And my grandfather greeted him.
“Long life to you,” he said.
“Ah,” went the old Gypsy. “Long life to you, Mr. Chief, sir!”
Then the man fell silent and looked at Grandfather, and Grandfather seemed somewhat embarrassed. He didn’t know how to begin.
“Well?” went the Gypsy.
“Er,” said my grandfather, “won’t you come out so that we can talk?”
The Gypsy looked toward the yard next door, where we could see the men and women gathered, nodded his head, took off his hat, brushed it off, then put it back on his head, and looked at Grandfather once more.
“I’ll come out,” he said.
Grandfather stood aside, the old Gypsy came out and pulled his door shut behind him, after which he pointed to a log on the ground. Grandfather sat down, and I sat down beside him. And the old Gypsy looked around him, trying to find something, and at last he saw the upright log nearby, the one used for chopping wood, with an axe leaning on it. And on the log, as well as on the axe-head, there were traces of blood, but the old Gypsy went and brought the log over. He placed it in front of ours, and sat right down on top of the blood.
“Well,” said he, “what’s it to be, Mr. Chief, sir? You ain’t just here to pass the time of day, eh?”
“No,” Grandfather shook his head. “I have chores to do at home.”
“Well?”
“Look here,” my grandfather scratched the top of his head, “someone told me something about your kid.”
“Well?”
“I have seven or so geese,” began my grandfather. “And today I couldn’t find them.”
The old Gypsy frowned. He put his hand on his head, on his hat, then took it off.
“Someone said that he saw your kid bringing them this way.”
The old Gypsy stood up. He went like this, with his hands—as though to say “what the hell am I supposed to do now?,” and in one hand, as I said, he was holding his hat. Then he flung his hat onto the ground, into the dust. And the skinny pig went up to the hat, snuffling around it with its snout. And the old Gypsy gave the pig a kick in the belly, but with such fury that the pig took off at once, squealing like it would drop dead. After that, the man went into the house.
I looked at my grandfather; I pulled his sleeve to make him look at me.
“What is it?” I asked him. “Why did he go back inside?”
“Shut up,” my grandfather said.
And no sooner had he said that than the door which was barely hanging from its hinge moved again, and from behind it emerged the old Gypsy, dragging by his coat that other Gypsy who had stolen our ball that time when we were playing football on the pitch by the station. They came to a halt in front of us, and the old Gypsy whacked the young Gypsy across the back of the head.
“Ow, Papa!” he howled. “Why you hitting me?”
“You fucking halfwit,” his father said, “them geese you pinched was the Chief’s! Them you took?”
And he whacked him over the head again and kicked his behind. I was starting to get scared, and so I squeezed my grandfather tightly by the hand, then I felt my grandfather squeeze my hand back and I was reassured.
The old Gypsy kept on hitting his son, and his son kept bawling and saying: “Stop hitting me, Papa!” At one point, between two blows, the kid looked at me with so much hatred that it froze my insides and once again I squeezed my grandfather’s hand, and he squeezed mine back and I was reassured. In the end, the old Gypsy calmed down or else he just got tired—but in any case he gave the young Gypsy one more clout across the nape and sent him into the house. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow, looked around him, spat, and bent down to pick up his hat. And then he came over to us and sat down on the blood-smeared stump once more.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t know, Mr. Chief, sir. That’s all. So what can I do now?”
“Well,” said my grandfather, “give them back to me and we’ll forget it.”
The Gypsy put his hat on, disheartened.
“I’ll give you them,” he muttered. “But there’s only five.”
“Only five? I just told you that I have seven.”
“That’s as many as you had,” said the old Gypsy. “On my life, yes, that’s as many as you had.”
“Well, then?”
“Well, then…I cut two, ’cause I didn’t know they was yours, Mr. Chief, sir. Look,” he pointed down at the stump on which he was sitting: “I cut them.”
Fresh blood had recently trickled down the log, and the old Gypsy was pointing at it with his finger, by way of proof, and we followed his finger, looking.
“Two?” asked my grandfather, amazed.
“But how was I to know, damn it!” said the old Gypsy, and then he looked toward the house: “I could wring his neck, I could!” Then to us: “I didn’t know, Mr. Chief, sir. My woman made us fried meat and soup, it’s still cooking on the stove, so it is.”
“But two?” my grandfather repeated, still amazed.
The old Gypsy waved his hands again. Grandfather sighed.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll take back the other five. And we’ll sort it out somehow with the other two.”
I had begun to relax, especially given that it really did seem, from the old Gypsy’s expression, that he was sincerely sorry—so I was convinced that the whole affair would sort itself out. Except that, just as I had begun to relax, there were screams from the neighboring yard, the one where all the people were gathered. And we all turned in that direction. My grandfather rose and looked over the old Gypsy’s head. I looked around the old Gypsy to the side. And the old Gypsy swiveled his head.
Two burly gypsies were dragging a third into the yard next door, and the prostrate third had taken quite a beating. They were all about a hundred feet away, but it was clear how severely he’d been hurt. And then, the two who were carrying him let him fall into the dust. One of them bent down and ripped the hurt man’s shirt off. Then the other produced a whip, the sort you’d use to drive horses, and started lashing the fallen Gypsy’s back. My fear was back. And because, leaning sideways, I’d had to let go of my grandfather’s hand, I quickly reached out and squeezed it. Then my grandfather said to me:
“Listen, what are you looking at, anyway? Haven’t you got anything else to look at? Go on, look at that pig instead!”
The pig was standing quietly next to our log, with its snout raised, sniffing the air. The old Gypsy stood up and said to my grandfather:
“Well, let’s move away some. It’s none of our business.”
And he dragged the blood-smeared log over to the wall of his house.
“Look,” said my grandfather, “if you just give us the geese, we’ll be on our way. And we’ll talk later about some sort of arrangement for the missing two.”
“Sit, Mr. Chief, sir,” said the old Gypsy, a note of compassion in his voice now. “You’ve not come at a good time. Now’s not the time to be going into the lane driving a gaggle of geese, you know.”
Then Grandfather stood up too and pulled me over to the wall. We both leaned against it.
“Do you have a cigarette, Mr. Chief, sir?” the old Gypsy asked my grandfather, as soon as he had sat back down on his log.
“I do,” said Grandfather.
And he pulled out a packet of Mretis, extracting a cigarette with two fingers, which he then gave to our host. Soon there was one between his own lips as well. My grandfather didn’t smoke. Or rather he smoked very rarely. He always kept a packet of Mretis on him, and he would smoke one of the cigarettes now and then, but not at all often. Only when he did. And, as I said, he only rarely did. Now he pulled a box of matches from his pocket, and lit his Mreti. Then he held the lighted match to the old Gypsy’s Mreti. And they both began to smoke.
“But what’s all that there?” asked Grandfather, pointing at the yard next door.
Whence could be heard the cracks of the whip and the howls of the one being whipped.
“Wel
l, our folk,” said the old Gypsy.
I leaned forward a little and again looked into the yard next door. The fallen man was still being whipped on his back. He was howling.
“Not my business,” the old Gypsy went on. “His kin are giving him a licking. If he’s done wrong, that’s what he deserves,” he added.
Grandfather pulled my head toward him.
“What are you doing? Haven’t you got anything better to look at? Look at the pig,” he said.
I looked at the pig. It had come up to the old Gypsy, who gave it a kick in the rump.
“Scram,” he told the pig and spat at it. “Get going, damn you.”
Then he took another puff on his cigarette, and the pig went away.
“But what happened?” insisted Grandfather.
“I wouldn’t like to say,” said the old Gypsy, “with your boy around, Mr. Chief, sir. I wouldn’t like to say. He was tried, is all.”
“Tell me,” said Grandfather. “The boy’s old enough.”
“Well, what can I say? If he couldn’t keep his pelenghero in his pants!”
“Aha,” went Grandfather, but I understood nothing. “And they tried him, did they? Isn’t a man allowed to go out once in a while and…”
He made a sign.
“Well, that he is!” said the old Gypsy. “But not with our married women…”
“Aha,” said Grandfather, and I began to understand, vaguely, how things stood. “And they caught him?”
“Worse,” said the old Gypsy. “He was drunk on a few bottles of mol and got to bragging. Said she was seventeen years old. Didn’t say which. Well, we’ve four married women of seventeen, none others. Them four there.”
The Gypsy pointed with his finger. Grandfather leaned forward. I leaned forward too. In the doorway there were, indeed, four Gypsy women, who were looking at the man on the ground. They weren’t weeping; they weren’t afraid. They were just standing there. And the one on the ground was no longer howling, he was just lying there, and it was plain—even from a hundred feet away—that he was covered in blood.
“Not one of them said it was her. And now the women’s kinfolk and his kinfolk, they’re beating him so that he’ll tell. Me, I’d tell, ’cause I wouldn’t lose my own hide for the sake of some slut. But he’s crazy. He’ll make them beat him till he tells.
“What will happen to him if he doesn’t tell? How long will they beat him?”
“Till he tells.”
“What if he won’t tell? They’ll end up beating him to death.”
“Well, that’s his misfortune. If he’s crazy and won’t tell.”
“And what’ll happen to her if they find out who she is?”
“Well!” went the old Gypsy and waved his hand like this. “Well,” he added. “We have a law. Her husband hangs her by his own hand.”
“Aha,” went Grandfather.
“It’s none of our business,” said the old Gypsy and tossed away his Mreti, trampling it with his worn-out shoe. “But you can’t be leaving now with them geese.”
The old Gypsy sucked his gums and nodded.
“Don’t know why the hell he don’t tell. But it’s none of our business, is it?”
“No,” agreed my grandfather.
“We have to reckon up for them two geese.”
“Then,” said Grandfather, “I’ll put it to you like this: you’ll send your boy to work two days in my field for each goose. Potato picking.”
The old Gypsy again took his hat in his hand. He scratched his head.
“He’s lazy…”
“Lazy or no, I’m telling you this is how we’ll make our peace,” my grandfather said.
“Four days?” asked the Gypsy.
“Yes.”
“Got another cigarette?”
The old man took out the packet of Mretis again. He extracted a cigarette with two fingers and handed it to the old Gypsy. Then he took the box of matches from his pocket, lit one, and held it to the cigarette between our host’s lips.
I leaned forward again. The two burly men had lifted the fallen Gypsy off the ground. Now they were dragging him to the house. They stood him up against the wall. But the accused slid down and fell on his rump. Then he fell sideways, scraping the wall, next to the feet of the four women who were in the doorway. One of the burly gypsies kicked him in the guts, and the other kicked him right in the face. I closed my eyes for a moment, waiting to hear his cries, but there was nothing. Then I opened them and saw that the first burly Gypsy, the one who had kicked him in the guts, had pulled out a knife. And he said something to the women, waving the knife back and forth in front of their faces. They flinched somewhat, but didn’t answer. Then, the burly Gypsy tossed the knife in the air and caught it by the handle, blade down. And he leaned toward the Gypsy fallen at the women’s feet.
My grandfather said, “What the hell are you doing? Look at that pig, how funny it is.”
He pulled me by the coat. The pig was sprawled on the ground next to the log, rubbing its back against it. I was quite frightened and didn’t find the pig at all funny now. But I went on watching it, in silence, because my grandfather wouldn’t let me look into the yard next door.
The old Gypsy was silent. And he smoked his Mreti staring at the ground. But now and then he would suck his gums and spit. At one point he started to cough, with a rattle in his throat, and I looked up at him. His Adam’s apple was quivering oddly, it would move up his throat, come back down, then move up again as he coughed. As though it were a ball sliding up and down under his old skin: up-down-up-down. As though it were alive, in fact. A mouse trapped under a carpet. And after he had done coughing, he asked Grandfather for yet another cigarette, and he gave him one, making exactly the same gestures as before. And the old Gypsy smoked the third cigarette in silence. But now and then he would turn his head and gaze into the other yard. Then, after he tossed away the third cigarette, he stood up and said to my grandfather:
“I think you can leave now, Mr. Chief, sir. Let me give you the geese.”
He stood up and my grandfather followed him to the coop. I wanted to come too. But my grandfather barred my way with his hand.
“You stay here,” he said. “Wait here with the pig and I’ll be back right away.”
But the pig had vanished somewhere. The door of the house was wide open and I suspected that the pig had gone inside, because there was nowhere else it could be. And then I took a step forward, moving away from the wall, and I looked into the yard next door.
But there was no one there. At least, no one standing. There was only the accused, no one else. He was lying stretched out in front of the door. The others had left. I took a few steps forward, going over to the fence. The beaten Gypsy’s face was still covered in blood, I could see that. And not only his face. His upper body was all furrowed with red lines; there was blood clotting all over his body. I couldn’t get a closer look because the geese driven by my grandfather were honking behind me now, and he shouted:
“What the hell are you doing over there? I told you to stay with the pig by the house.”
“But the pig’s gone,” I said.
Grandfather looked and saw for himself that the pig was no longer in the yard. Behind Grandfather came the old Gypsy. Grandfather was holding a switch and driving the geese, and they were honking. They were unruly and wouldn’t form a line to go through the gate. And so I went to one side and helped Grandfather to drive them properly.
“Just you wait and see what a smack on the ass I’m going to give you for not listening,” my grandfather said.
The old Gypsy opened the gate and the geese went out into the lane. I went out after them, but Grandfather stopped in front of the gate and shook the old Gypsy’s hand.
“So it’s settled, four days, as we agreed,” said Grandfather.
The old Gypsy nodded.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Chief, sir,” he said. “Don’t be angry, I didn’t know they was yours.”
“All right, no great h
arm done,” said Grandfather. “Let’s forget it.”
“Well, long life to you, Mr. Chief, sir,” said the old Gypsy.
Grandfather saluted him, raising two fingers to his temple. Then he began to drive the five geese along the lane. I walked in silence alongside, now on one side, now on the other, so that our geese wouldn’t stray off. Then we left the gypsies’ neighborhood, and before us rose the water tower. And it wasn’t until then that my grandfather spoke.
“What’s on your mind, tadpole?” he said.
That’s what he used to call me, tadpole.
TRANSLATED FROM ROMANIAN BY ALISTAIR IAN BLYTH
[PORTUGAL]
GONÇALO M. TAVARES
Six Tales
THE INGENUOUS COUNTRY
Sadness was so prevalent that people were paid to smile. Amid the city crowds, plainclothes men watched for the few smiling citizens that happened to pass by and, discreetly, ordered them to stop.
They introduced themselves—“We’re with the government,” they said—and then asked to see the smiler’s ID. They took down his or her name and address.
At the end of the month, these smiling citizens received a check. Their payment arrived with a document that read, for example, “During the month of February you were observed smiling in the street three times.”
Well then, in a very short time the emotional climate of the country was completely transformed by this practice. Whether because of their greed or simply because the payments had actually changed their temperament, in two years’ time the country became known for “the impressive and unflagging optimism of its citizens,” as one international news agency put it.
The state smile subsidies ended shortly thereafter, but since no one ever informed the citizens of this, they all retained their stupid, repugnant, inadequate, useless, meaningless smiles.
THE OLD MAN
Since he didn’t have enough time to actually read them—he was gradually, week by week, going blind—the old man at least wanted to read the titles of all the books in the biggest library in the world. If the essence of a book is contained in its title, he would then, by reading every title in the catalog, have absorbed the essence of the entire library.
Best European Fiction 2011 Page 13