“Who is it?” came the reply from the other side.
“It’s Berta Alshonsky.”
“Who?”
“You came to my house once for a—” she was about to say séance but corrected herself—“communion.”
There was a pause and then a short laugh. “That must’ve been a long time ago.”
Berta heard footsteps out in the hall and turned to see two men carrying out a young girl on a stretcher. The blanket fell from one of the girl’s arms, revealing a fiery rash. She had typhus and they were taking her away to the hospital to be quarantined. It occurred to Berta that the whole building would soon be quarantined.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“I suppose,” came the indifferent reply.
She parted the sheet and saw a much-changed Madame Gorbunova sitting in an armchair by the window, covered in a blanket. She had been a stout woman when Berta had seen her last and, although she was still somewhat thick, she had lost a lot of weight. Now her flesh hung in meaty flaps from her chin and jowls. Her eyes flitted over Berta’s shabby clothes and she smiled wryly. “Madame Alshonsky… how you’ve changed.”
“Everything has changed.”
“Ah, but for the better, don’t you agree?” Madame Gorbunova looked pointedly at the sheets that divided her little corner from the rest of the apartment. They could hear coughing on the other side and a low conversation.
“Oh yes, I quite agree,” Berta said for the benefit of the others. “It’s much better this way. So much was wasted before.”
Madame Gorbunova’s little corner was packed with furniture and clothing that had once occupied the entire apartment. Everything was piled up in a jumbled testament to happier times. There were two tables shoved up against the wall, one on top of the other, legs sticking up in the air like the stiffening corpse of a dead horse. There were two armchairs standing on the tables with a pile of clothes thrown over them and on the very top was a brass floor lamp, stiff and weighty, crushing the dresses beneath it. On the other side was a rumpled bed, dirty plates, and a camp stove. In between, taking up every available space, was a set of gilt chairs piled up in twos, a dying fern on a stand, a pile of drapes, old newspapers, and a settee set up on its end.
“I must apologize, Madame Alshonsky. I’m waiting for a delivery of wood. You’ll have to excuse the cold.”
“That’s all right.”
“And I can’t offer you anything. I seem to be out of Sterno. Why don’t you push those newspapers aside and take a seat and we’ll have a little chat.”
Berta thanked her and sat down on the only other available chair. She saw Gorbunova eyeing the bottle she had brought. “So, why have you come?” she asked, shifting her gaze from the vodka to Berta.
Berta paused to steady herself and then said evenly, “My daughter is dead and I wish to speak to her.”
Madame Gorbunova nodded slowly and offered her condolences. Then she hesitated and smiled awkwardly as if she had just been presented with a bill she couldn’t pay. “I’m sorry. You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
She took in a breath. “It seems my gift has left me and I am no longer able to contact the dead. The prince has abandoned me. Probably for another woman, if I had to guess.” She laughed at this, but it was forced and the smile quickly faded. “I was reduced to using tricks for a while, mirrors and such, but I wasn’t very good at it. I was caught on a number of occasions. Very unpleasant. Won’t do that again.”
“Maybe if you try, your gift will come back.”
“I’ve tried, believe me. It’s no use. It’s never coming back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sorry, Madame Alshonsky. I cannot help you.”
“Please, it’s very important to me. You have no idea. Look, I’ve brought you this.” She held up the bottle.
Madame Gorbunova eyed it again. Then shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
“Think of it as a down payment. I’ll get you another one as well.”
“And what if nothing happens? You will blame me and be disappointed.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Oh yes, you say that now.”
“All I ask is that you try.”
Gorbunova thought for a moment and glanced out the grimy window. “Well, perhaps the prince will be merciful today. One never knows with him. He’s very capricious. Why don’t you open the bottle and pour me a little. They say it frees up the pathways.”
Berta opened the bottle and looked around for a glass.
“There should be one over there somewhere. Look under that pile.”
She found a glass under a pile of old shoes. She wiped it out with the hem of her skirt and poured a little in the bottom. Gorbunova tossed it back. Coughing, she said, “It’s not bad. Where did you get it?”
“Near Vjazovok.”
“They know their vodka out there. Thank God for that, eh?” She reached for the bottle and helped herself to a little more. She drank it down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Oh, how I wish I had a little caviar. You haven’t got any, I suppose?” Berta shook her head. “Pity. A little caviar on toast, wouldn’t that be lovely. Well, I suppose we must start. Do me a favor and close those curtains. It always works better in the dark.”
When Madame Gorbunova was comfortable, she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. After a while her breathing slowed and she seemed to relax. Long minutes passed and nothing happened. Berta told herself not to worry. After all, it took a while on the night of the séance. She would have to be patient.
More time passed and just when she was beginning to think that nothing was going to happen, Madame Gorbunova’s eyes began to move beneath her lids. Berta watched her closely. Gorbunova remained slumped in her seat, silent. Then her mouth opened slightly and she began to snore. Berta sat back trying to decide what to do. Then she reached out and shook her.
“What happened?” Gorbunova asked, her voice sounding thick and sleepy.
“You fell asleep.”
She sat up and smoothed her hair. “Sorry, sometimes that happens. No word from the prince?’
Berta shook her head.
“Well, that’s it then,” she said and reached for the bottle.
“Aren’t you going to try again?
“Why? Won’t do any good.”
“Please, just once more.”
Gorbunova frowned at Berta. Then she sighed heavily and looked greatly put upon. “All right, but you have to be satisfied with whatever happens.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it. The last time.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
With an exaggerated effort she folded her arms over her stomach and closed her eyes. She didn’t seem to be concentrating this time, possibly just waiting it out until she could open them again and tell Berta to leave.
Then something happened. Berta wasn’t sure what, except that in the next instant Madame Gorbunova’s eyes flew open and she sat up. “Someone is trying to reach you.”
“Sura?”
“I don’t know.” Madame Gorbunova closed her eyes again and waited. “I can’t see anything. It’s all black. Like down a well.”
“Is she there?”
“I don’t know. There’s no one here.”
“Then she’s gone?”
“I suppose. I can’t be sure. I’m not getting anything. Wait… no, I thought… oh no, it’s nothing.” She opened her eyes, her lips compressed into a line of frustration. “It’s no use. I’m sorry. It’s hopeless without the prince. I don’t know why I try, it only upsets me.”