The fortune teller bid me enter her tent.
Her Cackling laugh gave way to a hacking cough. As I entered, the overpowering smell of the cigarettes told me the cause of her cough and gave me some insight into her future.
She pointed at a stool and sat down in a velvet covered chair, the clattering of her charms and bracelets and the little golden ornaments woven into her headscarf was almost deafening.
I was completely cynical about the whole thing, but this wasn’t my idea. I had been asked to visit Madame Zaritska and report back to the newspaper on what happened. It was for a light-hearted article on quaint customs.
I handed over the pre-requisite coins, the palm of silver, before it could be demanded and I remained silent, not wanting to provide any clues on which this so called Psychic could latch on to.
She leaned forward with a cacophony of more jangling and lit the large black candle on the table between us. It helped to burn away some of the cigarette smoke.
“So, I can tell you have come here with a spirit of some resistance. You do not accept me or accept what I can do. I will show you. Despite your disbelief, I sense you are here for a reason. What shall it be? The cards? The Crystal ball? Or a glimpse into my dark mirror?”
“Oh, I’d like to see your dark mirror.” I said. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, so they say.
“Well, here it is, my dear, lean forward and take a look. You will see the future, the Man of your dreams perhaps?”
From the table she removed a purple and gold silk scarf, (gaudy, I thought it) and underneath was a gold framed mirror, but instead of the usually silvered glass, this mirror was shiny and black.
I lifted it up to look into it. I could just see a rough silhouette of a person. I started to feel very strange. My arms started tingling, like nettle rash, and I could feel a kind of trepidation rise up in me. I stared intently at this silhouette as it resolved into the figure of a man. A Man completely faceless.
Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 24/March/2018