Your Perfect Year(28)

“What?”

She waved him away. “Forget it.” She pointed again to a chair. “But how about this for a plan? You sit there and wait until the mysterious owner of the Filofax appears.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. I’ve kept the next three hours completely clear for this appointment, so we’re free to spend the time together until my client arrives.”

“Three hours?” Jonathan wondered as he sat down at the table and placed the bag on the floor next to the chair. “That’s how long a reading takes?”

“For a first consultation,” Sarasvati replied, moving to sit opposite him. “It can take up to five hours sometimes.”

“Five?” Jonathan exclaimed in amazement. “What do you find to talk about for five hours?”

“Life. Believe me—some clients come back again and again, because the human experience is so complex. A single consultation is nowhere near enough.”

“What do you earn?” he said without thinking, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“What do you earn from your job?” she countered. “What is it you do?”

“I’m sorry.” He felt his cheeks reddening. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Once again, he couldn’t help himself. “Anyway, if you’re a psychic, you must know what I do.”

“Life adviser,” she corrected.

“Whatever. I didn’t want to step on your toes. I was only interested to know what someone in your”—he tried his best to avoid the word profession—“in your line of business earns.”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On the people who come to me for advice.”

“You decide on the basis of how much you like them?”

“That’s part of it,” she confirmed. “And on what the client can afford.”

“So you offer discounts for the needy?”

“You could call it that,” she said. “It also depends on the seriousness of the problem.” She winked at him cheerfully. “It certainly wouldn’t be cheap in your case.”

“But you don’t know anything about me!”

“I know enough.” She smiled. “I only have to look at you.”

“Really?” Jonathan crossed his arms, surprised to find he wasn’t really offended but rather . . . fascinated. Even though it was, of course, utter nonsense, he had to admit that this Sarasvati had something about her. “Would you be prepared to tell me what it is you see? And how it all works?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she replied. “I just know. It’s a gift. You either have it or you don’t.”

“So why do you need the cards?” He pointed at the pack in the middle of the table.

“They’re my tools, like a carpenter uses a hammer, or a painter uses a brush. I can use them to see the way things are going.”

Jonathan leaned across the table toward her. “I’m sorry, but I find it difficult to believe.”

“Believe what you want.”

“I mean, they’re completely normal cards, aren’t they?” He couldn’t let it go; the whole thing was simply far too interesting.

“They’re tarot cards.”

“And you shuffle them, lay them out, and presto! You know what’s going to happen in the future?”

Her rippling laughter rang out again. “If you like, yes. Except I’m not the one who shuffles the cards; my clients do. And I don’t see the future, but the possibilities.”

“Ah!” He should have known. Possibilities. There were always plenty of those. For instance, he could step out of his house tomorrow and get run over by a truck. Anything was possible.

“If I can explain a little more,” Sarasvati continued. She picked up the pack of cards and began to spread them out in front of Jonathan. “With the tarot there’s what we call the law of correspondence.” She placed one card after the other with a plop on the table. “All our feelings, our thoughts—all our hopes, beliefs, and fears—can be expressed in a picture.”

“So far, so good,” Jonathan said. “But what I don’t understand is how the cards can possibly know what I hope or feel or believe.”

“It’s not the cards that know it. You’re the one! Your subconscious reacts to the symbols in the pictures. It’s like dream interpretation.”

Jonathan shook his head skeptically. “But let’s assume I shuffle the cards and pick a couple out—the outcome is pure chance and has nothing to do with what I know, consciously or subconsciously.”

“Nothing in life happens by chance,” Sarasvati said. “Everything’s connected to everything else. The inner always corresponds to the outer.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Shall I show you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, by reading the cards for you.”

“What?” He raised his hands dismissively. “Oh, no, I’m not interested! I’m only here to hand over the diary, that’s all.”

“As you wish.”

“Yes.” He glanced at the grandfather clock. A quarter past seven. “There can’t be much longer to wait.”