House of Cards (2 page)

Sherry smiled back at him. “Any three cards.”

He nonchalantly drew the first three off the top of the deck, and placed them in a row before her.

She turned over the first one. It was the Moon. The first card she’d drawn when she’d asked about him. Even though she should be used to her gift by now, sometimes it still sent shivers down her spine. This was one of those times.

She cleared her throat and began her speech. “The Moon. A card of the Major Arcana. Signifying great changes in life and love. The importance of dreams, psychic gifts, and female intuition. Romantic troubles. Great emotional turmoil.”

He looked at her, but his expression gave nothing away.

“This could indicate the way you feel right now, or events that will occur shortly in your future. If you don’t mind my saying so, I have a sense that emotional turmoil is part of your inner landscape at the moment.”

He nodded. “True, but that could be said of many individuals.”

“Let’s take a look at the other cards then, shall we?” She turned over the second one.

It was the Queen of Swords.

She sucked in her breath.

“Ah, yes. Ah—the Queen of Swords, yes. A card of the Minor Arcana. More trouble. Trials and tribulations. But there is a glimmer of hope within the sorrow. You will meet a woman, or you may already know her. She is middle-aged, or elderly, or she may be a younger woman with an old soul. She has a source of power that you need. You must be patient in your dealings with her, for the time when she can be of help
will come
, just not right away. She has borne sorrow before, and can bear it again. This strength will be of great use to you.”

The third card. She turned it over.

Please don’t let it be the Devil, she prayed.

It was Judgment.

Her face brightened, but she saw the boy’s go dark.

“Judgment,” he said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

She explained, “No, no, common misconception. Judgment is another Major Arcana card, and is actually a very good one to get. It doesn’t mean someone is judging you, or that you’re going to be punished. It calls to mind a reckoning of accounts. A wiping clean of the slate. If you are looking for a solution to a problem that has long eluded you, this is the card for you. I think you and this woman will endure a great struggle together, but in the end, you both will triumph.”

He looked intrigued. “Really?”

“Yes, absolutely. The cards never lie. Unless you doubt their guidance, of course.”

He looked deep into her eyes. “No. No, I am willing to keep an open mind.”

The drumbeat began resounding deep in her heart, once again. She only hoped he couldn’t hear it from across the table.

“So are you satisfied with your reading? Did it answer your question?”

“Yes, in a way, I think it did.”

“Would you mind telling me what it was? You don’t have to, but I’m rather curious.”

“Certainly. I simply asked what was in store for my future. Rather vague, but there you have it.”

“Well, I hope it’s a good future for you. If you can be strong, and show courage with whatever situation you’re facing, I’m sure it will be.”

“Thank you, your assistance is most appreciated. I suppose I must go join my—my
friends
now.” The group was still waiting for him. The women were tapping their feet impatiently.

“Have a pleasant evening!” she called out after him. He gave a little wave, and walked silently back towards his companions.

After the group was gone and she started shuffling her cards again, she found them. Three crisp, brand-new bills on the table. All of them five-euro notes.

Chapter 2—Under the Earth

S
herry was friendly with some
of the other fortune-tellers, but she didn’t feel like discussing her encounter with the strange boy. It was private somehow. Definitely something she couldn’t explain. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed him sitting at Sherry’s stall. Or if they had, they thought he was just another customer, no one worth mentioning.

In the stall next to hers was Tierra, the striking young lady with the turban and leopard-print, ankle-length skirt. You didn’t need such colorful clothing to accurately practice divination, but customers often expected it. Sherry had a feeling Tierra wore the same attire whether she was reading fortunes or running errands; it appeared to be her personal style.

Sherry knew that she herself was not a great beauty, so she didn’t like to wear anything that made her stand out too much. She was a little too plump by French standards. Then again, by American standards, Sherry considered the French too thin. She had a love-hate relationship with her curves: at times, she liked the grown-up way they made her feel. Other times, she wished they would disappear and never return. When working her tarot stand, it helped to play up certain features to her advantage. She had taken to wearing dark colors and hennaed hands, with plenty of earthy jewelry to bring out the hazel flecks in her eyes. That, combined with flipping her chestnut-brown hair and smiling (at least at the male customers) was enough to attract all the attention she needed.

Except for the boy, who had been drawn to her for some mysterious reason that had nothing to do with how she looked or behaved. He had seen her first. Had he sensed that she had something to offer to him, even before their eyes met? Did he possess some special power, akin to her gift for tarot, which told him to approach her? If so, why had he advanced so slowly, like a wary animal? Why had he been so reluctant to sit down across from her?

Sherry shook her head abruptly in an attempt to clear it. She called over to Tierra, making conversation about the new tarot reader who kept advising everyone that terrible things were going to befall them, no matter how often the cards said otherwise.

“Yeah, looks like she’s not playing with a full deck.” Tierra laughed and gave a wink.

Sherry groaned at the corny joke, but gave a little laugh anyway. Despite their gossip, there was a genuine solidarity here in
la place
among the various psychics, tarot readers, palmists, and I Ching experts. They were quick with advice and tips for bringing in business, as long as you didn’t interfere with theirs. They saw themselves more as a tough band of survivors than as hungry competitors. If someone gave you a hard time, they were on their feet in a moment, surrounding your stand, demanding the offender leave immediately. They’d done it just last week for Sherry, after she’d been roughed up by a guy who kept demanding her phone number. That was one customer she’d had to refuse, although she couldn’t afford to do it too often. But she thought she’d smelled alcohol on him.

For better or worse, the legal age to buy alcohol in France was eighteen. The fact that she could now purchase her own liquor didn’t really matter to Sherry—she got no excitement from it, the way her older friends in the States had when they turned twenty-one. She’d been enjoying wine at dinner for several years, with her father’s blessing, just as many young people in Paris did. She couldn’t seem to drum up the urge to go out and overindulge, now that alcohol was so freely available to her. It just didn’t seem like a big deal.

Strange. The more you could have of something, the less of it you wanted. The opposite certainly held true as well.

***

That evening, Sherry walked home slowly. The heavy items she carried weighed her down: two folding chairs and a small table. Back she hiked towards her apartment, same as every night. The cafés and restaurants were setting out dinner menus, and sweet music wafted from their doorways, spilling onto the sidewalks. Sherry wondered what her father might be having for supper right about now, out in the countryside where he lived.

Of course, he’d had a great many reservations about moving with his girlfriend to Provence, leaving Sherry in Paris all by herself. But she had encouraged them not to pass up the chance to live in a charming villa, the way his girlfriend had always dreamed, and get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. As her father grew older, Sherry knew it was becoming his dream as well—a quiet little place where he could enjoy his books and finally have a proper garden. After reminding them both that she’d turned eighteen over three months ago, at last they made plans to move.

Sherry thought that after they left she’d be able to breathe a sigh of relief, to feel . . .
free
somehow. She loved her father, and his girlfriend was very agreeable, but having them always around meant hiding a part of herself. It was the part that wanted to be seen as something other than daughter, or child. And now, although Sherry had quickly settled into a comfortable daily routine, something was still missing. Something had always been missing.

On the bright side, there was so much to love about Paris. The narrow, winding streets. The delicious, intimate bistros. The locals riding their bicycles throughout the city. The Métro. Flea markets every weekend in the summer.

Other things about the city seemed strange if you weren’t used to them. Apartments called “flats.” Washing machines in the kitchen. Bidets. The homeless and the prostitutes, sitting or standing forlornly on many street corners.

Tiny cars zoomed by, with barely enough room for one person inside. Often electric or solar-powered, they were better for the environment than traditional vehicles. Hopefully, the States would catch up and begin using them more often. When she visited there next, maybe her mom would have bought one. She was very active in environmental causes.

Although Sherry probably could have moved back to Chicago after her father left Paris, she elected to stay in the 18th
arrondissement.
Montmartre was a wonderful place to live if you were an artist, a musician, or anyone else on the fringes of life, like a tarot reader. Plus, it was attractive to tourists, who made up the bulk of her customers. And she truly loved the adorable Paris flat she’d found for rent. It even came with a window box of flowers, which she kept forgetting to water. She adored the elaborately carved, nonworking fireplace. She loved her little Juliet balcony, which wasn’t really a balcony in the proper sense. It only consisted of two French doors that opened to the street, with a railing in front to keep you from tumbling onto the sidewalk below. Juliet would have had a hard time meeting her lover on that balcony—it was barely fit for one person. Still, that didn’t stop Sherry from keeping her eye out for her own personal Romeo.

It was a walk-up, like most flats in Paris, but the view was fantastic. Montmartre was the highest area in the city. To her left stood the
Sacré-Coeur
Basilica. She remembered that when she first arrived in Paris, the Basilica had reminded her of a Russian palace, with its many round domes and pointed spires. Except those palaces were made of much more colorful globes, while the Basilica was grey-white marble. Across the way, she could see long rows of windows like the ones she enjoyed at her own flat, and above them, miles and miles of tall buildings leading all the way to the winding Seine.

It was a charming place, to be sure, but Sherry did not often feel charming in it. Most days, she went about her routine, getting up early, going to the market, then the square. Sitting there all day, handling customers or waiting for them. Then back home in the evenings to spend another night alone. Her friends from
lycée
were off at universities. She had no current boyfriend, and the rest of her family (with the exception of her father) was back in the States. With her schooling over, Sherry found it difficult to make new acquaintances. Her fellow fortune-tellers were friendly enough, but they all had lives of their own after the working day was done.

Sherry almost felt that the quiet beauty of the flat was wasted on her. A loving couple should be living here, or a small family who could enjoy its view with one another. Sometimes, Sherry felt like a human version of her empty apartment. Lonely. Hollow. A silent room, waiting to be filled with a familiar, soul-lifting voice.

And making the rent wasn’t easy—Paris was an expensive city. She survived on money from her tarot readings, as well as a small allowance from her parents. One of the few times her father had spoken to her mother since the divorce was to negotiate how much they’d give her every month. At eighteen, she knew she should be focused on researching universities, or looking for a regular job. But she had no inclination to do so right now. Maybe next year. French high schools were so difficult, with standards much higher than the American ones she’d been used to. So much time was needed to study for
le bac
that she had few spare moments during her teenage years to actually enjoy the city. She’d planned to make up for that lost time after graduation, but spent most of the summer looking for a flat. Maybe in the coming weeks, she’d carve out more opportunities to have fun.

Sherry did feel a little strange, accepting the allowance. She didn’t want to take advantage of her mother or father. Still, she’d had to live through their constant quarrelling and hellish separation, as well as an international move. She suspected their generosity was partly based on guilt. And for now, that was fine with her. She wouldn’t let the allowance become a permanent situation, anyway.

She remembered when she and her dad had first arrived in Paris. She’d met his French girlfriend before, but this was Sherry’s first time being out of the country. There were so many things to get used to, starting with the language. Oddly enough, it wasn’t as difficult to overcome that barrier as she expected. She’d been taking French classes since she was eleven. To her, and thousands of others all around the globe, French was the most beautiful language in the world. Her father had a harder time of it, although spending every free moment with his girlfriend helped him learn fairly quickly.

She still had the odd run-in with language difficulties. Her name was a problem. It sounded too much like
chérie
, which was French for “dearie.” Just today she’d stopped at an unfamiliar stall to buy lunch, and the shopkeeper became confused when trying to spell Sherry’s name on the order.