Viva Jacquelina!

by L. A. Meyer

  One whose company I do not enjoy is that of Mr. Skelton. He is intemperate in his habits, drinks too much, and grows more boisterous by the day. I bear his insults, recalling the teachings of Master Kwai Chang—“They are only words, Chueng Tong, little black birds borne away by the slightest breeze. Pay them no mind.”

  Still, I must grit my teeth to keep my temper down.

  Today things have come to a head on the Mary Bissell.

  As the land of Africa looms on our starboard beam, I stand at the rail looking out with young Jeremiah. The Reverend Lowe is also on deck, with his family, enjoying the beautiful day and the fine breeze. Captain van Pelt is on his quarterdeck looking up at his sails, which are perfectly trimmed, I will give him that, simple merchant sailor though he be.

  The joy of the afternoon is destroyed when Mr. Skelton comes on deck, a bit red in the face from what I am sure is what he considers his “noon cup.”

  “Well, isn’t this a fine group of Christians... and one heathen,” he says, opening his arms to us. He makes a circle of the deck, humming some sort of off-key tune, and then he goes to the rail between the girls Florence and Abigail. He brings his face very close to that of Abigail and says, “Hello, little church mouse, what say we take a bit of a turn about the deck, and maybe below decks, too. Hmmm?”

  “Mr. Skelton!” cries Reverend Lowe. “This is an outrage! She is but a child!”

  He goes to get between the man and his Abigail, but Skelton thrusts him aside. “She don’t look like a child to me, Preacher. No, she don’t. A man can’t expect to keep his daughters by him forever, ’specially a man like you.”

  With that, he places his hand on the girl’s shoulder. She is ashen.

  “So what do you say, my pretty little miss?”

  Those are the last words he says to her. He is suddenly startled to find my Bo staff pressed against his neck.

  “What! You dare to confront me!”

  “Do not touch the girl, Sir,” I say evenly. “Do not touch any of this family ever again. Do you understand?”

  “Understand?” he shouts. “Understand this, Chinaman!” and he pulls the sword that habitually hangs by his side.

  He gets it halfway out as I turn about and go into the Attack of the Angry Butterfly, whirling my staff before me and finally bringing it down forcefully on the back of his sword hand. He cries out and his weapon falls to the deck.

  I glide back into the Waiting Dragon stance and wait, knees bent in lunge position, staff on shoulder. “It is enough, Long Boy,” I hear Kwai Chang say. “Let anger not rule you...”

  It is not yet enough, Master, I am sorry.

  “Damn you to hell, you heathen bastard! Let’s see how you handle this!” He reaches in his vest and pulls out a small pistol and aims it at my chest.

  I glide from the Waiting Dragon and go into the Kick of the Drowsy Lion, whirl, strike, and the pistol hits the deck next to the fallen sword, and then bounces over the side.

  Skelton holds his bruised hand and howls.

  Jeremiah looks up at me and says, “Wow!”

  Reverend Lowe gives me a look of thanks and hustles his female brood below.

  Mr. Skelton, though thoroughly humiliated, is not yet done.

  “You yella bastard,” he snarls, plainly sinking back into his vernacular. “I challenge you! To a duel! With pistols! Like men! At dawn!”

  I bow to him and say, “I believe it is your custom that I, as the challenged one, get to choose the weapons. However, I will agree to your request that it be... what?... pistols? Like that thing that just went over the side? Very well. I will meet you.”

  “Ain’t nobody meetin’ nobody tomorrow morning,” says Captain van Pelt from his quarterdeck, having observed all that has happened below him. “You can settle this ’twixt the two of ye after we sail out o’ Cape Town. We’ll be there in the mornin’, and I don’t need no Court o’ Inquiry as to some dead man lying on my ship with a bullet in him. No, sirs! Iffen you want to blow each other’s brains out, you’ll do it when we’re a day outta Cape Town. Then we’ll be able to throw the carcass o’ the dead one over the side, no questions asked. I have spoken!”

  I bow to the Captain and say, “You are wise, Captain van Pelt. I thank you. For your decision will give me some time to familiarize myself with these things you call... pistols, is it?”

  At that, Mr. Skelton straightens up and smiles at my apparent lack of expertise with pistols.

  “Yes, Long Boy,” I hear the Master say. “It is always good to let one’s enemy go complacent and confident... for a while...”

  I have learned much from the Master, and, upon reflection, a lot from you, Jacky.

  Yours,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 49

  And so Valencia falls behind us, and we go down the coast of the Mediterranean to Alicante and to Torrevieja and then to San Pedro del Pinatar, and circle our wagons and set up yet again, and yet again, and then comes, yes! Cartagena! The Jewel of the Sea!

  “There are many ships down there, Ja-elle,” says Medca, looking upon the forests of masts in the harbor from our perch high above. “Will you go on one of them?”

  As is our usual custom when we are close by the sea, Medca and I join hands to walk by the shore, sharing our thoughts and dreams.

  “Nay, Sister, they are all Spanish—you see the flags flying at their mastheads—and I prefer to wait till I get to Gibraltar, where there will be British ships, possibly more kindly disposed to one such as me. Now, let us get back to the camp before we are missed.”

  The camp is in a high state of excitement, for the Roma know that Cartagena is a good place to stop, with a happy and liberal populace, free with their money and their good cheer.

  I get dressed in my Maja gear, ready to play my fiddle and dance and sing, but it is early yet, so I go over to Buba Nadya Vadoma’s table, set up, as always, just outside her wagon.

  She looks up as I sit down across from her with my Tarot deck in hand and, possibly, a mischievous look in my eye.

  “Tell your fortune, Buba?” I ask, all modest, with eyes cast down.

  “Yes, Ja-elle,” she says, her look hooded and dark. “You may show me if you have learned anything.”

  I shuffle the cards, as clumsily as I can without actually dropping any, then deal them out.

  In the Tarot, it is not only the individual cards that matter in the telling of a fortune but also their placement next to each other. Like if The Empress card lies next to The Moon card, when all is laid out, it means one thing, but if it lies next to The Hanged Man, it means another thing. It is all up to the dealer to interpret the meaning, and therein lies the advantage of the fortuneteller.

  But still, certain cards mean certain things.

  I deal out a very favorable four cards... The Moon, The Judgment, The World, and The Chariot.

  “Ah, Buba,” I say. “It looks like good things are in store for you.”

  She snorts. “What else have you to show? I am an old woman and need no more good fortune.”

  I take the deck again, and this time I do not bother dealing out the classic array. Instead I say, “Suppose you wished to tell your sitter of... say... death.”

  I shuffle, turn the deck over, and deal four cards down, and then turn the fifth over. It is The Hanged Man.

  “Then suppose you want to tell her of good fortune to come.” Again I shuffle and deal. This time I turn over The Justice card. “Is that not right? And how about The Lovers card—should you have a pair of young sweethearts before you. Hmm?”

  She looks at me, her gaze hard.

  “Tell me of a card, Buba Nadya,” I say, shuffling the deck and returning her look.

  “The Hermit,” she says, watching my eyes.

  I shuffle, cut the cards, and present the deck to her. She cuts and puts the deck back in front of me.

  I fan the deck and pick out one card and turn it over.

  It is The Hermit, the picture of a shrouded man bearing a lantern
and a scythe, which stands for folly, arrogance, and suspicion.

  She looks down at the cards.

  “You have marked them,” she says with certainty.

  “No, I have not, Buba, I...” I jerk my head to the side. “I hear Marko calling me for the dance.”

  She cocks her head to listen and averts her gaze. It is then that I switch the decks.

  I rise and shove the new deck in front of her.

  “Here, Buba, you may examine.”

  She looks me in the eye.

  “You will tell me.”

  “Yes, I will, Buba... tomorrow. But now I must go to Marko.”

  And I leave the very wise Buba Nadya Vadoma puzzling over what seems to be an enigma.

  I sweep back into the center of the circled wagons, where we entertain the townspeople, and find Marko waiting for me.

  I reflect that he is a sweet lad and very good company. I also know that he likes me for a couple of reasons, the first of which is that I am not Romani and can never be a proper bride for him. Therefore, there is no bothersome father to get in the way of a little amorous play. The second reason is that I am a good musician and up to his standards in both dance and in the playing of the fiddle and guitar.

  “Hola, Ja-elle,” he says, as I come into the circle. “Play us a song from over these hills and far away.”

  I think on this and take up the small guitar that is handed to me.

  “Very well,” I say. “I will sing you a song of the Romani in a place called England. Yes, they roam there, too, and are called gypsies by the local people because they don’t know any better.”

  I strum a chord. “The song is about a gypsy named Black Jack Davy, and it tells the tale of a rich young lady who, well, you’ll see.”

  Now Black Jack Davy came a-ridin’ along.

  Singin’ a song so gaily.

  He whistled and he sang,

  And the green woods rang,

  And he won the heart of a lay-die

  Charmed the heart of a lady.

  I translate as I go along, so they the get the drift of it...

  “How old are you, my pretty little miss?

  How old are you, my honey?”

  She answered him with a loving smile,

  “I’ll be sixteen next Sunday.

  Be sixteen next Sunday.”

  “Come and go with me, my pretty little miss.

  Come go with me, my honey.

  I’ll take you where the grass grows green,

  And you’ll never want for money.

  No, you’ll never want for money.”

  Now I pause and strum a chord progression in order to tell them that this lady is married to a high lord of the land and she’s dressed really fine, and this gypsy lad ain’t got nothing but his good looks and a smile, but he presses his case...

  “Pull off, pull off them high-heeled shoes

  All made of Spanish leather,

  Get behind me on my horse,

  And we’ll ride off together.

  Yes, we’ll ride off together.”

  Again I stop to say that the great Lord Donald comes home to find that his Lady Gay has run off with Gypsy Davy and he ain’t at all pleased, so he says...

  “Saddle me up my coal-black stud,

  He’s speedier than the gray,

  I’ll ride all night and I’ll ride all day,

  And I’ll bring me back my lady.

  Yes, I’ll bring back my lay-die.”

  Of course, all the Romani about me are chortling about this, knowing full well that this song could never be sung for the outsiders, for they sure don’t want to hear about their women, high-born ladies or not, running off with no yellow gypsies! Oh, no, they don’t!

  I skip a lot of the many verses wherein the great Lord Donald catches up with his wayward bride and pleads for her to come back home, but she answers him...

  “Last night I slept in a feather bed,

  With my husband gaily,

  Tonight I lay on the river bank,

  In the arms of Gypsy Davy.

  In the arms of my Black Jack Davy.”

  I end with a great strumming of chords and a bow, to great applause from my friends.

  Marko comes up, beaming, to lead me to the dance.

  God, I love it so!

  Later, much later, when all the dancing, all the singing, all the hurly-burly’s done, and I lie curled up next to Medca in our wagon, I think on things, and my thoughts turn to Jaimy.

  I’m sorry, Jaimy. I know I should spend more time on my knees praying for you and, yes, for Lord Richard Allen and all my friends, and not singing and dancing the night away, which is what I have been doing, but I just can’t . . . My nature is to be cheerful and my foolish self is very likely to be led astray by happy, frivolous things, things of the moment, and I just can’t help it, Jaimy, I can’t. There is a wildness in me that can’t be denied.

  I hope you are well, Jaimy, and I live for the time I shall see you again.

  Amen.

  Chapter 50

  The stay in Cartagena is in its second day and we are having a grand time. The Roma are in high spirits for they have had a fine season on the road and are looking forward to their winter homes in the limestone cliffs overlooking Granada.

  Almost everybody, that is. Things are getting close for Medca’s marriage to Milosh, and Jan sure ain’t getting any richer. I have to comfort her each night, but I don’t know if it does any good, poor girl.

  I, however, have been getting richer. With the art supplies I bought in Valencia, I have set up as a miniature- portrait painter in the daytime when I am not singing, playing, and dancing, and have done quite well at it. I have, of course, done Medca and Jan, to their delight, and many other of my Romani friends as well.

  And yes, we still have occasional problems with some of the local hotheads, but those are generally resolved by the appearance of mighty Zoltan and his formidable presence. We had some trouble last night, but the Majos eventually went away—not happily, but they did go away.

  It is early afternoon, and I go to visit Buba Nadya Vadoma. But not to paint her portrait, oh no, she will not let me do that, saying she is too old for that sort of nonsense. Rather I go to answer what I know will be her questions.

  I sit down at the table with my Tarot cards in my lap, unseen, so far, by Buba Nadya.

  “All right, Mountain Goat,” she says. “I examined your deck and found no marks. How did you do it? You are not Romani, so it is not magic. So how?”

  “Nuri!” I shout, standing and yelling at the girl who is hanging about close to our wagon. “Stay away from my stuff!”

  I sit back down. “That girl will be the ruin of me, I swear.” Heavy sigh, and then I pick up the deck and shuffle and deal out a perfect Tarot spread: Empress, Hermit, Moon . . .

  “All right,” spits Buba. “I know you can do it. But show me how. Now.”

  I smile and pull the deck to me.

  “You see, Buba, the deck you examined was not the deck I used,” I say, lifting the other deck from my lap. “I switched them when your attention was elsewhere—like just now when I got up to yell at Nuri. Now, look at this deck you see before you. No, the backs are not marked, as you well know, but the sides are. It is what is called—at least in New Orleans in America—a shaved deck. Look at the stack from the side and you will see that I have sanded down the edges of the important cards so that they are slimmer than the others and I can feel them with my fingers. Some—The Fool, The Hierophant, The Chariot—I shave on the left side. Some—The Magician, The Tower, The Devil—I shave on the top, and so on... and so on.”

  Comprehension dawns in her dark eyes. “So...” is all she says.

  “Yes, Buba, just so,” I say. “You have taught me, and I hope I have taught you. I give you that deck. If you practice, you will be better at it than I in a very short time. I hope you will use it wisely.”

  She looks at me, her dark gaze level.

  “I will, Ja-elle,” she
whispers. “But are you sure there is no Roma in you?”

  She smiles as I rise to go.

  “I would be proud to have Romani blood in me, Buba, and I—”

  I don’t get any further, as a breathless Medca comes rushing to us.

  “Trouble, Buba!” she cries, her voice full of fear. “Men from the town. They say they are the police... They are with Zoltan now!”

  Buba Nadya Vadoma and I are up in an instant. We go to the center of the wagons, and sure enough, Zoltan stands tall and furious before six very heavily armed men. I get close and listen. A small fat man with a red sash across his chest is pointing his pudgy finger at Zoltan and speaking.

  “So you see, gypsy man, this is the situation. You and your people come here unbidden and squat upon the sacred land of Cartagena! Ah, but you have not paid money to camp on the public land of Cartagena, oh, no. I am Don Pedro de Castro, Jefe de la Policia, and I demand that money in the name of the good people of Cartagena!”

  “But, Jefe,” says Zoltan. “We have always been welcome here. Come, good sir, have some wine and let us talk this over.”

  “We want none of your wine, as it is sure to be poisoned,” says the oily little man, all puffed up in his importance. “What we want is two hundred reales!”

  “Madre di Dios!” exclaims Zoltan. “We cannot possibly raise that amount of money! We are poor travelers!”