A palm-reading leads a man to rationalize his life into absurdity in Arkady Averchenko’s satirical short story “Sleight of Hand,” our pick for this week’s Translation Tuesday. First published in Russia in 1912, the story follows a credulous yet self-assured man as he entertains one ridiculous conclusion after another while visiting a palm-reader. Our protagonist’s tone fuels much of the comedy, lending an almost fabulist tone that would seem cartoonish if our protagonist’s gullibility weren’t so commonplace. In a world of conspiracy theories and “alternative facts,” Averchenko’s century-old story probes a genuinely timeless phenomenon with his trademark sardonicism, an attempt at what we might call “epistemological humor.”
“You absolutely must visit this palm-reader” said my uncle. “He can tell your past, present and future—and he’s surprisingly accurate too! He told me, for example, that I would die in fifteen years.”
“I wouldn’t call that ‘surprisingly accurate,’” I objected. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“Wait for what?”
“Well, wait fifteen years. And if he does turn out to be right, then I certainly will have to visit him.”
“Ah, but what if he dies before then?” asked my uncle.
I paused for thought. Indeed, the death of this extraordinary person would leave me in something of a bind . . . If he were to kick the bucket, I’d find myself “blind”: unable to see into the future, and unable to remember my distant or even recent past.
Besides which, I thought, it’s in my interest to learn the time of my own death. I mean, what if I only had three weeks left to live? Who knows, I might even have a good thousand rubles sitting in the bank. I could be putting this to proper use—spending my last days on Earth living it up in style!
“All right, I’ll go,” I agreed.
The palm-reader turned out to be a wonderful fellow—devoid of any pride or arrogance, just as you’d expect from a person marked by God.
He bowed modestly and said:
“Although the future is hidden from our prying gaze, the human body does contain a certain document, which the experienced and knowledgeable eye can read like a book . . .”
“Is that so?!”
“This document is the palm of your hand! Each palm is unique, and she uses her lines to tell us everything—every detail of the person’s habits and character.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, God!” I thought. Only yesterday I nicked a friend’s cigar, just as he was about to have a smoke. Of course, this was meant as the purest joke, but what if my cursed hand reveals the act alone, without illuminating it from a deeper, truer perspective? That really would put me in an awkward position—a cigar thief! I could barely look the palm-reader in the eye.
I laughed shrilly.
“Yesterday I played the most amusing joke . . . We almost died laughing! You see, my friend took out his cigar, turned to find a match, and—yoink! I nicked it. You do see, I hope, that it was just a joke?”
The palm-reader gave me a quizzical look.
“Right then, let’s have a look at your hand.”
“Here!” I said excitedly, giving him my hand. “Tell me everything! If something terrible lies ahead, don’t hold back! I’m prepared for the very worst.”
He took a well-sharpened pencil and began tracing it through the chaotic jumble of lines on my palm.
“Don’t worry—I’ll tell you everything from the very beginning. I’ll tell you, for example, how old you are. Hmm. You’ve already celebrated your twenty-fourth birthday, I see.”
“Absolutely right!” I confirmed.
The man’s perspicuity was beyond all doubt: five years ago I had indeed celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday. He was indisputably correct.
I burned with desire to hear more.
“You were born in the north, into a rich, aristocratic family.”
“I suppose so . . .” I answered, pensively. “If we consider that Sevastopol is north in relation to, say, Central Africa, then that makes perfect sense. As for my late father, then your calling him an aristocrat is by no means undue flattery: he generously gave away all his earnings as a grocer to everyone around him. He despised pettiness, and was, in my opinion, a true aristocrat in spirit. Thank you for speaking of him so warmly!”
“Now let’s move on to character . . . You are morose, gloomy, and misanthropic. You tend to see everything in the darkest light. You’ve a keen interest in the medical sciences.”
That last point was amazingly true—just the previous day, I was asking my friends if anyone had a cure for the cold that had been dogging me for two weeks . . . But as for my character description, I must say I was a little put out. How can my readers derive any kind of pleasure from my humorous stories, if they’re written by a moody old misanthrope? And there I was, thinking of myself as a good-timer—a carefree humorist and a man of many talents.
“Which line speaks of character?” I asked abruptly.
“This one here.”
“Pity it’s not this one, here on the left,” I sighed. “This one seems to have a happier, curlier way about it.”
“That’s your life line. You have two benefic planets . . .”
“Only two? They won’t get me very far, will they? What about family life?”
“You have two children whom you love very much, and a wife who gives you nothing but trouble.”
I was deeply startled.
“Which line told you that?”
He showed me.
I didn’t say anything, but felt terribly embarrassed by my palm. On this occasion, she was jolly well lying. Shamelessly—I had no wife and no children! The line stood out vividly on my palm, as if brazenly staring me down. Cheeky beggar.
I felt like a fraud in front of this honest person, who with the purest of hearts believed my phoney hand.
“Never mind . . .” I said. “Let’s continue.”
“Let’s continue,” agreed the palm-reader. “At one point in your life, you experienced a great sorrow that was very nearly the end of you. This was in—let me see—ah yes. In 1912. I can see it clearly. 1912.”
After straining my memory a little, I remembered that indeed in 1912 something really did happen to me: there I was, lolling about in the hay, when I managed to lose a beautiful bone penknife—as well as thirty kopecks, which had fallen out of my pocket. But the palm-reader had a poor understanding of my character if he thought this grief was “nearly the end of me”! Oh dear . . . I must confess, I suffered the loss without batting an eye. In fact, that very day I nicked my older brother’s giant penknife—which was more than enough to comfort me, I can tell you.
My palm had exaggerated shamelessly. The further she went, it seemed, the more she showed off, blowing everything out of proportion, and presenting me in a dreadful light.
Who, for example, asked her to claim that I’d spent two years in prison? When was that supposed to have happened?
Before I knew it, I found myself prattling on to that trusting palm-reader about the Liberation Movement, and the victims of the revolution, just to somehow cover my tracks—or rather, to put a more favourable gloss on my unattractive morals.
My palm, though, only grew bolder, eventually going completely off the rails.
“You lived in America for three years, where you lost your entire fortune!”
Yes, I thought, smiling ironically to myself. Why stop there, my dear? Go ahead—tell him I attempted suicide, why don’t you?
My palm was clearly having me on.
“At twenty-one, you attempted suicide, though without much success . . .” said the palm-reader.
Obvious enough, I thought, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here now, would I? And no, I never attempted suicide. The thought never even once entered my head!
“Which line is it that speaks of suicide?” I asked sullenly.
“This one right here. See? From here to here.”
I was mortified. If only I still had that knife—the one I’d lost in the barn, and whose loss my palm had inflated into a matter of life and death. I would have taken that knife and drawn new lines on my palm—lines with real conscience and a sense of decency. Lines that wouldn’t dream of betraying their master!
My palm, meanwhile, went on concocting more and more stories. And the palm-reader went on diligently retelling them all, while I just got angrier and angrier . . .
I glared at my palm with real contempt.
Where am I supposed to have nearly drowned? And when?! Why have you gone and told him this, now? And it’s not true that I have a cruel, cantankerous character!
At that point, my palm swung over to the other extreme—buttering me up with the crudest and most primitive compliments.
“You have a gift for great innovations . . . You are universally adored. Everyone sees you as a budding genius! In 1930, you’ll create a work of art that will make you so famous, you’ll be beating women off with a stick!”
No, I thought, sneering bitterly to myself. Too late to fix things now, my dear . . . All those lies, all that nonsense. Backpedal all you like.
Disgusting! Deceitful! Utterly disgraceful!
And without the least bit of logic. One of her lines signalled that I had a weak constitution, prone to illnesses and colds. Yet next to it was a similar line, vehemently contradicting the first—spitting and spluttering that it had never seen such a healthy person as I was.
“You’re greedy and stingy, even though you’ve got pots of money!” hissed the palm, and a grotesquely twisted line bulged out as if to prove it.
“Not at all.” Another line, straight as an arrow, took pity on me. “He’s generous. Throws his money about without a second thought—he’ll die in extreme poverty.”
I sat there, unable to even look at the palm-reader, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.
What must he think of me?
As I went to give the palm-reader his fee, he indicated a certain spot on my palm with his pencil, and gave me a final piece of friendly advice:
“Beware of flames, fires, and fillies.”
I was already pretty wary of all these things, but after a warning like this, I resolved to keep my wits about me, and skedaddle at the merest whiff of a fire. Colts and fillies didn’t inspire much confidence in me either. I decided that in future, if I ever required the services of these creatures, I would make sure to put the cab driver between me and the horse. Let the horse tear him to pieces—not me.
On my way out, I felt terribly embarrassed by my palm’s antics and shenanigans. I had to make amends somehow . . .
“For my part,” I said, “I’d like to warn you about a few things, too. I’m no palm-reader of course, but I do have some idea about these matters. Beware of mad elephants, shipwrecks and floods. . . and any bombs heading in your direction. That way, you’ll live as many years as you need to! Bye then!”
Nowadays, I regard my palm completely differently. I hate and despise her . . . as well as fear her.
After all, here I am—going about my business, wherever that might be. And there she is: lurking in the background, spying on me, nagging away at me, noting down every little detail on her deceitful surface. Only to blow it all out of proportion later—twisting and distorting everything till I’m too embarrassed to look a man in the eye . . . What a nightmare!
Translated from the Russian by Siân Valvis
Arkady Timofeevich Averchenko (1881–1925) was a Russian satirist and playwright. In 1913, Averchenko became the editor of the magazine Satiricon—he collaborated with many notable writers, such as the humorist, Teffi. Averchenko’s popular short stories often took inspiration from his travels to Europe. Many were developed into theatre pieces, which were staged throughout the country. “Sleight of Hand” (Odurachenniy Khiromant) is taken from Averchenko’s 1912 collection.
Siân Valvis is a freelance translator, based in Europe and Brazil. She translates from Russian, Greek, and French, and enjoys translating fiction—particularly children’s literature. This year, she took part in the National Centre for Writing “Mentorship for Emerging Literary Translators.” Her adaptation of “Kolobok,” a Russian folktale, has since been published in Cardinal Points (Brown University). She is currently translating “Manunia” by Narine Abgaryan, supported by the RusTrans project at the University of Exeter.
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