Chapter 2

Danielle had work to do at the magazine office, which gave Bolden several hours to kill before her schedule cleared in the afternoon. She had said good-bye quietly in the morning, leaving behind a soft hint of perfume and the shadow of a fleeting kiss. With nothing better to do, he set out to wander the streets of Paris.

The palm-reader’s shop nestled on a street in the Latin Quarter. He didn’t remember giving the taxi driver the address, so it was as if he had simply ended up there. Like most men, Bolden was slightly superstitious and extremely hesitant to admit it. Once, during one of those long, romantic Parisian walks at the beginning of their relationship, Danielle had showed him the place, pointing to it as if it were an oddity. He certainly wouldn’t have noticed the faded sign above the wooden door that opened directly upon the street, pressed between a café and a souvenir boutique. Danielle told him she had known about it ever since she had visited it in high school with some classmates. She didn’t remember any of the predictions, or say whether the palm reader had been a man or a woman, but she and her friends had been amused by the story for years.

Bolden followed the instructions written on the enameled door plate and pulled the brass handle of the old-fashioned doorbell. He heard a bell chime, followed by the slight buzz of a magnetic bolt, and the door opened before him. He pushed it aside and entered a hallway, dimly lit by three candle-shaped lamps, attached to walls covered with elaborately framed old paintings. The closed behind him with a soft whir and snap, and suddenly it was quiet, as if the noise of the street were now miles away. The air hung dense with the vague smell of incense and old things.

“Come in, come in!” he heard a man’s voice say. “Come on in!”

He proceeded hesitantly towards an open door that cut an oblong of reddish light on the other side of the hallway. He went in, gently knocking on the wooden door. The view surprised him: two windows that probably opened onto an inner courtyard poured daylight in the room through the softening filter of once-brown curtains. A crammed bookshelf covered the wall opposite the door, shelves groaning under the weight of ancient volumes, arranged in rows, heedless of size, as if they were frequently taken out and read. A lavish desk with arched legs, a Louis-something, sat in front of the bookcase. He had seen a similar piece at one of the museums Danielle had taken him to. In an armchair, finished in the same French style as the desk, sat a dark-skinned old man with a goatee and white hair, dressed in an elegant suit. He looked at him from behind a pair of frameless glasses that perched on his nose. It seemed more like a lawyer’s office than a fortuneteller’s. A triangular prism nameplate on his desk revealed his identity – Dr. Yole Jeniko.

“Please, sit down, sir! Welcome! I am sure I can be of service.”

The old man extended a wrinkly but warm hand, which Bolden shook, realizing as he did that the man he had addressed him in English from the moment he entered the shop.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, you Americans, you have a certain… something. A particular mien. After all, you have come to a fortuneteller’s, haven’t you? “

The old man bid him to sit down on an excellently restored, old-style sofa. Despite its look of impeccable taste, it didn’t turn out to be that comfortable.

“This doesn’t exactly look like a psychic parlor,” Bolden said, sitting down, crossing his legs and looking around.

“What did you expect? Stuffed lizards and snake jars? A crystal ball? No, sir, the art of fortune telling has adapted and modernized. We no longer use Ouija boards. I am afraid that, on the other side of the Atlantic, in your country, you are still stuck with the old clichés and Hollywood must play an important role in perpetuating this error.” Bolden fidgeted in his seat, in a useless attempt to find a better position. He cleared his throat. The strange scene – and the Indian-skinned man with the Caucasian features who inhabited it – impressed him,

“Actually, I have come for this,” he said, producing the black business card and offering it to the fortune-teller. “Did you or anyone else in the business have anything to do with it?”

The old man lifted his glasses a little and examined the black rectangle. The golden letters glittered when he turned them towards the light.

“The Guardian Angel” he slowly read. “Yes…”

He handed the card back.

“Have you heard of him?” Bolden asked.

“Who hasn’t? Each of us has one. Don’t children learn little poems and songs about their guardian angel? If I am not mistaken, the belief appeared in the Christian faith around the fifth century. Besides his role as a bodyguard, the Guardian Angel delivers to God the prayers of the one over whom he watches. But I believe this is not what you wanted to know. It must be something important. You wouldn’t have come to my humble parlor for so simple a thing. You are a rich man, no doubt.”

“How do you know that?” Bolden asked.

“It is no mystery. There is a small video camera outside the entrance. The collar of your shirt still has the inner label, and when you leaned over to read the door plate, I saw the size. An American size. In Europe we use other sizes. You are wearing designer clothes and expensive shoes. You haven’t asked me how much I charge. Need I go on? I hope I haven’t disappointed you with my deductions, fit more for a detective than a fortuneteller. Now tell me: what is it that you want?”

Bolden felt a sudden desire to get up and leave immediately. He stood abruptly, but instead of leaving he removed the black envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk, then returned to the uncomfortable sofa.

“The card arrived in that envelope. You will understand my interest when you read the line below my name.”

Jeniko examined the envelope more carefully than he had done with the black card, dwelling on the dates for a long time. Finally, he carefully placed it on the desk again, as if the envelope were fragile.

“Mr. Bolden…,” the old man read, keeping the envelope at a fair distance from his aged eyes. “You are the Bolden, the one from America? The one with the space garbage?”

Usually he avoided mass-media exposure and shunned the press, which had fallen in love with the nickname People magazine had selected for him – The Cosmic Garbageman. Consequently, some Americans knew his name, but few recognized his face. It never occurred to him that his undesired celebrity had crossed the ocean.

“Yes, of course,” the fortune teller continued, seeing he got no answer. “I should have recognized you. I am sorry! I am no longer up to date with who’s who.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Bolden reassured him, feeling embarrassed.

“As you probably know very well,” the old man proceeded, “the Guardian Angels are an organization in your country that patrols the subways and dangerous neighborhoods, unarmed, to prevent violence. I know of another guardian angel that is, actually, a computer science project belonging to MIT, something with a children’s organization. Though, I believe you also want to know about…”

The old man got up and searched for a book in the shelves behind him. Finding it after some deliberation, he quickly leafed through it until he got to a particular page and began reading along a line traced by his finger. He sat back down and spoke without lifting his eyes from the text.

“In history, there have been many, more or less secret, organizations bearing that name. During the Middle Ages, almost every king had guardian angels – in fact, very reliable, elite troops. The freemasons had or still have guardian angels, in at least one of their branches, except they give this symbol a totally different meaning: the angels represent the guardians of the true faith, a duty they sometimes fulfill mercilessly. But, to give you an answer, I assure you that no one in our trade – and, believe me, I know everyone – sent you that envelope. No, sir, I am sorry, I do not think I can help you. I don’t know who could have possibly sent you something like that, although I think I can imagine the reason.”

“The reason? Doesn’t it look like a threat to you?”

The old man thought about it for a few moments.

“Well, yes, if you mean that the envelope has the date of your supposed death on it. Namely, tomorrow. You are a very rich man, Mr. Bolden. Many would like to blackmail you for money. It could be something like that, in which case you should immediately go to the police. Only I do not believe that. As you can see, there is nothing to suggest this has something to do with a financial demand. It seems more likely to me that this is a way of telling you there is someone watching over you. I have a feeling this won’t be the last of this Guardian Angel. You will hear of it again quite soon. It might have something to do with predeterminism.”

“Predeterminism?” Bolden frowned.

“A widespread philosophical concept. Our existence is driven by the deity and our lives unfold between the boundaries of birth and death. Perhaps there is the possibility you might die on the date written on the envelope and this Guardian Angel of yours will somehow intervene. Actually, he already has, by sending you this message. You should be very careful what you do tomorrow. You are in grave danger and he has warned you about it. This is how I see things.”

“I think that is enough,” Bolden said and prepared to leave. “I am sorry, but I don’t believe in such things. I still think someone made a very bad joke.”

He drew a five hundred euro bill from his wallet, got up and placed it on the desk.

The old man rose too.

“That is very generous of you. So, since you are here, why don’t you let me do my job and read your palm? Please, sit down!” he said, a hand gently pressing Bolden’s shoulder.

Bolden sat back down on the sofa. The old man sat beside him, took his left hand and turned it with the palm facing upwards.

“There is no need,” Bolden objected weakly, but the old man gently hushed him as if calming a small child.

“Why do you think there is no one in the waiting room? I always work with appointments. And yet today I felt that I was going to have a special client. I have been waiting for you, although I did not know you were going to be the one. Let me look at your palm. We might find out the answer you have wanted to know so badly.”

Bolden faintly tried to pull his hand away but Jeniko held it with a gentle grip, talking while he examined his palm.

“I did my PhD in History. Wrote my thesis on ‘The role of pseudosciences in the evolution of the feudal world.’ During my research, I started to notice things. Clues. Bits of evidence that could lead a person to believe that these so-called pseudosciences aren’t all driveling nonsense. Few people realize the extent to which these things have shaped history. Wars have started and stopped because of fortunetellers and wizards, and not just in ancient times. Hitler had a personal astrologist. The hostilities in the Balkans, today, are likely directed by similar advice. You have heard about the recent outbreak of violence in the countries detached from the former Yugoslavia, yes?”

Bolden shrugged his shoulders. He had not, and wasn’t really sure that he could pinpoint the former Yugoslavia on a map.

“Chiromancy, with its various names, has been practiced in India for more than five millennia,” the old man continued. “In China, it is more recent. Only has 3,000 years.” He paused, cocking his head slightly. “You have a very interesting palm, Mr. Bolden.”

Ian found the conversation annoying. “You know, I really don’t believe in these things. I came to you for something else.”

“I know, I know, so you’ve said. You are not my first skeptic. And nowadays, when everything is about computers and computer programs, you certainly won’t be the last. Even so, please give me a little credit. Here: this is your heart line, and I am afraid it shows that you will soon suffer a loss, something that will greatly affect your feelings. However, there is also good news. See how your head line stretches? You’ll become even richer. A lot richer, in fact. But your life line is strange. Look, here it is, this arch, widely circling your thumb. I have never seen one like yours. It is discontinued in various places.”

Jeniko fell silent for a few moments, studying Bolden’s palm, deep in thought. He gently tapped it with his index finger.

“This is where you might find your answer, Mr. Bolden. I think this is where your guardian angel comes in. I can tell you it is somehow connected with your business, but I can’t quite figure out how.”

Bolden drew back his hand abruptly.

“Are you insinuating that the envelope might come from a business competitor? It’s only a transportation business, like many others. The Space Elevator has enough capacity to carry any load, for anyone. It is not…”

Bolden stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that – against his will – he had been drawn into the old man’s game, filling in the blanks in the fortune-teller’s general statements with his own speculation. A classic trick.

“I think this is enough,” he said flatly.

Jeniko’s words didn’t offer much in the way of a cohesive story, although Bolden instinctively looked for the connections to his life. Yes, he was rich, and his fortune was growing anyway. His relationship with Danielle couldn’t get any better. He hadn’t the slightest intention to stray and the woman seemed intent on settling down with him. The old man was a strange fortune teller.

He rose to leave, and the old man saw him to the door, walking in small steps. He pressed a hidden button and the magnetic bolt buzzed open, freeing the door. Bolden wanted to say something, but gave up. Thanking the old man seemed inappropriate. He looked left and right, checking the street, a bit embarrassed by the prospect of being spotted by anyone he might know. The street was filled with the usual tourists, most of them Asian, happily taking photos and videos. No one seemed to notice him, and he relaxed a bit.

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Bolden. You will make the best decision, when the time comes. You can be sure of that,” the old man said politely before quietly closing the door behind him. “Yes, you can be sure of that…”

Bolden stood motionless for a few moments, pondering those parting words, then gave up with a discontented toss of his hand. He departed without a backward glance, and without noticing that there had been no clank of the magnetic door bolt behind him. Neither did he notice the eyes of the palmist, peering curiously through the opening of the door, still slightly ajar.