“I’d like you to read my palm. If you do that.”
“Of course I read palms,” I replied in a tone that was intended to express, more than the words, just how amazed I was at such a question. “I didn’t mention it because no one has asked for it in quite some time. It seems like palm reading has gone out of fashion. You may have been unaware, but fashions change in fortune-telling just like in everything else. Although, with palm reading, this is somewhat peculiar, since the palm is part of your body and can thus be considered the most direct, reliable indicator of your fate. I think you have made a good choice.”
The young man, who until then had kept his hands in his lap, hidden from my view, slowly raised his right hand and laid it palm up on the green felt that covered the middle of the table, illuminated by a narrow beam of bright light.
I waited several moments, but since he wasn’t about to do anything, I said, “It might be helpful if you took off your glove.”
The gloomy seriousness of his face softened for the first time. “Sorry,” he said, with an expression of discomfiture. He wasn’t quick about it, however. He took off the glove with slow movements, almost with reluctance. He suddenly reminded me of a striptease artist starting her act. When he was finished, he briefly held his hand clenched in a fist before opening it up—apparently against his better judgment.
I didn’t look at his palm right away, as some shoddy diviner would do. If you want your customer to take you seriously in this work, you have to respect formality. And formality here required that I first take a bit of cotton, put some alcohol on it and briskly rub the surface of his palm with it. Although the reason for this should have been obvious, many visitors were bewildered and asked for an explanation. I gave them one, trying to make it sound as professional as possible, sprinkled with Latin words.
After having thoroughly cleaned his palm, I took a large magnifying glass with a handle and frame of imitation ivory, wiped it with a gray linen cloth, and finally looked at his palm.
Even under the magnifying glass the young man’s lifeline appeared quite short. I had seen other lines that suddenly stopped or branched somewhere around halfway to the base of the hand, but never one like this. It barely reached one-third of the way. If there really was something to this, my young visitor should already have met his maker. Luckily for him, this was just plain superstition. Luckily for me, that was quite widespread. Neither of us had any reason to complain.
I raised my head and looked him in the eyes. It was only then that I realized this had not been tactically wise. I should have continued calmly examining his palm as though there was nothing special on it. This way, he received confirmation that something was wrong. I quickly returned my eyes to his palm, but it was too late.
“I’m going to die soon.” He said it in a soft, flat voice, as though stating an incontrovertible fact.
“Excuse me?” I asked with exaggerated surprise, not taking my eyes off what was under the magnifying glass.
“I don’t have much longer to live.”
“Why do you think that?”
“My lifeline.”
“What about it?”
“See how short it is.”
“I see. And so?”
“That means my time is almost up.”
I laid the magnifying glass on the table and looked at my customer again. The calculated harshness in my eyes expressed legitimate indignation.
“My dear young man, if you know how to interpret the lines on your palm, why waste your time and money with me?”
I don’t resort to this sentence very often because the occasions to use it, thank heavens, have been rather rare, but whenever I’ve said it the effect has always been as expected. This time, however, the effect was missing. Judging by my visitor’s face, the rebuke had made no impression at all. I would have to act even angrier.
“It’s simply amazing how some people fail to realize that palm reading is a very serious and responsible craft, and not something that just anyone can do. Skill is only acquired after thorough training and long experience, and natural talent is absolutely necessary. In this respect, it is not very different from medical diagnostics. Would you interfere in a diagnostician’s work?”
The young man did not reply immediately. Something seemed to be weighing on his mind. When he finally answered, he disregarded my rhetorical question. “Do you think I might live a long life?”
I sighed deeply and picked up the magnifying glass again. This seemed to have done the trick. I bent over his palm and started to examine it once more. I did it slowly and meticulously, taking lots of time. With ordinary customers I stated my verdict relatively fast in order to create the impression that everything was clearly and easily readable. With such smart alecks, however, I had to do the opposite. They are only convinced if the prediction is made after exhaustive and lengthy examination.
“You will live a relatively long life,” I said at last. “I guarantee at least 84.5 years, although there is a chance that you might live to 90.”
Not a single customer, regardless of how distrustful they are in the beginning, has failed to light up when they hear they have decades of life before them. Sometimes there are even touching moments, with tears and sincere confessions about the dark forebodings and fears that have brought them to my parlour. Some of those who have been relieved of a particularly heavy burden have even fallen into my arms. In those moments, as I pat them on the back, I feel proud of my line of work. Gone is the guilty conscience that haunts me from time to time. What people get from me, at a modest price, is measured not by how true or honest it is, but by how useful.
There was not even a flicker of a smile on the young man’s face. “Guarantee?”
Now he really had gone too far. I had yet to encounter such ingratitude. “Of course I guarantee!” I almost shouted. “I can give it to you in writing if you want!”
My agitation didn’t sway him. “But your guarantee can be easily invalidated,” he said in a steady voice.
“Is that so?” His composure only fed the flames of my anger. “And please, won’t you tell me just how?”
“Easily. I could kill myself.”
I thought I hadn’t heard correctly. “You could do what?”
“Kill myself,” he repeated, as though stating the obvious.
I stared at his wooden face. I had underestimated this customer. He wasn’t just one of the ordinary skeptics who come in periodically. I know how to deal with them. This was quite a different case. I’d never had a visitor who mentioned suicide, nor had I heard of any such customer visiting my colleagues. The young man certainly wasn’t serious, but I still had to be careful. If anything were to happen, they might close my shop.
“Of course you can’t kill yourself,” I said in a tone that restored my previous composure. “Even if you wanted to. What is clearly written on your palm would prevent you. You will die an old man, whether you like it or not. Indeed, I see no reason why that shouldn’t please you.”
“But I can,” replied the young man. With a rapid movement he pulled his right hand from the lighted circle on the felt and stuck it between the lapels of his raincoat. A moment later he pulled it out, holding a gun. I don’t understand a thing about weapons, but this one seemed serious and threatening enough in spite of its small size. He held it in front of him, the barrel turned between the two of us.
I knew I had to say something if I wanted to retain control of the situation, but try as I feverishly might, nothing coherent crossed my mind. I just stared dully at the shiny, chromium-plated metal in the visitor’s hand, feeling a lump form in my throat. I had never been that close to a firearm before.
“What’s stopping me?” said the young man, breaking the silence. “It’s quite a simple matter.” He cocked the gun with his thumb and put it next to his right temple. “All I have to do is pull the trigger.”
“Wait!” finally burst out of me. I jumped halfway out of my chair.
There must have been s
omething funny about that because the visitor’s lips curved into a gentle smile. He didn’t put the gun down, but his finger relaxed on the trigger.
“Why?”
“You’d kill yourself just to prove that my prophecy isn’t true?” The fact that my voice was shaking certainly didn’t help, but there was nothing to be done. I slowly sank back into my chair.
He hesitated a long moment and then lowered the gun into his lap, out of my sight. An audible click meant the gun was no longer cocked. A loud sigh of relief escaped me.
“I would kill myself to foil predestination. That’s the only way I have to beat it. I’ve thought about it for a long while. When you’re marked like I am, you don’t have time for much else.” He raised his hand without the gun, turned his palm towards me briefly, then put it back in his lap.
“But I told you . . . ”
“I know what you told me,” he said, cutting in. “But it’s all the same, don’t you see? Instead of one predetermination you offered me another. And one that is considerably longer. Isn’t it enough that I’ve suffered for almost two decades because of what’s written on my palm? Should this agony now continue into old age? You can’t imagine how heavy a burden it is. I simply wouldn’t be able to bear it that long. It’s utterly impossible to live if you know when you will die.”
Silence fell on us like a heavy shroud. Even if I hadn’t been experienced at interpreting my visitors’ expressions, it was easy to read what was in the young man’s eyes: a suicide’s firm resolve to follow through on his intention.
“But if you didn’t want to find out when you will die, why did you come to my parlour?”
“I didn’t come to your parlour to find out when I will die. I know that already. I came here because this is the most suitable place to kill myself. The temple of predestination. It is only here that my act will have true meaning.”
“This is no temple of predestination,” I said in a muffled voice, like a criminal admitting guilt when faced with incriminating evidence.
“What else is a fortune-teller’s parlour?” asked the young man, knitting his brow.
“A temple of false hopes. Those who decide to visit me don’t do it for the sake of truth. Somewhere deep inside them everyone is aware of that. What brings them here is the suddenly aroused awareness of their own mortality. The same that has started to haunt you much too early. Indeed, I don’t offer them the eternity they would be promised if they went to church. What I sell doesn’t last quite that long, and so has less value. But there are those who would buy longevity.”
“False longevity.”
“False, of course. How else could it be? There is no true prediction of the future for the very reason that there is no predetermination. You are ready to raise your hand against yourself in order to beat an opponent that doesn’t even exist.”
“But my lifeline . . . ” He raised his hand again, this time with the gun in it.
“Your lifeline doesn’t say a thing. And neither does mine. Or anyone else’s. It’s all pure superstition. What is written in your palm has nothing to do with how long you will live. Right now that depends entirely upon you. You can pull that trigger and follow through on an enormous misconception. Or you can forget the whole thing and embark on an uncertain future, enjoying the very uncertainty it holds.”
As I spoke these words, I tried anxiously to guess what his reaction would be. My worst fear was that he would pay absolutely no attention, finding my words false or not convincing enough, and would simply end things the way he had clearly intended when he came in my parlour. Another possibility, certainly less ominous although still very troublesome, would be to embark with me on a metaphysical discussion about predestination, waving his weapon under my nose all the while as his trump card. Curiously enough, I was least repulsed by what in any other circumstances would have appeared the most horrendous threat: that he would sue me for openly admitting that I consciously deceived my customers, even with noble intentions. That would certainly have closed down my parlour.
The young man sat there for a long time in silence, staring at me fixedly. Or maybe the time seemed long to me. Time can pass very slowly when you are waiting for something stressful. When he finally spoke, I was speechless with surprise for several moments.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked.
“You don’t owe me anything, of course.”
“No, please. I have to pay.” He stood up, still holding the gun. His other hand picked up the glove on the table, then his umbrella from the back of the chair.
There was no sense arguing. How can you refuse money from a man brandishing a gun in front of you? I stated the lowest price that I keep only for special customers. This one certainly belonged in that category, so my generosity was well founded.
My visitor was suddenly in a predicament. Since both hands were full, he couldn’t reach his wallet. Finally, he tucked the gun back inside his raincoat, fumbled around inside a bit, then took out his wallet. The banknote he handed me was considerably larger than the sum I’d asked for.
“I’m afraid I don’t have change,” I said in an apologetic voice. “If you could wait a minute, I’ll go change it. Just around the corner. I’ll be right back.”
“There’s no need to give anything back. Keep the change.”
I didn’t have a chance to protest because the young man made a brisk about-face and headed for the door. I thought he would leave without a word, but he stopped at the door, turned and said, “Good night.”
My answering “good night” echoed in the empty parlour.
I stayed in my chair, staring blankly at the large banknote, turning it over and over between my fingers. Like a mantra, this monotonous, rustling sound helped me pull myself together. Life has taught me one thing: always look on the bright side, whenever possible, even in the most difficult situations. Although the visit that just ended had certainly been unusual and in many ways unpleasant, there had been no adverse consequences.
The most important thing, of course, was that I had prevented the young man from committing suicide, something that would have been quite detrimental to us both. He would clearly have been in a far worse situation, but I would have had my share of trouble too. If only he’d found some other reason to raise a hand against himself than just outwitting predestination! As if predestination existed; or rather, if it existed, as if it were at all possible to outwit it. A bonus was the fee. It would have taken at least five customers for me to earn what this visitor had left me so gallantly. And the days when that many people enter my parlour can be counted on one hand.
Finally, the incident I had just gone through started me thinking about putting in special security measures. We live in uncertain times, and additional precautions certainly couldn’t hurt. Besides, I am visited by strangers who are all, without exception, burdened with troubles. Carefree, satisfied people don’t go to see a clairvoyant. I’d been lucky this time, but I certainly didn’t want some future customer to pull a gun on me. Maybe I should put an inconspicuous metal detector by the entrance, similar to those at airports. Provided it wasn’t too expensive, of course.
I was roused from my thoughts by a sharp ringing. Usually my customers barely touch the doorbell, dreading what awaits them inside, but whoever was at my door now clearly wasn’t the slightest bit afraid. Judging by the insistent ringing, for some reason he must have been in a great hurry to find out his future.
“Coming, coming,” I shouted, getting up from my chair.
As I shuffled towards the door on limbs that had gone numb from sitting so long, it suddenly occurred to me that it might be the young man. He’d changed his mind and decided to do what he’d originally intended after all. Panic-stricken at this possibility, I stood there without moving, my hand on the doorknob, not knowing what to do. But the ringing simply wouldn’t stop, so I finally opened the door a crack and peered into the dense mist that filled the evening.
The face I saw was not the young man’s. In fr
ont of the door was a rather short, middle-aged man with a bushy beard, wearing a winter coat. I had never seen him before. His appearance, however, did not bring relief. He seemed upset, as though he’d just been through an ordeal.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in a trembling voice, unconsciously taking off his hat, exposing his balding head. “Yours is the only light that’s on. Would you mind . . . letting me use your telephone? It’s urgent. There’s been an . . . accident.”
“Accident?” I repeated.
“Yes, here . . . quite close,” he said, motioning vaguely towards the left. “A young man was . . . crossing the street . . . I didn’t see him in the mist . . . I was driving slowly, of course . . . Suddenly he popped out in front of me . . . out of nowhere . . . I didn’t have time to hit the brakes . . . It all happened so suddenly . . . ”
“Is he injured?” I asked, although it was unnecessary. As an experienced clairvoyant, I had to know the answer.
“I’m afraid he’s dead, ma’am. He’s lying there . . . on the pavement . . . covered with blood.” He raised the bloody, white scarf in his hand. “I tried to stop the bleeding with this . . . He died in my arms .. . I have to call the police . . . ”
The police soon arrived and made an inspection of the scene. There was no investigation since there was no need. It was a clear-cut case. Inattentive pedestrians periodically meet their end like that in the mist. There was nothing the driver could have done.
No one asked me anything. Why should they, anyway? I wasn’t a witness to the tragic event. I didn’t offer to make a statement either. What for? Why would the police be interested in what some old fortune-teller thinks about a routine traffic accident?
Impossible Stories Page 36