It was late in the afternoon when I returned to the Laundromat to retrieve my clothes. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows through the grimy windows of the small establishment. Inside, the air smelled faintly of detergent and damp fabric, mingling with the metallic hum of machines spinning tirelessly—or so they should have been.

As I pushed open the door, I saw her: a woman locked in what appeared to be a fierce battle with one of the washing machines. Her fists pounded the stubborn button with such vehemence that it seemed as though she might summon some ancient spirit from within its steel frame. She was clearly mad—yes, mad—but there was also something endearing about her frustration. When she noticed me, her expression softened into a sheepish smile, and she said, “This place is getting worse every day!”

I nodded sympathetically. “Yes,” I replied, glancing around at the decaying machines scattered like forgotten relics across the room. “Unfortunately, no one seems to take care of this laundromat anymore. Machines are broken, others stolen—it’s falling apart like a dead animal left to scavengers. Using them feels like taking your chances with fate.”

She laughed nervously, still shaking the machine as if sheer willpower could force it to surrender her dollar coin. I approached her cautiously, sensing an opportunity to play peacemaker between human and appliance. “Let me try,” I offered gently, reaching for the button. With two soft presses, the coin popped out, gleaming triumphantly under the fluorescent lights.

“Voilà!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You have the magic touch!”

I chuckled, waving off her praise. “Not magic,” I said with a playful grin. “These machines have souls of their own, you see. You must treat them kindly.” To demonstrate, I gave the machine a friendly pat, as though consoling an old friend. She burst into laughter, her eyes crinkling behind oversized glasses, and for a moment, the tension melted away.

Then, curiosity sparked in her gaze. “Where are you from?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “You speak French, but I’ve been speaking English…”

“I’m from Peru,” I replied, “but I’ve lived in Montreal for… well, let’s just say centuries.”

Her green eyes widened dramatically behind those enormous lenses, and she gasped as though I’d revealed myself to be a mythical creature. “Oh my God! Oh my God! You’re from Peru?!”

“Yes,” I confirmed, amused by her reaction. “From the mountains, from the Andes—high up where the air is thin, and the clouds seem close enough to touch.”

At this, her demeanor shifted entirely. She leaned in eagerly, her voice brimming with excitement. “I can’t believe it! I’ve traveled to Peru many times! I’ve had incredible experiences with shamans—both in the Amazon jungle and in the mountains. Every time I came back, I felt full of energy, peaceful… But now…” Her tone dipped, tinged with melancholy. “Traveling has become so expensive, and with the pandemic, I haven’t been able to go for five years. Lately, I’ve been feeling down, irritable, restless…”

I studied her carefully as she spoke. She was in her fifties, with short gray hair and a sturdy build softened by gentle movements. Despite her age, her skin bore the marks of someone who had spent much of their life outdoors, kissed by the sun. Her warm eyes sparkled beneath thick glasses, framed by wrinkles earned from countless smiles. There was kindness in her—a sweetness tempered by weariness.

“You know,” I ventured thoughtfully, “there are shamans here too, even in northern Quebec.”

She wrinkled her nose dismissively, adopting a look of refined skepticism. “I’ve visited some of them, but they’re nothing compared to the Peruvians.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d partaken in ceremonies involving ayahuasca or other plant medicines during her travels. Perhaps her mind carried echoes of those journeys, imprinted deeply by visions and revelations. Whatever the case, I sensed a longing in her—a yearning for connection, clarity, and renewal.

An idea occurred to me then. “Madam,” I began, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “I recently saw an advertisement for a Brazilian shaman here in Montreal. His name is ‘El Poderoso Shaman.’ He might offer a temporary solution without requiring you to spend a fortune.”

Her interest piqued instantly. “Really? Tell me more!”

I rummaged through my memory, recalling the journal where I’d first spotted the ad. My brother Pepe had shown it to me once—a publication called Chasqui , named after the messengers of the Inca Empire. “Here,” I said, jotting down the details on a scrap of paper. “Look for this journal. You’ll find everything you need to know.”

As she took the note, her gratitude radiated like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Just talking to you makes me feel better already,” she confessed, her voice tinged with awe. “I can feel the energy shifting.”

I raised an eyebrow, half-joking. “Perhaps I am a rogue shaman, hiding in plain sight as an ordinary Canadian man.”

We shared a laugh, and as I gathered my freshly dried clothes, she extended her hand for a farewell shake. Her grip lingered, and she gasped softly. “Your hand—it’s so warm!”

I smiled, bowing slightly with mock solemnity. “Ah, perhaps there is still some shaman left in me, after all.”

“Au revoir et bonne journée!” I called over my shoulder as I stepped back into the cool autumn air. Walking home, I felt a peculiar sense of pride—not because of any mystical powers, but because for a brief moment, I had brought light to someone else’s day. Maybe being a shaman isn’t about rituals or potions; maybe it’s simply about seeing people, hearing them, and reminding them that they’re not alone.

And so, I walked away taller, feeling a little magical myself.