From Portuguese: The Clairvoyant, by Lima Barreto

(My translation of the short story A Cartomante, by Lima Barreto, which was published in Histórias e Sonhos in 1951)

No doubt about it: only the evil eye could explain all the trials and tribulations of the past five years. Whenever he tried to achieve anything, it all went wrong. Take, for instance, his application for the public health job; no sooner had he secured the backing of a government bigwig than politics did a flip-flop. And if he bought a lottery ticket, it would always be the next group of numbers or the one just before. Everything seemed to be telling him he’d never get on in life again. If it wasn’t for his wife’s sewing, they’d really have been in dire straits. It was five years since he’d earned anything at all; and on the rare occasions he’d had such a thing as a banknote in his pocket it had been at the cost of grovelling to friends and acquaintances.

If only he could run away from it all! Somewhere far away, where people wouldn’t know he was once well-off. But where? Where could he find enough money to take him, his wife and his children to that far-away place? His life had turned into a continual martyrdom: dragging his undeserved shame around like a ball and chain!

But, paradoxically, the idea that all his misfortune was due to the evil eye gave him a glimmer of hope. After all, if it was magic that had done it, magic could undo it. So he felt much happier when he woke up the next day, and the only reason he didn’t share some of that happiness with his wife was that she’d already left. The poor woman! All those years of working like a slave had left her frail, infirm and prematurely aged; but she still somehow managed to find enough energy to keep the family afloat.

Well, soon, all that trudging round the city, carrying bundles of clothes and collecting the meagre payments, none of that would be necessary. Because he’d decided to go to a clairvoyant, or some such, to find out what it was that was holding him back.

So he went and bought a newspaper at the kiosk. The classified adds contained all sorts: fortune-tellers, mediums, theosophists etc. etc. But the one that caught his eye was: “Madam Dadá, possessor of the sixth sense and interpreter of dreams. Reads the cards. Undoes all kinds of evil spells, especially African. Such and such an address.”

He knew immediately that Madam Dadá was the one for him, because he was convinced his life was being blighted by some African witchdoctor in the pay of his brother-in-law. (Castrioto had never approved of their marriage.)

So he sponged the necessary money off the first friend he met and headed off, almost running, to the house of Madam Dadá.

The evil spell was about to be broken! Prosperity would return to his home! He’d buy a suit for Zezé and some nice shoes for his youngest daughter, Alice! And that nightmare existence of the past five years would soon be just a memory!

And as he half-walked, half-ran, everything seemed to be smiling at him: the radiant June sun; the happy faces of the passers-by; and the whole world! That world, which up until then had seemed so base and rotten, suddenly looked all sweetness and light.

Having entered, he took a seat, at the behest of Madam Dadá’s assistant, in the little waiting room.

His heart seemed to be beating its way out of his chest.

Eventually he was ushered into the presence of the oracle.

It was his wife.

















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