by Sarah Price
The girl defied him with her eyes. “I do not want to take care of those two children!”
The man did not take lightly to being contradicted. “It is not a question of whether you want to or not but a matter of what you will do.”
“I do not like those children!” she snapped back. “They are not mine!”
The man laughed. His hair was long and dirty, hanging down his shoulders over a stained white shirt. It had been almost a month since his wife had died and things had not been progressing well for him. He ignored the two children and his own basic needs. The children were dirty and hungry. The older one looked perpetually angry and the younger one increasingly forlorn. Their father paid no mind to them, dealing with his own sorrow. But, now that the month of mourning was over, he was looking for solutions. And he saw one in this girl that he had acquired. “I did not ask you to like them, girl. I told you to take care of them. They need a woman to tend to their needs,” he said. “There will be no more discussion. You will begin to pull your share of the workload around here. And that starts today.”
The girl watched as he walked away. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and tried to calm her beating heart. What would she do with those two little boys? One was almost a young man, the other barely a weanling. The cries of her own child broke her away from her thoughts. She clutched the baby to her chest, reassuring the infant that everything was all right, even if she didn’t necessarily believe it.
Chapter Eight
Late in the afternoon, the caravan stopped in the outskirts of a small town along the road. Dozens of gadjo children curiously followed the wagon train after it had passed through the middle of town. There was a crowd following the caravan by the time they stopped in a grassy meadow, far enough from the town to not disturb anyone but close enough that they could see the buildings. The older gypsy men ignored the gadjo children as they unloaded the tents. Their shirts came off as stakes were pounded into the ground and the teams of horses and mules were unhitched from the wagons. The men’s skin glistened with a golden brown sheen from the combination of hard work and heat. The women were busy unloading material from the wagons, creating order to what would appear chaos to the untrained eye. They sent their children to gather wood for the cooking fires, charging them to take the smaller children with them in order to keep them out of the way. To the women's relief, the gadjo children followed, eager to befriend the gypsy children, which kept them occupied.
Sahara descended from the wagon, her back stiff and her stomach tight from hunger. She rubbed the tight knots in her back. The caravan hadn't stopped to eat along the way or to stretch. None of the gypsies seemed to mind a day without meals or water. They didn’t seem to care about the welfare of the people or horses, stopping only to give water to the horses whenever they came near a stream or river. Once the caravan stopped, the men seemed to forget the long day of travel. Eagerly, they attacked the task of setting up another camp for a day or two. Some of the younger men herded the horses away from the activity, shooing away the curious gadjo children. Sahara watched the disarray of organization, grateful that she was not expected to participate in the set up. Nicolae noticed his wife standing alone by the wagon in which she had ridden. Her dark eyes flashed, watching the gypsies work. She dabbed at her neck with the bottom of her skirt, lifting it over her knees. Quickly, he left the other men and hurried over to her side. He approached her from the side. Reaching out with one hand, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed it. His tight grasp forced her to drop her skirt and stare up at him, half angry, half confused. He spoke harshly but quietly so no one could overhear him reproaching her.
“S'hara, you must never raise your skirt! If a man walked in front of you, he would be mahrimed. Never, ever do that again.” He stared at her as he dropped her hand. Her face was baked golden from the sun, glistening with sweat. Her long hair clung to the back of her neck. She was hot and tired. For a moment, she thought she might cry from exhaustion. When she met his gaze, he said sternly, “There is a small river over that hill. You can cool off there.”
Sahara watched quietly as Nicolae returned to the men. He dove into the work without complaint, working alongside his kumpania. His bare back was a deep brown, shining from working in the heat. His hair was bound, tied back in a thick cord. He was a strong man and taller than many of the other gypsies. His presence commanded respect. She saw that immediately. The men began to set up a tent and Nicolae helped center to tent post, holding it steady by himself as the other men secured it. His muscles rippled and a shiver went down her spine.
Quickly, Sahara forgot Nicolae's scolding as she sought the nearby river, already crowded with younger girls collecting water for their mothers. Sahara ignored them as she thirstily cupped some water in her hands and drank it. Leaning over the river, she splashed cool water on her face and throat. Her hands, dry and dirty from holding the reigns, soaked up the water. The blisters had burst earlier and stung. Standing, she wiped them on her skirt as she surveyed the area. The town was only half a mile down the road. The camp was on a large plain, few trees in sight. She could barely see the children and dogs racing around, laughing as they played while occasionally picking up sticks. The older boys rode their horses off, Sahara guessed to steal dry lumber or a meal. Taking a deep breath, she headed back for the wagons.
In less time than it had taken to tear down the tents, they were erected. The wagons circled the camp, the tents on the inside with a large opening for fires. Lazily, Sahara walked through the wagons. The women were busy moving mattresses into their tents. No one noticed Sahara as she watched, studying each gypsy women's face. As she walked closer, Sahara saw a small tan dog sniffing around a nearby tent. A young woman with a diklo covering her head opened the flap as if to leave. When she saw the dog, she began screaming at it. Kicking the dog's side, the woman chased it away. The dog ran off, whimpering with its tail between its legs. The woman shook her head and watched the dog disappear. She started to go back into the tent when she saw Sahara. For a moment, they both stared at each other curiously.
The young gypsy woman looked no more than twenty. Her hair was hidden beneath the diklo, which was tied in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. A black and gold scarf was wrapped around the waist of her light blue dress. Large black circles under her eyes stood out on her tanned brown face. She hesitated before motioning to Sahara to come forward. Her hands were calloused and chapped from a lifetime of hard living. Sahara walked toward her, curious that one of the gypsy women would finally want to talk with her.
“You are the gadjo gypsy, yes?”
Sahara nodded slowly. “I am.”
The woman stared at her, looking from Sahara's feet to the top of her head. “You are not wearing your diklo.”
Sahara frowned for a second, not understanding what she meant before remembering that she was referring to the scarf which all married women wore. “No, I'm not.”
“You are married, yes? But you do not wear it.” The woman gave a thoughtful smile. Her teeth were slightly crooked but gleamed white. Mischievously, she chuckled. “They would expect nothing less from you, yes?”
“What are you talking about?”
The woman gave a pleasant laugh, opening the flap of her tent for Sahara to enter. Debating for a quick second, Sahara bent down and entered. To her surprise, the tent was decorated. A large pile of pillows laid on the mattress in the back with quilts piled high. Several unlit white candles hung from the post in the middle. Through the post, a wooden bar stretched across the middle of the tent with at least fifty strings of colorful beads hanging from each side. Off to the side of the tent was a thin table with two chairs. Next to that, several black clay bowls were neatly stacked in a narrow cupboard, one bowl set aside from the rest. Several pieces of leather sewn together covered the grassy floor of the tent. It was stretched so tight that it was almost as hard as a real floor. Squinting her eyes, Sahara noticed that the leather was actually hooked onto the sides of the tent.
> “You like?”
Sahara looked at the woman, nodding her head. “Much nicer than the tent I've been staying in.”
The woman scrutinized her again. “Nicolae's tent? That is yours now too, yes?”
Sahara walked over to the strings of beads, fingering them. They were made from glass. “Where do you find these?”
“We trade for them, gadjo gypsy.”
“Really?” She looked over her shoulder at the woman. “And the floor covering?”
The woman smiled again. “My husband gave me the leather and I made it.”
Sahara let the beads slide through her fingers. The strand brushed against the others, tinkling like small brass bells. “My name is Sahara.”
“I am Bossa. You like the gypsy life yet?” The question almost sounded teasing to Sahara. But the smile that broke the hardness of her face told Sahara otherwise.
“Should I?”
Bossa tilted her head. “Why should you not?”
“I am a town girl, Bossa. A gadjo.”
A laugh escaped Bossa's lips as she agreed with Sahara. “In many ways, you are gadjo, yes. But tell me, do you not like the freedom? The travel?” She leaned forward a little as she reached out with her arm and touched Sahara's cheek with a dirty finger. “The dancing?”
It took Sahara a minute to answer. Bossa had read her hidden feelings. With her father, Sahara had worked all day and night, slaving for no pay or reward. In return for her hard labor, all she had received was the humiliation of being gambled away. But with the gypsies, she had indeed become free. So far, her days were lazy, her nights wild. As for the travel, her back ached and her shoulders were sore but yes, she did like it. “No, I hate everything about it!” Her eyes were wide as she stared at this woman. How had she known, Sahara thought, when even I did not?
“You lie!” Bossa hissed through her teeth, the smile gone from her face. “You lie, gadjo gypsy. But that is expected because of who you are! It lives in your blood. You have secretly longed for this without even knowing! Now it is here, gadjo gypsy. And you do not know what to do with it! You have a husband you do not know nor love. Yet, you are happy because you have found it. The life that is inside you! You deny loving it because hating makes it easier.” Bossa eyed Sahara inquisitively. “Am I not right?”
Stunned, Sahara stared at the woman. Her heart beat faster as she repeated to herself what Bossa had just said. Hadn't Emilian said the same thing to her? Amazed, Sahara wondered about the gypsy woman standing in front of her. Deep down, she did like the freedom and the laziness. “You...you are right.”
“Of course I am right. Or you would have run away, yes? Even if your drunken father was a horrible Irish gadjo, yes?”
Her head snapped as her wide eyes stared at Bossa. Drunken father? Irish gadjo? The words rung in her ears as she took a step toward the gypsy. There had been no women there that night. And certainly she could not have learned that he was a drunken Irishman. Distrustfully, Sahara asked, “How do you know that?” Sahara noticed the sudden dismay in Bossa's face.
Quickly, Bossa began to busy herself around the tent, heading for the flap. “I know nothing. Nothing.” Her voice betrayed her lie. “I have work now, yes? It is time for you to leave, gadjo gypsy. You should be taking care of your own tent and husband now.”
Leaping forward, Sahara grabbed Bossa's arm. Whirling her around, Sahara moved her face inches away from Bossa's as she spat out, “Tell me how you knew that about my father!”
“Let go of my arm!”
Before Sahara could say another word, she felt herself jerked into the air and carried away. Her body struggled in Nicolae's arms as he dragged her away from Bossa. A crowd stood behind them, part gypsy and part gadjo. They watched the scene, their faces a mixture of amusement and concern. Sahara stumbled and fell back to the ground but Nicolae kept pulling her arm, half-dragging her to her feet. Grinding his teeth, Nicolae swung his fiery wife over his shoulder and hurried away from the amused crowd. Surely his father would hear of the incident and order punishment for the unruly, troublesome girl.
Nicolae carried her to their tent. Beside the Rom Baro's wagon, it was far away from the commotion Sahara had caused. Throwing Sahara onto the mattress, Nicolae towered over her. Trickles of blood dotted his bare back and arms from where her nails had dug into his flesh. He looked down and saw the blood. Quickly, he wiped at it with his sleeve. “E Martya, S’hara! That is what you are! The angel of death!”
Sahara sat up, ready to get to her feet. “The truth, Nicolae! I want to know the truth.”
Nicolae took a deep breath as he rubbed his sweaty forehead. “You are causing all this trouble, S'hara, because you want to know what? What is this truth that you seek? What would it change?”
“Something doesn’t make sense, Nicolae! I feel it.” She stood and reached for his arm. He tensed up, his muscles constricting under her touch. “No, I know it. You must tell me or I cannot go on.”
He poked the side of his head with his finger. “It is here! In your imagination! You are crazy!”
“You're lying!” She faced Nicolae as he glared furiously at her. “If I am imagining this, how did that woman know my father was Irish? Why did Emilian tell me I'm gypsy? And why,” she lifted her chin as she met his gaze, pleading with him. “Why did you, a gypsy, marry me, a gadjo woman? How can this marriage survive if I don’t know why, Nicolae?” Dropping his hand from his head, he stared down at her. There was a hesitation in his face, a moment of decision. His eyes clouded over and, for the briefest of moments, he was not with her. He was somewhere else. She could sense it. She knew it was the past but she didn’t know where. She knew it was important but she didn’t know what. “I need to know,” she whispered. “Do I not have that right?”
Her words broke his trance. He reached out a hand and caressed her cheek. To his relief, Sahara let him, pressing her cheek against his hand. The warmth of their skin touching melted his final reserve and he sighed. “You are so beautiful, S'hara. You are even more beautiful that I imagined.” He hesitated as he spoke, choosing his words carefully for his initial words had not registered to her. “Our marriage was arranged long before we met, my beautiful wife. You say that you have no home to go to but, my precious wife, you are indeed home now.”
“Nicolae?”
He held his finger to her lips, cutting off her sentence. “You must listen, yes?” He waited for her to nod. He removed his finger but let it linger on her skin. He touched her cheek then brushed the hair from her neck and laid his hand on her shoulder. Her black eyes gleamed as she stared at him curiously. “It was Amaya...”
She gasped. “My mother?” Pushing his hand away from her, she turned around. She raised a shaking hand to her forehead. Her fingers trembled as she realized what Nicolae had said. Her heart pounded inside her chest. For years, she had lived with the knowledge that her mother had died at such a young age but her father refused to speak about her. A part of him had died when Amaya caught the fever and died. It was also when he began to drink. Sahara had only been a small girl, no more than nine. She barely remembered her mother, only glimpses of visions and shadows of emotions. But the burden of growing up motherless never left her mind. As the years went on, the memory of her mother had receded until the only thing that was left was a warm feeling in her heart. She knew she was young and beautiful, that she could remember. But nothing else. Whirling around, Sahara softly said, “Amaya was my mother's name. How did you know that?”
“S'hara, when Amaya came over here, she was with child.”
“I don’t understand what you are saying,” she whispered.
“Your mother was gypsy, yes? And you were born on the ship. Her kumpania, Afrikaiya, met up with the Machwaiya. Amaya was the Afrikaiya Rom Baro's daughter. Although she was unwed, her child had worth.” He paused. “You had worth, S’hara. Our kumpanias merge through marriage. It is how we continue to grow and survive. So, a deal was made for the Afrikaiya bastard girl to marry the future
Machwaiya Rom Baro.”
“That's you.” Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear her.
He hesitated. “I am the next Rom Baro of this kumpania, yes.” He stepped closer to Sahara, gently stroking her cheek again. “But you disappeared, S'hara. Amaya ran away with an Irishman. They married and vanished. With the child, S'hara.” He lowered his voice even more. “When I was sixteen, word reached the Rom Baro that Amaya died. At first, it did not concern us about you. I was married then. But several years after my wife died, the Rom Baro began to ask other kumpania's if they knew where the child was.”
Sahara felt her skin chill. She thought back to the night her father had gambled her away. She remembered watching from the shadows on the stairwell. Whenever gypsies came through the town, while not too frequently, they always came to the saloon. Sahara was always banished to the second floor, told to stay in her room. She had thought it was to protect her virtue. Now she knew that it was to protect her from her past. That night, the Rom Baro hadn't seen her. No one had seen her. But the Rom Baro had known she was there. She had wondered why, how. Of course, she thought. It made sense now. He had known because he recognized the man that had run off with Amaya, her mother. He had known because the gypsies had come to the town and sought out her father in order to win Sahara back…to take what was rightfully theirs by gypsy law. “When did you find...?”
Nicolae waited for her to finish but she didn't. “Find out where you were? Last winter. We were at winter camp in northern Texas. Many kumpanias were there.” He stared over her head at the empty space behind her. How clearly he could remember it. The music, the dancing around the fires, the storytelling. At the time, Nicolae had thought it was the worst time of his life. Eight years after his wife's death, he had decided over and over again not to remarry the many single girls available. Instead, he had wanted to find Amaya's daughter. His father had planted the idea inside his head and he had heard so many people speak of Amaya, the wild Afrikaiya girl. Her beauty was indescribable and her feisty nature made her the flame of the fires, they all said. Certainly the child resembled the mother. They all laughed, wondering what the child, now a grown woman, was like. Some joked about the title the lost daughter unknowingly would give some gadjo man. “Some lucky gadjo pig is future Rom Baro of the Afrikaiya kumpania,” they teased Nicolae.