As we disembarked from the vessel, Captain Morgan, our hearty friend of the sea, bade us farewell with a tight embrace, urging us to venture forth with luck as our guide. His parting words, a heartfelt plea for my vigilant care of Psyche, resonated in the air. I nodded affirmatively, sporting a smile that mirrored the sailor's own, characterized by a mix of missing and gold-laden teeth.
In the aftermath of our nautical farewell, Psyche, entranced by the tales spun by the venerable mariner, remarked with admiration, "Eros, I had no inkling that you had such remarkable acquaintances. A man who witnessed the legendary Moby Dick—a tale that rivals the finest literary works I have encountered."
I, in response, emitted a lighthearted laugh, dismissing the veracity of such maritime marvels. "My dear Psyche, creatures of such mythical proportions are but products of inebriation. Captain Morgan, in his libations, might have mistaken a dolphin for Moby Dick. What's next? Perhaps an octopus misconstrued as the Kraken?"
Psyche, her temper sparked, delivered a sharp blow to my back, wearing a stern frown as she retorted, "Do not scorn storytellers, Eros. Their hearts are adorned with gold. Regardless of the veracity of the narrative, stories possess the power to inspire humanity. Respect that."
Seeking amends, I draped my arm around her shoulders as we strolled toward the train station. "Apologies, my dear Psyche," I conceded. Aware of her affinity for storytelling, a trait nurtured since her youth, she harbored aspirations of crafting a tale capable of captivating the world. Her imagination, vast and untainted, contrasted with my own reliance on logical musings and scientific pursuits.
After a brief sojourn, we arrived at the Ostend train station, embarking on our railway journey bound for Frankfurt. Seated comfortably within the confines of the compartment, the rhythmic motion of the train lulled me into a somnolent state, and I succumbed to a slumber lasting more than four hours.
Upon awakening, I found Psyche engaged in conversation with an elderly lady seated across from her. An ornate table adorned the space between them, hosting an array of peculiar cards—tarot cards, a fascinating accoutrement. The elderly dame, her tresses cascading in a disheveled braid, donned the attire reminiscent of a gypsy fortune teller, inviting intrigue and mystique.
As my eyes fluttered open, Psyche, noting my return to wakefulness, uttered with enthusiasm, "At last, you join the realm of the conscious. Draw near, Eros, and acquaint yourself with this captivating lady." Still ensnared in the remnants of sleep, I rose and settled beside Psyche, directing my gaze toward the elderly woman.
"Salutations, madame," I spoke, my words slightly muffled by the lingering haze of slumber. "I am Eros Corciato, a physicist and professor." The elderly figure, who identified herself as Madame Esmeralda, responded with a gentle smile, declaring, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, dear boy. I am a fortune teller."
Intrigued by her accent, unmistakably rooted in the Romani tongue, a language within my linguistic repertoire, I conveyed in Romani, "Drago si mange, Madame Esmeralda," translating to "the pleasure is mine, Madam Esmeralda." Her countenance revealed a measure of surprise, and she remarked, "Impressive, boy. You wield our language adeptly. As a token of appreciation, I shall offer you a complimentary reading with my tarot cards. Would you care to place your hands upon the table?"
Psyche erupted in laughter, her hand patting my back as she jestingly remarked, "Madame Esmeralda, brace yourself, for you are about to engage with the most skeptical man in all of London—a man ensnared within the confines of logic and science, where the mystical and supernatural find no sanctuary."
Madame Esmeralda, undeterred by the challenge, joined in the laughter and responded, "I relish a challenge, my dear boy. I shall demonstrate that the foundations of logic, though robust, possess fragility when confronted with the enigmatic. Humans, for all their wisdom, stand at the precipice of understanding the supernatural, merely capable of forging connections with these ethereal realms."
In response, I chuckled and retorted, "Prepare yourself, Madame Esmeralda, for your mystical endeavors, shall find no purchase on my convictions. However, let it be known that, should you provide tangible evidence of the authenticity of your craft, I am not a man obstinate in disbelief."
Madame Esmeralda, adorned in the resplendent hues reminiscent of a Romani ensemble, engaged in an entrancing ritual with her tarot deck. The cards, weathered and bearing the weight of untold tales, responded to the practiced cadence of her hands with a soft, almost ethereal, murmur, as if divulging the secrets of the arcane. Her fingers, adorned with rings that gleamed like distant stars, moved with a gentle reverence, caressing each card in an intimate dance.
During the shuffling, the ambient light in the room flickered in tandem with the rhythmic undulation of the cards. A palpable sense of anticipation hung in the air, as though the very atmosphere held its breath in anticipation of revelations from the mystic realm. Madame Esmeralda's eyes, alight with the wisdom of ages, mirrored the intricate choreography of the cards, weaving an enigmatic tapestry that transcended the mere act of fortune-telling.
The tarot deck, a repository of esoteric symbols and concealed narratives, seemed to yield to the sorcery conjured by Madame Esmeralda. Her hands, moving with an almost supernatural grace, unfurled a narrative unseen by the uninitiated—a narrative resonating with the elusive whispers of unseen dimensions. And as the final notes of this spectral symphony reverberated, the cards came to a poised rest, ready to unveil the enigmatic truths they held for those willing to peer into the shadows of the unknown.
Psyche and I awaited in anticipation, curious to witness the revelations that would unfold. With an air of mystique, and in a swift motion, Madame Esmeralda returned the deck to the table and deftly drew three cards, placing them discreetly before us, their identities concealed for the moment...