“Priest Simon! My very dear friend! Come in, come in, come in! Sister, it’s Priest Simon. And your daughter,” he added in a markedly less welcoming tone.

Only the Laoutaros could have turned a derelict space, enclosed in concrete and in the highest degree impersonal and comfortless, into a version of Aladdin’s cave, part workshop and part chaotic dwelling, stinking of glue, fumes from the forge, the reek of two raccoon skins that were drying on the wall, the wonderful scent of precious old wood, and food kept too long without refrigeration. Some of the concrete walls were bare, covered with calculations done in chalk and corrected by erasures of spit, and here and there hung rugs of Oriental designs. Hovering over a pan of burning charcoal, the fumes from which escaped through a stovepipe that ran to one of the windows just below the ceiling, was Maria’s mother, the phuri dai herself, stirring something smelly in a pan.

“You are in time for supper,” she said. ‘“Maria, get two more bowls. They are in the abort. I’ve been making rindza and pixtia. Wonderful against this flu that everybody has. Well, my daughter, you have been a long time coming, but you are welcome.”

It was wonderful to Darcourt to see how the beautiful Maria was diminished in the presence of her mother. Filial respect works in many ways, and Maria was suddenly a Gypsy daughter, disguised in some fine contemporary clothes, though she immediately kicked off her shoes.

The Gypsies are not great kissers, but Maria kissed her mother, and Darcourt kissed her sooty hand, which he knew she liked, because it recalled her youthful days as an admired Gypsy musician in Vienna.

They all ate bowls of rindza and pixtia, which was tripe seethed in pigs-foot jelly, and not as bad as it sounds. Darcourt showed great appetite, as was expected; those who consult oracles must not be choosy. The dish was followed by something heavy and cheesy called saviako. Darcourt thanked God for a strong shot of Yerko’s home-made plum brandy, which was stupefying to the palate, but burned a hole through the heavy mixture in the stomach.

The god of hospitality having been adequately appeased, there followed at least half an hour of general conversation. When consulting an oracle, there should be no haste. At last it was possible to get to Darcourt’s questions. He told Mamusia—for that was what Maria called her—about the Cornish Foundation, of which she had some slight and inaccurate knowledge.

“Yes, yes; it is the Platter of Plenty,” she said.

“The Platter of Plenty is just a joke,” said Maria.

“It doesn’t sound like a joke,” said Mamusia.

“Yes, it is a joke,” said Darcourt. “It is that big silver epergne that Maria puts on the table when we meet. It is filled with snacks—olives and anchovies, and pickled oysters, and sweets and little biscuits, and things like that. Calling it the Platter of Plenty is a joke by one of our directors. He’s a Welshman, and he says it reminds him of a Welsh legend about a chieftain who had a magic platter on his table from which his guests could ask for and receive anything they desired.”

“I know that story from other lands. But it’s a good name. Isn’t that what your Foundation is? A heaping platter from which anybody can get anything he wants?”

“We hadn’t really thought of that.”

“This Welshman must have a good head on him. You are guardians of plenty, aren’t you? It’s simple.”

Darcourt thought it might be a little too simple, when he thought of what the Platter of Plenty was offering to Schnak. He explained as well as he could, in terms he thought Mamusia would understand, about the uncompleted opera, and Schnak, and his misgivings. He made the easy mistake of being too simple with someone who, although not educated in the ordinary sense, was highly intelligent and intuitive. Maria did not speak; in her mother’s presence she was silent unless spoken to. Mamusia’s glance moved constantly between her daughter’s face and Darcourt’s and in her own terms she understood them better than they knew.

“So—you want to know what is going to happen and you think I can tell you. Don’t you feel shame, Father Darcourt? You are not a real Catholic, but you are some kind of priest. Isn’t there something in the Bible that tells you to keep away from people like me?”

“In several places we are warned against them that have familiar spirits, and wizards that peep and mutter. But we live in a fallen world, Madame. Last time I visited my bishop he was very busy over Church investments, and he could not see me because he was deep in discussion with an investment counsel, who was peeping and muttering about the bond market. If there is any risk to my soul in consulting you, I take it upon me gladly.”

So the Tarot cards were brought out, in their fine tortoise-shell box, and Mamusia shuffled them deftly. Carefully, too, for they were a fine old pack and somewhat limp with age. “The nine-card deal, I think,” said she.

At her bidding Darcourt cut the deck, which had been reduced to the picture cards; he began by setting aside four cards, face down; then he put the top card in the middle of the table. It was the Empress, ruler of worldly fortune and a strong card to stand at the heart of the prediction. The next card he drew went to the left of the Empress, and it was Force, the handsome lady who is subduing a lion by tearing open its jaws, apparently without any special effort on her part. Above the Empress went the Lover, and Mamusia’s quick eye saw a change in Maria’s face. Next card, placed on the right of the Empress, was the Female Pope, the Great Mother. Last card, to go below the Empress, made Darcourt wince, for it was the Death card, the dreadful skeleton which is scything up human bodies. He hated the Death card, and hesitated.

“Down it goes,” said Mamusia. “Don’t worry about it until you see what it means. Turn up your oracle cards.”

These were the four that had been set aside, and they were the Tower of Destruction, at the top, the card of Judgement, next in order, the Hermit, and last of all, the Fool.

“How do you like it?” said Mamusia.

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t be afraid because there are some dark cards. Look at the Empress, who can get you men out of any mess you can make. This is a very womanly hand of cards you have found, and lucky for you, because men are awful bunglers. Look at Strength, or Force, or whatever you want to call her; is she just brute force, like a man’s? Never! She is irresistible force and she does not get it from being a man, let me tell you. And this High Priestess—this Female Pope. Who do you suppose she is? It’s a fine spread.”

“I can never see that Death card without shuddering.”

“Pooh! Everybody shudders at the Death card, because they don’t think what it means. But you—a priest! Doesn’t Death mean transfiguration, change, turning the whole spread into something else—and you tell us into something better? And look at your oracle cards. The Tower—well probably somebody will take a tumble; it would be queer if they didn’t considering what you tell me about your Foundation. And Judgement. Who escapes it? But look at the Hermit—the man who lives alone—that sounds like you, Priest Simon. And most powerful of all—the Fool! What’s the Fool’s number in the pack?”

“The Fool has no number.”

“Of course not! The Fool is zero! And what is zero? Power, no? Put zero to any number and in a wink you increase its power by ten. He is the wise joker who makes everything else in the hand conditional, and he is in the place of greatest power. The Empress and the Fool govern the spread, and with the Tower of Destruction in the first place among the oracles that probably means that there will be a lot of—what’s the word—is it higgledy-piggledy? Lots of upsets and turn-arounds—”

“Topsy-turveydom,” said Maria.