PALMS
Tomás leaned against the muddy wall of the trench furiously whittling a knotted tree branch. He paused, controlled his impatience, not wishing to carve the wrong groove. The knuckles of his hand were white, his fingers numb from the relentless work, the iced air.
He unwrapped his frozen fingers from the wood and warmed his hands under his armpits before firing random shots into the night. He waited for the enemy sentinel to dutifully respond. The shots echoed over the hill. Tomás sighed. One more hour of silence would now settle over the trenches.
Tomás sealed a rolled cigarette with his tongue and lit the smoke under his coat. As he returned the silver tobacco box to his breast pocket, he contemplated the bullet hole in the middle. His grandfather Manecas had slammed the box into his hand at the train station.
"Saved my life in the First," pointing to the box, "have a hunch it hasn't exhausted its luck yet."
Moments later the train whistle drowned his voice and the smoke forced his grandfather to reach for a handkerchief.
In the trench, the cigarette box lifted Tomás' spirits despite the fortune-teller's sentence.
§
On his last day in town, Amélia had convinced Tomás to spend the day at the market.
He bought olives, she lupinis. They walked, arm in arm, around the crowded tents, he spitting black pits, she yellow skins, peeking at booths where merchants yelled out abundant praise for their wares, the louder the better. They were accosted by a rabbit vendor dangling the creature by its ears.
"Clean as a baby, no sores, no infections. My rabbits are the healthiest in the market," the vendor claimed as she spread the rabbit's legs a mere finger from his face.
"No doubt. But where I'm bound I'll find no use for rabbits," Tomás said gloomily.
"Take two then. I'll offer you a better price. There's nowhere one might be where the comfort of a pelt doesn't come in handy," she insisted, rubbing her hand along the rabbit's thick fur.
Tomás and Amélia pushed onward while the woman chased them a few paces down the lane.
"You'd be surprised how little care they need, how little space they take!" She pointed at crowded cages where the rabbits were squeezed. Amélia and Tomás hurried on, merging with the crowds.
Amélia suggested they visit the fortune-teller. They were engaged, and she wanted to prepare for how many children the future had planned for them, how long she must wait before his return.
The palm reader's tent was tucked away in the far corner, past the auction pens. With stripes of green, red and white, it was the most colourful in the market, and despite the stench, it displayed the longest queue on the grounds. Only the foozball tent, where the men gathered, rivalled its business.
In the queue, Tomás shifted from foot to foot, his heart in the foozball tent with his friends. He avoided the curious glances of women waiting their turn.
After hours in the braising heat, swatting flies and avoiding the swing of cattle's tails, a woman, handkerchief on her head matching the patterns on her tent, invited them in. As they stepped inside they were immediately blinded by the darkness.
"Crystal, card or palm? The fortune-teller asked before they had even sat down.
"Palms." Amélia said promptly.
"Left or right?"
"Does it make a difference?" Tomás asked, needing to assert his presence.
"Of course. The left palm shows your hereditary nature. The right, opens the door to the future, and it's more expensive to read of course."
Tomás did not like the fortune-teller's eyes. Black and glimmering, the eyes did not leave him at rest.
"Now, we must hurry. There's a long line of clients eager to learn their fortunes. Are we reading both yours and his?" She asked Amélia while lighting a candle. It was a woman's matter, and they conversed as if Tomás was absent.
"Both. But his hand first, please," Amélia requested.
The fortune-teller pulled Tomás' hand closer to the candle. The warmth of her hands shot an arrow up his spine. Tomás definitely disliked her piercing eyes.
"Goodness gracious! You show the palest lines North of the River Douro. Bad sign. He suffers from weakness of decision, doesn't he?" She nodded to Amélia who nodded back in agreement. "I'm afraid I must double the fare. It's hard enough to read the paths of the future without having to cope with an uncooperative hand."
The fortune-teller searched the pockets of her apron and retrieved a monocle which she placed on her left eye. She peered over Tomás' hand, pressing it down flat. He could hear the occasional bellowing of cattle outside the tent protesting their way to the slaughter house. Her head shook sideways until she finally whistled in a grave tone.
"It's most discouraging. No sign of your future line."
Amélia tightened her grip on Tomás' other hand.
"And your life line," the fortune-teller continued, "shows a remarkably short length." Her fingertip followed a line curving around the base of the thumb.
Tomás heard Amélia's body swoon onto the ground next to him. He carried her outside for fresh air.
"Excuse me, but it's twenty thousand réis. I'm used to theatrics to avoid the price of truth." The fortune-teller had followed him outside. He emptied the silver from his pockets into her hands.
Tomás fanned his hat above Amélia's face until she recovered. Wide eyed, she stared at him as if he were already dead and yelled, "I can't wed a ghost!" Then Amélia stomped away, tossing her ring into the cattle pen.
After Tomás found the ring, he followed her toward the River Caima where he knew she would be sitting under the chestnut tree.
§
It had been some time since Tomás had finished his cigarette. The whittled wood had now taken on the shape of a hand. The fingers clearly defined, narrow fingernails in place, a sign of a calm disposition. Tomás began to carve his tomorrow. He fashioned the perfect lines from the hand pictured in the Art of Palmistry book he had picked up at the train station. He etched deeply, ensuring no possible misinterpretations about his future. The tip of his knife drew a line from the base of the palm following a straight course up, no cross lines representing serious obstacles or sharp changes. He traced a smooth and long lifeline placing a star in the middle, a most fortunate sign. The heart line curving downwards from the base of the fingers ran over to the percussion without any branches or crosses to weaken its course. The wood grain even mimicked the prints on skin. Tomás sighed. He felt in complete control of his future.
An incandescent aurora illuminated the sky. Tomás raised the carved hand rotating it for a last inspection, ensuring no details were abandoned to chance. He slid his engagement ring down the wooden index finger, anticipating his promising new future. Tomás imagined Amélia's face smiling approvingly and could not wait to show her his masterpiece. Their life together would be idyllic now.
The sun rose, radiant and warm. Tomás filled his lungs with the hopefulness of the fresh day. Then fixing his eyes on the fading morning star, he placed his right hand over the machine gun's muzzle and fired a thunder of shells.
©paulodacosta
