The Gypsy Fortune Teller

Her face could tell many a tale, its creases betray her years. No one seems to know exactly how old she is, I’m guessing no one would ask, out of respect & fear. I know she has worked from this flat for over 50 years, my grandmother first visited her in 1965. She told me the flat was odd then, filled with stuff. When I asked what she meant, she just said stuff, you’ll see.

So now I sit here looking around she was right, it's filled with stuff. Near the window a table that's covered with a thick red velvet cloth, a plant pot containing a withered wilted poinsetta, that looks like it's been dead for years, next to it an old dusty radio, its dials worn away through use.

Shanti Dell ‘Orto enters the room her frail hands clutching the old gold coloured tray, on it the bone china teapot and matching cups, that like their owner have seen better days. The room fills with the heavy smell of lavender soap, it's so strong my head starts to swim a little.

I run my eyes over her pale skin. Despite her age worn face, she looks attractive yet she wears no makeup, needs none. Around her head a purple silk scarf from which her oddly reddish brown shiny hair escapes, little tufts making her look almost child like. I wonder if maybe that was her one little luxury, a little treat from a bottle. A small widow’s peak dipping down towards her nose, giving her weatherbeaten face an almost heart shape. She wears a dress that is hard to describe, a dark velvety material, the colour difficult to pinpoint, it seems to be between a purple and a red, but changes as she moves. Almost floor length, but this could be just down to her size, she is such a petite lady, that is clear as she perches in the manly size carver chair.

Around her neck a small silver antique locket, Its delicate engraving impossible to make out at the this distance, but after a look at her left hand I wonder if it was a gift from a lost love. She must have seen me looking as her she takes the locket between her boney finger and thumb, raising it to her thin lips and kissing it.

She smiles and as she does her deep brown eyes twinkle, she passes me the cup of tea.

“Now my dear child, shall we read the cards?” Her voice smooth, sugary even, yet powerful in its own way. She produces a small wooden box, her long skinny fingers that make me wonder how she supports the gold rings on each of them, as she removes a set of tarot cards. Expertly her fingers work quickly dealing cards on the threadbare table cloth, which like its owner looks like it has not seen the light of day in many years. As the reading goes on I continue to study my host, picking up her tea she blows across its surface before she sips it gently. Not gently enough as she starts to cough, her hands rise to her throat “My medicine” she manages to splutter pointing to a small bottle on the sideboard, I jump up to grab it for her. As I stretch out my hands I catch a jar or pencils, sending them flying across the room. I pass her the brown bottle, opening it she gulps it straight from the bottle. I watch as a trickle of the burgundy coloured liquid snakes down the wrinkled chin, like little streams.

Where the medicine had stood a black & white photograph is now visible, leaning in closer I can clearly see it's my host, she is younger so much younger. She is dressed in floral dress of 1930’s style, in her arms a baby swaddled in a shawl, a man in uniform stands by her side, his thick beard hiding much of his face, long handlebar moustache stretching out way past his ears. In the picture I can just make out the same locket that she does today. I do the maths in my head, she must almost 100 if she is a day.

She takes my hand in hers turning it over, her grip is firm, but yet fingers still feel delicate. Her skin is rough through hard work, tough little callouses scratched my soft hand. I could pull my hand away, but feel at ease with her as she traces a long fingernail along my hand. Her fingers like twigs, gnarled and her knuckles like woody knots.

“You have a sad heart my dear, but not for long” her finger ran across my hand “See your heart line is good and strong, and like me just one line of marriage” She smiled her face creased “You mark my words my girl you will soon find love, a love as strong as your mother found in 1966, after your grandmothers visit” My jaw dropped how did she know, I had not told her.

“I knew the moment I saw you, I know that you have it too, the gift, that's why you are here” I was confused was this old lady losing it, maybe I shouldn’t have come.

“I know you don’t understand it yet, but your dreams are vivid, believable, you get Dejavu afterwards, am I right?” I nodded how could she know. The corners of her eyes creased as a wide smile spread across her face. She seemed younger now, a glow in her cheeks  “You will find love my dear the dark haired man in uniform you dream of so often, you will meet him soon, very soon.” She passed me the photo, “look carefully what do you see?”

“You, your husband and baby” I said, as I ran my fingers through the dust on the photos glass “Your baby a little boy, called James” I shook my head how did I know that, I looked at her for reassurance, she had thrown her head back and was laughing “Am I right, how did I know?” rummaging in her pocket and pulled out a business card James Dell ‘Orto Theatre Design Consultant.

Sipping my tea I glanced at my watch, I had been here an hour and half already.

“I’m so sorry I must go” I said standing up “Thank you for the tea, and the reading” She smiled.

“I’ll see you soon” She said. I nodded, yes I would come back and see her one day, poor thing must be lonely, and I have so many questions for her.

I dash out of the flat, down the stairs to the street. Thwack, straight into the arms of ….

Shanti watches from the window smiling, as I stood in the arms of the army officer with whom I had collided.

“I’ll see you tomorrow my dear” She said out loud though no one heard her “I am sure you will have much to tell me.”