American Gypsy (36 page)

“Pull,” I screamed, but the girls kept pushing, pounding against it as if expecting it to change its mind and open. “You're going the wrong way! The lock. Let. Me. Unlock. The. Door.” My fingers, groping for the lock, worked in slow motion against the chaos of screaming faces and wild hair, all erratically seeking safety. Finally I threw the door open and we spilled out.

In the front yard, we took painful breaths, our faces red and sweaty.

“We didn't finish,” I panted. “Have to. Go back.”

Galya bent over, holding her side. “No way,” she said. The other girls agreed.

If I didn't think fast, they'd leave. “Fine,” I said. “Just don't blame me if Pushkin follows you home.” It took some creative thinking to get them to change their minds and help me. Mentioning the possibility of a wayward spirit playing house under their beds did the trick. I myself wasn't sure if we had in fact made contact with a spirit, but I wasn't taking chances. If something did come through, we had to send it back or I'd be grounded for at least a week.

The problem was that I had no idea how to do that. Dad used to read some sort of an incantation at the end of each séance, but I never got close enough to hear the words. Three faces stared at me expectantly, and I collected my crumbling poise.

“Don't worry, our house is protected. Besides, Pushkin liked kids, right?”

“Probably,” Lena said, hopeful. “He did write that
Tsar Saltan
story.” To the Soviet kids,
The Tale of Tsar Saltan, of His Son the Renowned and Mighty Bogatyr Prince Gvidon Saltanovich, and of the Beautiful Princess-Swan
was the equivalent of a Mother Goose nursery rhyme, although a bit more violent. Reading this folktale was like watching a modern soap—mystery, betrayal, murder, love, magic, and redemption, it had it all.

In verse it tells of three sisters, the youngest of whom marries a king and by doing so enrages her older siblings to such fits of envy that they conspire to kill her. The lilting prose is as familiar to me as a childhood lullaby.

Three fair maidens, late one night,

Sat and spun by candlelight.

“Were our tsar to marry me,”

Said the eldest of the three,

“I would cook and I would bake—

Oh, what royal feasts I'd make.”

Confident of Pushkin's kindheartedness, we advanced toward the house. Once in the foyer, I bounded into the kitchen and raced back with a bundle of kitchen towels. I handed one to each girl. “We must open all windows and doors. Swing the towels in the air like you're chasing a fly. At the same time order Pushkin to get out of the house. Be respectful but firm.”

The draft picked at curtains and rustled papers. We tiptoe-rushed from room to room, swatting our towels at the invisible entity. “Please, Comrade Pushkin, get out, go back home, leave us alone, we order you.” After what I thought was an adequate time, I announced that the house had been cleansed and hoped for the best.

That was my first and last attempt at leading a séance, and I can still recall the feeling of complete helplessness that had overtaken me. I'd acted brave in front of the girls, but I didn't sleep for days, my blanket stretched tight around my body, waiting for an infuriated genius of Russian literature to turn up in the middle of the night and terrorize me into schizophrenia. I wanted to be accepted by my peers, but I would've preferred to accomplish that by more conventional means—perhaps by letting them wear my Michael Jackson “Thriller” jacket for free. All I knew was that I never wanted anything to do with channeling again.

But in L.A. it was impossible to avoid. Dad's cases became increasingly bizarre, the way he talked about them even more so. Once, he walked away from a channeling session with soot all over his face. “One of the fucking saucers busted into powder,” he said, wetting the kitchen towel and dabbing at his eyes.

“Aren't the saucers made of crystal?” I asked.

The towel was turning black as he wiped. “Evil taints everything one shade.”

Sometimes I heard screams gust from behind the séance-room doors, or muttering, unarguably even more chilling; other times things shattered against the walls. All of a sudden I was back in Moscow, quaking in my bed with my blanket the only shield against the horrifying sound tracks of some horror flick my parents were watching. They'd marathon three or four films in a row. The groans of the dead, a screen voice splintering me with “Whatever you do, don't fall asleep,” would douse me in gallons of sweat. “They're gonna turn it off soon. They're gonna turn it off,” I'd chant with my arms wrapped around my knees.

But the show at my father's house did not come with a guarantee that in the morning I'd pick up the VHS tape that had bullied me all night and scold myself for being such a baby. My fears began to resurface, and like back in Moscow, they were compounded by the effects of listening yet being unable to see. For whatever reason, I'd thought that if only I could take one look, my eyes would bring into balance the reality my ears had twisted up. Soon I had my chance.

Tanya, a recent Russian immigrant, had come to my father almost six months earlier, complaining of nightmares that left her physically bruised and mentally exhausted. She claimed to be haunted—terrorized, even—by her ex-husband, who had died in a car accident after a fight over Tanya's infidelity. She believed he was now punishing her for inadvertently causing his death.

Tanya wore her chestnut hair short, in the latest Italian fashion. She worked as a fashion designer, owned a home in Pasadena, and had a fiancé who was a successful screenwriter. Within a few months of her nightmares, all of that had changed. She had lost her job and was on the verge of breaking her engagement.

My father first used hypnosis through guided breathing techniques, in case Tanya's problems stemmed from stress. When that didn't work, Dad and Olga visited Tanya's home and cleansed it by burning sage and sprinkling every corner with holy water the way many spiritual practitioners do. For weeks they chanted and prayed over her. But whoever the malefactor was, it did not relinquish its hold on Tanya.

When my father first heard Tanya's story, he attributed her claims of a possession by her ex's vengeful spirit to feelings of guilt over his death. As time passed, though, he started to consider that she might've been correct all along. There is a wide-spread Romani belief that we are continuously observed and judged by spirits. Unlike many other cultures that entrust their fate to an ethereal army of gods and angels, Romani culture concedes that our own ancestors and departed relatives hold most of the immediate power over our daily lives. It is the centuries-old concept of karma, only the rewards and the punishments are dished out by our own ancestral spirits. If we live a moral life, these spirits protect and guide us, but if we stray, their retribution can be destructive. According to this belief, intuition is a spirit steering you in the right direction; all you have to do is listen. Therefore, every event in our lives, be it a lucky draw or a deadly accident, is a direct result of our own actions.

Late one evening Tanya stormed into our house uninvited. I was talking on the phone with Brandon but, noticing Tanya's violently shaking hands, quickly told him that I had to go. Olga spoke in quiet, soothing tones as she led the distraught woman to the table and offered her tea.

“Victor left me,” Tanya said. She couldn't sit still, like a junkie in need of a fix. She strangled her teacup, barely managing to take a sip. “I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't look in the mirror.”

Olga narrowed her heavily penciled eyes, studying the other woman closely. “We'll call on the spirits and recite the prayers. I'll give you some more of the cleansed earth to scatter around the outside of the house—”

“It doesn't help,” Tanya growled. She leaned across the table, staring crossly at my father. “You're not doing shit. Just taking my money. Using me.” Her voice dipped into a lower register on that last word.

Goose bumps fleeted up my arms. I had distinctly heard a man's voice, and I knew I hadn't imagined it. Especially not after the worried looks exchanged between Olga and my father.

He rose with a heavy sigh. “Tanya. We haven't taken your money since our first visit. Here.” Out of his wallet he pulled a hundred-dollar bill. “You can have it back. We only want to help.”

Tanya snatched the money, ripping the bill into tiny pieces. She stuffed it into her mouth and chewed with satisfaction.

I made a move to leave, but my father motioned for me to hang about and observe. I could feel my bones shaking like dry leaves. Standing in the kitchen doorway, I remained so still that I could feel sweat crawling inside my clothes.

Olga guided Tanya to take another drink of the tea. “We're your friends. We're Tzigane. You know what that means.”

Tanya swallowed the last of the bill. “The Devil's people,” she said. Face shadowed with sinister delight, she followed my father's every movement as he sat back down. Suddenly she closed her eyes, fighting to stay awake, chest rising and falling with each audible breath. Her sighs boomed in my ears. When she looked up, her features grew hard and pale. “I will never leave, you know,” she said.

The experience of seeing a human taken over is nothing like in the movies; reality is more terrifying than artifice. The brain shuts down, its logic shocked into a corner, and the only part still coherent is the most primitive you, the emotional you, the one you can't control. Zhanna and I once had a conversation about what people feel seconds before they die. We were both convinced that even if death is sudden, there must be something inside us, something on the most primal level that senses the end but can do nothing to stop it. Zhanna speculated that the fear gripping a person in that moment is what kills them, before death itself. “It must be the God of all terrors,” she would say, “to have that kind of an emotion rip through you.” That's what a possession is like, only drawn out into more minutes than you think you can handle in sanity.

We might choose to forget that every human being has a piece of evil stashed inside, but when revealed, it is a possession, an undeniable Hell resurrected if even for an instant. It's Hell gnawing at your skin with the face of a friend. It's yourself resolving into thousands of prayers. And it's you realizing those prayers are like Styrofoam swords that kids wield on the playground.

The weapon is only as strong as the imagination.

Olga poured more tea into Tanya's cup. This time from the cobalt teapot, the one used to calm down the most disturbed. The liquid inside was an infusion of valerian root and lemon balm. “Come on,” Olga said. “Try this.”

But Tanya's attention centered on my father. Between them a silent dialogue was taking place. “Call any one of your little bitches. They can't make me go. Maybe I'll even stay here. In your house. For a while.”

“Nobody's asking you to leave.” My father was too calm. He didn't look frightened, but watchful and cautious. “Why not let the girl go? This is Hollywood. Here, your choices are endless.”

“She's my wife.”

I felt the tension between them, an invisible tug-of-war. The Russian woman gulped the tea with a challenge in her upturned chin and spit onto the floor at my father's feet. He never reacted, just kept making polite conversation.

After a while, Tanya's eyes began to droop. She bared her teeth at Olga. “
Eb tvoyu mat'
(Fuck your mother), you rotten Gypsy bitch. You spiked my drink!” With a string of more colorful expletives than a Russian taxi driver could learn in a lifetime, she finally keeled over, facedown on the table.

My father picked her up and carried her into the séance room.

“Oksana, come,” he shouted about halfway down the hall.

Dad instructed me to make sure and stay in the corner no matter what. He then lowered Tanya onto a chair, around which Olga poured a thick rope of salt. “It's okay to be scared—natural,” he said to me. “If you know what to do, fear can be dealt with.”

“I don't wanna deal with it. She's freaking crazy,” I said. “I would rather learn tarot cards and tea leaves, not this.”

With a measurable degree of haste, Olga moved about the room, preparing the candles and pouring holy water into tiny saucers. She halted. “Not crazy, Oksana. Tormented. Can't you see how she suffers?”

“I don't care,” I said.

“Shame on you, Oksana. You're Romani. Don't forget about our agreement.”

“Dad. Please.”

“I'll make a circle around you, too,” Olga said, and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder in passing. “Just in case.”

Though I was ready to protest further, Dad gave me one stony look to indicate the end of the conversation. He pointed to an empty chair and I obliged, mouth dry.

“Before you learn how to swim,” he said, “you must first jump in the water.” Opening the prayer book, he called to the three spirits and then to the demon residing inside the Russian fashion designer from Pasadena.

At first, nothing happened. The quiet frayed my nerves. Thick, smoky ribbons from the votive candles gathered as though drawn by fear.

Tanya moaned. Then she cackled.

“Dad,” I said.

“We should begin.” My father turned his attention to the crisp yellow pages of his book—Baba Varya's book, which had always smelled like the inside of a tomb.

Olga picked up a cross from the nearby table and dangled it above Tanya's slumped figure. She recited the prayer of Saint Benedict, patron saint of the poisoned. Her voice floated melodically over another moan.

This is not real, I told myself, shutting my eyes against the being inside the circle. Tanya lifted her head. I knew, because I couldn't quite keep my eyes closed. It is easier to stare fear in the face than to hear it lurk around you. Slowly, her gaze crept about the room.