White Whale

by Rose Christo

  "Don't think less of me, okay?" Jona said anxiously.

  I didn't know what he was talking about. I really didn't. Those wagons looked like they belonged to an emperor. Some were green with blue, hand-painted murals. Others were red with silver seams, real silver. Each had giant spoked wheels as big as half a man, little ladders sitting underneath the bell-shaped awnings, children sitting on the ladder rungs, tiny kindling fires on the ground. I looked around the camp. An old man in a black hat sat on a stepping stool, smoking his pipe and polishing his shoes. Two women sat on an overturned feedbox, whispering together, giggling together. A third cleaned out a long reed instrument that resembled a Plains flute, only the end was flared like a trumpet. Harlani had said that she belonged to the Lovari clan, but I felt certain at least one other clan was sharing this campsite with them. Half the people I saw looked like Jona, slight with golden skin and pale, small eyes. The women were dressed in long wool skirts and the men wore scarves around their heads, their necks, big fat rings on their fingers. The other half were all dark-skinned and fair-haired, something I never thought I'd see in my entire life. They didn't seem to notice it was cold outside. Their loose cotton clothes were desert-colored, beige and gray and off-green, off-white. A few weren't even wearing shoes.

  "We've got a Cigani boy!" Harlani yelled.

  A deluge of strangers came flooding our way. Each one wanted to touch Jona's shoulder, to shake his hand, to talk with him, to weep with him. Jona looked uncomfortable at all the attention. I felt so faint I sat down on the feedbox with the girls. The girl with the reed flute gave me a sideways playful look. I was trying to think of something to say to her when a giant man with a round belly scooped Jona into a hug. He had a bald head and a wild beard and he was so fat, so rosy, I thought of a jelly doughnut.

  "You will find you're in good company," the man told Jona. "You will find that the Porajmos is behind us and we have escaped its hungry jaws. In God's graces we have escaped it. Ura!" he shouted.

  "Ura!" people started shouting.

  It was the last thing I heard before I passed out.

  * * * * *

  When I came to I was lying on my back on a thick mattress. Overhead the ceiling was made up like a palace, gold spirals carved deep into the soft orange grooves. Sheer, scented purple curtains hung around the headboard behind me. I sat up and Jona was sitting on a stool at my side. His face was tense, his shirt unbuttoned, uncuffed sleeves rolled back. I counted seven scratches on his right arm, bright red.

  "Is this someone's house?" I asked groggily. My voice sounded weird.

  "No," Jona said. "It's a vardo. There's always an empty vardo for mora. Beah said we could use it."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "The nano. The... I don't know how to explain. Like everyone's uncle. But not related to anyone."

  I remembered. "This is a Gypsy campsite?"

  "The Lovari and the Dom are out here, yeah."

  "But no Cigani."

  Jona winced. "Harlani thinks most of them are dead. The Lalleri, the Sinti, a lot of us were wiped out. Just a matter of time before the rest of us..."

  Jona should have been happy to be among his own kind. Instead he looked uncomfortable, like he couldn't wait to leave. I knew why. The Ustasha were still out there, still active. He dreamed about them at night. He scratched himself at night, tried to scratch the tattoo off his arm. Our country was hiring Nazis to run its intelligence agency. Our marines were arresting Jews for being un-American. Jona was a Gypsy and he felt unsafe. It wasn't a big leap of logic.

  "Why are we here, Jona?" I asked.

  "Because whether I like it or not," Jona said, "Gypsies have our own network. Because I can't think how else to find your kid. The government is lying to you. I don't know why. If we're going to find Rabbit we need help. I don't know where else to turn."

  "Thank you," I said.

  Jona faltered. "Why are you thanking me?"

  "For helping me," I said. I sat up against the headboard. "For--" I felt sick.

  "Don't move," Jona said quickly. He grabbed a pillow off the floor, tucked it behind my head. "The drabani's going to come see you when she can."

  "The drabani?"

  "A healer. Kind of."

  "What language is that?"

  "Rromanes, I guess? I don't know, why?"

  "Because it's you," I said. "Because it's always you."

  "Oh," Jona said, in a much different voice.

  "Come here," I said.

  He got up onto the bed beside me. I pulled him against me, his back against my chest, my head on his shoulder. It felt good to hold somebody. It felt better because it was him. His hair was thick and brown and it smelled clean. I probably smelled like death.

  "You're not going to die," Jona insisted.

  It was like he'd heard me. His fingers dug into my arms, my arms around his waist. He sounded as scared as I felt. I'd never admit to feeling afraid. It was enough that I'd cried in front of him. I wanted to look strong in front of him. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to hold him and love him because there was so much love in me, and I only had two people to give it to, and someone was trying to take one of them away.

  The door at the end of the vardo hissed open. Jona started to move but I held him against me. He trembled in my arms. It was only Harlani. She climbed the ladder up into the vardo and stood before us, her hands on her hips. At some point she must have changed clothes. Her gray curls escaped a knotted, sleek black scarf, her woolen blouse sagging around her shoulders.

  "So!" she said brusquely.

  Jona mumbled incoherently.

  "I see your raklo's awake," Harlani said. "Your daje in Heaven must have lost her head."

  "Are you wuzho?" Jona asked.

  "Do you think I'm stupid? I washed my hands before I came in."

  I had no idea what they were talking about.

  "You," Harlani said, and jerked her chin at me. "Gadje boy. Yazma is looking for you. Wants to talk to you about your kid."

  I untangled my arms from around Jona's waist. I tried to get up. The whole wagon spun around me. I grabbed my head in my hand.

  "Can't Yazma just come here?" Jona asked worriedly.

  "What," Harlani said, "you want me to send a chavi to your sleeping space? Cut your tongue out! And you ask me if I'm wuzho?"

  "Please," Jona said wearily. "No one has to know."

  "Let me think," Harlani said. "Well, she's already mahrime..."

  "What?" Jona said. Whatever mahrime meant, he sounded worried about it. "Why?"

  "You'll find out," Harlani said. And then she swept out of the vardo like nobody's business, snapping the door shut behind her.

  "I feel like I just listened to half a conversation," I announced.

  Jona laughed one of his horribly anxious laughs. I ran my hand down the dip in his spine, tried to calm him down. "Impure," he translated. "This girl who's coming to talk to us, she's spiritually impure."

  I guessed he meant she had some kind of bad medicine to her name. I remembered we'd packed sweetgrass in the whale leather bag. Maybe I could give her some.

  "Orca," Jona said.

  I pulled him back against me. "Yeah?"

  "Nothing," he said. He tucked his head under my chin. He leaned into me like he would disappear in me. "Just wanted to hear someone say it. Orca."

  "I love you," I told him. I kissed his shoulder, his neck. My arms tightened around his waist. "I love you."

  "Oh, God," he said, in a half-delirious way. "Why?"

  "Because it's you," I said. I kissed the hard lines of his jaw. I kissed his sandy hair where it curled around his ear. I found his hand and rubbed it, rubbed my fingers between his.

  "Oh," he said. His voice sounded like it was breaking. "You too. I mean. I love you back. I love you too. Too much, I mean. I..."

  "I know," I said.

  "Too much," he said. "I love you too much."

  "Jona, I know."

  He turned his head and kissed my throat. I p
ulled him into me, an arm around his knees, an arm around his back. I hid my face in his hair. I wished we were still at war. That way I could pretend there was something to go home to. A home to take him home to. A son to share him with.

  "You should sleep," Jona said. His voice vibrated against my neck. "Until the Dom girl gets here. Sleep."

  "You don't mind?" I asked.

  He smoothed his shaky hand down my long hair. "You love me," he said, like it wasn't real until he said it, like he was afraid if he said it I'd take it back.

  I unwrapped myself from Jona and lay down. I tugged on his wrist until he lay with me. His head was next to mine and his eyes were on mine, small and pale and beautiful, the color of morning lights.

  He was mine. He was mine the moment we'd gotten off the plane together in Tacoma, resolve filling the hole in my chest, his eyes bright and terrified and his hair stinking of Wildroot. He was mine the first night he woke up in the cramped BCT barracks, blood running down his arms, and I got out of bed and took him to the infirmary, waited outside the door while they gave him his tetanus shot. Every time we'd talked, every time we'd breathed the same air he had been mine. And I hadn't known it. And there was something like a miracle in that. It was a miracle the way the world worked. The way it conspired relentlessly to bring two people together who had absolutely no business being together. It wasn't until I looked back that I saw I'd had no choice in the matter. Great Spirit has a plan for everyone, for everything. It knows what's good for us even when we don't. Jona was good for me the way the night is good for owls, the way the sun is good for spring. I hoped that I was good for him, too. I hoped that I could wash away the stains of his past, hold him close enough that nothing else would ever reach him; not the past; not the present.

  9

  White Whale

  When I woke up it was morning. There weren't any windows in the vardo but I could tell. Jona was still sleeping and I slid free from him, washed up with sweetgrass soap and the bucket someone had left beside the clothing dresser. I went outside and the sun was high, the horses stamping their hooves. The camp looked less populous than it had the night before. I talked with Tavu, Harlani's son. He told me most of the men were away on something called a wortacha.

  "Money scheme," he explained, before he drifted away like a sad phantom, his fingers glistening with gold rings.

  I wanted to talk to Yazma, but I didn't know who she was. I asked a couple of the Lovari girls and they giggled and ran away. Maybe I'd broken some kind of rule. I sat outside the vardo I'd slept in. The wagon was painted blue and sunny gold, fake leaves stamped onto the drooping awning. The door clapped open and Jona tripped down the ladder and I caught him, held him against me and listened to his soft, contented sigh.

  "Are you looking for Yazma?" he said a moment later.

  No one gave us strange looks. I think I knew why. The Lovari, the Dom, they were criminals. Not because they'd broken any laws, but because the Ustasha said they weren't allowed to be Lovari and Dom. Imagine if there were a law saying you weren't allowed to be right-handed. Gypsies broke the law just by existing. Jona and I broke the law by taking each other for company. We were all breaking the law together. We were all criminals.

  "Have you met her?" I asked.

  "No," Jona said. I could feel him hesitating. "Orca, if she's mahrime, I don't know if you should..."

  He broke off. It was a white morning, a chilly morning, and a barefoot girl made her way to us, moving like a specter.

  I knew at once that this was Yazma. I can't even explain how. Her skin was dark, darker than mine. Her hair was scraggly and blond. A desert-colored gown hung loose around her bare shoulders. She was young enough that I wanted to pull her sleeves up, send her inside and make her wear a sweater. She couldn't have been any older than fourteen. Shells clinked together around her bony ankles. A scarf sewn with real flowers dressed the top of her head, marigolds like liquid summer, carnations in sugar pink. Her eyes were a haunting blue, the saddest blue; they made me feel ashamed of myself.

  Jona got up and started talking with Yazma in Rromanes. Her replies were short, soft. Her voice was a baby's voice. Pain took root in my chest. It was the kind of pain I felt whenever Rabbit was staying at his mother's house and I couldn't scoop him in my arms at night, tell him a bedtime story. Children were made to be loved. They're Sister Sun's gift to us. The strange part is that we did nothing to deserve them. The stranger part is that we sometimes forget to give them the love they're owed.

  Yazma grabbed a tinny bucket behind the ladder. She sat on the ladder's lowest rung and washed her hands, her feet. We went inside the vardo together, the three of us. Jona closed the door and leaned back against it. Yazma sat on the rich red rug.

  "Norway House is real," Yazma said. "I've heard of it."

  I sat down with her. Jona hovered uncertainly by the door. "Do you know where it is?" I asked.

  Yazma shook her head. Her pearl earrings swung in her earlobes. "I'll find out," she said.

  I touched her arm. "How?"

  "Orca!" Jona said.

  Yazma wavered. I could tell she was uncertain with me but she didn't move away; I didn't make her uncomfortable. She was only a little girl and I was scared for her, scared that she knew things she shouldn't know. Jona came toward us but stopped. He didn't know what to do. I didn't know why he'd shouted my name.

  "You're not afraid?" Yazma asked quietly. "I'm dirty. If you touch me you'll catch it. You're not afraid?"

  "You washed before you came in here," I said.

  "You can't wash away spiritual dirt."

  "I'm dirty, too," I told her. "I've killed people. I've killed thousands. They weren't doing anything wrong. The United States of America killed those people just because we could. I'll never be clean again. If you're dirty I'm the dirtiest. That's the truth."

  Yazma looked at my hand. She looked at my eyes.

  "When I go to town tonight," she said. She started over. "When I'm with my government man I'll find out. Tonight. I'll find out where Norway House is."

  "You're not doing that," I said.

  She didn't seem to understand. She looked back at Jona. Jona looked back at me.

  "Orca," Jona said, "your son..."

  My son. I didn't know where to find my son. This little girl could find him for me. It was cruel. It was wrong. I wanted to cry because it was so wrong. My eyes were too dry for tears. I wondered if they were really yellow like Bee had said. I wondered if Aboriginal Affairs had taken Bee's kids away yet.

  "She's a kid," I said to Jona. I couldn't look at Yazma's face. "She shouldn't be doing this."

  "You don't understand," Jona said. His face was soft, yet tense. "This is how it was in Jasenovac. They made us into whores and thieves. They made us into beggars and runaways. We can't really escape that. All we can do is use it to our advantage."

  My hands felt cold, tired, and I laid them at my sides. Yazma looked at me curiously.

  "This raklo of yours," she said to Jona. "He's very young."

  "What are you talking about?" Jona asked, laughing nervously. Around kids he was always nervous. "Orca's almost twice your age."

  "I mean his spirit," Yazma said. "It's very new. You can tell with these things."

  "I'm sorry," I told Yazma.

  I wasn't sure she understood. She rose from the rug, desert gown falling around her knees.

  "Tonight," she promised me, and slipped away like smoke.

  * * * * *

  I was feeling sicker by the time Yazma had left. Jona made me get back into bed and gave me something called mariki, a kind of layered pastry with a sweet sauce on top. I should have liked it. I could have thrown up. I chewed on sweetgrass to get the taste out of my mouth. Jona dug the whale oil out of the whale leather sack and poured some in a tin dish. He lit it, and the glow danced over the chest of drawers, the scented curtains on the walls. I wondered why the vardo didn't have a window. I would have liked to see the sun. I wondered if my boy could see the sun
.

  "Where's the damn drabani?" Jona muttered.

  "Jona," I said. "When I die--"

  "Don't say that," he cut in, so sharp and so severe I remembered when we'd first entered AIT, when the sergeant had come into the wooden barracks and named him our squad leader. "You're not going to die. Not before me. I haven't had many things in life but you're going to give me that. You have to."

  So many people had died in front of him already.

  "Alright?" Jona said. His voice was uneven. It gave him away.

  "Wonder what Irish is doing these days," I said. I laid my head back on the headboard.

  Jona forced a laugh. "Probably bare-knuckle boxing. You know how he is."

  "I wonder if Terry married Kimiko."

  "We'll find out. We'll write to them."

  "I miss Milk."

  Jona sat on the bed with me, his eyes very sad, a washed out golden-brown. I cradled his face in my hand. It felt so good to touch him. It was when I wasn't touching him that my body didn't like me. This was what bodies were for, I realized. If God didn't want me loving Jona he wouldn't have given me a body that ached for Jona's, a body that knew Jona's for its match.

  Jona put his hand on my forehead. He jerked his hand back like he'd been scalded.

  "Maybe we should try to sweat out the fever," he said. He sounded terrified.

  Just then a high rapping sounded on the door to the vardo. Jona got up and I felt cold without him in my hands. He pulled the door open and a very old woman hobbled inside.

  Old was an understatement. I should probably have said she was ancient. Her hair was a shock of white and her skin was so wrinkled her eyes sagged halfway shut. She had a piercing in her nose, a chain of beads around her throat, a cotton pink veil dragging down her back. She took one look at me, one stolid, impassive look, and pulled her veil across her face. She all but disappeared behind it.

  "What's she doing?" I asked Jona.

  "Preserving her magic," Jona said. He sounded completely unfazed. "She covers herself so your ailment doesn't touch her. She covers her face so you don't learn her secrets."