The Astrologer

She was one of those pleasant but cheerfully barmy Southern Californians who for reasons of her own insisted on addressing me as Gaybriella. Her own name was Lisa, she was a high school friend of Mr. Los Angeles who had moved out of town, and she occasionally would come to stay with us for the weekend.

Photo by Sharon Waldron on Unsplash

“I’ve been studying astrology,” she announced during one recent such visit.

“That’s interesting,” I said. In fact, I am quite intrigued by the idea of astrology. I don’t rush to read my daily horoscope in the newspaper: but I have nevertheless noticed over the years that there are stretches of time when I will have good luck and stretches when I won’t, times when I will make or lose money, or win or unexpectedly alienate friends, and, just as every woman knows that parts of her body are governed by the phases of the moon, I have always felt it would make sense to believe that, in some way none of us currently understands, the stars might well exert their own influence too.

“I’ve bought a book about it,” she continued, extracting the book from her purse and brandishing it with aplomb.

I do not, however, think the intricacies of possible planetary influences on our daily life are to be discovered between the embossed purple and gold covers of Zodiac!!! Let The Stars Tell You Everything About The Real YOU!!!

“I’ll read your sign if you want,” she said.

“That sounds, uhm, interesting,” I said. “Maybe later on today sometime? Or maybe …”

She topped up her coffee mug and sat herself down at the kitchen table.

“This book is never wrong,” she said. “We’re going to find out exactly who you are!”

I passed her the milk.

“You know, Lisa,” I said, “I think I kind of already know who I am. I’ve been me for quite a long time by now.”

“You’ll be amazed at what we’ll find out,” she said.

She opened the book, and tapped her teeth importantly with a pen.

“We have the breakdown of your personality in the front of the book,” she said, “and the rest is a calendar for how the stars will affect you week by week.”

She marked her page and looked up at me brightly.

“First thing I need to know is where you were born,” she said. “Was it England or Italy?”

This was a new one, I thought.

“Uhm,” I said. “England.”

“Really?” she said. She frowned in surprise. “I guess it was your parents who came from Italy, huh?”

A really new one, I thought.

“My parents came from London,” I said. “And before that, my family were Irish.”

She smiled patiently.

“You’re not Irish, Gaybriella,” she corrected me. “You’re Italian.”

Believe it or not, I am actually quite fond of Lisa.

“I’m not Italian, Lisa,” I told her. “I do like Italy. But as far as nationality goes, I have no Italian blood whatsoever.”

She chuckled faintly and shook her head.

“I know you’re Italian, Gaybriella,” she said. “You always seem so like an Italian, I figure you can’t be anything else.”

I thought of my various, elegantly olive-skinned, impeccably groomed Italian friends, and snuck a glance in the mirror.

“How?” I asked, politely.

“You never drink Guinness,” she said. “And you always drink wine.”

“I drink wine,” I said, “because I like wine.”

She patted me reassuringly on the hand.

“That’s the Italian in you, Gaybriella,” she explained. “OK, so your Mom and Dad left Italy and moved to England, but where in it were you born?”

I sighed just a little inside.

“London,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s in East Britain, right?”

“Right,” I said.

She looked down at her book and frowned.

“The stars don’t like East Britain,” she said. “They don’t take to the wind, it makes them nervous. If you were born somewhere west of London, I could give you a better reading. Where’s west of London? Maybe Wales?”

“But I was born in London,” I said.

“But the stars don’t like the wind in London,” she said.

“Neither did I, very much,” I said. “But it’s where I was born.”

She looked worried and tapped her teeth some more.

“Well, was it at least West London?” she said.

“North London,” I said. “The Alexandra Park Maternity Home in Muswell Hill.” Then because she was beginning to look quite distressed and she is, after all, one of Mr. Los Angeles’ oldest friends, “I think it was on the west side of the street, if that helps?”

She nodded in triumph.

“West London it is, then,” she said. “West London, late March birthday, let’s see what we have.”

I got up to find the Petit Écolier cookies.

“I’ve found you,” she said at last. “This is not so bad. Now we’ve figured out you’re from West London, it’s really quite good.”

I helped myself to a cookie.

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“It says you have good health,” she said.

I looked again in the mirror at my unromantically but blazingly robust peasant self.

“I do,” I said.

“You see!” she said. “We’re finding out stuff about you already!”

She nodded happily, returned to the book, and nodded again.

“You like to travel,” she said.

“Of course I do,” I said. “I emigrated, didn’t I? That’s why I live here and not back in London.”

“I told you!” she said. “The book’s always right, you see?”

I took another cookie, then picked up the package and walked across the kitchen to place them, firmly out of reach, on the shelf beside the toaster oven.

She read on and beamed up at me in congratulation.

“You have a patient nature,” she said.

Now, there was where I had her.

“No I don’t,” I said. “Mr. Los Angeles says I’m one of the most impatient people he’s ever known.”

… or maybe it was where I didn’t.

“Well, that’s very mean of him to say,” she said. “And very patient of you to put up with. Can you believe it? This book is just something else.”

“Talking of Mr. Los Angeles,” I said, “didn’t you say that you and he were going out this morning to look at your old school? Maybe I should see if I can find him now, and …”

But she had turned to the back of the book and was reading intently.

“Let’s see what the planets have in store for you this week,” she said.

Two cookies were my limit, I reminded my patient West London-Italian self. Due soltanto.

“Oh, this is interesting,” she said. “Jupiter’s rising so you’re feeling particularly happy today.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m not feeling happy or unhappy, it’s only 10.00 in the morning and my emotions don’t kick in until after 11.00.”

She winked, knowingly.

“You’ll be particularly happy when they do,” she said.

She read on and smiled.

“Saturn’s in the ascendant,” she said. “ So your career’s going well.”

“I’m a journalist,” I reminded her. “Nobody’s career is going well.”

She nodded, helpfully.

“Jupiter and Venus are balanced,” she said. “So your bodily co-ordination is excellent.”

“You just saw me trip over the cat,” I said.

“And you got right up again,” she said. “That’s co-ordination.”

She continued to read, and her brow began to furrow.

“Uh-oh,” she said then. “Neptune’s rising, so you have to look out for betrayal by a friend. Which of your friends do you think it might be? Anyone you’ve seen looking at you kinda funny lately?”

I walked back across the kitchen to retrieve the cookies.

“All of my friends look at me kinda funny,” I said. “That’s why I like them.”

“What about the one who came to dinner last night?” she said. “Cathy or Carol or some such?”

“You mean Debbie?” I said. Debbie is my oldest friend in Los Angeles, and a woman I would trust with my life.

“Right,” she said. “I got a definitely hinky energy from Debbie.”

“I can’t think why,” I said. Debbie is one of the most wholesome people I know. She bakes brownies for her church’s bake sale and works the telephone line at election time and on Tuesday afternoons reads stories to children at the library.

Lisa stabbed a finger at the book.

“It says so right here,” she said, “and the book is never wrong – Neptune is warning you to be cautious around Debbie, Gaybriella.”

I had had enough.

“You know, Lisa,” I said. “It’s good to have you visiting, and I’m glad you’ve found something that interests you like this. But I have to tell you that none of what you’re saying has any connection at all with anything that’s going on in my life, and to be perfectly honest, I’m finding it quite irritating.”

She clapped her hands, rose, and physically flourished the book in triumph.

“You see!” she cried. “Right on target! Mercury’s in retrograde, which means you’ll be experiencing problems with communication around now! I tell you, Gaybriella, this book is never wrong!”