The Fortune Teller(55)
Why she didn’t tell her mom she was already in town, only ten minutes away, was because ten minutes felt too soon.
With a new city comes a new life. Aishe began hers in Paris.
On the road outside of Styria she met a nice German family traveling to France and they offered to let her accompany them. Aishe helped cook and clean at the campfire and take care of the small children in return for safe passage. When they arrived in Paris, Aishe said good-bye to her friends and declined their invitation to continue north. Paris was the only place she wanted to be.
The first year she squatted in the forest, on the edge of the city, with all the other beggars. Every day she would walk to the markets to play her harp or sell wooden flowers she had made from fallen branches. Some days she would earn a coin and other days she would not. When too much time went by with nothing, she would dig into Dinka’s chest and find a trinket to trade for bread.
She befriended other squatters at her encampment who taught her to speak French. “Wandering Angel” became her nickname because she always had the harp in her arms and Dinka’s colorful chest strapped to her back like a pair of boxed wings.
One day, while playing on a street corner near the market, Aishe looked down and noticed two coins in her basket. She was giddy that she would eat for the first time all week. Just then, a woman nearby dropped her purchases, spilling oranges and pears on the ground.
Aishe rushed to help her. With nimble hands, she put all the fruit back in the woman’s basket. Aishe accepted the woman’s thanks but was secretly wishing for a pear.
She turned back and saw a young boy snatching her two coins.
“Arrête!” she screamed. The boy dashed off, disappearing into the market stalls. Aishe returned to Dinka’s chest, which she often used as a stool, and sat down. She could not keep her tears at bay.
Patrice Brevard was keen enough to know the girl had lost the coins on account of her. She also knew from her matted hair and filthy clothes that this waif needed more than two coins. She had heard Aishe strumming the harp and thought how well the girl played. Her employer, Mme Helvétius, enjoyed having unusual entertainment in her salon. Perhaps if the girl bathed and was given a proper dress, she could play for their guests.
Before Patrice could question her judgment, she approached Aishe. “I’m afraid you lost your coins because of me.”
“Do not worry, Madame, I will earn more,” Aishe said bravely, wiping her eyes.
Patrice could hear the accent in her voice. “Do you have family?” she asked.
“No, I am alone.” Aishe eyed the fruit and her stomach rumbled.
Patrice held out a pear, which Aishe grabbed, barely able to utter a “thank you” before shoving it into her mouth.
Patrice watched her devour the fruit. “Your playing is quite lovely. I could offer you a few days’ work if you would like.”
Aishe’s eyes grew round, as pear juice dribbled down her chin.
“I am the housekeeper at a salon in Auteuil, a village not far from here. I could give you a maid’s dress and a proper bath, and you could stay for a few days until we see how you get on.”
Aishe jumped up. “Oh yes, Madame. Thank you! I will do whatever you wish.”
Patrice stepped back to allow more air to come between her and Aishe. That dress would need to be burned. “You will assist me and my maids and play music for our guests in exchange for room and board.” Aishe nodded vigorously as Patrice turned away. “Now come along before I change my mind.”
With the pear stuck in her mouth, Aishe gathered Dinka’s chest and her harp and hurried to follow.
And so it was. If life was a game of chance, Chance had just offered itself up to her.
*
Aishe played the harp in the salon for one hour in the afternoon and one hour in the evening. She had no idea who the people were or why they came and went.
In the evenings the voices became loud and hearty; there was talk of a revolution in some place called America and that France would perhaps undergo the same. The afternoons were less boisterous: a poet would recite his work, or a playwright would come with a troupe of actors. On quiet days the guests would gather around gaming tables to play cards.
The salon’s owner, Mme Helvétius, was a striking beauty, even in her sixties, and easily commanded the room. She dressed in the exaggerated fashion of the day—wide panniers with a cinched waist, and a tall wig adorned with gaudy feathers—with the wise wink of a woman who understood that sometimes it was necessary to look foolish.
All the great minds of the day attended her salon. Auteuil was a charming resort village, and Parisian elite flocked there to escape the stench of Versailles. The palace had fallen into severe decline, becoming an odorous cesspool where aristocrats and servants alike often took to relieving themselves in the stairs and corners. Much of the court no longer wanted to attend.
Philosophers, writers, artists, astronomers, and physicists all mingled in Mme Helvétius’ blue-and-white parlor. Many days the salon held as many as fifty people, each eager to connect with like minds. Paris was entering its Age of Enlightenment, a new order in which brilliant ideas reigned supreme, and the conversations happening in Mme Helvétius’ salon could cut through the powder on any man’s face.
The men who gathered there were Freemasons, a fraternity dedicated to deciphering the order of nature and humanity’s place within it. At present, they were studying the priests and philosophers of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome to understand the knowledge of the ancient world.