Chapter 36
Zina
When May arrived with its brilliant blue skies and bright, sun-drenched days a few weeks later, and Baba Valya was finally well enough, I sent a short note to Sergei. We met the very next morning to begin my training.
The Théatre des Champs-élysées was just off the broad, sparkling street that gave it its name, with the Eiffel Tower shining in the distance.
It was a concrete building, all straight lines and no fuss, plain in comparison to many theaters in Paris.
I loved that about the theater. It held no pretense, the lobby inside mirroring the modern facade on the outside.
But it smelled like all theaters: a musty, velvety aroma with a hint of warm wood, the years of music and dance and beauty intertwined with a cozy energy that practically hummed in the background.
All was gray and empty, the electric lights extinguished, no one in sight.
A whistle pierced the silence, and I glanced up to see Sergei waving at me.
I climbed the stairs to meet him, eager to begin, wondering why we were here.
“How is Valentina?” he asked in Russian, his chocolate eyes liquid with concern.
They were catlike and held secrets. For being at least sixty, Sergei was handsome, with cropped silver hair; a lithe, toned figure; and charming manners that rendered his movements not only elegant but poetic. He lived as though in permanent dance.
“She is stable. Stable enough, in fact, to give you this, if you still do any dancing.” I handed him the tin of green tea that Baba Valya had asked me to pass along, and he nodded gratefully. “We think the Grand Duke’s children are responsible,” I added quietly.
“Which makes it imperative that you learn how to properly hold a séance. I am only sorry Valentina has been forced to deal with another spiritual infestation. The first one nearly broke her.” I knew now he was referring to Baba Valya’s attempt to summon my grandfather, gone awry, costing her her home and almost Mama.
“Yes. Why are we meeting here?” I asked as we went up another flight of stairs.
“I live here. Where do you think I meet all my lovers?” Sergei winked at me, and I reddened. “I help around the theater, and they allow me to stay.”
“A nice arrangement.” I was already out of breath, and we were still climbing.
It turned out Sergei lived in the theater’s attic.
It was a storage space, filled with theatrical equipment and the magnificent sets and props made famous by the Ballets Russes founder, Sergei Diaghilev.
Ghostly white birch trees, a cobalt-blue lake, a perfectly round yellow moon.
Colorful costumes sparkled like a mermaid’s tail in the dusty light, the gold brocade and other fabrics bringing to life the geniuses of Picasso, Chanel, and many others.
I saw the walls were plastered with flyers and programs from the Ballets Russes, some of the shows familiar.
Otherwise, there was a metal cot, where I assumed Sergei slept, and a walnut table with stools and several rocking chairs.
“Do you listen to the performances here?” I guessed the stage was just below us.
“Of course. I listen, sometimes watch, nearly all of them.”
“May I ask, Why did you leave Russia?”
“It was impossible to stay…for somebody like me.”
“Ah.” I glanced away, embarrassed. Not because of his liking men, but because I feared I had upset him.
“Do not worry yourself. I may have left Russia and ballet, but I found much more here, including a fruitful partnership with Diaghilev once he came to Paris. Please.” Sergei gestured elegantly to the walnut table.
Behind it was a fragment of scenery—a traditional Russian izba painted in canary yellow, mythical alkonost birds with women’s heads, and electric bright bluebells as high as my waist. I wanted to ask about what it was like to work with Diaghilev, which ballet was his favorite.
But my questions dried up as the medium took my hands in his strong, calloused ones.
“Close your eyes,” he said, in a lilting voice matching the charm of his manners.
I did as I was told, immediately sensing the warm darkness in my chest respond, a whooshing, flaring, heating sensation. I felt his aura, powdery blue, a gauzy thing out of reach like an ethereal dance, fleeting yet powerful.
“There it is,” Sergei said in a pleasantly soporific voice.
“Your aura is very like your grandmother’s.
But while hers is lilac in hue and fragrance, yours is a deeper, darker purple, the color of dahlias, of amethysts, with a lavender scent reminiscent of the hills and valleys of France.
Like hers, it is blackened at the edges.
In your case, it signifies your mysticism is even more powerful.
It borders on magic, hints at peace and serenity because you could be that for others.
You are more whimsical. More mischievous, too.
You get in trouble.” His tilted his head.
“You are in trouble now, in fact. Yes, yes. Only you don’t realize just how much. Not yet. But you will. You will.”
I was caught in the spell of his aura reading, never done for me before, but “trouble” brought my mind right back to Gabriel. I opened my eyes, the spell broken. I wouldn’t think of that man. “What about my mother’s aura?”
Sergei’s eyes popped open. “Red like poppies, powerful, irresistible, utterly and completely beguiling.” He let go of my hands.
“But we aren’t here to speak about your mother.
Listen well. What I am about to teach you, Zina, is intuitive.
How to properly find your affinity for mediumship, safely, with boundaries.
And how to create the ideal atmosphere for séances, for communing with departed spirits, but with control and protection. ”
I was still lost in the memory of his touch and in the warmth in my chest, though it was fizzing out, going cold. I forced myself to focus. “Like formulating a fortune-telling question?”
“I suppose so, though I haven’t done much fortune-telling. Now, you probably just sensed your affinity. It is felt deep in the chest and warms when awoken. An aura reading for another medium sometimes has that effect.”
I had felt it just now, though not during every séance. I settled for a nod.
“As with any affinity, you alone can know it, and you alone can cultivate it.”
“But how?”
“I start with withdrawing into myself and envisioning my inner world.”
I thought of how the heat in my chest had scalded when Mama sent me that message, that warm, dark place I found myself in when her words came to me—a spiritual realm? The beyond? “You mean the other side?”
“Eventually, but first the place deep inside you—to awaken your affinity, not only the side that calls to the living but the one that calls to the dead that will open you to the beyond, safely, and with intention. This requires focus, on yourself and on the spirit you wish to call upon.” Sergei glanced at the windows, and I noticed their glass was covered.
“I am sure your grandmother has taught you to drape black fabric over any and all entrances—windows, doors, mirrors. It will keep stray spirits from interfering with the séance.” He gave me a significant look, as though he had seen every séance I had ever done, no entrance covered, inviting any spirit whatsoever, focusing on the mechanics instead of myself and my affinity.
“I thought it was only my grandmother, her fear of the unclean force,” I said in a small voice.
Sergei gave a graceful shake of his head.
“The nechistaya sila is a very serious business, not just for old ladies but for all of us.” He winked.
“Now, start by making your intentions known, with a specific spirit and a specific question, as your grandmother has taught you. The more personal effects that can tether the spirit, the better. Not just a photograph. Something that person had used, held dear, at the very least, touched. An heirloom, a relic, if you will. You may also write invitations to the spirits you wish to call upon. It is what I do when I feel distracted.”
I thought about the Grand Duke’s photograph, the one I had stolen from Olga. By all accounts, I probably should have stolen something else. Maybe then I would have had greater control over his spirit.
“Next, set up a ritual during which you can bond with the spirits,” Sergei was saying.
“The more you crystallize the ritual into a routine, the more the spirits will fall into line. Consistency is key, daily interaction, or you will have no control. Gathering fresh flowers, burning herbs or incense, cleaning the séance table, speaking to the spirits. Putting out an offering or two for them. Spirits are hungry and thirsty. Give them food and drink.”
“In addition to light?” I asked, wondering if there was truth to Baba Valya’s claims after all.
“Of course. Now, remember, your mind must be clear before you attempt a séance. If you are anxious or distressed in any way, the spirits will feel it, and they will prey upon you. As a precaution, set up a protective shield and firmly keep it in place.”
“What is that? Is it necessary?”
“I have found it imperative. Practicing any kind of psychic exercise is more dangerous when done through your full and true affinity. You are stronger and more vulnerable with it. I visualize a flood of golden light pouring onto me from above, like sunlight. It surrounds me, encircles me, until it wraps me entirely in its protective bubble through which nothing can penetrate. You must keep to ritual, Zina, to routine. Hold séances at the same time every day, in the same place,” Sergei concluded, sitting back.
“That’s it?”
He leaned toward me and again took my hands in his. “Make peace with your ghosts, Zina. Only then can your affinity truly open to you.”
“But—”
“I can teach you no more. The rest is work you will need to do yourself.”
And that was it. I swore all the way back to rue Daru. But I knew the medium was right.
Upon my return to Samovar, I went up to my loft and found the dagger I had hidden in the floorboards, before making my way back to the garden.
The sun hid behind a swollen cloud overhead, making it appear dark and forbidding.
Nearly everything was dead. But a patch of dandelions had burst out of the dry, cracked ground.
Dandelions are like cockroaches, Baba Valya liked to say.
All they do is survive. I appreciated them for that.
They were a lot like the émigré women I knew on rue Daru, who had been pummeled by life, kicked out of their homeland nearly dead and with nothing to their names, yet found a life worth living here in Paris, where they not only survived but thrived by remaking themselves.
I gathered a few dandelions in a bright yellow bouquet that cheered me a little.
Then I walked over to Mama’s grave. Her real one.
Baba Valya must have covered it up after I had disturbed it.
I pulled out the dagger and buried it in the ground beside the grave before dropping to my knees and placing the flowers on the place where Mama lay.
I rested a hand there, the earth cool and moist against my skin, miraculously not dry like the rest of the garden.
“Hello, Mama,” I said, pretending she was listening wherever she was, hoping she could hear me, see me.
I knew making my peace with Mama’s ghost—haunting me not like the spirit but in my longing, grief, and worry for her—would free me for the work ahead. The eventual battle with the Grand Duke I knew was coming.