Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

They discovered a mutual admiration for silence, so on their walks there would be only the sounds of their feet against the earth, only the slight husking of their exhalations. For old times’ sake, Claire would stoop down and take a pinch of dirt, place it on her tongue, taste whether it was too sweet or too sour, worrying about the harvest, although modern chemical tests made the practice obsolete. Minna did her divining in other ways — leaving a large glass of water in the kitchen with a piece of floating bread swelled, a portent of plenty, she insisted. She had heard Claire and Octavio discussing the small yields of apricot and avocado that season, attributed to low bee pollination. Places, too, can be haunted; the spirits want to be propitiated.

“I’m not watching things closely enough,” Claire said.

“You need to be watching only your health.”

“The farm barely gets by. A bad harvest, and I’ll have Forster complaining.”

“This is Octavio’s job. If he doesn’t do it well, you should replace him.”

Claire was surprised by her presumption, not sure how to react. “Octavio’s good. And loyal. He’s been through a lot with us.”

“I don’t like to see you worried.”

“What about your worry? That phone call a few nights ago?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Claire nodded, not sure how much she really wanted to know.

“He’s a distant cousin I had a crush on for a while.”

“Why do you call him?”

“Why? Because I owe him money. Why? Because he’s a voice from home.”

“Maybe you should put him behind you.”

* * *

Farmers, like as not, assess an operation not by its current crop, nor its location and climate, nor even its prospect, but direct their attention straight to the real wealth of a farm: its soil. The soil, far from being ignored as dead filler, is recognized as a live, changing, vital organism on which the life of the farm depends. The amount of rainfall, of sun and shade, of decomposing plants, of soil amendments, the rate of harvesting, all contribute to its vitality. Neglect it, throw away its careful balance, and life comes to a standstill.

Claire knew these things and wondered if the knowledge transferred to the human body — what was the effect of depression, poisons, surgeries, fear, and anxiety within her own body? Minna was on a campaign of strange means to realign Claire with the natural world, and as much as she claimed not to believe in its efficacy, she appreciated the effort and grew more and more fond of her. Her naïveté made Claire overlook the quirks that were coming out. Small things, such as when one morning finding an expensive crystal glass broken in the sink. She asked Minna about it, and the girl denied knowing anything.

“But that’s absurd. It’s only you and me here.”

“Ask Paz.”

“She hasn’t been here in days.”

But these were minor flaws. Mornings Minna ground spices with a pestle. She insisted that Claire anoint herself with a combination of lime and nutmeg, which made Claire feel she was a dish about to be consumed. Afternoons Minna planted dried leaves in the ground from a velvet bag she carried, explaining that four leaves of one, boiled in tea, fixed the kidneys, five could kill you. At night, candles burned everywhere, while she chanted prayers. Claire prayed only that Minna wouldn’t end up burning the house down. Minna insisted on cooking one meal a week consisting only of white: chicken meat, white rice, white rum. For an inexplicable reason, no salt, which made it impossible to eat. When Paz scraped it out into the garbage, she made a face.

“I can cook for you. Mama and I can bring you good food.”

“It had to be white,” Claire said, realizing how ridiculous she sounded.

* * *

Later, alone, Claire teased Minna. “Do you really believe in all this? You, an educated woman?”

“They live side by side. The normal and the magic.”

Claire wagged her head, unsure.

“Picture they live inside each other. You see what you have the ability to see, no more.”

She told Claire that her grandmother on her mother’s side was a high priestess. Her mother, a schoolteacher, scorned all that, thought it was what made the island backward, but after giving birth to Minna she suffered from a darkness. Depression, melancholia, or postpartum, whatever it was, she stopped caring for her baby, or anything else. The grandmother said an evil spirit inhabited her. They exorcised it in a ceremony, fed her herbs, and she was fixed. Afterward maman was willing to learn the old ways. She was a full priestess by the time grandmother passed.

Claire was thrilled with this revelation, the most Minna had told her about her past so far. Even though Claire remained skeptical of the folk remedies, none of it bothered her enough to put a stop to it, although her former healthy self might have been offended by such nonsense. In her sickness, her new vulnerability, she had grown superstitious, willing, within limits, to latch onto any promise of relief and succor, any magic trick capable of helping her find her way back to health. Wasn’t it like hoping a cosmetic might erase the signs of age? She had as little faith in Minna’s potions and chants as she would a palm reader, but with no expectation, she was pleased simply with the novelty of the undertaking.

* * *

After the first few weeks had passed, the honeymoon phase of the relationship, they had grown accustomed to each other’s rhythms — Claire woke early, while Minna slept in. They both were incurable night owls.

Despite Minna’s explanation, the phone call from weeks before still bothered Claire. Was it partly resentment about Minna’s ongoing affair with Don? Claire had gone as far as to discuss it with Forster and Mrs. Girbaldi. Later she regretted this lack of faith on her part, wished she had kept her mouth closed. Predictably, the two had arrived at the same conclusion: Mrs. Girbaldi thought Minna should be fired right away; Forster thought that her explanation had been a logical one, which made it even more necessary to get rid of the girl. But the more everyone jumped to find fault with her, the more Claire was inspired to be loyal. Minna was like a stray that fears the world will turn on it again at any moment. Perhaps they would never understand certain things about her. How well did any human being know another, after all?

* * *

Claire slipped Minna’s pay into an envelope and put it on the bombé chest in the entry hall where she left mail, although no mail ever came for Minna, and none seemed ever to go out. As Claire sat reading in the living room, Minna came in holding the check. Claire looked up from the book, embarrassed to be confronted with the bare workings of their relationship.

“I wonder if you could advance me a few weeks?”

Claire waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. “If you need it,” she finally said.

Without making a decision to be deceptive, Claire neglected to pass on this news to Forster or Mrs. Girbaldi, already sensing that their misgivings would turn to full rebellion against keeping Minna. Did it really matter that she was paid in advance?

Minna’s need for money seemed insatiable to Claire, who never observed her shopping or buying anything personal. It was a mystery what the money was for. How large could the debt to the cousin possibly be?

* * *

The girls’ calls marked the week, taking turns every other day: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. How’re you? Fine. How’re you? Great. Couldn’t be better. Once in a while on Friday through Sunday, Claire called them, and they would answer, startled, apprehensive. “Everything is fine,” Claire would say. “I simply miss your voice.” And she did. Having someone in the house again, especially a young woman the same age as they were, made her long for the companionship of the old days.