excerpt of
Butterfly Dreaming
(yet to be published)

The Prophecy

Albert started combing his hair. I waited for him to finish so we could resume the interview.

He took his time but just when my patience was about to run out, he pocketed the comb and then continued with his story, picking up from where he'd left off: So what d'you think? There was this Indian fortune teller bloke’s forecast and there was my decision. Which came first, you ask? I really don’t know, to tell you the dead honest truth. Perhaps I’d made up my mind before the seer said his bit or perhaps he changed my future. Don’t take my word for it though. I could be wrong—nobody’s perfect.

So we were heading for the bus station, the one, y'know, by the main market, Hong and me. Then we heard this bloody awful screech like squealing brakes, so frightfully loud it killed all the din around us and nearly burst our eardrums, for God's sake. Of course, we turned to see what the hell was causing the racket. The fortune teller, that was when we saw him.

Albert looked at me for my reaction, inviting me to comment. I’d decided early in the interview the best approach was to let him tell his story with as little interruption from me as possible so I looked blankly at him, saying nothing. Silently, I encouraged him to carry on talking.

Sensing this, Albert went on: This soothsayer we saw, he was one of those rip-off merchants with their fortune-cookie predictions. They’re two-a-penny in Kuala Lumpur especially outside the KL main market. (A noisy and smelly place if ever there was one, this market, I tell you, with floors that are always flooded.) These fortune tellers pop up everywhere—Good Lord, you'll never miss them—sitting at wobbly tables, squatting on worn-out mats. Some Indian. Some Chinese.

People stepped in front of them, behind them and round them, housewives mostly, the Malays and Indians flip-flopping in rubber sandals, the Chinese ones clip-clopping in wooden clogs. These matrons carried rattan bags slung over their arms—some even had rattan baskets balanced on their heads. They came in with these carriers empty and headed home with them packed to the brim with shopping.

The seer I told you we noticed was a skinny Indian—obviously telling fortunes wasn’t putting much on his dinner plate—in a white Nehru dress. He was sitting cross-legged on a mat. If he was roly-poly, I’d swear he was the Laughing Buddha, sitting like that. I’ve never for the life of me been able to work out how the hell these Asians do that: sit that way. An English lad like me can’t do it for love or money. Can’t cross my arms either but that’s another story.
Well, anyway, there was this birdcage in front of the gazer-into-the-future. Inside was a small, green parrot, slightly larger than a parakeet—the type Indian fortune tellers use to help them predict the future. That entire commotion, it was this frigging mini feather duster causing it, can you imagine that? The bird had gone stark raving mad, beating his wings, squawking, yo-yo-ing and darting forward and backwards.

This teller-of-fortunes spoke to Hong and me in Malay, ‘Tuan, something momentous is going to happen in your lives.’
I didn't want to hang around, you see, so I replied in Malay, ‘Yeah, something momentous is always happening in our lives.’
The man held up his hand in a stay-where-you-are gesture. ‘No, no, this is true. Let me find out for you what it is.’
I said, ‘Nah, I don’t believe in this crap.’
Then the Voice spoke. The one I keep hearing. You should stop. Hear what the man has to tell you.

See what I mean? Here I was busily chatting away to this Hindu would-be Nostradamus, minding my own business and this voice barged into my thoughts like the KGB. It always does that, the cursed nuisance. Whenever I’m in the middle of something. I try to pretend it isn’t there but you think it’d leave me alone, not on your life it wouldn’t?
The fortune teller said, ‘No, Tuan, there must be something special about you or else my bird won’t behave this way.’
Hong was curious, the miserable sod. ‘Bet your bird does that every time someone comes near,’ he said to the fortune teller in Malay.
The bloke wobbled his head. ‘No, no, Tuan. Never done this before, never.’
The bird was still squeaking, still flapping around. Barking mad, he was.
The fortune teller said, ‘Let my bird show you you’re destined for big things.’
My classmate squatted like he was going to do the big job. ‘How’s it going to do that-lah?’
What a load of rubbish! I grabbed hold of Hong’s collar. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Then I heard the Voice again: No, no, don’t go. Listen to what the man has to say.

It boomed like a megaphone so I stole a furtive glance around. Had anyone else heard it? Didn’t seem so.
Hong pleaded, ‘Aiya, wait a bit-lah. Let’s see what his bird can do, man.’
The Voice was getting insistent: You should stay and listen to what the man has to say.

I hesitated. It made sense, the Voice did, somehow. After all, what did I have to lose? Might as well stay.
I shrugged. ‘Oh, alright. Let’s see what tricks his bird's got.’
Delighted, Hong turned to the wannabe prophet. ‘Okay, man, show us how brainy your bird is.’

By now a crowd had gathered, curious to watch a white lad and his Asian mate consulting a fortune teller. By now also the damn, two-legged shuttlecock had calmed down. His owner ordered Hong to pull up the birdcage door but do you think this flipping green Tweety Bird would come out? Of course, he wouldn’t. The onlookers yelled encouragement at him but he stayed put.

Puzzled, Hong asked, ‘Why won’t your bird come out?’
Equally puzzled, the fortune-teller scratched his head. ‘He’s never behaved like this before.’ He snapped shut the birdcage. Then he eyed me. ‘Maybe my bird wants you to open the door.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Me? Why me?’
The Voice became bossy again: Yes, you; why don’t you open the door?
Ignoring the Voice, I said to the-what’s-his-name, ‘I don’t want to. I’m the bloke who doesn’t believe in this nonsense, remember?’
Hong tapped me on the shoulder in a friendly kind of way. ‘Do it-lah. Let’s see what his bird is capable of, man.’
The crowd joined in, encouraging me to open the door. I glanced around, undecided.

The Voice urged: Go on, open the door.
Hong looked at me with beggar-boy, pleading eyes. ‘Come on, man, open the door. Just for a laugh.’
The crowd chanted, ‘Yes, yes, open it up.’
Now the Voice changed tack, becoming reassuring, friendly, kind of: Go on. You’ve got nothing to lose.
I thought, Yeah, what the heck have I got to lose anyway? So I grabbed hold of the door and pulled it up. This time the damn bird strutted straight out like he was royalty or something. He headed for a deck of cards lying in the middle of the mat. Not your ordinary playing cards, mind you, larger ones, their backs decorated with Hindu characters that looked like bean sprouts. The crowd held its breath. Everything went still.

The bird knocked the cards over with his beak, making a right mess. Then he picked up a card, took it to his governor and stepped back into his cage. The fortune teller snapped the door shut and then showed us the card. The crowd craned their necks to see what it was. It had the image of a Hindu god. One with four arms and an elephant trunk for a nose.
The fortune teller ordered, ‘Remember the picture.’
We nodded.

The bugger handed me the card with instructions: Put it back into the deck; Shuffle the deck; Place it face down in the centre of the mat. I did everything he told me. Now let the bird out. I yanked up the cage door. Out dashed the bird. You’d think he’d been waiting his whole life to do this. He made a mess of the cards. Same as before. Then he chopsticked one of the cards and handed it to his master. The git flipped the card over and showed it to us. Catching a glimpse of it, the onlookers uttered oohs and ahs. It was the one with the picture of the Hindu god with four arms and an elephant trunk. Jesus Christ, the exact card the sodding seed-eater chose the first time! He astounded me, the bloke, he really did, I tell you.

The Indian proudly cocked his head at me. ‘You believe now my bird has magical powers?’
I looked at him stunned, speechless, impressed. Bloody hell, was I impressed! I asked, ‘How much?’
He held up two fingers. ‘Twenty dollars.’
Hong screwed up his face. ‘What? Twenty bucks just to tell your fortune? Aiya, that’s a bit steep. Come on, man, let’s beat it.’
The crowd muttered that it was a swindle as well.
I hesitated. Not for long though. The bloke had won me over. Yeah, twenty dollars, that was a lot of dosh, I knew, but I dug into my pocket anyway and plucked out a twenty-dollar note. Seeing me pull out the cash, the onlookers gasped in alarm. I stuck the money in front of the blighter’s nose, saying, ‘There.’

Hong flung up his hands in disgust. ‘You’re crazy, man.’
Looking pretty pleased with himself, Mr Skinny Hindu spread out my money on the mat. I did what he told me: jumble up the cards and slam them down on top of my twenty-dollar note. I let the blooming twitterer out. He disarranged the cards, same as before. Then he handed a card to his sahib.
The fortune teller stared at it. The card showed a blue man with a halo of fire, glaring at us with big, round eyes. The would-be prophet frowned. Then he acted bloody strange. Like something was scaring the frigging shit out of him. He leaned away from the card. Then he dropped it.
I got curious. ‘What’s the matter?’

He jerked away his hand like he’d touched a turd. ‘No, Tuan, it’s bad, very bad. I’ll get the bird to choose another card.’
I clenched my fists. ‘Nah, you bloody won’t. He’s already picked a card. Now read it.’ The pathetic clot had so enraged me, I could sense my neck turning red. I could squeeze the life out of this bloke, I really could; I was that mad, I can tell you that

The fortune teller protested, ‘No, Tuan, the card’s very bad, very bad.’
I screamed at him, ‘I don’t blinking care. Just read it.’
‘No, no, Tuan, let the bird select another.’
I thought, Isn’t the miserable sod getting my message? I bellowed at the blithering idiot, ‘Nah, damn it, I want this one. Read what it says.’ I was starting to get all shaky. Like I always do when I’m mad as hell. Like I could kill something.

Someone in the crowd yelled, ‘He wants that card. Read it for him.’
Hong placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘We should’ve gone, man.’
I answered, ‘Nah, not till this wretched nincompoop’s read my card. Paid bloody twenty dollars for it, you know.’
The fortune teller shrugged. ‘Alright, Tuan, if that’s what you want.’ When he picked up the card, his hand was trembling.
I glared at the pitiable fool. ‘So what does it say?’
‘Very bad, very bad. It says, Tuan ... very bad, very bad.’ His voice quivered. ‘It says you will kill your father.’