Kaleidoscope by Dorothy Gilman

Atlantis,’ a song that’s made Faber-Jones even richer, and John Painter rich, too. He owes you, Marina.”
    Madame Karitska winced. “I feel no debt—except to the child Luca.”
    Jan patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, it’s far too early to ask his help.” With a glance at her watch she said, “I’ve got to rush off now, I’ve a date with a detective lieutenant whom I dearly love and who has the afternoon off. Call me anytime, Marina,” and with a grin she added, “
Ciao,
Marina!” and was gone.
    Once she was alone Madame Karitska smiled at Jan’s reminding her of John Painter. A very satisfying experience that had been, she thought, and after a few minutes she walked across the room to her cassette player, sorted through the symphonies to reach a certain song, and, as she flicked on the sound, John Painter’s voice filled the living room.
    Once in old Atlantis,

I loved a lady pure . . .

And then the waters rose

And death was black and cold.

Once in Indian days

I loved a maiden pure . . .

But white men shot her through the heart

And I was left to grieve.

I saw her once in Auschwitz

Young, dressed all in black . . .

Our eyes met once beside the wall—

The Nazis shot her dead.

She’s gone, I cannot find her,

A fortune-teller says “Not yet,”

For life’s a slowly turning wheel

And this turn’s not for love . . .
    Â 
    His voice and the guitar faded away until, with a dramatic sweep of his fingers across its strings he repeated, “And this turn’s not for love,” and abruptly the music ended.
    Yes, she thought, nodding, she really must approach Faber-Jones soon about Luca, who might, in time, become an equal surprise for him.

7

    It was several days later when Madame Karitska found Betsy Oliver lurking in her hallway, too shy to knock and apparently not daring to make an appointment that she couldn’t afford. She turned scarlet when she was found, and stammered an apology. “You said,” she began, “I mean you told me—and you’re the only one who liked my sketches, and—”
    â€œAnd I told you I hoped that you’d come back in a week or so to see your sketch framed and hung, yes.”
    â€œYou don’t mind?” she said eagerly. “Are you busy?”
    â€œMy dear, you were
invited
. And I’m free for an hour and do come in. You’ll find your sketch on the wall over there,” she told her, pointing. “What’s more, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
    She left Betsy standing in front of the casual sketch of her daughter, which looked astonishingly uncasual and professional, now that it was matted and framed. Going to the telephone she was relieved to find that Kristan was at work upstairs in his studio. She said, “The young woman whose work I showed you some days ago is here, Kristan. Would you have a few minutes to give counsel? Could I send her up to you?”
    Kristan, always ironic, said, “My snakes would doubtless terrify her. I need a break; I’ll come down.”
    In a few minutes he noisily thundered down the stairs and walked in, his beard daubed with scarlet today, and giving Betsy a keen glance he said, “So.”
    Both of them tried to avoid looking at the bruise on Betsy’s cheek.
    â€œThis,” Madame Karitska told her, “is Kristan Seversky, who works upstairs and is a professional artist, and I showed him your sketch. Now do sit down while I fetch some coffee for you.”
    â€œI shall be very stern,” Kristan told the girl. “You’ve drawn only faces?”
    Betsy nodded, regarding him with awe.
    â€œNo figures yet?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œHave you done any work in colors?”
    â€œI don’t have any,” she admitted.
    â€œYou will need training,” he said. “Classes in life— nudes—figures,