Lorca motioned toward the noisy group below. “That’s his wife and children, there,” he commented flatly, as if none of what just happened concerned him.
“He still lives with his family?” Kata asked.
“They’ll have nothing to do with him. Not even his mother,” Lorca said. “The tribe takes care of them, though.”
“Let’s see how Jasmine’s holding up,” Stefan said.
“Coming?” Lorca asked Kata. Goya nodded approval, and the three headed up the hill. They sat on the grass next to Jasmine. The shouting below had subsided.
“Our codes apply to all of us,” Lorca said, tenderly encircling Jasmine’s shoulder.
“I thought we were for life. I thought I could change him,” Jasmine sighed, gathering her skirt and straightening the fabric with her hands.
“You were brave,” Stefan said. “Dealt justice yourself.”
“Why not?” she said. “I am a married woman. I’ve borne a child. Why ask another? You can’t break what is already broken. This heart.” She held her fist at her chest and struck it to emphasize her words, her face twisted in an ugly grimace that made her a stranger. “I stood by him. Took him into our clan. Even his own people had doubts.”
“He joined us to be near you, sister,” Lorca said. “To regain your trust. Not to get away from – ”
“Stop it, Lorca!” Jasmine yelled. “Stop it, now! He joined us to save his own skin. I know it now. I know it in this heart.” She stood and brushed her hair off her face. “He is her father, Lorca. And we are all fools. I can see it now. All the deceit. All of it. Otherwise, why did she come to us, why? If he wasn’t the father.”
Jasmine knows about me?
“That young woman came to our camp,” Jasmine said. “Begging for help. Why?”
What are they talking about?
“She was in trouble, Jasmine. Angela was in trouble. She came to us because we’re gypsies. Because she thought one of our women could, would …”
“Give her an abortion, Lorca. I know. This whole village knows why she came to us. The gossip is still out there. But there was more. Everyone thought he was the baby’s father.”
“If he was, Jasmine, what stopped him from admitting it? Angela was not a gypsy. So, by our law, he’d done nothing wrong. Not like now.”
“But not by my law, Lorca. You think I would’ve forgiven him? Never! Cheating is cheating. No matter the woman, a gypsy or a gawdji.”
“We must believe one of our own. Kri … s,” Lorca caught himself. “He has a weakness. But he is not … ”
“No, Lorca,” Jasmine cut him off again. “Angela came to our camp and begged for an abortion, because he, Kris … Yes, I said it, Kris. I am not afraid of wafdo bok, bad luck. No dead man’s name can bring me any more bad luck than I already have. Or condemned man’s for that matter. Everyone thought Kris was the baby’s father. Isn’t that so?” She looked at Stefan, who shrugged his shoulders.
“He swore he wasn’t. And I … we all believed him,” Stefan said, “But if that happens to be a lie, God help him. I will kill him with my own bare hands.”
“I always thought it was you, Stefan,” Jasmine said. “I thought you were the baby’s father.”
“You know that’s not true,” Lorca cut in. “Stefan told me he wasn’t. You’ve known that all along.”
“Yes, but I suspected. We all know how you felt about Angela. We’ve all seen your side of hell. Searching for that poor baby. Besides, you’ve never looked at another woman, since. Not like my serpent.”
“I need to know, Jasmine,” Stefan said. “I need to know.”
“So do I, Stefan. And this vardo, caravan, is not going anywhere until I do. Even if it kills me.”
“We came back here to get some answers, and we’ll get them,” Lorca declared, as if whole burden were his alone.
“God help me, if it means handing one of our own to the police, so be it,” Stefan said, glancing at Jasmine.
“He’s not my rom any more,” Jasmine snapped. “I’m not his jumel. I need the truth. He is his own o Bengh, his own Devil.”
Kata felt nauseated, confusion descending like a dense fog. She could not inhale, could not think. Images swam in her head, voices mingled, one moment hinting at possibilities and the next holding them up for all to see above dark, bottomless chasms. Not me. They’re not talking about me. It’s Angela. He, the gnarled tree, is the gypsy, the blacksmith the villagers talked about? He is Angela’s baby’s father? That means … Oh, God. No. That can’t be.
Chapter XXI
Kris
“Go away, girl. Out of my path.”
“Where are you going?”
“I said, step aside. What d’you want from me?” His voice rumbled, sturdy yet with a tremble like the huge bass she had seen him play; with a tinge of sadness, a hint of vulnerability.
“I have to know where you’re going.”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“I have to know.”
“Stop following me.”
“You’re hurt. You’ll die. You can stay with them. They’ll let you.”
“I’m no good. Cursed.”
“I must know where you’re going.”
He laughed, but it sounded more like a horse neighing. “I’m accused of many sins. Innocent of most. Guilty of some. Guilty like hell of others. Go away, girl.”
“I will follow you if you don’t tell me where you’re going.”
“Have it your way.”
Kris lowered himself onto the rock at the side of the rutted path and placed his injured right leg carefully out in front of him. Using both hands he lifted it gently into a more comfortable position, his makeshift crutches nearby.
Kata pulled out a sandwich from her straw bag and offered it to him. He looked at her, surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and took the food. He picked up the sandwich carefully, ensuring their hands did not touch. She looked at his callused hands and wished they had touched. Wished she knew how they felt: scratchy, hard. Did they smell like horses? She’d seen him grooming Darley Arabian. Or perhaps like the copper pots he fashioned. Was Kris still a blacksmith, and if so, where? She did not see any gear. What else did he do? He was a jack-of-all-trades, Jasmine had said.
Kata sat on a hump of soil on the other side of the path, skirt pulled over her knees, chin propped on her hands and eyes alert. It was dusk, but she could see his eyes. They were not black as she’d first thought. They were brown-green, dark and shiny like bottle glass.
“How do gypsies get green eyes?” she asked.
He stopped chewing and looked at her but said nothing. He took another large bite, so large that she wondered if it would fit into his mouth. But he continued chewing, slowly and unwillingly, with a look as if the food was bitter.
She knew the bread was fresh, and the kajmak, a type of cream cheese she’d spread on it, was delectable, must be melting in his mouth. After he finished the sandwich, she pulled out a bottle of sour cherry juice and handed it to him. He picked up the bottle, again avoiding her hand, and shook his head in wonder.
“I am glad you liked it,” she said and returned to her throne of hardened soil. She hoped he would say something – even if only to complain again about her presence – so she could listen to his voice. But he remained quiet, his sunburned face solemn. The deep creases running from the sides of his large nostrils down the corners of his mouth burrowed into the bottom of his unshaven chin. He raised the bottle to his mouth, threw his head back and began to drink. Each time he swallowed, the liquid gurgled like a spring and his large Adam’s apple jumped up and down as if a rock was trapped in his throat. When he finished, he rolled the bottle towards her. “Now, scoot! It’s getting late.”
He got up from the rock and stood on his left leg. He placed his crutches under his arms, leaned his weight on them, and lifted his left leg. A dry cracking sound broke under him, echoing in the still evening air. The broken crutch flew. He stumbled, groaned in pain, and th
e next moment he was slumped on the ground next to the rock.
“Oh no!” Kata cried out. She ran over and lifted his head. “I’ll get somebody from your camp. They’ll help you.”
“Get outta here, girl. Now!” he growled. “I’d rather die. With dignity, if there’s any left.”
She grabbed his crutches and stuffed them under her arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” she said, and ran off.
As soon as she was far enough to think clearly, she threw the crutches into the cornfield and paused. Only one was broken. He’d probably try using the second one and worsen the damage. Go to the gypsy camp and get help? No, he’d rather die, he said. He can only crawl, so he can’t get very far. There was an old pair of crutches stored in the attic over Grandma’s room. She ran.
****
“What are you? Saint Sara?” Kris groaned.
“I am Kata, your …” She stopped. She couldn’t say it. Not just yet. Instead, she lifted his head from the pillow she had smuggled out of Grandma’s room.
She glanced around the hut she’d quickly swept up and tried to make homey. The farmer who once used the hut to guard his watermelon field had slapped together a bed from warped boards. An oversized burlap bag – wheat sacks sewn together and stuffed with dry cornhusks – served as a mattress.
“Here, take these,” she said while stuffing two aspirin in his mouth, and tilting a glass of water to his lips.
“I’d rather have a drink from that other bottle you brought,” he said.
“That’s for the wounds. A disinfectant.”
“Not wounds. Just a swelling. That’ll do my stomach more good.”
“All right,” she conceded, reluctantly tilting the bottle of slivovica to his lips. He took a few eager gulps before she yanked it away.
“That’s holy water, by God,” he exclaimed.
She pulled out her mother’s old kerchief and sprinkled slivovica on it. “I’ll put this on the swelling.”
“Don’t waste that holy water, girl. Hand it over.”
After he refused to roll up his pant leg so she could place the wet kerchief on his knee, refused to let her check the shoulder he injured when he fell on the rock, and refused the food she had smuggled out of her house, she finally gave in and handed him the bottle.
He gulped the liquor as if it were water, exhaled a loud “aaaah” and passed it back to her.
“That’ll do for now,” he said.
She hid the bottle in a corner, out of reach. Gingerly, she sat on a rickety chair near him.
“You in pain?” she asked.
“Nah,” he snorted.
Kris seemed comfortable enough, except that his feet were hanging over the footboard, even with his head propped up. His eyes soon closed and his breathing became even.
She placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning up, and she hoped the aspirin would soon take effect. The evening seemed chilly, so she unfolded the blanket she’d brought and spread it over him. Then she snatched it off for fear his fever would get worse. She left the wet kerchief on his forehead and returned to her creaking chair. Then blew out the kerosene lamp before someone noticed the light.
Chapter XXII
The Talisman
“The new moon is out,” Jasmine announced, pointing to the thin sickle moon, so pale that Kata had not even noticed it. “I’m off to pay my respects.” Jasmine raised her face to the sky and blew a kiss to the moon. “Time for cleansing. Who’s coming with me?”
Kata wondered how Jasmine could be so cheerful. Had she forgotten all about Kris? Another thought came to mind. My mother might be looking for me. Probably not. She no longer asks questions.
****
A group of women stood at the embankment looking down at the marsh, Kata among them. She recalled her visits to this same area with Grandma, who used to leave tall hemp stalks to soak in the shallow part of the water.
The marsh looked sinister under the star-strewn sky. Wobbly willows leaned against each other like drunken old men staggering home from the village pub. Their gigantic shadows hovered along the embankment stretching into the valley below, reaching for the pools of still water.
The women began removing their blouses, then their bras, plump, round flesh lustrous in the starlight. Gathered around the gentle spring flowing toward the marsh, they cupped their hands and collected the water. They splashed their breasts, chanting in Romany, laughing and chatting.
Jasmine was standing in the middle. “Pani, the Spirit of Water, dissolve my betrayal, wash it away. The pain in my heart, flow away.” She splashed water on her chest, closing her eyes.
One of the women raised her cupped hands filled with water to Jasmine’s chest and let the liquid trickle through her fingers. “He’s no more. Has no place in your heart.”
“This was his special place,” Jasmine whispered. “He used to go for long walks here, at night.”
Kata stood aside, in wonderment. She spotted Zara, the new bride she had not seen since the wedding night. Zara seemed different, emboldened. Gently, Zara grasped Jasmine’s shoulders and spun her around. Jasmine laughed. Other women began splashing water on Jasmine’s face, her hair.
“This heart was his,” Jasmine placed both hands over her left breast.
“Let him go. Wash him away,” Zara murmured.
Kata began to unbutton her blouse and felt her fingers turning numb. The thought of exposing breasts barely the size of green peaches terrified her. Zara embraced Kata’s shoulder. “Do as you please,” she said.
“Dik ta shoon, watch and listen.” Zara motioned to her face: “Eyes, for seeing. Lips for talking. And these” – she pointed to her chest – “for suckling our babes. See?”
Kata smiled. She felt as if someone had just lifted the veil off her face and for the first time she could see how silly she had been all these years.
Again, she glanced at other women’s chests – some large blubbers of flesh hanging down to their owner’s waist, some narrow and pointy, some more rounded. She searched for a pair of small ones, smaller than hers. As a young girl about her own age turned around, Kata spotted them – each barely a swelling with a perky nipple. The girl held her back straight, proudly parading her nakedness, giggling and splashing herself with water. It’s now or never.
Kata unbuttoned the bodice of her dress and pulled her arms out. Kneeling by the spring, she collected the water in her cupped hands and took a long drink, savouring the coolness in her throat. Then she unlatched the front hooks on her training bra and stared at her chest – two brown nipples curving slightly upward stared back at her. She splashed water over her face and felt it trickling down her chest, cleansing the tension, the fear. She continued splashing while the women formed a circle and began chanting.
Jasmine took Kata’s hand and pulled her into the lively loop. She felt as if she were in a fairytale participating in a secret ritual – chanting to the new moon in a language she did not understand, chanting to the gypsy talisman, the luck-bringer.
Shonuto nevo ankliste, tal amighe bachtalo, Zara recited.
“The new moon has come out, may she be lucky for us,” Jasmine repeated. Other women joined in.
Kata closed her eyes and listened. Through the chanting voices, words whispered in her head – only the truth can set you free – Angela’s plea from the dream. Then she heard her own voice, as if disembodied, add: “May she help us find Angela’s baby.” She repeated the whole incantation: “The new moon has come out. May she be lucky for us. May she help us find Angela’s baby.”
She continued chanting, and then suddenly realized that her voice was the only one. She opened her eyes. The women were all staring at her, wide-eyed. She felt exposed, embarrassed. She fumbled, pulled her garments to her bare chest. She had to run away. Then she looked at Jasmine who was nodding at her and smiling.
Jasmine resumed the incantation. The mantra turned rhythmic. All the women repeated the same words, over and over again: “May she help us find A
ngela’s baby. May she help us find Angela’s baby.”
Chapter XXIII
Roza’s Ducat
It was close to midnight, and the man in the moon was in a watchful mood. Kata stole toward the gate and carefully opened it, reciting the peacock chant. As she entered the courtyard, a shadow shifted and vanished under the broad linden crowns. A dull thunk followed as if someone had tripped over the wooden bench beneath, and then a gust of wind ruffled the leaves and muffled all sound.
There was laughter … more like a horse’s snort. A figure broke through the shadow, her face mottled with dark and light patches, a long braid resting on each large breast, hands wrapped in an apron. Roza. She extended one hand as if to touch Kata. From her bunched-up apron, dozens of cookies rained down and fell to the grass, followed by a small loaf of bread. Kata stepped back. Eyes trained on Roza’s face, she continued stepping back slowly until she felt the verandah step scrape her calf.
“Here,” Roza said, panting. “My ducat. Pure gold. Take it.” She moved closer, hand still extended. Kata saw a tiny coin held tightly between her fingers.
“No, Roza. That’s your dowry to your Alex. Your dear mother gave it to you. Remember?”
Anger distorted Roza’s face, but her voice was soft and thick like mud. “Take it. Put it in water. Drink a glass every day.”
“No Roza.”
“Take it!” Roza stepped closer and grasped Kata’s arm just above the elbow, her grip a clutch of iron. “To dispel a love potion. Never fails. You stay chaste, girl. Stay chaste! Evil eye on you to dispel, gypsies’ evil eye.” Her grasp loosened just long enough for Kata to wiggle free. She ran up the steps. “Or you’ll wind up like poor Angela. They cast their evil eye … put a curse on her … stole her chastity …”
Inside, Kata turned the lock and clanged the iron safety bar into place. She stood behind the door, breathing hard.
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