Hot Siberian by Gerald A Browne Page B

interesting.
    She explained, as though fed up with having to explain it, the fundamental premise of iridology. “Certain areas of the iris correlate with certain parts and organs of a person’s body, as well as to his psychological condition. Discolorations are the clues.” She wasn’t in the mood for more iridology, so before Nikolai could get out a question about it she changed the subject, letting him know how much of a mystical maze he was getting himself into. Divining, magic mirrors, the casting of spells, numerology, phrenology, the throwing of rune stones, and Reiki healing were but a few of the practices in her repertoire. She believed in astral excursions, walk-in souls, specialized angels. She believed in all sorts of life: life after death, life before conception, and something she called life scheduling, which, as Nikolai understood it, was a kind of timetable that everything went by. Their meeting, for example, had been pre-intended, she said.
    â€œKarmic,” he put in.
    She was brightly surprised that he knew the term. It was reassuring, it inspired her to open another level. She was on her own, she told him, had no family other than a father somewhere in France whom she didn’t think of as family. She’d never seen her father, not even a photograph, although she had composed a mental picture of him from the few comments her mother had made. She had been a wanted child in the truest sense, wanted without having to endure all the intolerances, personal invasions, and other drawbacks of marriage. Vivian had never thought of that as cynical; rather, the way she saw it her mother had just been way ahead of her time. Her mother had selected, according to certain criteria, a man to have a child by. She’d entered into an arrangement with him. As soon as that had been accomplished, adieu —no tout à l’heure or à bientôt .
    â€œWhat kind of arrangement?”
    â€œNot a venal one,” Vivian was quick to say. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t want to think it was for mere money. More likely it was done purely for the pleasure of it. Must have been,” she said, grinning, sitting up and presenting herself, “considering the product.”
    â€œWhere is your mother now?”
    â€œOn the other side,” Vivian replied matter-of-factly, as though she meant nothing more than the other side of town. She went on to tell him that come September it would be five years since her mother had drowned. While swimming in a lake in Scotland. Far out in the lake. Wide, deep lake. It was September. The water cold. One moment Mother’s bright green bathing cap was out there bobbing like a child’s playball, the next it was gone. “Drowning isn’t supposed to be a painful experience. They say it’s one of the better ways to pass over.” Vivian smiled, but it was not her completely genuine smile, and Nikolai knew the recollection had come from a private, hurt place in her, and he felt privileged. “Mother and I have chats,” she said. “We discuss everything from poker to peignoirs. You think I’m daft?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s good, because last night you were our topic.”
    â€œWhat did she have to say?”
    â€œNot to tell you what she said.” Vivian playfully overworked her eyelashes. “But of course that was only to make sure I would.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œMother’s word was that you’re one of the last of the credible romantics and that if I placed any value on my independence I should take the nearest escape route. Now, is that just spiritual gossip, mother worry, or God’s truth?”
    â€œProbably all three.”
    They didn’t make love that night. From the restaurant they walked up to Kensington High Street and Kensington Gardens and on across Hyde Park. Slow, lovers-type walking. They didn’t mind it was somewhat chilly. That only pressed them