Seven of Swords

by Svetlana Tomlin

After I was done with four years of learning about the syntax of complex sentences and the differences between proto-Slavic and church Slavic, I had nowhere to go. Granted, I chose this type of education to be both interesting and non-threatening for an IT genius who was supposed to fund my lifestyle. But, said genius had not been acquired yet, and I needed cash. I tried to write for a fashion magazine, attempting to imitate the language of the Tatler and Bazaar. It didn’t work, so I just sat on my parents’ couch and rewatched the O.C.

 I rarely left the house, maybe just to read on bench somewhere or stock up on chips. Once a week, I traveled to a dance studio across town then wandered around a department store that had all the drops and collaborations of obscure designers that I couldn’t afford (but could show the world the sophistication I naturally possessed). That became the only reason to get dressed.

As I made my journey back home in a cramped subway between people who had actual jobs. I listened to songs about limousines and dollar bills; they replaced songs about the desire to become somebody’s vacuum cleaner. Now, I didn’t imagine a devastating but beautiful love story. I imagined myself wearing fur coats with my Converse and spending my summers in Monaco betting on horses, while sharing appetizers with mobsters and wearing hats that cost like a wing of an airplane.  

Alex, who was a dear friend of mine (and of whom I was insanely jealous), was a street fashion photographer. She always complained about taking photos of dull women with no actual sense of style with anonymous sugar daddies, who were allegedly parliament members. These women called themselves “bloggers.” I laughed at them, but I wanted to be them. Alex told me she loved me because I was “authentic.” I didn’t want to be authentic; I wanted to be invited to fashion week and tell somebody about who I was wearing.

It was getting harder to see her, or anybody else. I didn’t have stories to tell or achievements to report. No fancy job. No rich boyfriend. No future.

But Alex gave me a helping hand. The website about women’s lifestyle she worked for, which was designed in the most condescending shade of pink, had a little more to offer than just a forum with a heated discussion on every question a woman has to gain the courage for to ask her gynecologist. It had a horoscope section, and suddenly I was the author of the weekly update of the stars. This was the first time being named Nur was beneficial. The exotic name turned from a roadblock to employment and renting apartments, to, somehow, a way to give gravity to my predictions through the mysticism of the East.

I sat in front of the laptop, wearing sweatpants, and looked at the screen. Luck should turn for Capricorns that week, the Sun loves the Virgos, and the Moon takes pity on the Pisces, despite whatever they messed up. Arises are all bitches though, so they shouldn’t make any financial decisions on account of not deserving either a little treat or a big one. Leos… well, they will meet a lover or, if they already have one, rediscover something in them. The fate for Tauruses was simple: They shouldn’t have broken up with me; therefore, they were to face the consequences for their actions.

 I felt a rush, as if I was actually controlling whatever would happen to all of the people reading my prophecy. I became a wise, powerful mage. Unlike fates, who simply weaved the threads, I decided what happened. I didn’t know what my dinner would look like, but I knew that for the Gemini of the world, a big decision was coming up. More importantly, I was gonna get paid.

I got my parents a new fancy kettle and took them out for sushi. I did use Groupon, but I finally felt like I could do something. The rest of the paycheck disappeared in that very department store after dance class. I could finally ditch the “I am just browsing” routine and grab whatever I felt like, from the clearance section. But still.

I crafted the persona for the holiday party. Women’s Day was once a celebration of empowerment, but now it’s about being the best decoration you can be. Between pink balloon arches and confetti, photo ops with buckets of tulips, and talks of divine femininity, I cruised in a floor-length black gown and wore my grandmother’s headscarf like a crown. “It’s a symbol of connection with her; she gave me this gift. She could see what others could not. When the Bolsheviks came to the village for her father, she had already told him to hide, and when they tried to arrest her, she unleashed their darkest, deepest secrets, so they just fought each other, and she quietly left.” I told this story to dozens of premium clients of various plastic surgeons.

My grandmother was actually a baby; her father got arrested and spent years in the labor camps, but they will never check. She would also be furious if she thought I was in cahoots with Shaitân, or made money with his help. She didn’t need to know any of this, though.

Soon, I paired a pantsuit with 10 chunky rings that looked sort of mystical (even though they’re made in China by underprivileged children) for an interview at a real magazine. I met Alex in the hallway, and she didn’t approve. We were both moving up; she was shooting real models for the spread, just like she wanted, yet my success didn’t spark joy for her.

 “What’s going on with you? What’s with the rings?” She stood there in a white blank t-shirt and black jeans, the smug simplicity of a person who doesn’t need to put much effort into life.

“For all those years of people telling me 'just say you’re Russian,' I am finally embracing the roots.”  I looked up at her, and her raised eyebrow and head tilt made me take a step back

“Baby, that’s Shien.”

She was right, so I just lifted the index finger to my mouth and disappeared. I haven’t felt the need to keep in touch with her. The editors love me.

I met Angela a year after when she came back from another retreat in Bali and hosted a party. I came there with a colleague I barely remember. Tania? That must be it.  Angela talked a lot about how the “island accepted her” and how connecting with her divine feminine energy helped her achieve abundance and joy. I looked at her apartment and tried to think to whom she offered that divine femininity to get marble countertops and the view of the Patriarch Ponds. We exchanged backstories, but for the first time, I could tell she knew mine was bullshit. I knew hers was.

“It’s all about information and access, Nuri. I tell them I know how to dream correctly, I charge for the knowledge, and then, if it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it’s just all their negative vibes, their skepticism, their demons. They need to dream harder,” Angela said after her guests left.

She looked ethereal in her pearl silk, her carefully sun-kissed hair with slight waves, and her skin with soft shimmer. She looked like she didn’t spend tons of time and money to be a Goddess. Like she was born for it. I knew it was fake. I wanted that, too.

Angela took a liking to me. She said we were of the same blood. Soon, I joined her on a soul-searching vacation. That means a vacation where you look for the spots that will make people more jealous, so you can inspire them to part with their money in exchange for your guidance. Her followers learned that she consulted me on all major decisions. We were seen together at events; she talked about me in her stories. My engagement numbers grew like mushrooms after rain.

 I learned the meanings of Tarot cards, bought a book on how to read coffee ground lees, and I was ready. I sold my private consultations for the price of a week of writing horoscopes for a magazine. I was invited to appear on TV shows. People took photos with me as I shopped.

When a lonely, pretty girl paid for my guidance, I explained that the Ace of Pentacles meant that soon a mysterious man would come into her life. When a rich housewife came for my help, I either saw the Two of Cups, meaning faithful husband, or the Seven of Swords.  Deception, trickery. When a son of an important person came in, I saw the Ten of Wands if I thought that daddy would find him employment, or the Page of Wands if he was not fit for anything but wasting that money away. It all came true.

I went to high-end salons, bought real jewelry, and never needed to step foot in my kitchen, except to empty packages of the little things I pretended to use for potions and stuff. I got a tummy tuck, new tits, and a face lift. I bought imported snacks: Italian candy, Turkish delight, and American soda. Just because I could. I didn’t need a man. I didn’t need friends either. When Angela got arrested for tax evasion, I felt nothing. It’s not like she didn’t do it.

People want to believe. They always cling to something that’s gonna give them a cheat code to life. Some bring water to their TVs so a guru can energize it, and some drink raw milk. It’s all about supply and demand. And if someone has to supply, why not me?

But before the war started, I didn’t know what money was. People were looking for the reason. People were looking for the timeline. Nobody could answer these questions. And soon, people started vanishing. Some were killed at war, and some were captured. The government avoided telling what happened, so it could avoid giving the widows money. But I could give them a piece of mind. I could look into the cards and see the presence of their men and, after a while, lose that presence. I could confirm or deny their death. I saw the Stars and the Moon. Hanged Men and Death. It all could mean anything I wanted.

I bought an apartment in the Garden Circle with cash, across the street from that very department store. I didn’t look at the clearances or even sales. The buyers called me, and despite the lack of foreign goods, they still found something worthwhile for me. I bought a purple Cayenne and hired a driver. Cutting the subway pass and burning it was a ritual of rebirth. I was in control of my body and mind.

It’s just that I don’t recognize any of these things as my own. I stare in the mirror to see a face that’s not mine. I don’t know why I have these lips. I don’t know why my hair is this color. I don’t know why my house is full of art and trinkets from every place ending with “stan” that I don’t remember buying, and that I definitely don’t feel attached to.

It’s probably just retrograde.

BIO: Svetlana Tomlin grew up in Moscow, Russia. In 2022, she had to leave in protest of the invasion of Ukraine. After travelling through the Southern Caucasus, she found herself in Portland. She also found herself to be a writer. She writes stories about women who deal with love, war, and immigration.