Gatherers and Hunters by Thomas Shapcott Page A

under Rachel’s eyes and now was staring at it again herself, fully in control. ‘You are a strong woman. But that will not protect you.’ She turned then and spat, accurately, onto the one small area of sand outside the tent flap, some three feet distant. ‘It never protects you.’
    And it was at that moment that Rachel realised, with some genuine disappointment, that the old woman was more an autobiographer than a prophet, a teller of futures and fortunes. It would have been enjoyable, in this rich and truly exotic context, to have been offered a magical formula, something she could joke about later but remember.
    It would be nothing but some old habits of mind from this old woman, practicing her English on the first comer, no doubt delighted to have spotted her prey, and indeed accurately to have assessed Rachel’s origins. No doubt it had been something she noted from afar, like her walk, her stance, the cast of her shoulders and forearms in motion, that had identified her. Rachel, herself, had picked out Aussies in Venice only last month, just by the way they lounged and lurched in a crowd from the Vaporetto.
    â€˜You are strong, though, and there will be many good moments. You are marked for a rich life. There are children. Yes, there are children. Children are always a joy and a disappointment. They are balls of wool. They should be neat and perfect but they always unravel. You want to know how many children? I cannot tell you that. Do you think of children?’
    But Rachel, whose life to that point had been crammed with ambitions and plans and a whole Atlas of opportunities or possibilities, had never had the slightest inkling of children. Her sister’s infant shat in her lap, once, and Rachel decided on the spot that it is not necessary to suffer everything. There are choices. Rafe was around at that stage, too, and Rafe’s definition of ‘choice’ was another of the more arcane of the maps on their shared atlas. They had booked on the same liner to Rome, though after that first week with Rafe and his new friend Orlando, Rachel had been happy to launch out on her own. She, not Rafe, had been the cicerone on that first week. She had memorised all the itineraries and, perhaps for the first time, had realised how retentive and accurate her own memory was. Rafe had been content to let her lead. That had been another bone of contention. And besides, Orlando had been the one to complain incessantly of weariness. He could not manage a cathedral without endless pauses, much less one of the thoroughgoing galleries.
    â€˜And who is the father of these children of mine?’ she had asked airily. ‘Do the coffee grounds tell you that? I would be curious to know,’ she added, aware that the old fortune teller would be already making assumptions.
    â€˜That, I think, is for you do decide. Yes. That is something you will decide. But believe me, the children are there and they will not be denied their entrance into this world of sorrow and pain.’ She gave a sharp nod, one of the children instantly snatched the coffee cup from her hands and disappeared. The old men moved forward. Rachel knew this was the moment and that she must not fudge it. The coin she fumbled from the pocket of her khaftan (Pockets! Such useful receptacles!) was suspiciously generous looking, but it must do. She sailed out of the tent bearing her samovar and did not even look behind at the old woman, though surely there must have been some arrangement, some commission, some form of licence or exchange. Her part in the scenario was done. She found herself without the heart to enter into further barterings or negotiations with the sellers of slippers or the merchants dealing in bronze or leather. For the first time, ever, she was convinced, she had been implanted with the idea of children.
    In the Trattoria Rustica on Lygon Street the crowded table just behind Rachel and Dragana had become noisy, toasts