His life was bounded on three sides; his job, as a minor executive in a small bank, in whose service he had slaved for sixteen years, was his chief interest. Second to this came his well-ordered and pleasant apartment, dominated by the marvelous efficiency of Chico. And last and least was the not-too-young lady with whom he kept fairly steady company, Miss Agatha Prim.
Miss Prim was a quiet, cultivated sort of person and he found her company restful. What she found in him no one ever bothered to ask.
Chico came into the room as he finished the last of his sherry.
“Dinner is ready,” Chico said quietly. He was brown and moon-faced with a quick flashing smile that displayed a mouthful of large white teeth.
Oscar rose to his feet and burped gently, another of his punctual habits.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m going out tonight, Chico, I wish you’d set out my gray suit.”
All of Oscar’s suits were gray but he and Chico never mentioned this fact. When he switched suits he simply asked for his gray suit. Chico understood.
“I’m going to a party at Miss Prim’s,” Oscar said, “so I’m afraid I may be a little late.”
Chico nodded.
“You play crystal ball games tonight?” he asked. His bright smile lit up his face.
Oscar winced. Chico’s question was in reference to his Agatha’s almost fanatic preoccupation with various mediums, fortune tellers and the like from whom she derived the vicarious thrill of peering into the future lives of her friends.
“I’m afraid we will,” he said, sighing. “Agatha met some woman at a party recently who told her of a medium who has made an intensive study of reincarnation.” Oscar glanced at Chico, almost apologetically. “That’s very interesting, of course,” he said.
Chico nodded brightly.
“This medium will be there tonight,” Oscar said, “so I suppose we’ll spend the night listening to her discuss reincarnation.” He coughed slightly. “Stimulating evening.” He shook his head and went into the dining room where he ate an excellent meal before showering and dressing for Agatha’s party.
Chico followed him to the door of the apartment and helped him into his coat.
“I will leave glass of warm milk on stove,” he said.
“Thank you, Chico,” Oscar said. He picked up his hat, set it squarely on his balding head and left for the party...
Agatha met him at the door of her apartment with a glad smile. She was taller than Oscar by several inches and put together at rather sharp angles. She wore a quiet dark dress and no make-up. Her eyes were large and bright in the pallor of her face.
“You must come right in, Oscar,” she said excitedly. “Madame Obary is here and she is simply fascinating!”
“I’m sure she is,” Oscar said drily.
He was led into the apartment, his coat and hat were taken by Agatha’s colored maid, and then he was introduced to the assembled guests.
Most of them, he reflected gloomily as he dutifully smiled and shook hands, were not worth meeting. Then he was escorted across the room to a large divan, where an even larger woman was holding court.
“Madame Obary,” Agatha said breathlessly, “I want you to meet Oscar.”
The creature on the couch turned her solemn, bovine eyes in Oscar’s direction and nodded slowly, sending a tremor down her many chins that was like the effect of a stone tossed into a quiet pool.
She was dark with oily black hair in a bun on her neck and her arms were circled with dozens of weird bracelets. Her plain dress fitted her like a sagging circus tent.
“How do you do?” she murmured, in a quiet throaty voice. “I am always pleased to meet new disciples.”
“Well, I’m hardly that,” Oscar said with an uneasy laugh.
“You will be,” Madame Obary said.
“Madame Obary,” Agatha said, turning to Oscar with breathless animation, “has been telling us the most incredible things. Really the things that go on are simply amazing.”
“Things?” Oscar said blankly.
“I mean incidents in the occult,” Agatha said a trifle impatiently. “You’ve simply no idea!”
“I guess I haven’t,” said Oscar, feeling somehow that his reaction was a bit inadequate.
“Madame Obary,” continued Agatha with a rush, “is one of the four people in the world who completely understands the theory of reincarnation.”
Madame Obary cleared her throat impressively.
“One of the three persons in the world who understands it,” she corrected severely.
“Isn’t that marvelous?” Agatha said, turning an enraptured face to Oscar. “Just think! One of the three!”
“Well, well,” Oscar said.
“Madame Obary’s theory,” Agatha went on with a breathlessness that paid high tribute to the importance of Madame Obary’s theory, “is that our ancestors are alive today, but living on another time plane, and—”
“Please!” Madame Obary said, raising one hand sternly. “I will explain.”
“Yes, of course,” said Agatha chastened.
“All life is simultaneous,” Agatha said in her rich booming voice, “the terms of Past, Present and Future are inaccurate misnomers. Such categories do not exist. The lives of our ancestors and our grandchildren are being lived this moment, but on a separate time plane from our own. Do you understand?”
She directed the question at Oscar and from her stern features and beetling brows it was obvious she would brook no nonsense. Oscar, her tone and manner clearly implied, had damn well better understand.
“I get the point,” Oscar said. “It’s a little vague,” he added apologetically. “The main idea is clear enough, but the business about the grandchildren—” his voice trailed off weakly. He couldn’t go on. The whole damn, nonsensical theory was more than a little vague. It was as cloudy as an opium smoker’s dream and not half so attractive.
“Naturally,” Madame Obary said, with a superior smile, “you will not be able to understand the more subtle implications of the theory. A trained mind is needed for such comprehension.” She turned to Agatha. “Is this young man to be our subject for this evening?”
“What?” said Oscar blankly.
Agatha put her hand anxiously on his arm.
“Now don’t get excited, Oscar,” she said, smiling nervously at him. “I didn’t tell you before, but Madame Obary needs a subject for her demonstration and I told her that you wouldn’t mind. Please be helpful.”
“Just what is required of me?” Oscar asked warily.
Madame Obary said, “You will be put into a trance and I will explore your subconscious mind. It is my hope to establish contact with your ancestors through your subconscious and, if the séance is successful, you may be able to communicate with them also. This is done by bridging the time planes that separate you from your ancestors. The success of my undertaking will depend completely on the sensitivity of your receptive powers.”
Oscar reflected with a definite bitterness that if Madame Obary’s ridiculous experiment should happen to work she would get all the credit; but if it failed, which was by all odds the more certain probability, the blame would fall on his shoulders. It didn’t seem fair.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
Madame Bovary had struggled to her feet and was already making preparations. She ordered him to lie on the divan and then asked that all the lights, with the exception of one dim lamp, be turned off. From an enormous handbag she drew forth a sheaf of papers on which were inscribed designs that looked as if they were results of a drawing class of morons.