Kaleidoscope by Dorothy Gilman Page B

loan—because the frame shows it off so well, it enhances it, and there should be no need for you to frame the others.”
Or
the money to frame them,
she thought, but did not say.
    Betsy gathered up the jointed wooden figure—“this will be wonderful to work with”—and proudly added the framed sketch. “You must have appointments, so I’ll go, but—” She leaned over and kissed Madame Karitska on the cheek. “But suddenly there’s so much to do—and without hiding it from my husband!”

8

    Madame Karitska did not often have male clients, and she quite understood that masculine pride was usually involved. She was therefore pleased when a Mr. Jason Hendricks made an appointment, but less pleased when he arrived: the poor man looked pale and emaciated, with a haunted look in his eyes, and she found herself hoping that he did not assume she was a healer of sorts, for he looked very ill.
    His first words to her were, “I’ve gone to every doctor possible,” and she flinched. “I don’t have AIDS, I don’t have tuberculosis, or parasites or ulcers, I’ve been tested and tested and tested.”
    As gently as possible she told him that she did not deal in alternative medicines—
or miracles,
she wanted to say, but didn’t.
    â€œI don’t expect that,” he told her coldly. “And I don’t know why I’m here. A neighbor said I could at least keep trying.”
    She nodded. “An act of desperation—I quite understand.”
    â€œDo you?” he demanded. “Do you?”
    â€œLife has many desperate chapters,” she told him, and looking at him more closely she realized that not long ago he must have been a handsome man, and certainly younger than he looked now. “Perhaps over a cup of green tea we can talk better,” she told him, and went into the kitchen to brew it.
    When she returned he was looking over the books in her bookcase with interest. “I see that you have several interesting books on Afghanistan. Have you traveled there?”
    She smiled. “My family lived in Kabul for a few years when I was a child. Not entirely by choice; we were refugees and very poor. Do you know the country?”
    â€œOnly briefly, as a travel writer, before the Taliban took over.” With relief he lowered himself to the couch and watched her pour him a cup of tea. He said carefully, “You understand I expect nothing from you, but this woman I scarcely know—a neighbor—told me about you, and that possibly—well, frankly,” he added, “I was entertaining the thought of ending my life, which has pretty much happened already.” He added dryly, “But without the last rites. She said you saw things?” With a forced smile and a shaking hand he lifted the cup of tea to his lips, and then put it down before it spilled.
    â€œHave you eaten lately?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “Nothing solid. No appetite.”
    â€œSleep?”
    â€œOnly with dread, and nightmares,” and quickly changing the subject, “She said I should bring with me something I’ve worn for years?”
    Madame Karitska nodded. “Yes, and have you?”
    â€œMy wallet,” he said, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a worn and shabby wallet. “It’s gone everywhere with me for years.” He gave a feeble laugh. “I grow notoriously attached to things, no matter how old, perhaps because I move around so much in my travels.”
    She smiled. “I know that feeling . . . old clothes, old friends, old books. One needs constants in a traveling life.”
    He seemed to suddenly see her more clearly now. “As a refugee you really would know that, wouldn’t you.”
    She nodded. “Oh yes. When I was a child I once found a milk white stone, almost translucent; I thought it more beautiful than any jewel—we had no toys— and fortunately it