Amadoro

CHAPTER TWO-2

Ash studied her tranquil face as she folded her hands in front of her on the table.

“I was born in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. All four of my grandparents had settled in the United States from foreign countries. My grandfathers came from Scotland and Ireland but both my grandmothers were Latin, one from Italy, the other Castilian. All four of them lived into their late nineties, so I knew and loved them. Especially my grandmothers. A girl child is always closer to her female relatives, except for her father.” She reached for the champagne bottle as she talked and replenished their glasses. “I had no suspicion, until years afterward, that both my grandmothers were looked upon by some of our neighbors as rather odd. There were stories of their seeing apparitions and making prophecies. I have no personal knowledge of this, only what I was told long after both of them died.”

They touched glasses and drank.

“I learned, years later,” she continued, “that I had done something incredible when I was only four years old and both my grandmothers were still alive. An aunt I’d never met—my father’s youngest sister—was coming to visit us from another town. It was only a matter of fifty miles but there were no cars in those days. The journey had to be made by carriage, with an overnight stop at a hotel. My family had been preparing for Aunt Emma’s visit, I suppose, and I must’ve watched cook baking special cakes and beating the dough for biscuits. Certainly, I’d heard my aunt’s name repeated over and over but I’d never seen her. Two days before she was to arrive I danced through the house, from kitchen to parlor, singing three words. ‘Auntie Em’s dead! Auntie Em’s dead!’ My dear father was shocked. Wanted to punish me, but my grandmothers dissuaded him. They pointed out that I could have no idea what the word dead meant because no one in our family had died since I was born. Nobody in our town had a phone, but next morning, Papa received a telegram from the railroad depot informing him that his sister had died, after a heart attack, at the precise time I made my announcement. That, apparently, was my first experience with extrasensory perception...”

“Amazing.”

“When was your first such experience?” she asked quietly.

He set his glass down. “I’ve never told this to anyone. Even my wife...”

“Then it’s about time you told somebody!”

“Happened after I left Princeton and came to New York for a course in journalism. Found an apartment near Columbia University...”

The telephone buzzed softly.

Sandra turned to stare at it. “Forgive me, Ash, this is urgent.”

“Of course.”

She picked up the phone. “Yes, Nora?”

Ash watched Sandra’s face as she listened to her secretary’s voice. An incredible face...

“Of course I’ll talk to him.” She pressed a button. “Good afternoon, Howard. How can I help you?”

A face without a wrinkle. She was seventy-three and slightly overweight, but not fat.

“I understand...”

He studied her face as she listened to the voice on the phone—no longer aware of his presence—staring at the polished surface of the table.

The softly brushed silver hair had been red in her youth. Clear blue eyes that always held his attention. You couldn’t look away from them. Intelligent face with a generous mouth and prominent nose.

Today she was wearing a simple dress of some light cinnamon-colored material with a single strand of pearls. Her clothes came from Paris and the pearls were real.

There was something comfortable and maternal about her. Was it her hands? They were plump and pink, nails carefully manicured, but they were hands that would be capable of kneading dough. Sandra was more motherly than his own mother.

“What sort of plane will it be?” she asked.

Ash rose from the table, careful not to disturb her. Walked to the open windows with their yellow-and-white summer draperies and looked down into the garden where Miss Cassie was walking on one of the paths.

She sensed his presence and lifted her head. Smiled and nodded before turning into a side path.

“My advice is, quite simply, you must not take that plane.”

He turned from the windows, aware of the tone of authority in her normally gentle voice.

“Why not? Just a moment, Howard. Let me focus on this...”

Ash froze as she raised her head and closed both eyes. It was as though she was staring through the ceiling. Her face was impassive.

“There’s something wrong with that plane. Some mechanical fault I don’t understand. It will crash in deep water. Yes! Into the ocean. I see only darkness. Everyone aboard will perish...” She opened her eyes. “Do not take that plane, Howard.”

He saw that her body was tensing, visibly, as she talked.

“Certainly not. It would be unwise for you to tell anyone else. They wouldn’t believe you and would pay no attention to your warning. I will talk to you during the week.” She set the phone down, folded her hands on the table and closed her eyes, visibly relaxing.

Ash walked toward her, silently, his eyes on the clasped hands—like a Holbein drawing—and sat at the table again.

Only then did she open her eyes. “You heard, of course...”

“Yes.”

“What I said must not be repeated.”

“Naturally.”

“It was one of my clients. An important New York banker who always contacts me before taking any plane trip.”

“The illustrious Howard Monger.”

“Did I say his name?”

“Only Howard...”

“He was flying to Mexico City tomorrow with a group of economic and government specialists to discuss more loans for Central America. That plane will never reach its destination.” She sighed. “At least Howard Monger will not be aboard. He’s a brilliant man—a good man—and his life is important. To his family and to our country.” Glancing toward the open windows. “Miss Cassie’s walking in the garden.”

“I just saw her down there.”

“Something else I never told you. Cassie and I were both christened Cassandra.”

“Cassandra? The Greek prophetess...”

“My grandmothers must’ve known something when they selected that name for me. When I came to New York, years ago, I dropped the first three letters of my given name. Kept only Sandra. Nobody would’ve listened to an astrologer who called herself Cassandra Saunders. Actually, Saunders is the false name. My father’s name was Sanderson. I changed that, legally, to Saunders to protect my family. I didn’t want any of this in your portrait.”

“I understand.”

“Cassie never uses her full name unless she’s signing a legal document. Miss Cassie is, also, psychic...”

“I’ve discovered that.”

“Dear Cassie! She told me, when she applied for the job as my housekeeper, that we had the same name—Cassandra—informed me that she possessed second sight.”

“What’s that?”

“An old-fashioned American way of saying one has the ability to foresee. She didn’t need to tell me. Her first words were ‘You need a housekeeper!’ and I did. The woman who’d been with me for years had died the previous night... You were about to tell me, when the phone interrupted, about your first psychic experience. You’d found an apartment uptown...”

“The first night, after my furniture had been moved in, I was exhausted. Slept soundly but, in the night, something wakened me. I opened my eyes and saw the figure of a man sitting in an armchair...”

“Saw his face?”

“Not clearly. It was as though I was seeing him through a veil of mist.”

“Were you alarmed?”

“Startled, naturally, to find a complete stranger in my apartment. Then I heard his voice. He whispered: ‘Help me. Please help me...

I told him: ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’ I turned over and went back to sleep. I’ve felt guilty about it ever since. Telling him I couldn’t help him.”

“But there was no possible way you could help him.”

“I saw him again, many times, in the two years I lived there. He was always seated and would say the same thing. ‘Help me. Please help me...

“You never learned who he was?”

“The day I moved downtown. When the movers were carrying out my furniture. A neighbor stopped me, in the hall, to ask why I was leaving, and after I’d explained, she told me that the previous tenant had committed suicide in my bedroom.”

“Poor soul...”

“That was, far as I know, my first psychic experience.”

“And there’ve been others?”

“Oh, yes! It was because of them I was eager to write your portrait for Metropole. Wanted to find out and understand what it is you do in astrology and, especially, parapsychology. I learned, rather quickly, that you are absolutely honest.”

“You thought I wasn’t?”

“I had to be certain. Find out for myself.”

“I was aware of that in your questions—your probing—trying to get at the truth. And I think you did. I, too, am always seeking the truth. I convinced you, I hope, that parapsychology is a new and expanding field in which I am a searching and questioning participant.”

“You did. But why is it so many psychic phenomena are concerned with death? You’ve never explained that.”

“There is no simple explanation. I can only tell you what I believe.”

“Please...”

“Psychic phenomena involve both life and death. Equally! For instance, this plane that will crash tomorrow, causing many deaths. I will have saved Howard Monger but there’s nothing I could do to save the others. For that matter, I’m not even certain that Howard won’t take that flight. I can’t prevent his doing so. Can only warn him. The decision must be his.” She paused, hands clasped on the table again. “Life and death are like two sides of a playing card. They exist side by side, joined together. I believe it’s as simple as that. We set out on the path that, eventually, leads to our own physical death the moment we are born.”

“That I understand.”

“I believe the psychic world exists around and within this visible world. They constantly touch.”

“I keep having a curious experience I wish you would explain...”

“What’s that?”

“It usually happens early mornings when I’m waking from deep sleep. I’m not completely awake and, suddenly, there’s a glowing rectangle—like a small television screen—inside my closed eyelids. I see a sunny street or a brightly lighted room. With people moving about. Some familiar faces, but frequently, people I don’t recognize. The first time it happened I saw an outdoor market that looked like Europe. Bright-colored vegetables and flowers. People shouting and laughing. A woman came close to the dark opening as though she was looking into the lens of a camera, but she was staring at me. I’d never seen that market before. Another time it was a deserted courtyard and the entrance to a magnificent old stone mansion with no sign of life. What does it mean? Am I dreaming when I have these visions?”

“You are looking through the window of your mind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Seeing scenes from your past or your future. Or scenes which you may never see in reality. I’ve heard of such visions through a window in the mind but have never experienced them myself.”

“Enough of my personal experiences with the psychic! I shan’t bore you with any more.”

“Another time, perhaps.” She reached out and patted his left hand. “I’m grateful it was you who wrote my portrait.” Turning to study the Metropole cover again. “I’ll be waiting, eagerly, to see what it brings into my life. New people for me to advise and help.” She filled their glasses as she talked. “And you’ll be starting a new assignment. I saw you in that paneled office, with your associates, when you were told the name of your next subject.”

He studied her face as they drank the wine. That open, questing Irish face with the inquisitive blue eyes. In his word-portrait he had described her face as compassionate, constantly observing the human race with anticipation but without prejudice.