IT WAS three days before I returned. I ascended the stairs a bit more self-confidently and entered the living room; the bearded man had been replaced by two little children on the couch and a baby in a bassinet. They too were olive-skinned. I asked for their mother and looked about me.

The white paint was peeling off the walls. In the corner, a stand was crammed with icons and religious figures. The dark woman I had seen before- who I presumed was Mrs. Murray- entered, and I turned around.

"Would you like a reading now?" she asked

"Yes."

"Do you know the fee?"

"Five dollars."

"That's right," she smiled. "One moment. please."

She went back into the adjoining room, and in a few seconds a girl, about 18 years old, emerged. She had a heart-shaped face, and the same olive skin. dark hair, and brown eyes.

"Would you like cards or a palm reading?"

Being a novice, I didn't really have a preference.

"The palm reading is better," she advised, and I obliged.

She motioned me to sit down on a red couch of velvet crushed beyond respectability, and sat down beside me.

Taking my hand, she examined my palm and smiled beatifically. I was glad she was so pleased.

"Make two wishes and tell me one."

I have never been a good wish- maker. I thought a few minutes and apologized for the delay. She smiled sympathetically and suggested a few popular wishes. I finally spat out some noble, selfless thought. She complimented me on my wish. I relaxed. The serious palm-reading commenced.