A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page B

I'd had naive hopes for a musical career myself. Music has always been one of my loves, like art—mostly unrequited loves. Though overall I didn't do badly as an investor. I may have broken even." He spoke with that air of ironic wistfulness that Katya disliked.
    She asked if he'd been in love with any of these women and Mr. Kidder said no, certainly not. And Katya asked why not, and Mr. Kidder said, "Because I'm not attracted to glamour, dear Katya. I am a dilettante and a collector and a lover—of beauty. But glamour and beauty are very different things."
    Katya wanted to ask him about his wife—wives. His children, if he had any. So mysterious he seemed to her, though baring his soul in a way no self-respecting man would do, in Katya's experience.
    She thought, He wants to do something to me. In his head, he is doing things to me. Yet the curious thrill of trespass held her captive, and she could not break away.
    Now Mr. Kidder did touch Katya's ponytail, gently. His fingers were light on the nape of her neck, and she shivered involuntarily, laughed, and eased away, gripping the bulky straw bag to hold between them.
    "You are thinking that I have some sort of design on you, dear Katya! I know, I can read your thoughts, which show so clearly, so purely, in your face. And you are correct, dear: I do have a design on you. I have a mission for you, I think! If you are indeed the one."
    "What do you mean? 'The one'?" Katya stammered, not knowing whether this was serious or one of Mr. Kidder's enigmatic jokes.
    "A fair maiden—to be entrusted with a crucial task. For which she would be handsomely rewarded, in time."
    Katya stood gripping the straw bag to her chest. Frightened, and confused. And yet her heart beat quickly in anticipation.
    "There's a German term— heimweh, homesickness. It's a powerful sensation, like a narcotic. A yearning for home, but for something more—a past self, perhaps. A lost self. When I first saw you on the street, Katya, I felt such a sensation ... I have no idea why."
    Now Mr. Kidder spoke urgently, sincerely. Holding both his hands out to Katya, palms up in a gesture of appeal. Still Katya stood unmoving, gripping her bag. She could think of no way of replying to Mr. Kidder that would not have struck a clumsy note: her instinctive reaction was to laugh nervously, stammer something stupidly adolescent, back away ... It was an extraordinary sensation, to be looked at by a stranger, as if he were peering into her very soul.
    "Well. I don't mean to frighten you, dear. I am perfectly harmless, I promise! This mission is not now ... will not be revealed for a while—we need not think of it now. We have other things to think of now." Mr. Kidder smiled, and lightly touched Katya's wrist as if to break the spell. "Before you leave, dear, let me play something for you. Some music I hope you will like. A young relative of mine, a tenor..."
    Mr. Kidder removed a record from one of the shelves, placed it on a turntable. Such antiquated things! Katya sat in one of the white wicker chairs, at the edge of the brightly colored cushion, uneasy. She thought, This is a test. He is testing me, thinking how badly she wanted to flee this house, how distrustful she was of Marcus Kidder really.
    A young man's voice sounded suddenly, high, pure, beautiful. As intimate in Katya's ears as if the singer were in the room with them.
    In Scarlet Town, where I was born
There was a fair maid dwelling.
Made every youth cry well-a-day!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
    All in the merry month of May
When green buds they were swelling,
Young Jeremy Grove on his deathbed lay
For love of Barbara Allen.
    He sent his man unto her then...
    Closely Katya listened, scarcely daring to breathe. The singer had such a pure voice, beautifully modulated yet masculine. The words of the song seemed to pierce her heart. An old song, a song of long ago—a song Katya's friends in Vineland would have sneered at, as, in their company, Katya