, and I poised my pen, ready to take down her every word.
"Don't you see?" Carmen asked Jorge as she skooched
herself up. "If someone says the name of this opera in the next few hours,
somebody from the cast will die."
Jorge glared at me and I stiffened. He seemed to want to protect
Carmen from any thoughts that threaten to disturb her, and he treated me as her
enemy. He moved over to the other side of the table, so that his back faced me,
and helped Carmen to lie back down.
For my part, I wanted to pursue the conversation in the same
direction because Carmen might offer something colorful about the curse that
would be perfect for the story, a quote that would grab my readers. At the same
time, I wanted her to start talking about her use of the Tarot cards.
"It doesn't mean anything," Jorge said to Carmen. He
moved back to the other side of the table and faced me again. "Don't let
it rattle you. Why don't you let me finish your massage?"
"I suppose you're right," she said, but her tone of
voice suggested doubt. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, although she
did not look relaxed. Jorge rubbed her slowly and sensuously. A silver and
black pendant bearing an image of a cat hung from his neck.
"Does she have to be here now?" Jorge asked Carmen. "This
massage is not going to work in front of her."
I hoped Carmen would come to my defense, but she lay silent on the
table, allowing him to rub her. I realized I wouldn't get very far with Jorge
in the room. He wanted her lying down and quiet; I wanted her up and talking.
Jorge
chop-chopped on her thighs. He took a bottle of warmed rubbing alcohol and
freely poured the clear liquid on her back.
"Mmm," said
Carmen. "So what are your questions, Alexandria?"
I avoided making eye contact with Jorge. I rearranged my notebook
and pen, cleared my throat, and asked, "How long've you been working with
the Tarot cards?"
"It's been at least ten years," she said, stretching her
arms forward. "I have a collection of Tarot cards, at least seventy
different packs."
"So that's not just a rumor."
"Oh, no, it's true. Every morning I meditate on a card."
"What card did you pick today?"
She closed her eyes, as if to focus on the card she'd drawn for
that day.
"The Fool, one of my favorites. I love it when I draw this
card. The Fool is a trickster, the one no one takes seriously, yet the Fool
always says wise things." She opened her eyes and sent a coy look. "Some
people are really scared of the cards. Have you noticed that?"
I nodded, eager to capture more quotes.
"When I say I like playing with the
Tarot cards, I rather like the reaction I cause, shock and outrage sometimes. It's
all rather fun."
She looked sideways at me as Jorge
continued to wear his set-jawed expression.
"The Tarot is misunderstood by many
people. It can take a long time to get over one's natural fears of its power,"
I said.
Jorge glanced uneasily at me.
The Diva rolled to her side, careless of her nudity. "Would
you mind finishing up, dear Jorge? It's time for me to get ready for my final
performance."
"Are you sure? You're
still full of knots. And this interview right before your last performance…you
have enough to worry about, if you ask me." As he scrutinized me, he
looked like he wanted to kill me, and the hairs prickled on my neck. I sat
quietly, waiting him out. As I held his gaze, I feared he might lift me by the
scruff of my neck and toss me out. After what seemed like a long moment, he lifted
his hands off Carmen's body and wiped them on a towel.
"How silly of me to think I could relax before a performance,"
Carmen said as she stood up and stepped to her vanity mirror. In the meantime,
Jorge gathered his supplies.
The mirrored closet door squeaked as Carmen opened it to remove
her first costume. "You're a writer, aren't you?"
"Yes, reporters are usually writers."
She either missed or ignored my sarcasm.
"Why, just three weeks ago, you called me for this interview,
and I thought you'd be perfect. I confirmed it with my Tarot cards." She
dressed in front of Jorge and me with no shame. It left me feeling
uncomfortable, but I couldn't help evaluating her body. She had an ample
figure, well proportioned, but with three rolls of olive-toned flab on her
waist. A thin ribbon held her long brown hair in a knot at her nape, and her
dark chocolate eyes set off dramatic high cheekbones. The press called her La Tempestua; I assumed because of her
temperament on stage.
"Why do you need a writer?"
"I need help with a special project I've been working on."
I
looked at my watch. In less than an hour, Carmen would be on stage, and then
off to
On
the other hand, I found myself torn with curiosity over what Carmen, this
world-famous diva, wanted from me.
"What sort of project?"
Her
expression hardened. "For years, I've been collecting material on my
father, and now I want to write a book about him. It's all there." She
pointed to the box. "Every time I start it, I'm interrupted, and I just
haven't been able to…"
"Ah, the box." I approached the box and touched it,
attempting to gauge its weight; it looked quite heavy.
"To begin. I need someone to put it into some sort of order."
"You want me to write a book on your relationship with your
father?"
"Of course I'd pay you handsomely. Name your price."
Jorge and I exchanged glances as he folded up the massage table. I
sat back down and crossed my legs. This morning, I'd slipped on black sheer pantyhose
with shiny black patent leather pumps. Now I studied a scuff in the area of my
left big toe as I contemplated my dilemma. Alyce didn't like her writers
freelancing on the side. She said it caused them to lose focus on her magazine.
The only problem with that line of thinking is that I always come short of
paying my bills, and here was the diva asking me to name my price.
"My
price?"
Carmen sensed my hesitation. "What is it they call it? Ah,
for…ghost writing. I'm prepared to deposit $20,000 into your bank account, and
give you this material on the spot."
Never
in my life had anyone offered me that kind of money for anything I could do. Something
about Carmen made her appear desperate, and I couldn't believe she would give
me so much money without knowing me better. Fear, mixed with excitement, surged
through me. I tried to move the box–it was so heavy I could barely slide it two
inches.
"It's such an unusual request. Can't you tell me anything
else? Like why me?"
"Of course you couldn't possibly carry this box alone. We'll
get a messenger to do it, how's that?"
She didn't answer my questions, and that bothered me.
"Why me?" I asked again.
"Because of your timing. I'm ready to write a book about my
father, and you're the writer who is in front of me. Call it an accident or
fate."
I sat back down on my chair and arranged my notebook and pen, both
of which promptly dropped from my lap onto the floor. As I bent over to
retrieve them, my head began to spin. Logic and desire battled within me–I
wanted the money, yet my boss didn't want me to take on side jobs. Carmen
offered me more money than I'd make in the next five months at Gypsy Magazine. I thought about paying
off credit cards and having enough for a down payment on a condo on the North
Side. It would be hard to refuse all that money, but could I do it? On the
other hand, no story worth that kind of money could be easy.
"Who is your father?"
"I can't talk about it right now. There's not enough time. I
need you to accept this material. Please. You've got to do it."
"I just…I don't know anything about him."
"It's all in the box." With shaking hands, Carmen pulled
an appointment book out of her purse. In that moment, she resembled a
frightened schoolgirl. "What's your address?"
Jorge moved into the restroom with a garment bag, apparently to
change his clothes.
I didn't know what to make of her plea. Why did she want to give
me so much money for a book about her father? Why didn't she just write it
herself? Yet the figure of $20,000 danced before my eyes, jiggling and
wiggling, until I could barely resist. I knew this story would bring me
trouble. I had to say no.
"No, really, I couldn't."
"Nonsense."
"Can't we talk about this after your performance?"
"You need to accept this now. There's no one else. Please."
A feeling of fireworks mixed with foreboding hit the pit of my
stomach when I knew I couldn't say no. All my life I wanted a story that would
pay me bundles, and that could take me straight into the mainstream. Maybe this
was my break, the one that would get me away from Gypsy, away from Alyce's
tirades, and onto something bigger.
"All right, I'll do it," I said, surprised at the
elation washing over me.
"Oh, that's wonderful! I'll have it sent to your home
tomorrow morning. I'm off to
As she took my address and called a messenger to pick up the box,
I thought about what I'd tell Alyce. Maybe I wouldn't tell her anything, I'd
just work on this project on the side. That extra $20,000 would eliminate
several of my troubles, give me a cushion to think about my future, and be
enough for a down payment on the condo. Then I wondered what The Wizard would
think about my taking this job. I had a feeling it was part of my test, and
that he would approve.
During this conversation, Jorge had changed into a black
turtleneck and slacks and was now ready to leave.
"Good-bye, Mademoiselle."
"Did you get the tickets for this opera, Jorge?"
"Oh,
yes," he said. "Thank you. I look forward to your last performance."
Just as he walked out the door, Carmen said in a low voice, "If
anything should happen to me, I want you to keep the box, and I don't want you
to talk about it with anybody else. There's something in there only you would
understand."
Before I had a chance to respond, someone knocked on the door. "Who
is it?" asked Carmen.
"Teresita. I'm here to fix your nails."
"Oh yes, hold on." To me, she added, "It's a deal
then, right? You'll take this assignment and not talk about it to anyone, no
matter what happens?"
I nodded as Teresita barged in.
"You're so late," scolded Carmen, back into her role as
the commanding diva. "What in heaven's name took you so long?"
Teresita, a beautiful woman with a commanding presence herself,
one I didn't normally associate with manicurists, looked at me with surprise,
regarded the box with raised eyebrows, and a puzzled expression. Then she
looked at Carmen.
"That's Alexandria Vilkas, a reporter," said Carmen. "This
is Teresita, my manager at Parsifal's Beauty Spa and chorus member at the
Lyric."
Ah, she managed a business and had a voice good enough for the
Lyric. That accounted for her self-confidence. After we both said hello to each
other, Teresita dug into her pocket and pulled out a bent three-inch carpenter's
nail, which she offered to Carmen. "I found a nail on the floor for you."
Carmen sighed. "Just put it over here, next to the others."
She pointed to a corner of her white vanity table, which held three such
carpenter's nails already. Oddly, they all looked similarly bent.
"Keep
them for me. You're the only one I trust with them."
Teresita smiled. "Okay, let me see the damage. We don't have
much time."
Carmen held out her right hand, revealing a horizontal split on
the nail of the ring finger. Teresita proceeded to fix it so it looked like the
others, painted with an intricate black and white art deco design.
Silence filled the room as Teresita worked intently on the diva's
fingernail.
"Why are you collecting nails, Carmen?" I asked.
"They're good luck tokens. I'll tell you about them another
time."
Teresita worked on Carmen's nails some more, and I worried Carmen
wouldn't continue our interview on the Tarot cards. I still had to write that
article for Gypsy, my first priority. My story would be ruined without
her, and I knew Alyce would threaten to fire me for missing this chance. I
noticed how Teresita kept glancing at the box.
"I know it's none of my business, but what's in that box,
Carmen?" Teresita asked.
"Some material I'm giving to this reporter."
"Oh?"
Carmen locked eyes with me. "About Tarot cards, how they are
symbols and speak using their own special language."
I felt she was trying to tell me something, but couldn't with
Teresita there. The contents of the box contained material for the book about
her father, yet she talked as if they contained material about the article on
Tarot cards. Perhaps she didn't want to talk about the book in front of
Teresita. I tried to help Carmen.
"What do you like most about the cards?" I asked.
"Every
card tells a story, but in a spread, they unlock hidden truths. Sometimes it
takes time to interpret their mysterious messages; other times, they come
across loud and clear. Trust them. They can connect you to your Inner Guide."
I wrote down the diva's words in my notebook and wondered if she
wasn't sending me some sort of a code about a mysterious message in the box. Teresita
kept looking at Carmen and me.
Someone knocked. "I have more flowers for you," said a
man's voice from the other side of the door.
"Come in, Felix," Carmen replied.
Felix Vasilakis, the assistant conductor, strode in with a plant
wrapped in white paper. A tall, thin man with wisps of black hair brushed
across the top of his head, he wore a black turtleneck and dark slacks.
Carmen stiffened her back and angrily looked at Felix. "About
this opera…"
"What
about it?"
"Too
many leave before the second act. You know how I hate that!
"It
happens when an opera is modernized," Teresita said. "They dislike
progressive sets or singers wearing contemporary costumes. They prefer
Shakespeare's Renaissance."
Felix turned to me, smiling. "They are fools, conditioned to
think one way."
"Then give them what they want," shouted Carmen,
obviously enjoying what looked like a well-worn argument. "Next, you'll be
tinkering with Verdi!"
Felix
put up both hands, saying, "It's pointless to argue over our final
performance. Besides, modern costumes and settings speak to today's audience."
"Nonsense. It speaks to cheap designers!"
They both doubled over in laughter. I felt like an audience member
watching two actors rehearsing their parts. They had obviously talked at length
about modern opera, and always ended up on opposite sides of the argument. They
looked like good friends.
"We really don't have much more time," Felix said.
"I know." Carmen sighed. "I can't believe it's the
last one. Tell me who sent the flowers."
Felix
turned to the potted plant and unwrapped it. "Oh my, this is belladonna! It's
poisonous!"
"What? My God! What will happen next? Who sent it?"
Who would send a poisonous plant to the diva during her last performance? The
assistant conductor looked around for a card.
"I don't know. There's no card. No, wait…here it is. That's
strange. It looks like a card from a deck. It's the Fool's card from the Tarot
deck. It says, 'April Fool!' That's ten days away. This must be a sick joke. Oh,
this cursed play!"
Carmen
swayed and looked ready to faint. "Was this somebody's idea of a prank? Did
anybody else know I was going to be interviewed on Tarot cards?"
"My editor and other staff members at Gypsy Magazine,"
I said.
Felix
rushed over to calm her. "Now, now, don't give this another thought. We'll
get to the bottom of it right after this afternoon's performance, and I promise
you this, whoever sent this plant or that card will never work in
Someone else knocked on the door. The messenger had arrived to
pick up the box. He strolled in pushing a dolly and hoisted the box onto the
cart, promising to have it to my address the next morning.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said to Carmen. "Someone
sent you a bottle of champagne."
He
pulled out the bottle from a canvas bag slung on his shoulder. Because no one
leapt forward to take it from him, he set it on the piano.
After the messenger left, Carmen sighed with relief.
"Who's the champagne from?" Teresita asked.
Carmen sat at the vanity applying make-up at the mirror, so I
stood up to find out. It was next to her Tarot cards, and I wanted to ask her
about the Fool and the Hanged Man, but first had to read the note. The bottle
had a gold string wrapped about its neck, with a small note attached that
stated, "To help the poison go down easier, darling. Love, Dad."
When I read it aloud to Carmen, she laughed shrilly as if holding
onto her last nerve. "That's my father."
Teresita rolled her eyes and said, "He would do that."
"I don't understand," I said. "How could he send
his daughter a note that tells her this champagne will help the poison go down
easier?" I was almost beside myself at the strange humor and worried over
the project I had accepted from Carmen. What kind of a relationship did they
have? Nothing made much sense.
"You will," the diva said.
Carmen's understudy, Donacella Dimitriano, stepped in with a black
and white kitten in her arms. The messenger had left the door open, allowing
the understudy to arrive unannounced.
"I know it's your last performance and I wanted to give you a
parting gift. We all know how you love your Tarot cards and I thought you must
love cats too."
Carmen looked at Donacella and the kitten with such loathing; I
wondered what elicited her hatred.
"You've
been waiting for just this opportunity!" Carmen sneezed as she
hysterically attacked Donacella.
I watched, confused, not understanding her reaction. "Ah-choo! Get out, get out, and take that
nasty beast with you!" She flashed her brown eyes, chiseled in her face
like a Greek sculpture.
Standing still and doing her best to maintain her cool, Donacella
stroked the piebald kitten, although she seemed shaken by Carmen's harsh
reaction. "You know, Carmen, I just wanted to give you a gift on your last
performance. Of course, I had no idea you are allergic."
"Like hell you didn't," screamed the diva. "Did you
think I'd help you launch your career by letting you sing my last role? You did
this to ruin my voice." She looked around the room. "Will somebody
get me a tissue?"
Felix moved swiftly as Teresita handed him the box to pass to
Carmen. I looked at both of them for a hint of what was really going on, but
they each bore a stoic expression.
Donacella's face, in the meantime, crumpled and her eyes watered. As
she stepped back to leave the room, the kitten bounded out of her arms and ran
toward Carmen, hissing. The diva grimaced and kicked at the kitten, but the
creature bolted. Fortunately, Carmen missed. Had her aim been better, the
kitten would have flown through the air like a wobbly football.
"Ha," huffed Carmen, as she regained her balance.
"How dare you," cried Donacella, who scooped up her
kitten and nuzzled it against her cheek. "There, there," she purred
to her pet, looking back at Carmen with disgust.
Then she spat, "Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!" and darted
out.
Felix, Teresita, and I gasped. Donacella had done the unthinkable.
The diva screamed after her, "I will remember this!" Then
she grew quiet and covered her face. "My God. It is the end. I can't take
much more."
A voice outside the door yelled, "First bell. Places
everyone!"
Carmen's face had gone ashen, and her right hand went to her heart
as she shook her head. "Let's just get through this last performance,
shall we?"
"You'll be stellar, as usual, Carmen," Felix said in a
reassuring tone. "You always are." He picked up the plant on his way
out.
"Second bell! Places everyone," someone shouted on the
other side of the door. "Miss Diva, now!"
I took that as my cue to exit.