Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (12 page)

That this assembly will certainly be like no other I have had the honor of attending is further reinforced by the pulsating, pounding rhythm—I cannot even venture to call it music—which can be heard before we even open the doors, or, shall I say, before the two solicitous men who preside at the entrance, and who greet Deepa and me as if we are royalty, open the thick black double doors for us.

We enter the assembly rooms to a crush of people and a deafening, rhythmic roar which penetrates my skin and vibrates my very bones. My fingers tingle; my chest and stomach quiver. Though my understanding tells me I should be frightened by such a cacophony, in truth it is strangely enticing and makes me want to dance in a way I have never even thought of dancing, though when we advance farther into the vast room and near the area where people are turning and gyrating in a manner that I imagine must approximate dancing, a cold stone of fear settles in my chest at the very thought of being so audacious as to stand up in this crush and attempt to move in such a manner. I am in no way equal to it.

Deepa grabs my hand and maneuvers us through the crowd to a long bar behind which are rows and rows of bottles, even more than those displayed in the public house where Glenn presides. “Have whatever you like,” Deepa shouts into my ear, “it’s on me.” And then she lets go of my hand and disappears into the crowd, leaving me at the bar, where I am jostled by the throng and swept into their wake until I somehow find myself in the center of a circle of gyrating dancers, whose concentration on their rhythmic movements is so intense, and who seem so unaware of my presence, that soon I am sensible of my own limbs almost emulating their motions in concert with the pulsing beat. I am moving in a manner I have never moved before, hips and knees bouncing of their own volition. And then the gentleman opposite me meets my eyes and gestures with his hand to come closer, a flirtatious smile on his lips, and I am suddenly so mortified that for a moment I cannot move at all, let alone commence with this nondancing sort of dance. It is bad enough to make a display of myself alone, but to find myself dancing with a man to whom I have not even been introduced?

What is happening to me?

I somehow manage to bow my head to him and turn back towards the bar, where I spy a long shapely hand with many rings waving to me, and I see that Deepa is now behind the bar, smiling at me.

Deepa, a server of drinks? Yet apparently in this country, in this time, a server of drinks must be an unexceptionable situation for a woman of influence who wears diamonds in her ears.

“What can I get you?” she shouts at me over the din of the pounding music.

I am debating whether or not to indulge in another glass of vodka when she puts her hand out as if to stop my thoughts and then puts her lips to my ear. “I know what you should have. Give me a minute,” she says, and then disappears behind a door that literally is built into the shelves of bottles and completely hidden from view.

The hidden door opens, and in slips Deepa again, a tall glass of pink liquid in her hand, which she places before me with a flourish. “Thank you,” I say, my words swallowed up in the wall of sound, and take a sip. Raspberry, strawberry, lemon? Whatever it is, it is delicious indeed. Sweet and tart and astonishingly refreshing. Instantly I am full of energy and life. Deepa smiles.

When I finish the lovely pink concoction, Deepa motions for me to follow her. She lifts up a panel at the end of the bar and emerges from behind it, then waves to me. Staying as close behind her as possible, we weave through the crowd and past dancers gyrating before a stage on which are now musicians, and a female singer with long red hair cut in jagged edges over her forehead, clad in a short-sleeved, tight black bodice which ends well above her exposed navel, which is pierced with a glittering jewel, and impossibly snug black trousers which sit shockingly low on her hips. Her voice is a seductive wail. The other musicians are young men, all very thin and in tight, low-sitting trousers. One of the musicians, however, is completely bare-chested, his glistening torso and arms encircled with what looks like thorny stems painted in green and black. I have never before seen a half-naked man, let alone one upon a public stage, and I cannot take my eyes off him. He looks as if he revels in the attention as he thrusts his pelvis into the low-slung instrument which hangs from a studded black strap over his shoulder. I do not realize I am simply standing still and staring at him, no doubt with my mouth open like an unfledged bird, until Deepa shouts into my ear, “Are you all right?”

I feel my face burn with shame, and Deepa grabs my arm and continues to steer me through and finally outside of the crowd, beyond which is a door that she pushes open, and all at once we are outside the building and away from the pounding noise.

“Thank you,” I say, attempting a feeble smile.

“You looked a bit overwhelmed. Are you feeling ill? Shall I take you home?”

“Thank you, no. I am well.”

Her eyes search my face. “What is it, then? You can tell me. Really.”

“You are very kind.”

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too. I know we haven’t known each other all that long. But I like you. And your ability to make me laugh at that disaster of a party I had two months ago was very welcome, believe me. So if you ever need a friend . . .”

I look into her large brown eyes, and I know that I can trust her. Strange as it may be, this absolute stranger, this Indian/English /American woman whom I have only just met, is someone that I know I can trust.

But how can I put into words what I feel? What can I say that will sound in any way rational to her? I think of the half-naked man on the stage, my memories of Frank which are not my memories at all, my letting him kiss me not an hour ago, my waking up as someone entirely not myself . . .

“It is just that I—I do not know who I am anymore. I have conducted myself in a manner that is wholly unfamiliar to me. And I do not know that you, or anyone, can help me.”

Deepa regards me kindly. “We’ve all done things that give us pause. Myself included.”

“I am just so confused.”

“Well, you did hit your head.”

“This has nothing to do with a concussion, I assure you.”

I wish I could tell her of my true situation, without dancing around the matter. I drain the rest of the drink from the glass in my hand.

I pause for a moment, then say, “Deepa, do you believe in reincarnation?”

I cannot believe I have just blurted that out. It must be the drink.

Deepa laughs. “Where did that come from?”

“Forgive me. That was impertinent, and I am most ashamed.”

“Whoa, don’t go all Jane Austen on me. Not that I don’t love the girl, but hey, I said I’d be a friend if you needed one. Which by my definition means you get to ask me about what I believe or don’t believe. And by the way, the answer is yes. But may I ask to what these questions tend, as Mr. Darcy said?”

I smile. Could she have said anything to put me more at ease? “I was asking because I know someone who—what I mean is . . . Deepa, what if someone remembered having another life, but didn’t just remember the other life? I mean, what if that person thought he
was
the person from the other life?”

“And this person, he . . . is a friend of yours?”

I do not know what to say. I do not wish to lie to Deepa, but neither do I wish to have her look at me as if I am insane.

“It’s okay. I won’t think your friend is crazy. I wouldn’t think it even if he were a she. Or even if she were you.” She smiles, but she is not sporting with me. She looks into my eyes, and hers are nothing but kind. “I mean that.”

She takes the empty glass from me, and I realize my hands are perspiring.

“You’re trembling,” Deepa says, and puts her hand on mine. “It’s all right. Really. Listen, nothing you could tell me about yourself would faze me. I’ve seen some things that—well, let’s just say that there’s little that would surprise me.” She smiles. “Why don’t we leave it at that.”

I am flooded with relief to have spoken the truth—or as close as I could get to the truth—and more important, that she does not judge me for it.

“Feel better?” Deepa says.

I nod.

“Not that I’m an expert or anything, but I have heard of young children in India having vivid memories of what are supposedly past lives, and thus they are somewhat confused. But that’s generally sorted long before adulthood.”

“I see.”

But the truth is, I do not. For I am not merely having a memory of a past life; I know with my whole being that I am Jane Mansfield and not Courtney Stone, despite all appearances to the contrary, and despite all the friends and family in the world who might insist otherwise.

“Like I said, I’m no expert,” says Deepa. “But I know someone who might be able to help you.” She grasps my hand. “Come.”

She leads me back into the building, not into the assembly room where the music and dancers are, but through a glimmering silver curtain, behind which is another door, and down another corridor, at the end of which is a plain, unmarked door painted the same black as the walls.

“I wasn’t going to do this,” says Deepa, “and I won’t say anything else because then you’ll think
I’m
crazy.” She points to the door at the end of the corridor. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. But I never know whether or not she’ll be there. Sometimes she is, and sometimes she isn’t. But you’re welcome to try.”

“Who?”

Deepa gives me a tight little smile. “If you need me, I’ll be behind the bar.”

I regard the door for a couple of moments, then turn back to Deepa for more instructions, only to discover that she is already gone. I get a tingling sensation in my arms and chest.

“Deepa? Deepa?” There is no answer, only the muffled cries of the singer and the wail of the guitars.

I make my way to the end of the corridor; a faint glow of light is now pulsating from the tiny space between the edge of the door and the wall. The throbbing sounds of the music are fainter. I raise my hand and knock on the door. There is no answer.

I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it; the door opens, and inside the shadowy space is a pretty young woman with a gleaming cap of dark brown hair that reaches her chin. Her long bare legs are crossed at the ankle under a little table before her. Sitting opposite her, a tall young man wearing a rumpled shirt with a turned-down collar runs a be-ringed hand through his tousled brown hair. With a flourish the lady lays down on the table a card not unlike those used by the fortune-teller at the fair I attended with Mary two months ago. There are other cards on the table in a cross formation.

“See? There’s nothing to worry about,” she says to the young man, who brings one of her delicate white hands, bracelets jangling from her wrist, to his lips and leans over it with a kiss. A broad smile on his face, he unfolds his long, thin form from the chair and walks past me and out the door, as if I am not there at all.

The woman with the cards trains her black-lined cat’s eyes on me.

“I beg your pardon,” I say, and turn round to leave, my face burning at the impropriety of having walked in on what was obviously a private meeting.

“Stay. Please,” says her voice behind me, and her accent is no longer that of the colonies, but rather that of a well-bred, respectable Englishwoman.

Astonished by the change in voice, I turn round, only to see that the lady herself has entirely changed in person, dress, and hair. Instead of the short skirt, bare arms, and straplike footwear, she is clad in a high-waisted, spotlessly white gown of the finest India muslin, her feet shod in fawn-colored half-boots. Her hair is no longer short; it is arranged high upon her head, with little tendrils falling becomingly over her forehead and neck. Her eyes are a clear golden brown and very large indeed without all the black around them; her brows are elegantly arched. Her complexion is fine and clear, her smile sweet and engaging.

The room is entirely altered as well. The lady indicates a tea chest beside her, and a tea service, neither of which was there when I entered. The tea service sits upon a table, an entirely different table, which is lit by candles. The cards have disappeared. There is even now a chimneypiece behind the lady; the rest of the room is shadowed, indistinct.

She indicates a chair for me to sit. “Would you do me the honor of drinking tea with me?”

“I thank you, but—how is it possible that you are the same lady that I—I beg your pardon, but are you—can you be the same lady that I saw—who was here just a moment ago?”

She laughs, a high, clear, musical sort of sound. There is something altogether familiar about her, though I have never met her before. “Upon my word, you cannot expect me to answer two questions at once.” She pours a cup of tea, adds a few drops of milk, and offers me the cup.

“Do sit down.”

There is a something in her eyes, in the turn of her countenance, that is maddeningly familiar.

“Are you—a fortune-teller?”

“It is my belief that each of us makes his own fortune, and, as a matter of fact, tells it as well.” She laughs throatily, as if pleased with her own cleverness.

“Then what are you? How did you change from the lady I saw when first I opened the door to—” I wave my hand to indicate the room, her dress, and I realize I am trembling. “What sort of magic are you working?”

My right hand reaches for my neck, fumbles for the amber cross that is not there.

“You gave it to me in payment, remember?” says she, and instantly she transforms into an old woman in a simple black dress and a finely worked shawl—she is now the same woman, the very same fortune-teller that I saw in my own time, in 1813, and I am back at the fair, inside her tent, with Mary waiting for me outside, the sounds of the merrymakers obliterated, though the fabric of the tent is thin. The air is heavy with the sweet scent of roses, though there are no flowers in the tent. The fortune-teller is holding my amber cross, gazing at it admiringly, the golden chain spilling over the edge of her wrinkled hand. “That will do very well,” she says, and the word echoes—“well . . . well . . . well . . . well . . . are you well, Miss Mansfield . . .”