Page 78 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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Haute-Corse

The hand the old woman offered Gabriel in greeting was warm and weightless. He held it gently, as though it were a cage bird.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” she said.

“Not from you,” he answered. “From themaestral.”

“I’ve always liked the wind.” Confidingly she added, “It’s good for business.”

The old woman was asignadora. The Corsicans believed that she possessed the power to heal those infected by theocchju. Gabriel had once suspected that she was nothing more than a conjurer and a clever teller of fortunes, but that was no longer the case.

She placed her hand against his cheek. “You’re burning with fever.”

“You always say that.”

“That’s because you always feel as though you are on fire.” Her hand moved to his upper chest. The left side, slightly above his heart. “This is where the madwoman’s bullet entered you.”

“Did Christopher tell you that?”

“I haven’t spoken to Christopher since his return.” She lifted the front of Gabriel’s dress shirt and examined the scar. “You were dead for several minutes, were you not?”

“Two or three.”

She frowned. “Why do you bother trying to lie to me?”

“Because I prefer not to dwell on the fact that I was dead for ten minutes.” Gabriel held up the blue slip of paper. “Where did you find that child?”

“Danielle? Why do you ask?”

“She reminds me of someone.”

“Your daughter?”

“How is possible that you know what she looks like?”

“Perhaps you’re merely seeing what you want to see.”

“Don’t speak to me in riddles.”

“You named the child Irene after your mother. Every time she looks at you, you see your mother’s face and the numbers that were written on her arm in the camp named for the trees.”

“Someday you’re going to have to show me how you do that.”

“It is a gift from God.” She released the front of his shirt and contemplated him with her bottomless black eyes. The face in which they were set was as white as baker’s flour. “You are suffering from theocchju. It is as plain as day.”

“I must have contracted it from Don Casabianca’s goat.”

“He is a demon.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m not joking. The animal is possessed. Stay away from it.”

Thesignadoradrew him into the parlor of her tiny home. On the small circular table was a candle, a shallow plate of water, and a vessel of olive oil. They were the tools of her trade. She lit the candle and sat down in her usual place. Gabriel, after a moment’s hesitation, joined her.

“There’s no such thing as the evil eye, you know. It’s just a superstition that was prevalent among the ancient people of the Mediterranean.”