Pretending to Believe

It’s about 10 o’clock. No-one’s up but me. Even the dog is asleep in the corner, chasing something. It won’t be rabbits. I haven’t seen a rabbit in years, outside of a screen, be it a computer’s or the one for the big streamer in the corner. I turn the volume down on the tablet. There’s bound to be some loud music while I’m on hold. Who knew you could be put on hold for a video call? My daughter says you don’t even need anything fancy. You could set up a Zoom conference and only let people in one at a time and remove people after their turn finished. I didn’t ask what Zoom was. I’d only heard of it once before, when that parish council meeting was the main story on the news. I don’t think there were any wars - or politicians being sacked - that day.

Anyway, I’m using Glib: my daughter put it on the tablet, before she went back to Canberra. She’s been back in Oz for a couple of months, so it’s video calls once a fortnight, now. I press the screen. Too hard, like I always do. I get six windows open instead of one. I close down the app, turn the tablet off. Then I turn it on again. This time I’m a little less forthright with the forefinger. The window tells me I am attempting a video call with “Madame Arcati”. Not the name I’d have chosen, not in her line of work.

In the top right corner of this window “you are #3” is flashing. It changes to “#4”. I’m sure that’s not how it’s supposed to work. I’ve only paid for the standard service: maybe that’s it. I look over at the dog. Research says dogs have no concept of time. That’s why they’re always pleased to see you, they often add. How do they know what a dog thinks?

I do have a concept of time, at least so far. Maybe Alzheimer’s will come for me and time will become like the kaleidoscope pieces after you shake the tube. My concept of time tells me that I’ve been waiting 25 minutes when I become #3 again. Last time I did this, I got up to #6. I made a joke about it when I finally got through to Madame Arcati, but she didn’t get it. Although, she did look like she belonged in that old TV programme. The interior of her house or flat looked like it might be in Portmeirion.

Before I know it, I’m #1. A worrying enough thought. Maybe I fell asleep. I hope so. Suddenly the window does a splash reveal and the video call starts. I can see myself in the top right corner. God, I look old. I think Madame Arcati does too, but she’s probably younger than me by 10 years. She doesn’t look like Margaret Rutherford either. No, she looks like the chairwoman of the local WI. In a twinset, but no pearls. She’s sitting behind a table. I can see the cards wrapped in a scarf she’d never wear as being too garish. Or common.

“Hello, John. Do you have a question for me, tonight?”

“Will you still love me, tomorrow?”

Madame Arcati smiles.

‘Be serious, John.’

‘Why do you do this?’

Her lips straighten and I can see where the lip-liner has created the illusion that her lips are somewhat plumper than they really are.

“The consultation will cost the same, whether you take it seriously or not, John.”

‘Just do a reading. I’m out of questions tonight.’

She smiles again. Picks up the bundled cards. Makes a pass over them. Whispers some mumbo jumbo that went out with the music hall. The consultation is charged by the minute, after all.

I find it hypnotic. Her voice. It’s a trick, no doubt, the way she changes the timbre, pitch and intonation, so that my mind wanders. The same old words are trotted out. Choice, path, a mysterious dark-haired woman – Madame Arcati’s hair is a greying-blonde helmet.

And yet.

I spend half-an-hour and not a few quid listening to her. By the time she cuts the connection by moving on to the next #, I feel a strange contentment. Pretending to believe is almost as good as believing, it really is.