The Fortune-Teller of Granada
The idea of killing Kishore would not have occurred to me had he not told me about kurdaicha. He is my second cousin, and we’d been friends since we were toddlers in Leicester. He had the sharpest brain that I had ever come across, had read everything, and got a Ph.d at twenty-one! We co-own Quantronix, with an estimated value of £5.5 billion, but for which Apple offered us six bills. At nearly forty, I had never taken a proper holiday, and was getting bored with high tech. I easily imagined what I’d do with my share. I did not hanker after a super yacht, just a modest one with a small crew which would enable me to go round the world and have fun. Enjoy the best restaurants, the most beautiful women, shoot elephants, white rhinos, to my heart’s content. But Kishore would not dream of calling it a day while we were ahead. Is a man with twenty billions happier than one with three?
I had a secret meeting with Bill in Seattle, and he gave me his word. He’d meet our asking price if and when.
For all his knowledge of the world, of science, of business, Kishore was steeped in superstitions. He prayed to the statue of Laxmi every morning before he left home, and attributed his success and wealth to her. And he had a good few irrational beliefs. As an example, he’d always hold a glass of water in his left hand, convinced that he’d choke if he did not. He believed that dreams have meanings, as had the shape of clouds. And he it was who first told me of the kurdaicha.
The Aborigines of Australia, he had explained to me, were a spiritual people who had learnt how to control dark forces. Their medicine men, making use of knowledge acquired in dream time, could accomplish supernatural deeds, and knew how to deal deathly blows to their enemies without getting caught. If someone in the tribe had trespassed, the council of elders passed judgement on him, and if need be could pronounce a death sentence. A special sharpened bone, often from a kangaroo was the instrument used. The kurdaicha, the executioner would find the means of pointing the bone towards the condemned man, and death inevitably followed.
Lengthy arguments with him had failed to convince him that it was all in the mind. When Kishore believed in something, there was no power on earth to make him change his mind.
As I am a fan of everything Spanish, I love visiting the Iberian Peninsula, and this time Kishore had agreed to join me. In Granada we visited a bodega together. We had the most delicious gambas paella in the world, topped by a couple of bottles of El Tizniado. The music and the flamenco were out of this world. I have not often seen the fellow so relaxed. As we were thinking to leave, a dishevelled old Gypsy woman, a fortune-teller approached our table, and I scowled at her, intimating we did not want her around, but Kishore said to me that it would be useful to hear what she had to say. I tut tutted, but he had his way. The old crone grabbed hold of my friend’s hand and began listing all the super good things waiting to happen to him. What’s she saying? Kishore asked me. I had never for a single second before thought of a plan, but it took over instantly. Well, I said, I told you not to waste your time. Why? What’s she saying? It’s a pack of lies, I said, surely you’re not gonna believe anything she says. Just translate, he ordered. Well, she sees a dim future for you, ulcers, insomnia, followed by cancer and death. Kishore grew pale. It’s all lies, I said. My friend shook his head. When I was born, he stammered, an old divine said I would not live beyond forty. I am thirty-nine. Surely you don’t believe in this nonsense, I asked. Why are you so sure it’s nonsense.
The moment we got back to London, I called Bill.
