The Hypnotist

THIRTY-NINE

“We’ve found invitations from Trevor and Davenport Talmage to Frederick Law Olmsted, Bronson Alcott, Walt Whitman and other transcendentalists to come and dine in this very room. There is one box with nothing but handwritten menus prepared by the Creole chef who worked for the family for over twenty-five years and thank-you notes for the meals that include references to spirited discussions on ancient reincarnation beliefs. Elgin even found the bill for our Tiffany wisteria chandelier.” Malachai Samuels glanced up at the lavender and green stained-glass lamp. “The entire history of our first hundred years is chronicled in the correspondence.”

Once a week the senior staff of the Phoenix Foundation met for lunch to discuss their patients, share insights and keep abreast of developments in the field. Now, as Malachai continued to describe the new librarian’s discoveries, Iris Bellmer and Beryl Talmage listened and ate the sesame chicken salad that had been served with soft potato rolls and tall glasses of lemon-and peach-infused iced tea.

“We have the receipts for everything in this room,” he said, gesticulating toward the matching stained-glass windows on either side of the fireplace. Also created by Tiffany, the jeweled interpretations of an elaborate trellis intertwined with more wisteria prevented anyone outside from looking in but allowed for soft daylight to filter in, casting the room in a luminous old-world glow. “You know, if not for our clothes we could be sitting here in 1889. It’s not only the visible aspects of the room that have changed so little but we lament the same issues that plagued our intellectual ancestors. According to the letters, they also debated how best to present their astounding findings to the public and scientific societies in order to be taken seriously.”

Olga, the woman who cooked their lunch every day and kept the kitchen stocked, came in and removed their plates. Malachai was still talking about Elgin’s discoveries when Olga returned with a silver coffee service and plate of cookies. As Beryl poured for each of them the conversation moved on to a discussion of their individual caseloads, starting with Iris, who began by talking about James Ryan.

“I’m convinced that each of the women he’s drawing is someone he harmed in a previous life.”

“How many lives have you touched on?” Beryl asked.

“So far two.”

“And how do they relate to his drawings?”

Iris recounted the story James had told her about Telamon and then moved on to Fouquelle. “He discovered a cache of treasures under a home in the Persian ghetto in the late 1880s and was responsible for the death of the man who owned the house and his wife. He killed her himself.”

Malachai pushed his coffee cup away and the china clattered noisily. “In Persia?”

“Yes. Shush.”

“Are you sure?”

“What is it?” Beryl asked her nephew.

Malachai was leaning toward Iris. “This story that James Ryan told you about the old man and his wife in the crypt. Did he tell you their names?”

“Yes, they were-”

“Wait,” Malachai interrupted. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a silver and lacquer pen, uncapped it and wrote down two words on a pad by his place setting.

“What are you doing?” Beryl asked.

“I don’t want there to be any questions afterward about who said what and when they said it.” Tearing off the sheet, Malachai folded it and handed it to his aunt.

Malachai looked back at Iris. “All right. What were their names?”

“Hosh and…”

“Bibi,” Beryl read the name Malachai had just written at the same time as Iris said it.

“How did you know?” Beryl asked.

Malachai stood up, walked over to the window and stared into the glass that offered no view. In his calm, elegant voice, he proceeded to tell the two women about Nina Keyes’s granddaughter, the seven-year-old who had been coming to see him since Beryl had asked him to take on her case a few weeks before.

“She has a lot of unresolved guilt about what happened to her in her previous life when she was a Jewish woman living in Persia with her husband and four sons. They had a crypt under their house full of ancient treasures her husband’s family had safeguarded for centuries.”

“Are you saying…” Iris asked, incredulous, “that in a past life your patient was a woman killed by a man who in this life is my patient?” She shook her head. “It’s not possible, is it?” She looked over at Beryl.

“Why not? We come back in the same soul circles.” Beryl poured herself more coffee. “So you each have patients who were connected in a prior life. This will make for an amazing case study but brings up a few ethical issues.”

Malachai glanced over at her warily. “Let’s table the ethical issues for the moment. This is an astonishing development. Our patients aren’t just connected, Beryl. The archaeologist killed Bibi and was responsible for her husband’s death.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then Malachai asked, “Do you know his name, Iris?”

“His name is James Ryan.”

“His name in his past life. Did he tell you the archaeologist’s name?”