Wait A Minute! I Wanted To Write My Future And Now I Am!
I am writing my future as a writer, don’t you see, because even though I am writing a book about a character seeking adventure, in the process I have become a published writer. Which is, as I have told you, has always been my deepest desire. And now back to Renee:
Madame Pappionovitch clasped Renee’s hand warmly, “Police come upstairs. All Monty’s friends are velcome here. Let’s haf a cup of tea and get acquainted.” Her accent had a Slavic thickness.
They followed her up the narrow wooden steps. Madame’s breathing was labored and her fat ankles rippled over the edges of her sturdy oxfords. She was wearing a flowered apron which covered most of her striped house dress, and a cotton paisley babushka was wrapped tightly over her forehead, its exaggerated V trailing down her plump and sweaty back.
Serena’s kitchen was small and old-fashioned but homey, the wooden cupboards painted the same green as the door. Opening one of them, she reached inside and rattled some teacups. As she moved slowly about the room putting pinches of dried material from various packets into a rose-flowered teapot and then pouring boiling water over the mixture, she asked after Monty’s health. “Did dat tincture I fix up for you last veek help?” she inquired.
Monty nodded absent-mindedly and said, “Renee wants to have a spiritual adventure.”
Serena turned, her large breasts swinging sideways and uninhibited, and then seated herself beside her guest placing an arm around her shoulder. The warm, yeasty smell of her, like rye dough rising, wafted into Renee’s nostrils. Cautiously she took a sip of tea. It was brisk and flavorful; familiar, yet exotic.
“Ahhhh.” So that iss vye you haf come.” Renee could have sworn she heard a faint tinkling of bells between the syllables.
Struggling to explain that none of this was her idea, Renee nonetheless remained mute due to sensory overload.
“So ver shall vee begin?” Serena’s question was for Monty.
“My guess is the crystal ball.”
“Vat I haf also taught,” Serena concurred.
Renee indulged in a moment of panic as she asked herself, “What have I gotten myself into? Here is a sweat-faced gypsy proposing to tell my fortune with a crystal ball! No doubt she will soon be asking for money and who knows what else!” It was starting to look suspiciously like superstition posing as spirituality.
Meanwhile Serena was clumsily unfastening both halves of a Dutch door which led into a darkened parlor. She motioned Renee to follow. With her head feeling a bit strange, Renee couldn’t think of anything to say to avoid complying, so tip-toed forward with wary turns of her head. Whispers of Eastern Europe emanated from the tattered velvet chairs and burgundy sofa decorated with crocheted doilies. Several tables were draped with long silk cloths and the glow from fringed glass lamps lent a purple cast to the flowered area rug. In the center of the room on a table, shrouded in black velvet, was the touted crystal ball. It loomed large, obviously the most important item in the room. Serena beckoned her charge to be seated while she lit several candles behind her. Renee found herself furtively hoping Monty was still waiting in the kitchen.
I know what to write next because, like I said earlier, I have experienced something similar.