Madame Luiza
A cool rain fell gently on the warm cobblestone, creating an eerie fog that slowly gathered around the light from the lampposts. I waited in the shadows of an overhang in an alley just off Chartres, waiting for the shower to taper. The streets were relatively deserted for a Thursday night in the city.
I found my way past the smoky dives on the main thoroughfare, flashing neon and blaring jazz competing for my attention. But my thoughts were focused as I navigated my way to the Romanian Tea Room. It was a small, nondescript shop wedged between a cigar bar and an antique dealer. A hand painted wooden sign above the door indicated that it was open.
When I stepped inside, my nostrils were infused with the scent of patchouli and lavender. Not a soul was present in the tiny shop. On the burgundy walls were various intricate clocks, jeweled masks and framed photographs of The Blue Danube, The Bran Castle, city scenes of Bucharest, and beguiling portraits of gypsies and young men. The shop was silent, save for the metallic ticking and varied rhythms of the clocks. I walked up to the desk and picked up a silver hand bell, giving it a shake.
After what seemed like an eternity, a slight figure emerged in the doorway, parting the amber velvet curtains and swirling up a cloud of dust. She was not at all what I imagined she would be. Short, thin, a mix of black and graying hair in a disheveled bun, she bore a golden complexion with timelines etched across over her forehead. She moved against the pain of arthritis, yet with an air of grace and mystery.
“Madame Luiza?” I inquired.
“How can I help you, dear child?” she replied with a nod, a slight smile unfolding on her weathered lips.
I had heard stories about her from my sorority sisters at Louisiana State, who on a dare had found their way into her little tea room. They swore that she was real, a bona fide fortune teller. They said she had a gift. Of course, I didn’t believe them. They had been on Spring Break, and were no doubt drunk at the time. But curiosity had gotten the best of me as I found myself in New Orleans on business. That was when I decided to seek her out and find out for myself.
“I would like to have my fortune told, please,” I said quietly, immediately thinking to myself how cliché and obvious that must sound to her.
She turned and motioned for me to follow, leading me down a dimly lit hallway to an even smaller room in the back of the building. Inside, a large round table bedecked with a billowing black tablecloth sat in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. My eyes were drawn to a crystal sphere that seemed almost opalescent, mysteriously glowing. Candles of various sizes and colors cut the darkness with their faint flames.
“Let’s start with a card reading. Sit,” she said, motioning to tattered cane-back chair.
I settled my long legs beneath the table, the tablecloth falling awkwardly around my knees. She moved the crystal aside and drew out a pack of cards from the large front pocket of her ruffled turquoise frock. I recognized the faint strains of a Rachmaninoff adagio floating across the room.
“The cards always know. You will choose five,” she said faintly. She placed the deck before me, deftly fanning the cards across the table.
“Go ahead, and leave them face down,” she directed, motioning me to choose.
I picked my five cards, moving them away from the others. She took a deep breath, and turned the first one over.
“The Chariot. You are a determined woman with the energy and desire to attain what you want in life. Your work ethic serves you well.”
The next three cards: The 4 of Cups, Temperance, and the Moon Reversed. She dispersed interpretations of each, revealing nothing particularly earth shattering. Then she turned over the final card, which revealed a picture of a heart with three swords penetrating the center, clouds pouring rain down upon them. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, a frown furrowing her brows.
“Oh my. The Three of Swords….” she whispered, shaking her head, eyes downcast.
“What does it mean?” I inquired, feeling my heart drop and my stomach begin to swirl. Then she looked up, meeting my gaze with intense eyes that seemed to burn right through me. Then she spoke, her voice growing louder and more emphatic with each word.
“This is quite dismal. It’s one of the most troubling of cards, far worse than the Death card. Your internal sorrow is undeniable. You have been searching for something for a very long time, for most of your life, in fact. But you have not yet found it. This has caused you tremendous discord and heartache. Do not wallow in this grief too long, or stuff it even deeper. It will take you under. Find the cause of the pain, confront it and begin the healing process.”
I held my breath. How did she know? I really didn’t believe in this stuff.
Or did I?
Then her eyes softened. She took my hand gently in hers, turned it over, palm up. She began tracing my lifeline with her rough fingertips. Her touch was almost electrifying. I could feel a burning sensation traveling, like a path of flames beginning in the tips of my fingers, making its way to my heart, and simultaneously to my brain and lungs. I felt as if my entire body was set ablaze, and I began to shake uncontrollably. She looked up at me, her onyx eyes now filling with tears.
“Marguerite?” she gasped, with a hint of recognition in her voice.
Suddenly the floor was tilting beneath my feet, and a blast of blood rushed to my head.
“M-m-m-mother…” I choked.
Colleen Keller Breuning © 2014
October 28, 2014
This was written for Blogophilia.
