Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

As Claire passed between the mirrors, she caught glimpses of her underneath self — rosy chin, delicate, short, curling hair. If one didn’t look too closely, she resembled the young girl she was when she first moved into the house, returning health giving her a false youth. When she crossed Minna alone, she hissed, “I know he hit you. It’s not just you alone now. Let me call the police. Or at least Forster.”

“No, please wait. If you care for me,” Minna begged.

“I won’t let Lucy be hurt.” Claire bided her time.

* * *

As it grew dark, they were summoned by Minna, dressed all in white, a priestess, the house lit by hundreds of tea candles on the floor, multiplied in the mirrors’ reflections into thousands. Jean-Alexi came in dressed in his usual rags, but he had added a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses. One lens in, one out, so he could see in both worlds at once. He held out his hand to Minna. “Ma femme, Maman Brigette.”

Solemnly he led them single file up the stairs and into Minna’s room.

It was a mystery that now the room was empty it still felt so dense, so teeming. Candles everywhere giving movement to the figures on the wall as if they pulsed and writhed in their own anticipation. In the middle of the floor, a brazier dragged in from outside on which wood was burning. Smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, grass and flowers, the unmistakably oceany tang of salt. In a bowl on a small table lay the gold necklace Claire had given Minna.

“Come here, Agatha,” Jean-Alexi said, and Claire started at the name but went to him and allowed him to drape her in her old yellow bathrobe. On his breath, she smelled alcohol. So clear to her that this was a bit of fakery, a B-movie set piece. Minna set a jug of the elixir between them and poured out cups for each. Lucy hesitated and Jean-Alexi reached over and tipped the bottom so that she had to gulp it and still it dribbled down her chin. Claire’s heart was beating so hard she thought it would explode in her chest, as if one could overdose on fullness.

Jean-Alexi turned the transistor radio on and flipped channels till he stopped at some techno-disco stuff. Lucy giggled, and the two did some bump-and-grind dance while Minna poured another round of the elixir. Now she made a paste of nutmeg and lime juice and came to Claire, taking off her robe, but when she tugged at her shirt, Claire resisted.

“I’ve had enough of this.”

“It’s part of the rite,” Minna said.

“Not in front of him.”

“He’s a priest—”

“ Non, it’s okay. I step out for smoke.” He got up and held his hand out to Lucy. She rose on her feet unsteadily, and he put his long, bony arm around her waist for support.

“I need you here,” Claire said, and Lucy looked disappointed but stayed. She swirled the contents of her glass and drank to the bottom.

Minna took off Claire’s shirt and bra, then began to apply the paste while mumbling words. “Just go along. Pretend.” Staring at the closet door, Minna spoke under her breath. “It is complicated to be a survivor. Sometimes you have to pretend in magic. You have to find a way to bury the dead. Jean-Alexi should have remained buried in my life.”

Claire nodded but didn’t understand, except that the danger had engulfed them — already Jean-Alexi was back in the room, distracting. She was unembarrassed now, did not turn away her brown-smeared chest, as if her disfigurement were a layer of protection. Let him look. She had never felt less naked. Minna lightly placed the robe back over her. “You must look within. Inside. You must take action. You must use the cleansing fire of the sword, sword of fire, do you understand?”

* * *

Another round of elixir. The percussion of the awful music timed perfectly with the throbbing in her temples. Claire could no longer sit upright but lay prostrate on the bare floor. Her body tingled, her mind spun and cawed to visions, but her stomach cramped, grew unbearable. In the corner, Lucy retched and ran out of the room. Minna handed Jean-Alexi a large glass in which she poured straight rum.

Minna put down a small, framed picture of Joshua, the one from Claire’s bedroom, next to her. Up close: the brown eyes, sly grin, half-moon scar, crooked teeth. Next Minna put down a huge bowl of misshapen lemons that could have come from no other tree. Minna stirred the logs and a flurry of sparks went out. The air turned stifling, smoky. Lucky if they didn’t asphyxiate. Lucky if the house didn’t burn down, Claire thought lazily.

Lucy returned as Minna talked.

“Agatha, he visited me.”

Claire looked at her, accusing. “What are you saying?”

“In the kitchen last night after you went to bed. He had the darkest brown eyes, and a half-moon scar along his cheek. He held a dead parrot in his hand. He wanted me to give him a chocolate bar from the cabinet above the refrigerator. How could I know this? It was him.” She put the lemons on the fire, and their acrid, sour smell nauseated Claire.

It was so ridiculously made up. Claire saw clearly how false this was, trumped-up, compared to what had gone on before, between her and Minna alone. This was a big fake, and Claire was letting Minna know she knew the difference. But she heard helpless sobs from Lucy.

“Why would he visit you ?” Lucy said. “I’ve missed him so long.”

“She’s lying, Lucy. Can’t you see that?” Claire said.

“ Maman taught me to believe that death is only change. That the departed still bear weight on the living. He showed himself to me because I was open and your mother is resisting.”

“Did he say anything?” Claire asked, against her will. She knew she was on the long, treacherous slope of gullibility but could not help herself.

“It’s not like that. More a feeling. Possession. Of paying reparations. For being healed. For being allowed at last to rest with the dead.”

Time passed. Lucy was asleep when Jean-Alexi stood next to Claire and lifted his boot to set it down on her skull. “Give her all the money, all the jewelry, or the spirits will take their revenge.”

“I’ll get the money from the bank tomorrow.”

“Or else.” Satisfied, Jean-Alexi left the room with the gold necklace in his pocket. Minna went on her knees, lifted Claire’s head, and wiped off her sweat. “I never meant to let him hurt you or Lucy!” She put a pinch of salt on her tongue. “The bitter to set things right again,” she said, and followed him out the door.

Black stars swirled around Claire. She closed her eyes and saw the purpling orchards, felt the cool, gritty dirt under her back. Heard the labored breaths from a drugged Lucy asleep beside her. Thought of Minna’s unborn child swimming in its cocoon of sea. The child was hope, to be protected at all costs.

* * *

Claire lay dreaming of herself in a long, white nightgown of bast material that made the body inside it, poor battered body, both solid and ghostly, both of this world and beyond it.

What the cancer taught her was the need for destruction before healing, the need to burn away every bit of the disease to prevent recurrence. She knew every ash that fell on the ground would enrich the soil, that with time it would become sweet and fertile beyond all imagining.

With only the guttering light from the logs and the candles for illumination, Minna shook her awake. Terrified, Minna led her out in the hallway where Jean-Alexi lay, face twisted in a grimace. Claire looked at her for confirmation.

“Il est mort,” Minna whispered, as if the devil were lying there.

She was trembling, shuddering. A low moan came from deep inside her. Claire had never seen such fear and despair in a person.

“How?” Claire asked.