Gatherers and Hunters by Thomas Shapcott

right arm, and looked, herself, into the murky depths of the tiny white cup, before handing it across to the eager brown fingers.
    â€˜You speak English?’ The old woman had a tobacco voice that reminded Rachel of her own Aunt Dolly – the ‘fast’ one who had become wealthy in Potts Point. It was both a relief and a little annoying to find herself so promptly identified. She had not uttered a word during the entire negotiations, the bartering, the careful wrapping or the courteous invitation to coffee and this opulent interior of the small marketplace tent. At no point had Rachel felt the slightest hesitation or nervousness. She was prepared for anything, but not even her moneypurse, hidden beneath the flowing garments, had seemed in the least threatened. The fortune teller was tiny, wizened, and in her smoky voice, at one stroke, she exposed her. Rachel knew her bulky necklace had already been assessed and valued, the one turquoise ring among the pretty other baubles immediately noted, and she hoped the cynical twist at the corner of her mouth had been properly identified.
    The old woman reached out her other hand before gazing, herself, into the proffered coffee grounds, and took up Rachel’s turquoise finger. She looked into her eyes then, just for a moment though it seemed endless. Rachel knew not to waver.
    â€˜Yes, you speak English, but you are not England.’ She waggled the finger in her own grasp. ‘You come to Istanbul to find love, yes?’
    Rachel had spluttered. The spell was broken.
    â€˜I came here for … for …’ But the words, surprisingly, had not come. She could have said ‘for adventure’, or ‘for the sense of history,’ or even ‘for the excitement of a world where I do not know the rules and where my wits must carry me.’ But it had never crossed her mind to use the word ‘love’ in any of its contexts.
    She clutched the large samovar in her arms, as if it were the demonstration of her reason for being here.
    The old woman saw. She nodded and grinned, revealing an almost full set of strong teeth, yellowish but decisive. ‘You have found your love, then. It will please you, but you will have dryness in your mouth.’
    Then she finally took up the tiny cup and looked for a long while closely at the black dregs. Despite her disbelief, Rachel could not hide her interest or her curiosity. The boys by now had all gathered round and were craning, too, to examine the contents. The two old men sat back and waited. They had all day.
    â€˜You wonder I speak the English?’ the old woman said. ‘It is because of the war. I was young in the war, you will not believe how big my eyes were in the war, how big my hunger for everything. Words. Meanings. They were men, all those boys. They taught me and I taught them. The English. Then the New Zealand boys and the Australians. I was in Wellington two years, do you know that? You, you are not England, you are Wellington, or is it Sydney?’ She laughed, a sound like paper being ripped, or parchment. ‘You see, I know everything about you.’
    Rachel had been prepared for the well-documented ­strategies of fortune tellers – the quick observant eyes, the conversational scratching of tiny offguard revelations, the adept analysis of apparel, clothing like a personal definition that classifies everyone. She had felt complacent, aware that no other Australian would wear with such generous flair her ‘bazaar khaftan’ as she liked to call it. She had walked out of the pensione that morning encased in her own sense of exoticism and theatrical pizzaz. What had given her away? What had betrayed her?
    The fortune teller’s silence and concentration held the whole crowd spellbound. Rachel had leaned forward, too, despite the cynicism.
    â€˜It is so.’ The old woman finally muttered. ‘Look, see!’ But she had whisked the tiny bowl too quickly