Dark Angel [antikvár]

Ic' !"-f^ieTHE FORTUNE-TELLER AND MY GODMOTHER. 1' ' ' ' i I 'I WENT to a fortune-teller once. His name was Mr Chatterjee; his premises were a small shop, between a pastry-maker's and a silk-dealer, in the middle of the bazaar, in Delhi.It was not my idea to consult Mr Chatterjee. I did not believe in fortune-tellers, horoscopes, Tarot cards, the I Ching, any of that tempting mumbo-jumbo. Neither, I think, did my friend Wexton, although it was he who made the suggestion to go.Mr Chatterjee had been recommended to Wexton. One of the Indians we had met on this visit had given him a glowing testimonial - it might have been Mr Copal, from the university, or maybe the Maharani. The next day, on a visit to the bazaar, Wexton located his premises; the day after, he suggested I visit him.Travelling with Wexton was always full of surprises. I thought: Why not?'Won't you come, too, Wexton?' I said. 'He could read both our fortunes.'Wexton smiled his benevolent smile.'At my age,' he replied, 'you don't need a fortune-teller to predict your future, Victoria.'A nod towards the graveyard. Wexton gave no sign of melancholy. I set off for my fortune the next afternoon.On the way, pushing through the crowded alleyways of the bazaar, I considered the question of age. In a Victorian novel -the kind my father liked - a woman is old at twenty-five, over13I'll,(