8. CANADA 20th Century #5
The Romani witch sighed, surrendering to the warmth of the red-haired man’s strong embrace. He nestled in closer, a playful glint remaining in his eyes. “Alright, you win,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Go ahead and ask me.”
“If you don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, how would you like to attend a séance with me in town later?”
“A what?”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
The Romani witch noted that the living room of the small house on Saint-Jean Street, one of the oldest commercial streets in Québec City, smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, lavender talcum, and hot dust from the radiator.
It was a Thursday evening, just past nine, and the television—an RCA Victor with a bulging screen—had been switched off.
The barkcloth curtains, with their bold floral pattern and nubby texture, were drawn against the oncoming dusk of night, and only a single lamp, its shade turned low, lit the room in a soft, amber haze.
A small group of participants from the film crew of I Confess stood chatting in a loose circle around an old oak table adorned with an off-white tablecloth and lit candles.
The Romani witch had never heard of such a thing as séances.
The last time he had drawn breath at the dawn of the nineteenth century, these spiritualist happenings were not common practice.
This was not a coven, nor even occultists attempting to pierce the veil between realities, summon or invoke ancient beings, daemons, and gods, or endeavour to understand the theory of magic.
These individuals were often housewives and even children, he was informed, not witches, all of whom were attempting to communicate with ghosts.
They asked the spirits about missing wills, hidden money, and even lost or stolen jewelry.
These dime-store mediums sought answers even regarding the fidelity of spouses.
The Romani witch recalled that both his grandmother and Abriana Bianchi had used their ability to scry for the benefit of others, such as predicting when a child would be born, when love would enter someone’s life, or sometimes to determine if a person was cursed.
Only, their foresight was freely given, never traded for coin, despite what people saw these days in Hollywood movies.
He believed—no, he knew—prescience was not a job.
It was a gift to be revered and shared, a blessing meant for the whole community.
People gave from the heart, offering a portion of their hard-earned bounty as a thank-you; it was not as a bribe to compel a witch to perform on their behalf.
He was dismayed by how things mystical and spiritual had degenerated and been commodified since he last walked the Earth.
The Romani witch regarded the seer with a sharp eye, his skepticism bubbling beneath the surface. This so-called psychic demanded an outrageous fee for her insights, leaving him to wonder if these predictions were worth their weight in gold or just a clever charade.
“Only true witches and wizards have the power to channel spirits and speak with the dead. This French woman, wearing that head scarf and shawl, is absurd. She’s not Romani, only acting the part, and badly. It’s insulting.”
“Shhh, it’ll be fun,” Marshall whispered. “I promise. I’ve heard Madame Albertine is excellent. The real deal! Not some gypsy charlatan. I wish Hitch and Clift could have come. I’d love for you to meet them.”
The defamatory comment did not sit well with the Romani witch, especially since it came from the man he loved. He expected better from him. No other version of Aeneas had ever been so careless with his words regarding the Romani and other travellers, not even the blasphemous one in Madrid.
“I told you that I am Romani, Marshall. I don’t appreciate the slanderous comment. We are a proud people, and our abilities, our gifts are true.”
Marshall felt terrible. It had been a stupid, off-the-cuff comment made from ignorance. Still, he knew that was no excuse. “I’m sorry, really,” he whispered. “I should know better than to slander another persecuted group. Forgive me. I promise, I’ll never do something so stupid and ignorant again.”
The Romani witch could never stay mad at his beloved; he knew the goodness within his heart. “Of course, I accept your apology.”
“I want to kiss you so badly,” Marshall whispered seductively into the Romani witch’s ear. “I want to make you feel better about my stupid blunder, but—’
“Just hold that thought for later. I’m not going anywhere.” The Romani witch patted Marshall’s butt, and he did not care if anyone saw.
Marshall blushed. “You’re bad! Now, pay attention. It’s about to start!”
A few of the film crew guys had noticed the romantic playfulness between the two men, but they just snickered under their breath.
They liked Marshall, they were his friends, and the fact that he was a homosexual did not matter to them.
They also did not care that the star of the movie they were working on was queer; in their experience, half of Hollywood was.
They minded their business, did their job, and really only cared about their cheques clearing.
A deck of tarot cards sat upon the table in front of the hostess, whom everyone whispered had “the gift.” The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-sixties, wore a multicoloured wool skirt and pearls, along with her knitted shawl and silk headscarf; her eyes were distant, as though she had already stepped one foot into another realm.
Her face was heavily lined, and she smelled of cloves with a heavy dusting of lemon verbena.
The Romani witch found the mixture more than a little acrid.
“As most of you do not speak French, I will conduct this session in English.”
Madame Albertine’s English was quite fluent, though her accent was thick. Most of the participants sensed a slight hint of annoyance in their hostess’ tone. They were not incorrect in this deduction. She hated tourists, but liked their money.
“Sit down and place your hands on the table, but do not touch one another. Some mediums like you to join hands—I do not. It interferes with my connection to you as individuals, to your spiritual past, present, and future.”
The Romani witch and the crew members of I Confess diligently followed the instructions they had been given.
“We are not alone in this world,” Madame Albertine stated in a monotone voice after everyone was seated.
“I will now attempt to contact the other side. One or more of the departed may come through, and perhaps not for all of you. I may also connect with one or more of you individually, on a deeper level, through your aura and spirit. I may see something without the aid of the spirits. I cannot say how this will go. The Weave works its Will. I am merely an instrument of interpretation.”
Oh bother! This is too much.
Immediately upon finishing his thought, the Romani witch saw Madame Albertine raise her head and fix her gaze on him.
“ You are also gifted, I see. Though one so young should not be so cynical. ”
The Romani witch gasped.
“Are you okay?” Marshall asked, whispering from the side of his mouth.
“I’m fine. Nevermind. Let’s just see where this goes.”
Focusing on what lay before her, though she maintained a slight devilish grin, Madame Albertine lit a white candle in a teacup saucer and then placed her hands lightly on the table. The room grew quiet. The ticking of the ebony wood mantel clock became deafening in the silence.
“We call upon those beyond the veil—friends and family. If you wish to communicate with us tonight, I beseech you to come through. I will be your anchor and your voice.”
A soft, eerie creak echoed from somewhere within the house, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the group. A solitary candle’s flame began flickering fitfully on the table, casting trembling shadows across the walls.
Margorie, a local French woman, one of the crew members’ dates for the evening, nearly jumped out of her skin. “C’est quoi ce bordel—?” [“What the hell—?”]
“Do not speak!” Madame Albertine commanded. “Gardez le silence!” [“Keep silent!”]
Margorie obeyed, and the rest of the room remained quiet.
The air seemed to grow heavier, colder. A draft stirred, though the windows were shut tight.
Suddenly, the table jerked.
A collective gasp rose from the group as the wooden surface beneath their hands began to tremble. All except the Romani witch, who sat there in silence, still and stoic.
“Yes, I see you there, moving about in my mind’s eye,” Madame Albertine whispered, “walking in the shadows of remembrance. Who do you have a message for? Show me your story.”
The mantle clock ticked loudly, with each passing second feeling more burdensome than the last. Madame Albertine remained quiet for several long minutes, her gaze focused on the Tarot cards laid out in front of her, but her mind was somewhere else—somewhere far, far beyond the realm of the room’s mundane reality.
“Something—something is not right,” the medium stammered. “I feel—I feel—”
Madame Albertine’s pulse quickened. As the room began to spin for her, the colours of the walls melted into one another, swirling in a kaleidoscope of indiscernible shapes. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stay grounded, but the force pulling her deeper into the vision was relentless.
In the darkness behind her eyelids, images began to emerge—blurred at first, like a distant memory struggling to come into focus. So many images. So much history.
“I am old, ancient!” the old seer cried out. “They tortured and crucified him! I am angry, enraged upon a great mountain about to erupt—I am—I am on fire, burning! I am in darkness! God, help me! ?a a pas d’allure! [It makes no sense at all!]”
The Romani witch was aghast, for he understood what the medium meant with her chaotic ranting. Great Hecate! Is she channelling me? I never considered this a possibility!