THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES Page 5

by Mario Reading


  ‘Shh. We no lon­ger talk abo­ut him. Or men­ti­on his na­me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clo­se fa­mily do­es not talk of its de­ad. Only ot­her pe­op­le do that. For the next month his na­me will not be men­ti­oned amongst us.’

  An old man ca­me up to Yo­la and pre­sen­ted her with a tray, on which was a wad of bank­no­tes, a comb, a scarf, a small mir­ror, a sha­ving kit, a kni­fe, a pack of cards and a syrin­ge. Anot­her man bro­ught fo­od, wrap­ped up in a wa­xed pa­per par­cel. Anot­her bro­ught wi­ne, wa­ter and gre­en cof­fee be­ans.

  Two men we­re dig­ging a small ho­le ne­ar to an oak tree. Yo­la ma­de the trip to the ho­le three ti­mes, la­ying one item ne­atly over anot­her. So­me child­ren ca­me up be­hind her and scat­te­red ker­nels of corn over the he­ap. Then the men fil­led in the gra­ve.

  It was at that po­int that the wo­men be­gan wa­iling. The back ha­irs on Sa­bir’s he­ad ro­se ata­vis­ti­cal­ly.

  Yo­la fell to her kne­es be­si­de her brot­her’s gra­ve and be­gan be­ating her bre­ast with earth. So­me wo­men ne­ar her col­lap­sed in jer­king con­vul­si­ons, the­ir eyes tur­ned up in­to the­ir he­ads.

  Fo­ur men, car­rying a he­avy sto­ne bet­we­en them, en­te­red the cle­aring. The sto­ne was pla­ced on top of Sa­ma­na’s gra­ve. Ot­her men then bro­ught his clot­hes and his re­ma­ining pos­ses­si­ons. The­se we­re he­aped on to the sto­ne and set alight.

  The wa­ils and la­men­ta­ti­ons of the wo­men in­ten­si­fi ed. So­me of the men we­re drin­king li­qu­or from small glass bot­tles. Yo­la had torn off her blo­use. She was stri­ping her bre­asts and sto­mach with the earth and wi­ne of her brot­her’s fu­ne­ral li­ba­ti­on.

  Sa­bir felt mi­ra­cu­lo­usly dis­con­nec­ted from the re­ali­ti­es of the twenty-first cen­tury. The sce­ne in the cle­aring had ta­ken on all the at­tri­bu­tes of a de­men­ted bac­cha­nal and the light from the cand­les and the fi res lit up the un­der­si­des of the tre­es, ref­lec­ting back off the trans­por­ted fa­ces be­low as if in a pa­in­ting by En­sor.

  The man who had pre­sen­ted Sa­bir’s tes­tic­les to the kni­fe ca­me over and of­fe­red him a drink from a pot­tery cup. ‘Go on. That’ll ke­ep the mulés away.’

  ‘The mulés?’

  The man shrug­ged. ‘They’re all aro­und the cle­aring. Evil spi­rits. Trying to get in. Trying to ta­ke…’ He he­si­ta­ted. ‘You know.’

  Sa­bir swal­lo­wed the drink. He co­uld fe­el the he­at of the spi­rit bur­ning away at his thro­at. Wit­ho­ut kno­wing why, he fo­und him­self nod­ding. ‘I know.’

  20

  Achor Ba­le watc­hed the fu­ne­ral ce­re­mony from the se­cu­re po­si­ti­on he had es­tab­lis­hed for him­self in­si­de the shel­ter of a small stand of tre­es. He was we­aring a well-worn ca­mo­ufl age su­it, a Le­gi­on­na­ire’s cloth fa­ti­gue hat and a stip­pled ve­il. From even as clo­se as three fe­et away, he was in­dis­tin­gu­is­hab­le from the un­derg­rowth sur­ro­un­ding him.

  For the first ti­me in three days he was en­ti­rely su­re of the girl. Be­fo­re that he hadn’t be­en ab­le to ap­pro­ach clo­se eno­ugh to the ma­in camp to ac­hi­eve a just pers­pec­ti­ve. Even when the girl had left the camp, he had be­en unab­le, to his own en­ti­re sa­tis­fac­ti­on, to pin­po­int her. Now she had comp­re­hen­si­vely outed her­self, thanks to her cons­pi­cu­o­us mo­ur­ning for her lu­na­tic brot­her’s im­mor­tal so­ul.

  Ba­le al­lo­wed his mind to wan­der back to the ro­om in which Sa­ma­na had di­ed. In all his ex­ten­si­ve ye­ars of ex­pe­ri­en­ce both in­si­de and out­si­de the Fo­re­ign Le­gi­on, Ba­le had ne­ver se­en a man ac­hi­eve the se­emingly im­pos­sib­le task of kil­ling him­self whilst un­der to­tal rest­ra­int. That old chest­nut of swal­lo­wing the ton­gue pre­sen­ted in­sur­mo­un­tab­le physi­cal dif­fi­cul­ti­es and no man, as far as he was awa­re, co­uld think him­self to de­ath. But to use gra­vity li­ke that and with such ut­ter con­vic­ti­on? That to­ok balls. So why wo­uld he do it? What had Sa­ma­na be­en pro­tec­ting?

  He re­fo­cu­sed the night glas­ses on the girl’s fa­ce. Wi­fe? No. He tho­ught not. Sis­ter? Pos­sibly. But it was im­pos­sib­le to tell in this light, with the con tor­ti­ons she was en­gi­ne­ering on her fa­ci­al fe­atu­res.

  He swung the glas­ses on to Sa­bir. Now the­re was a man who knew how to ma­ke him­self in­dis­pen­sab­le. At first, when he had es­tab­lis­hed Sa­bir’s pre­sen­ce as a cer­ta­inty in the camp, Ba­le had be­en temp­ted to ma­ke anot­her of his misc­hi­evo­us te­lep­ho­ne calls to the po­li­ce. Re­mo­ve the man per­ma­nently from the sce­ne wit­ho­ut any un­ne­ces­sary re­co­ur­se to furt­her vi­olen­ce. But Sa­bir was so una­wa­re of him­self and the­re­fo­re such an easy man to fol­low, that it se­emed so­met­hing of a was­te.

  The girl, he knew, wo­uld be a far har­der pros­pect. She be­lon­ged to a de­fi­ned and clo­se-knit so­ci­ety, which did not easily ven­tu­re ab­ro­ad. Lum­ber her with a well-me­aning Sa­bir and the who­le pro­cess be­ca­me int­rin­si­cal­ly simp­ler.

  He wo­uld watch and wa­it, the­re­fo­re. His mo­ment - as it al­ways did - wo­uld co­me.

  21

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Yes. I think I can ma­na­ge.’

  ‘You must co­me with me, then.’

  Sa­bir al­lo­wed Sa­ma­na’s sis­ter to ease him to his fe­et. He no­ti­ced that, alt­ho­ugh she was pre­pa­red to to­uch him with her hands, she ma­de gre­at play at avo­iding any con­tact with his clot­hes.

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Ve­er away from me whe­ne­ver I stumb­le - as if you’re af­ra­id I might be di­se­ased.’

  ‘I don’t want to pol­lu­te you.’

  ‘Pol­lu­te me?’

  She nod­ded her he­ad. ‘Gypsy wo­men don’t to­uch men who are not the­ir hus­bands, brot­hers, or sons.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Be­ca­use the­re are ti­mes when we are mah­rimé. Un­til I be­co­me a mot­her - and al­so at cer­ta­in ti­mes of the month - I am unc­le­an. I wo­uld dirty you.’

  Sha­king his he­ad, Sa­bir al­lo­wed her to us­her him to­wards the ca­ra­van ent­ran­ce. ‘Is that why you al­ways walk be­hind me, too?’

  She nod­ded.

  By this ti­me Sa­bir was al­most gra­te­ful for the per­ver­se and myste­ri­o­us at­ten­ti­ons of the camp, for they had not only se­cu­red him from the no­ti­ce of the French po­li­ce and cu­red him from an il­lness which, on the run, may well ha­ve re­sul­ted in his de­ath from sep­tic shock - but they had al­so comp­re­hen­si­vely upen­ded his no­ti­ons of sen­sib­le, ra­ti­onal be­ha­vi­o­ur. Every­body ne­eded a stint in a gypsy camp, Sa­bir told him­self wryly, to sha­ke them out of the­ir bo­ur­ge­o­is comp­la­cency.

  He had re­sig­ned him­self, in con­se­qu­en­ce, to only even­tu­al­ly le­ar­ning what they re­qu­ired from him, when and whe­re it su­ited them to en­ligh­ten him. And he sen­sed, as he sup­por­ted him­self down the ro­ots­tock ba­lust­ra­de out­si­de the ca­ra­van, that this mo­ment had fi­nal­ly co­me.

  ***

  Yo­la in­di­ca­ted that Sa­bir sho­uld ac­com­pany her to­wards a gro­up of men se­ated on sto­ols ne­ar the pe­rip­hery of the camp. An enor­mo­usly fat man with an out­si­zed he­ad, long black ha­ir, co­pi­o­us mo­us­tac­hes, gold-cap­ped front te­eth and a ring on every fin­ger, sat, in a much lar­ger cha­ir than every­body el­se’s, at the he­ad of the con­vo­ca­ti­on. He was we­aring a ge­ne­ro­usly cut, tra­di­ti­onal­ly styled do­ub­le-bre­as­ted su­it, ma­de no­tab­le only by an out­lan­dish se­qu­en­ce of purp­le and gre­en stri­pes la­ced in­to the fab­ric and by do­u
b­le-width zo­ot - su­it la­pels.

  ‘Who the heck’s that?’

  ‘The Bu­li­bas­ha. He is our le­ader. To­day he is to be Kris­ti­no­ri.’

  ‘Yo­la, for Christ’s sa­ke…’

  She stop­ped, still po­si­ti­oned just be­hind him and to the right. ‘The Chris you we­re se­arc­hing for? That my brot­her spo­ke to you abo­ut? This is it.’

  ‘What? That’s Chris? The fat guy? The Chi­ef?’

  ‘No. We hold a Kriss when so­met­hing im­por­tant must be de­ci­ded. No­ti­ce is gi­ven and ever­yo­ne at­tends from many ki­lo­met­res aro­und. So­me­one is elec­ted Kris­ti­no­ri, or jud­ge of the Kriss. In im­por­tant ca­ses, it is the Bu­li­bas­ha who ta­kes this ro­le. Then the­re are two ot­her jud­ges - one for the si­de of the ac­cu­ser and one for the per­son who is ac­cu­sed - cho­sen from amongst the phu­ro and the phu­ro-dai. The el­ders.’

  ‘And this is an im­por­tant ca­se?’

  ‘Impor­tant? It is li­fe or de­ath for you.’

  22

  Sa­bir fo­und him­self us­he­red, with a cer­ta­in amo­unt of for­mal po­li­te­ness, on to a bench set in­to the earth in front of and be­low, the Bu­li­bas­ha. Yo­la set­tled on the gro­und be­hind him, her legs drawn up be­ne­ath her. Sa­bir as­su­med that she had be­en al­lo­ca­ted this spot in or­der to trans­la­te the pro­ce­edings to him, for she was the only wo­man in the as­sembly.

  The ma­in body of wo­men and child­ren we­re cong­re­ga­ted be­hind and to the right of the Bu­li­bas­ha, in the po­si­ti­on Yo­la al­ways to­ok in re­la­ti­on to him. Sa­bir no­ti­ced, too, that the wo­men we­re all we­aring the­ir best clot­hes and that the ol­der, mar­ri­ed wo­men we­re spor­ting he­ads­car­ves and pro­di­gi­o­us amo­unts of gold jewel­lery. Unu­su­al­ly, they we­re ma­de up with he­avy kohl aro­und the eyes and the­ir ha­ir, be­ne­ath the­ir scar­ves, no lon­ger hung free, but was ins­te­ad put up in ring­lets and ela­bo­ra­te bra­ids. So­me had hen­na on the­ir hands and a few of the grand­mot­hers we­re smo­king.

  The Bu­li­bas­ha held up a hand for si­len­ce, but every­body con­ti­nu­ed tal­king. It se­emed that the de­ba­te abo­ut Sa­bit was al­re­ady well un­der way.

  Impa­ti­ently, the Bu­li­bas­ha in­di­ca­ted that the man who had stretc­hed Sa­bir’s tes­tic­les for the kni­fe sho­uld co­me for­ward.

  ‘That is my co­usin. He is go­ing to spe­ak aga­inst you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He li­kes you. It is not per­so­nal. But he must do this for the fa­mily.’

  ‘I sup­po­se they’re go­ing to jo­int me li­ke a pig if this thing go­es aga­inst me?’ Sa­bir tri­ed to so­und as tho­ugh he was joking, but his vo­ice crac­ked half­way thro­ugh and ga­ve him away.

  ‘They will kill you, yes.’

  ‘And the up­si­de?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘What hap­pens if things go my way?’ Sa­bir was swe­ating badly now.

  ‘Then you will be­co­me my brot­her. You will be res­pon­sib­le for me. For my vir­gi­nity. For my mar­ri­age. You will ta­ke my brot­her’s pla­ce in everyt­hing. ‘

  ‘I don’t un­ders­tand.’

  Yo­la sig­hed im­pa­ti­ently. She lo­we­red her vo­ice to a harsh whis­per. ‘The only re­ason you are still ali­ve to­day is that my brot­her ma­de you his phral. His blo­od brot­her. He al­so told you to co­me back he­re amongst us and ask for a Kriss. You did this. We then had no cho­ice but to ho­no­ur his dying wish. For what a dying man asks for, he must get. And my brot­her knew that he wo­uld die when he did this thing to you.’

  ‘How can you pos­sibly know that?’

  ‘He ha­ted pa­yos - French­men - mo­re even than he de­tes­ted ga­dj­es. He wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve as­ked one to be a brot­her to him ex­cept in the most ext­re­me of cir­cums­tan­ces.’

  ‘But I’m not a pa­yo. Okay, my mot­her’s French, but my fat­her’s Ame­ri­can and I was born and bro­ught up in the Uni­ted Sta­tes.’

  ‘But you spe­ak per­fect French. My brot­her wo­uld ha­ve jud­ged you on that.’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad in be­wil­der­ment.

  Yo­la’s co­usin was now ad­dres­sing the as­sembly. But even with his flu­ent com­mand of French, Sa­bir was ha­ving dif­fi­culty ma­king out what was be­ing sa­id.

  ‘What lan­gu­age is that?’

  ‘Sin­to.’

  ‘Gre­at. Co­uld you ple­ase tell me what he is sa­ying?’

  ‘That you kil­led my brot­her. That you ha­ve co­me amongst us to ste­al so­met­hing that be­longs to our fa­mily. That you are an evil man and that God vi­si­ted this re­cent il­lness on you to pro­ve that you are not tel­ling the truth abo­ut what hap­pe­ned to Ba­bel. He al­so says that it is be­ca­use of you that the po­li­ce ha­ve co­me amongst us and that you are a dis­cip­le of the De­vil.’

  ‘And you say he li­kes me?’

  Yo­la nod­ded. ‘Ale­xi thinks you are tel­ling the truth. He lo­oked in­to yo­ur eyes when you tho­ught that you we­re abo­ut to die and he saw yo­ur so­ul. It se­emed whi­te to him, not black.’

  ‘Then why is he sa­ying all this stuff abo­ut me?’

  ‘You sho­uld be ple­ased. He is exag­ge­ra­ting ter­ribly. Many of us he­re fe­el that you did not kill my brot­her. They will ho­pe that the Bu­li­bas­ha gets angry with what is be­ing sa­id and pro­no­un­ces you in­no­cent.’

  ‘And do you think I kil­led yo­ur brot­her?’

  ‘I will only know this when the Bu­li­bas­ha gi­ves his ver­dict.’

  23

  Sa­bir tri­ed to lo­ok away from what was hap­pe­ning in front of him, but co­uldn’t. Yo­la’s co­usin Ale­xi was gi­ving a mas­terc­lass in ap­pli­ed hist­ri­onics. If this was so­me­one sec­retly on his si­de, then Sa­bir de­ci­ded that he wo­uld rat­her sup with the De­vil and ha­ve do­ne with it.

  Ale­xi was on his kne­es in front of the as­semb­led jud­ges, we­eping and te­aring at his ha­ir. His fa­ce and body we­re co­ve­red with dirt and his shirt was torn open, re­ve­aling three gold neck­la­ces and a cru­ci­fix.

  Sa­bir glan­ced at the Bu­li­bas­ha’s fa­ce for any signs that he was be­co­ming im­pa­ti­ent with Ale­xi’s dra­ma­tics, but, to all in­tents and pur­po­ses, he se­emed to be drin­king the stuff in. One of the yo­un­ger child­ren, whom Sa­bir as­su­med must be one of the Bu­li­bas­ha’s da­ugh­ters, had even crept on to his ca­pa­ci­o­us lap and was bo­un­cing up and down in her ex­ci­te­ment.

  ‘Do I get to say my pi­ece?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you me­an?’

  ‘So­me­one el­se will talk for you.’

  ‘Who, for Christ’s sa­ke? Every­body he­re se­ems to want me kil­led.’

  ‘Me. I will spe­ak for you.’

  ‘Why wo­uld you do that?’

  ‘I ha­ve told you. It was my brot­her’s dying wish.’

  Sa­bir re­ali­sed that Yo­la didn’t want to be drawn any furt­her. ‘What’s hap­pe­ning now?’

  ‘The Bu­li­bas­ha is as­king whet­her my brot­her’s fa­mily wo­uld be happy if you pa­id them gold for his li­fe.’

  ‘And what are they sa­ying?’

  ‘No. They want to cut yo­ur thro­at.’

  Sa­bir al­lo­wed his mind to wan­der bri­efly in­to a fan­tasy of es­ca­pe. With every­body con­cent­ra­ting on Ale­xi, he might at le­ast ma­na­ge a fi­ve-yard he­ad start be­fo­re they bro­ught him down at the ed­ge of the camp. Ac­ti­on, not re­ac­ti­on - wasn’t that how they tra­ined sol­di­ers to res­pond to an am­bush?

  Ale­xi got up off the gro­und, sho­ok him­self and wal­ked past Sa­bir, grin­ning. He even win­ked.

  ‘He se­ems to think he put that over rat­her well.’

  ‘Do not
joke. The Bu­li­bas­ha is tal­king to the ot­her jud­ges. As­king the­ir opi­ni­on. At this sta­ge it is im­por­tant how he be­gins to think.’ She sto­od up. ‘Now I shall spe­ak for you.’

  ‘You’re not go­ing to do all that bre­ast-be­ating stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know what I shall do. It will co­me to me.’

  Sa­bir drop­ped his he­ad on to his kne­es. Part of him still re­fu­sed to be­li­eve that an­yo­ne was ta­king this se­ri­o­usly. Per­haps it was all so­me gi­gan­tic joke per­pet­ra­ted on him by a ton­ti­ne of disg­runt­led re­aders?

  He lo­oked up when he he­ard Yo­la’s vo­ice. She was dres­sed in a gre­en silk blo­use, but­to­ned to one si­de ac­ross her chest and her he­avy red cot­ton dress re­ac­hed down to just abo­ve her ank­les, in­ter­le­aved with nu­me­ro­us pet­ti­co­ats. She wo­re no jewel­lery as an un­mar­ri­ed wo­man and her un­co­ve­red ha­ir was bunc­hed in ring­lets over her ears, with rib­bons along­si­de and sewn in­to, the chig­non at the back of her he­ad. Sa­bir un­der­went a stran­ge emo­ti­on as he watc­hed her - as if he was in­de­ed re­la­ted to her in her so­me way and that this in­ten­se re­cog­ni­ti­on was in so­me sen­se re­le­vant in a man­ner be­yond his un­ders­tan­ding.

  She tur­ned to him and po­in­ted. Then she po­in­ted down to her hand. She was as­king the Bu­li­bas­ha so­met­hing and the Bu­li­bas­ha was ans­we­ring.

  Sa­bir glan­ced aro­und at the two sur­ro­un­ding gro­ups. The wo­men we­re all in­tent on the Bu­li­bas­ha’s words, but so­me of the men in Ale­xi’s gro­up we­re watc­hing him in­tently, alt­ho­ugh se­emingly wit­ho­ut ma­le­vo­len­ce - al­most as tho­ugh he we­re a puz­zle they we­re be­ing for­ced to conf­ront aga­inst the­ir wills, so­met­hing cu­ri­o­us that had be­en im­po­sed on them from the out­si­de and which they we­re ne­vert­he­less for­ced to fac­tor in to wha­te­ver equ­ati­on was ru­ling the­ir li­ves.

 

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