ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Michael lives in Ireland and is learning the writing craft. [October 1999]
The Fortune Teller Michael J McGrath
Some years back I was a member of a small rugby club. I’m not a particularly good player but I enjoyed the social life associated with the game. For a few seasons a gang of friends and myself enjoyed some memorable times. The club was linked to a club in France and one year we agreed to play a few games in a small provincial town. I speak reasonable French and I acted as an interpreter when required. We enjoyed all our matches and our French hosts were both sporting and full of hospitality. On the last evening of our visit the host team and ourselves enjoyed a first class meal in a local restaurant. The proprietor of the restaurant was the president of the local team and ensured we enjoyed the finest of fare. With the friendly banter the evening passed very agreeably and we only considered going when the proprietor of the restaurant was getting ready to close. Pat Mohan, a first class player turned to the captain of our opponents. “Hey Lucien, where to next?” Lucien an equally large and canny player considered. ”Perhaps we’ll go to the Parrot Club.” This was a lively disco and the suggestion was greeted enthusiastically. After the last bottle was drained, we trooped out into the street. The warm evening air made my head spin and I wondered whether I really wanted to go to a loud smoky disco. Pat Mohan and John Ross fell in step beside me. “I think I’ll just go for a stroll”, Pat said. There seemed to be a lively atmosphere from the square in the centre of the town. I nodded I was going to make the most of my last night in this elegant French town. John Ross tagged along. Our companions made a brief effort to persuade us to accompany them, and then our party separated. Most of the players headed for the Disco. We strolled along the narrow cobbled streets toward the square. There was some kind of market in the square with hawkers selling all types of things. We wandered through the stalls when Mohan pointed out a caravan “Looks like a Fortune Teller, let’s go for a laugh” I paused. I had no time for this sort of rubbish but Mohan seemed keen to go. Ross was a quiet easy going man and nodded his agreement. A waif of a girl of fourteen or so sat at the door of the caravan. I could tell French was not her native language, I guessed she was originally from Eastern Europe. I asked the price hoping this would deter Mohan. She assessed us shrewdly and asked for an amount just beneath the amount I would have left at. I handed the cash to her. As I was the only one in the party who spoke French I went first. I opened the door of the caravan. The room was darkened except for a lamp at the end of the room. A small bird like woman gestured for me to come in. I sat down at the table and was able to see the woman in detail. Her age was perhaps between forty and fifty. She was dressed in simple but elegantly cut black clothes. She had jet-black hair, but her most striking feature was her watchful brown eyes, which seemed to sum me up. “So Monsieur you wish to know the future?” I shrugged vaguely. A thin smile drew across her face. ”But you have no faith in the Tarot , you create your own destiny, mais oui?” I nodded. After all fortune telling was this woman’s livelihood and I was not going to rubbish it. I drew the tarot cards as she directed. I won’t say in detail what she told me but it was soon obvious to me she did have some form of insight. She told me things only I could know about myself and then she told me some of events in my life that have come to pass. I was slightly drained when she indicated that session was over. It was Mohan’s turn. He gave me a broad wink and sat down. I asked him did he want me to go, but he insisted on my remaining to translate. The fortune teller had shuffled the cards and Mohan drew them as required. The woman surveyed them briefly and smiled sadly. “Monsieur, I am a trifled fatigued, perhaps some other time?” Mohan was about to protest but I gently edged him to the door. The woman instructed the waif to return Mohan and Ross’s money. We looked around the market for a bit longer and returned to the hotel. The rest of the team was there with some of the Frenchmen. Mohan plunged into telling the party where we had been and mentioned the fortune teller. I could not but help but notice Lucien and his team mate Hugo exchange a concerned glance when Mohan recounted his experience. “Oh yes”, said Lucien, “She is very good…they say all sorts of people consult her, even big shots, politicians and business types. ” We travelled home from France without incident. Some two weeks later I was sitting at home watching T.V. when the phone rang. It was the team Captain who sounded very shocked. “Ger”, he said, “Pat Mohan’s dead”. Mohan had been killed in a car accident. We discussed the arrangements for the funeral for a while and he rang off. I sat down in a daze. I thought of the fortune teller and her resigned smile. Could it be that she’d seen Mohan had no future and had spared him from this. Could she have saved him? Did Lucien and Hugo sense the significance of Mohan’s experience? I know not. All I knew was I’d lost a friend. I sat there for a long time thinking of the mysterious woman in that small caravan in the small town in France.
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