American Gypsy
Page 32
My heart almost literally stopped.
He saw me at the same time.
I leaned my forehead on the window and painted a picture of him in my mind: tall, wide-shouldered, long hair nearly golden from the California sun, hands at his sides, wearing all black, turquoise-green eyes never wavering.
As we passed, he stood on the corner like an inkblot against the chalky sidewalk.
Our car slowed down before turning. He moved closer. For a moment I thought he’d changed his mind about Brazil and decided on Vegas instead. But he stopped at the curb.
We turned into the late-afternoon traffic, and I watched him until a city bus erased him from my view.
* * *
So there I was, a semi-American teenager leaving L.A.; bereft, but in possession of a substantially finer vocabulary than when I first set foot in Hollywood. The ragged skyline of my old home melted into smog, and the desert, drenched grapefruit-orange by the setting sun, now breathed around me.
“What’s with the album?” Mom asked, motioning at my lap. Her voice was balanced like a tightrope walker.
“I’m thinking of doing some family research,” I said.
“Really?… Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, if I have kids someday, I could pass it on to them.”
Mom turned on the radio where a cowboy crooner was singing that he still believed in me. Roxy was sleeping in the backseat, mouth open and drooling. We sped by a distant mountain with the word CALICO written on it in giant uneven letters.
“That’s a ghost town,” Mom said. Then she added, “Your father and I have lived through some amazing times. I could tell you stories. You know. If it helps your research.”
“It might,” I said, surprised by her offer. My mother hardly ever volunteered information on her life with Dad, but over the years, tales of her adventures with the Roma would gush out of her like water from a cracked dam.
“What are you thinking?” Mom asked sometime later. She’d left the windows open, and the air pounced at our hair.
“It’s beautiful.” I’d never paid attention to this untouched country outside the metropolis. It was a perfectly chiseled sculpture, yet wild and otherworldly. Like all of us.
For the first fifteen years of my life, I was an empty pitcher waiting for some random spout to fill me. What I didn’t realize was that I’d made the journey to that water many times over, like the people of Kirovakan ascending the hill of Tetoo Dzhoor. I’d tasted my cultures from the day I was born, and they’d keep me alive until I, too, became an image in an album. A memory. Did I have to choose who I was? At that moment the question sounded absurd. All I could hope for, really, was to improve upon the old design I happened to be a part of. If this meant that I’d someday call myself an American, it’d be a worthy achievement.
But if with time, when a maze of wrinkles claims my skin and the neighborhood strays purr at the sound of my footsteps; long after I’ve loved eagerly and hated without shame—if even then I am unchanged, unfound, well, perhaps that is simply because I never lost myself in the first place. And that would be just fine by me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every one of us has experienced magic, be it a smile, a word, or a deed. We are all magic-makers, and I will forever be grateful to the ones who have walked into my life and helped me along this amazing journey.
My agent, Brandi Bowles, for having killer intuition and a sharp mind at the times when I had neither.
My editor, Courtney Hodell, who has made so many complicated things make sense, in writing and beyond.
Sarita Varma, who has worked hard to make this book seen and heard and not simply shelved away.
Ian Hancock, for being a true role model and for working diligently to bring about much needed change.
Teresa Medeiros, who said yes when she didn’t have to.
Mark Krotov, for always being gracious and straightforward.
Lisa McGlaun and Chris Arabia, a.k.a. The Renegades, for being amazing.
Megan Edwards and Mark Sedenquist, for integrity and support.
Charlotte Strick, who designed the most awesome book cover ever.
Carolyn Hayes Uber, whose fortitude and creative energy are contagious.
Amber Withycombe, who kindly pointed me in the right direction.
Bob Mayer, for giving me advice that forever changed my Life.
Vegas Valley Book Festival, Henderson Writers Group, and Las Vegas Writers Group, for inspiration.
Jana Cruder, for her shutter talent.
The Farrar, Straus and Giroux team, for making people’s dreams come true.
My family. For true love.
OKSANA MARAFIOTI
American Gypsy
Oksana Marafioti moved from the Soviet Union when she was fifteen years old. Trained as a classical pianist, she has also worked as a cinematographer. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2012 by Oksana Marafioti
All rights reserved
First edition, 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Marafioti, Oksana, 1974–
American Gypsy / Oksana Marafioti. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-374-10407-8
1. Marafioti, Oksana, 1974– 2. Romanies—United States—Biography. 3. Immigrants—United States—Biography. 4. Marafioti, Oksana, 1974– —Childhood and youth. 5. Romanies—Soviet Union—Biography. I. Title.
DX127.M37 A3 2012
305.891'497073—dc23 2011047075
eISBN 9781429945264
www.fsgbooks.com
To protect the privacy of certain individuals, the names and identifying characteristics of several people have been changed and composite characters have been created.