Read Online The Book of Speculation by Erika Swyler - Free Book Online
Authors: Erika Swyler
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I was mistaken. You are a friend.”
He clapped Benno lightly on the back, as Peabody had done with him.
* * *
Ryzhkova began teaching Amos how to behave with her clients—most of whom were women. “History is a man,” she said. “Future is a woman; that is why they come.” When women came in, their skirts filled the front half of the wagon with yards of fabric; thick with sage smoke, tallow, and the warmth of three bodies, the space became a dreamlike sanctum. Amos noticed that people stammered when first speaking to Ryzhkova. He’d once felt that unease; Ryzhkova could be terrifying, but he’d learned that she was soft, too. She touched their hands during readings, a reassurance here, an encouragement there.
She urged specificity in questions and excruciating detail. “Truth brings more truth, yes?” Men asked mostly about their businesses, future harvests, or the identity of the fellow who stole a pig. Nearly all the women asked Madame Ryzhkova about love. Amos liked these readings best because Ryzhkova cooed, petted, and praised them. He pictured Melina’s round cheeks, her quick hands, and wondered if she dreamt about love.
Once the women left, Ryzhkova cursed their idiocy. “Can she not see the man is sleeping with other man’s wife? You see this card? Look, look.” She jabbed a finger at the Ace of Cups, which sat firmly in the position ruling the present. “See the water?” Streams of water spilled from a cup held aloft by a mystical hand. “Information. Communication. Rivers of lies he tells.” She laughed.
Amos enjoyed seeing her face move from sweet and kind to disgusted, all of which melted into tired laughter.
Months passed with Amos learning, listening, and at last turning cards for Ryzhkova, clearing them with herb smoke, and taking them from and returning them to their fascinating box. He ate meals with Benno, stole glances at Melina, and spent nights listening to Peabody tut over his books or the occasional correspondence he received from Zachary. Peabody remarked that Amos had begun to smile more. Amos shrugged.
“You’ve grown into your skin,” Peabody said, peering over the top of a letter.
Amos nodded, but he felt empty, like he’d stretched but his insides had remained small. His dreams were scented with curing tobacco.
A year into Amos’s apprenticeship the menagerie stopped on the banks of the Schuylkill as they ventured toward Philadelphia. The fog off the water hung heavy. Amos had been sitting on the hinged steps to Peabody’s wagon, watching Nat haul water from the river in sloshing buckets, when Ryzhkova’s gnarled hands curled around his and pulled him toward her wagon. Her knuckles crushed his fingers and he thought of chicken bones scattered around the fire after a meal.
“Come. It is time to learn who you are,” she said. Amos could do little but follow. From across the wide circle of wagons, he caught Benno’s eye. The acrobat winked. “I will read your cards, and after you’ll be an apprentice no longer.”
They had of late acquired two small stools in Croton, but Ryzhkova’s stare told him to sit on the floor. She tapped his shoulder and urged him down. “More grounded.” She patted the boards. “Good for cards.”
She had draped the walls and ceiling with cloth as she would for their clients, but the portraits looked out from between the folds of fabric. She gestured to the paintings. “It is good for them to watch. I paint them from memory. Except Katerina. My Katya sat for me.” Each portrait was illuminated with gold. “When my hand was steady, before the fingers bent.”
Her eyes trapped him as she began the ritual of cleansing. She produced a bushel of herbs from an unseen apron pocket, lit them with a candle, and began making symbols in smoke.
“Today, you,” she said. “To tell others what will be is to become part of fate.” The popping of hips and back preceded her sitting. She winced, folded her legs, and faced him.
He clapped Benno lightly on the back, as Peabody had done with him.
* * *
Ryzhkova began teaching Amos how to behave with her clients—most of whom were women. “History is a man,” she said. “Future is a woman; that is why they come.” When women came in, their skirts filled the front half of the wagon with yards of fabric; thick with sage smoke, tallow, and the warmth of three bodies, the space became a dreamlike sanctum. Amos noticed that people stammered when first speaking to Ryzhkova. He’d once felt that unease; Ryzhkova could be terrifying, but he’d learned that she was soft, too. She touched their hands during readings, a reassurance here, an encouragement there.
She urged specificity in questions and excruciating detail. “Truth brings more truth, yes?” Men asked mostly about their businesses, future harvests, or the identity of the fellow who stole a pig. Nearly all the women asked Madame Ryzhkova about love. Amos liked these readings best because Ryzhkova cooed, petted, and praised them. He pictured Melina’s round cheeks, her quick hands, and wondered if she dreamt about love.
Once the women left, Ryzhkova cursed their idiocy. “Can she not see the man is sleeping with other man’s wife? You see this card? Look, look.” She jabbed a finger at the Ace of Cups, which sat firmly in the position ruling the present. “See the water?” Streams of water spilled from a cup held aloft by a mystical hand. “Information. Communication. Rivers of lies he tells.” She laughed.
Amos enjoyed seeing her face move from sweet and kind to disgusted, all of which melted into tired laughter.
Months passed with Amos learning, listening, and at last turning cards for Ryzhkova, clearing them with herb smoke, and taking them from and returning them to their fascinating box. He ate meals with Benno, stole glances at Melina, and spent nights listening to Peabody tut over his books or the occasional correspondence he received from Zachary. Peabody remarked that Amos had begun to smile more. Amos shrugged.
“You’ve grown into your skin,” Peabody said, peering over the top of a letter.
Amos nodded, but he felt empty, like he’d stretched but his insides had remained small. His dreams were scented with curing tobacco.
A year into Amos’s apprenticeship the menagerie stopped on the banks of the Schuylkill as they ventured toward Philadelphia. The fog off the water hung heavy. Amos had been sitting on the hinged steps to Peabody’s wagon, watching Nat haul water from the river in sloshing buckets, when Ryzhkova’s gnarled hands curled around his and pulled him toward her wagon. Her knuckles crushed his fingers and he thought of chicken bones scattered around the fire after a meal.
“Come. It is time to learn who you are,” she said. Amos could do little but follow. From across the wide circle of wagons, he caught Benno’s eye. The acrobat winked. “I will read your cards, and after you’ll be an apprentice no longer.”
They had of late acquired two small stools in Croton, but Ryzhkova’s stare told him to sit on the floor. She tapped his shoulder and urged him down. “More grounded.” She patted the boards. “Good for cards.”
She had draped the walls and ceiling with cloth as she would for their clients, but the portraits looked out from between the folds of fabric. She gestured to the paintings. “It is good for them to watch. I paint them from memory. Except Katerina. My Katya sat for me.” Each portrait was illuminated with gold. “When my hand was steady, before the fingers bent.”
Her eyes trapped him as she began the ritual of cleansing. She produced a bushel of herbs from an unseen apron pocket, lit them with a candle, and began making symbols in smoke.
“Today, you,” she said. “To tell others what will be is to become part of fate.” The popping of hips and back preceded her sitting. She winced, folded her legs, and faced him.
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