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.
A pastor and Freemason named Antoine Court de Gébelin loved to air his thoughts at the salon. On this particular day, however, he sat in quiet repose and enjoyed Aishe’s playing.
Aishe was stationed near the door with her harp. The sunlight streamed through the window behind her, and her fingers flew over the strings with easy grace. When two young gentlemen entered the room, she almost played a wrong chord.
She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept wandering to the taller of the two men. She couldn’t help it. He looked just like the husband she’d conjured in her dreams all those nights with her cousins. Now here he stood in the flesh.
When they locked eyes she did play the wrong chord. She quickly covered her mistake but caught him smiling. He seemed to know he had been the cause.
He was introduced around the room, and Aishe overheard that he was from Russia and his name was Andrej Cernik. A thick accent laced his French. Andrej continued to stare at Aishe the whole time he spoke. His attention made her blush. When his gaze drifted to her hand, she knew he was wondering how she’d gotten such a horrible scar. She wished she could cover it. Every day, the scar reminded her how alone she was, how her family was lost forever.
She closed her eyes and played faster, imagining Simza dancing and twirling like a dervish as she had loved to whenever Aishe let her music fly.
Court de Gébelin stood up and hovered at the table where a small group had gathered to play cards. He stared at the deck spread out before Mme Helvétius’ hands.
Mme Helvétius glanced up with an inquisitive smile. “You wish to play?”
“These cards,” he said.
“Aren’t they intriguing? I bought them on my last trip to Germany. They’re called the tarot.”
Court de Gébelin picked up one of the painted cards and read the words under the image. “The Hermit.” It showed an old man holding a lantern in the dark. Then he picked up another of a magician. “The Magician,” he murmured.
Court de Gébelin had never seen these cards before. To the average eye they looked exotic.
“May I?” He derailed the game, taking all twenty-two face cards and laying them out together. By now everyone was crowded around the table; even Aishe had stopped playing.
Court de Gébelin grew convinced that the cards were symbols, and that hidden within them was a secret wisdom from remote antiquity, from Egypt. He shared his belief with such conviction that soon he had everyone in the room convinced of his hypothesis.
Mme Helvétius looked at her cards with newfound curiosity. “How did such cards come to Europe in the first place?”
“Must have been the gypsies,” Andrej’s friend proposed.
Aishe smiled at that but remained silent.