Summer of The Dancing Bear

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  In one yank, the old man tore himself from the policeman’s grasp and charged at Stefan. With a quick jerk of his shoulder, Stefan freed himself, eyes unwavering as glass.

  Kata stood frozen – a detached patron watching a play. She felt disconnected. As if all this were just a scene in a drama. She was simply part of the background, part of the sky and the marsh and the stray raindrops slashing through the wind.

  She saw Papa Novak standing near Stefan. He seemed small, his white hair pasted to his skull.

  Angela’s father continued to shout obscenities, each more vile than the one before: “Throw the filthy pricks in the dungeon ’til the skin rots off their backs. Better yet, throw them to the wolves. Tie them to a tree and let the vultures gouge out their eyes. Tear up their hearts. Give me a knife so I can carve out those godforsaken gypsy hearts and fry them. I’ll eat them for breakfast …”

  The old man’s rant pounded in her head, melded with the apparitions from her visions and dreams. Where had I heard these words before? When?

  A bubble of memory burst. The old man had come to her house a few days after Angela’s baby had disappeared. He had asked Grandma whether she knew the whereabouts of somebody. A son? A grandson? Then the shouting had followed. She thought that Goya’s name was mentioned, but was not sure. She was not allowed to listen to grownup talk. She didn’t dare ask any questions, everyone was very upset. During those frightening days, much of the talk was in hushed tones. Now, Grandma’s words rang clear: “That’s Ivan, Angela’s father. The man’s gone mad. He’s ready to blame the moon, never mind everyone else. But who could fault him? This is a tragedy beyond belief.”

  Kata’s eyes landed on Lorca. He was gazing into the distance, beyond her, through her. She heard the rushing river in her head, drowning all other sounds. She was at the edge of the gorge, about to drop into the waterfall, into the chasm below. She closed her eyes, succumbing to the magnetic pull. But the noise subsided and Lorca’s voice rose above the falling water:

  under the gypsy moon

  things are staring at her

  things she cannot see

  She opened her eyes. She knew these lines well. They had been coiling in her dreams, faint images of those unseen things snaking through her visions. If only she could make some sense of them. What am I not seeing?

  She heard another voice, clear as a church bell: Keep up your list of puzzling questions, Kata. Some day, answers will come to you.

  And another: Your gypsy spirit, use wisely, Kata.

  And yet another: His eyes were intense, as if he were burning holes in my soul …

  A flutter of wings on the marsh caught her attention. At the far end of the decrepit fishing pier, the dead swallow lifted her wings. The shimmering feathers grew longer and longer, shaping the figure of a woman. The swallow-woman looked at Kata – with Angela’s sorrowful eyes. She raised a flute to her lips and blew.

  sleep my little baby

  sleep in the night

  sleep in your cradle

  under moonlight

  and if the moon hides

  beneath its lore

  sleep under the stars

  my angel’s soul

  and if the stars hide

  when swallows fly

  chase the swallows

  into the sky

  chase the swallows

  my angel’s soul

  sleep in the stardust

  of gypsy lore

  The lullaby fell in all around, filling every crevice of the marsh, like fog. And then, at the end of the pier, Kata spotted the dancing bear – hopping and skipping and bouncing to the song. The bear turned and smiled, but his face was that of the old man. Kata felt shivers rushing through her. The bear waved, beckoning her to follow, as the swallow-woman soared toward the still-bright moon.

  Stefan pointed to the shiny globe low in the sky. “If only that old man in the moon could give us a sign.”

  Angela’s father swung his cane. Stefan dodged the blow. Ivan lunged at him and swung again, but Stefan jumped out of reach. Ivan raised his cane and shook it at the moon. “You saw nothing! Nothing!” He shouted. Then he bowed low and made the sign of the Cross.

  It was him? Him? … the watermelon farmer, Angela’s father, one and the same? The man limping along the fishing pier – whose face Stefan could not see the night Angela’s baby vanished – had to be Ivan, had to be … Angela’s father.

  Kata ran towards the old man. She brought the flute to her lips and blew. And the perfect tune floated on the marsh air:

  only the truth can set you free!

  only the truth can set you free!

  only the truth can set you free!

  She stared into Angela’s father’s eyes, into the sunken eye-sockets shaded by bushy, mud-coloured eyebrows – and recoiled in anguish. She was seeing him … seeing Ivan … through Angela’s eyes as she sat by the pig puddle singing a lullaby to her missing child. He looked up and their eyes locked. Kata felt a strange surge of heat coursing through her, her thoughts penetrating his – burning holes in his soul.

  He stopped shouting, stood up straight and thrust out his chest, ready to address his hapless audience.

  The story has ended and the plot is about to unravel, announced a voice in Kata’s head.

  Kata wished she could check where the voice came from. Was it something she read? But she could not shift her eyes from the old man. Breaking eye contact could cause him to forget his lines. At long last, the old man remembered his true lines.

  “Come, come now, old woman!” he said, peering intensely into Kata’s face. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re that vila …

  “What choice did I have? Had to save ’er from those gypsy scoundrels. If I didn’t get to ’er in time they sure would.

  “What’s that you say?

  “Me? You’re accusing me, her father?

  “I’ve no fear of you or your flute or your eyes. I gave ’er what she wanted.

  “What did you say?

  “You say I raped my own daughter? My own flesh and blood?

  “Careful now, old woman. You’re beginning to vex me.

  “I saw her talking to those filthy gypsies. Twirling ‘er skirt, prickly little ass squirming like a worm on a grill, asking for it. I say she wan’ed it. I am ’er father. Nobody was gonna give it to ’er like me. Nobody was gonna have ’er but me.

  “You what?

  “You can call it rape all you want.

  “I say she liked it, she did, I say.

  “Oh, sure, she screamed and cursed and yelled. Like my wife when I gave it to ’er. The little stuck-up whore. Called me scum. Said she’d rather die than marry me. But she married me alright. I made ’er squirm, like all the others. They all like it, I say.

  “You heard ’er screams, you say?

  “Ha, ha, ha! You wicked, wicked old woman!

  “You’d scream too, in joy. Frisky she was, I admit.

  “Yeah, she was frisky after ’er old man. My own flesh and blood.

  “You say I killed my own grandchild, my own daughter?

  “Yeah, yeah, never thought of it that way. My grandchild my daughter.

  “You wicked, wicked old woman. Don’t you go putting fancy ideas in your head.

  “You’re angering the old man. What choice did I have? Just a few drinks. Playing with ’er, tickling ’er, I was. Come to Grandpa, I said. She giggled and wiggled like a worm. Liking it. Like they all do. Didn’t kill ’er. Not me. Nooo … nooo … Turned limp like dishrag … Goddamn. What’s a man to do? It’s those goddamn thieving gypsies. Poking ’round till they find something. I had no choice. Goddamn Grizzly was on to me. I should’ve wiped out the whole damn lot so they don’ come hounding me, over and over. Had to protect my family. That’s my duty, isn’t it? Protect my family.

  “I dumped her little body in the marsh, you say?

  “Better than giving ’er to the wolves to rip up ’er little heart, or to vultures to pluck ’er eyes
out. She’s safe in the marsh, I say.

  “All the little pieces in a few cement blocks. Her little soul in heaven. Lifted itself into heaven to be with dear Jesus! Darted up, up, like a swallow! What more could I do? I sent ’er spirit straight to Jesus! Well done, eh? Not a trace. Those murderous gypsies can poke all they want. Let’s see if they can poke from the jail cell! Yeah, once they’re in jail, she’s safe. Yeah!

  “… Right over there, in the marsh, ‘er little body safe with dear Jesus! Here, I’ll show you.”

  The two policemen gaped at the old man, and then at each other. Stefan and Lorca stared at the old man, then at the police, then at the hushed gathering of gypsies that had quietly appeared, huddled in a group.

  Kata saw her dog, Samson, jump in the marsh and swim toward the end of the pier. He climbed the tip, shook himself, and crouched down. Placing his chin solemnly on his paws, he stared intently into the pool of water just in front. Then he gave a low, mournful whine.

  Pointing his finger to where the dog lay, the old man strode into the marsh. His eyes fixed on the distant pier, he sank deeper and deeper. For a moment, he stood still, as the dark sludge rose up to his chest. Then he turned to face the group on the embankment behind him. He slowly sank lower. The water surface reached for his neck, his gaping mouth, the tuft of grey hair atop his scalp. The water churned about him as if a school of carp had rolled in mating.

  A flash of lightning … a crack of thunder … all was darkness …

  Chapter XXIX

  One Leap

  (Summer 1967)

  The whiff of burnt tobacco was comforting, reminding her of Goya’s clothing that so often carried the scent of smoke from campfires. More and more often, Kata found herself drawing a breath through the brown pipe as if she were smoking it while holding the flute across her chest, close to her heart.

  After that night at the marsh, she thought her flute was lost forever. But on the day when she’d sat in Grandma’s room for the first time since that night, she was drawn to the top drawer holding the pink cookie heart. And there it was, her flute, on top of the cookie heart. Who could’ve placed it there? Her mother? But no one said anything. So she left it at that. What she did with her time didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Not until she found out. One way or another, she needed to know.

  “I’ve been going though Goya’s things,” Jasmine had told her. “I want you to have something from her. She cared about you very much. I want you to have her ceremonial pipe – it was one of her sacred possessions – supposed to be passed on to me when I got sworn as shaman. But somehow, every time I look at it, I sense that it belongs to you.”

  Jasmine had said that it was Angela’s brother who ran toward the group with a rifle that early dawn at the marsh. No one saw him coming. He fired several shots. “We’re all grateful that you’re …”

  Kata needed to know about the others.

  “Goya was also shot,” Jamine had said. “She is with her husband in their fragrant meadow of heaven.”

  Lorca had been hit as well. He had an operation, but the bullet remained lodged in his brain. Removal could cause more damage. He was still in a coma. He had been flown to a hospital in Madrid to be near family. There was hope, but more surgeries would follow, and it could be many months before any conclusive results.

  The village was stunned by the old man’s confession. The usual greetings between the villagers were replaced by snippets from Papa Novak’s retelling of the events from that night at the marsh:

  “A man murders his own offspring. Is there a more despicable crime, I ask?” a villager would exclaim while lifting his hat to greet a passerby.

  “No, there isn’t, my brother! Here’s a man who desecrates his own daughter and his own granddaughter – his own blood,” the other would reply.

  “Possessed by a devil? No, no, he is the devil itself!”

  “And to think we’ve lived with him in this village, all these years …”

  “That’s the epitome of evil! The epitome of evil, if I’ve ever seen it!” Papa Novak would recap. He was a shadow of his former self. But as always, the villagers commended Papa Novak on his good deeds – this time on his success in convincing Stefan to pursue his studies at Belgrade University.

  “Smart young man, Stefan is,” the villagers remarked as they nodded to each other in passing, “He’ll make our village proud!”

  Kata edged one step at a time toward Grandma’s armoire mirror. How strange was the image she saw there. Yet, she was getting used to it. At first, every time she looked in the mirror she thought it was the glassy eye of a dead chicken staring impudently at her. It was her own eye – well, not exactly her own. But it was glassy, just the same. It was better than the dead chicken’s eye. In fact it was made of glass. Even the match to her own eye colour was pretty good – almost the same light green, but without the yellow specks.

  It was still strange to be able to touch one’s own eye while it was wide open, and feel nothing but a cold, still surface. The eye felt no burning or tears even when she touched it with onion juice smudged on her finger. Sometimes she felt this eye was watching her even when she was asleep, because the eye did not sleep. It never closed or blinked. It just stared and stared. But if she closed her working eye – she had labelled the glass one as an ornament, like a jewel, so she didn’t look monstrous – all was darkness.

  She thought she must look strange regardless, because people usually stared at her. Maja was with her when the doctor said that medical research was advancing and that some day Kata might get an eye that blinked. Whenever Maja thought that her friend was sad, she would remind her of what the doctor had said.

  One good thing, Kata pondered, was that she no longer had to fear marrying Miladin.

  “Who on this earth would marry a maimed girl, no matter how much land she brought?” Miladin’s grandmother had said.

  Miladin’s visits were rare and brief. He no longer ran wherever he went nor rode his broom “horse.” He speed-walked, his legs bending in different directions when he walked and when he stood. His head still wobbled unsteadily on his thin neck, but it gave him an air of superiority, as if he were assessing others. She would catch him staring at her, at her glass eye, with his head tilted to one side as if trying to see her from a different angle. But as soon as she looked at him, he would avert his eyes and rush away.

  Jasmine had said that she needed to be near Lorca. She could not write to Kata about his progress, but he would want Kata to move on with her life and not worry about him. He was like that, and Jasmine had said that she needed to honour what she knew would be his wish. Kata agreed. Lorca would have wanted things done his way.

  “I can do something for you,” Jasmine had offered. “I’ll send you a message, a sign. If you look at the post on your gate, you’ll find …”

  But Kata already knew how it was done. “I saw them on my gate post once. You’d do that for me?”

  “Did Lorca tell you about that?” Jasmine had asked playfully. Kata felt their bond strengthening across large distances, solidifying like spider’s silk – delicate, and yet wondrously life-supporting.

  “Yes,” Kata had answered. “There was a circle with a dot in the middle on our gate, which meant that visitors were welcome. I found one on Miladin’s gate. It was a plain cross that Lorca said meant ‘stay away’.”

  “Well, that should tell you how he feels about you. Gypsies share their symbols only with other gypsies.”

  Kata almost gave in to the temptation to confide in Jasmine about her own gypsy roots. But then she thought of Kris, and resisted.

  Her love for Lorca had evolved to a higher plateau – she no longer hoped to marry him, or anyone else for that matter. After all, who would marry a one-eyed girl? Still, once in a while when she felt that her glass eye was not watching, she would retrieve the pottery shard from Jasmine’s wedding and imagine what it would be like to have a large vessel shattered above her own and Lorca’s head, she in Grandma
’s silk dress the gold of ripened wheat and he in his long-sleeved purple silk shirt, tight black pants, and a diklo tied around his neck, looking into her working eye as he did the night of Jasmine’s wedding when she refused his invitation to dance. This time she would not refuse. She would not be afraid. But she knew this would never happen again.

  “After Lorca’s surgeries, I’ll give it a few months,” Jasmine had said. “You’re our sweet sister, my pen, forever, after what you’ve done for us. If I can’t do it myself, I’ll get the message to somebody and a symbol will be left on your gate. Let’s keep them simple. Usually, a triangle means a difficulty and a circle stands for good news. So it’ll be one or the other.”

  “What if you forget?” Kata had asked.

  “I won’t,” Jasmine had said. “There’s only one reason you wouldn’t hear from me.” She had studied Kata’s eye with a long, meaningful stare.

  Kata thought that if Lorca’s second surgery was to take place in the fall, with recovery time and possibly more surgeries, she could expect to hear from Jasmine by early spring. It was now May, the most enticing time of year. It had been a cool sunny spring, and the tulips and hyacinths had been blooming gigantic, heavy blossoms as they hadn’t since Grandma’s death.

  She checked the gatepost every day, but no sign from Jasmine. Saint Sara’s day was approaching, and she had devised a tiny shrine of her own, secretly, to avoid the scorn of her family and friends. After all, no one knew the full story. No one knew about her being a gypsy, not even Maja who came to visit every day, and whose friendship Kata treasured.