The Nostradamus prophecies as-1

by Mario Reading

  ‘And you say he likes me?’

  Yola nodded. ‘Alexi thinks you are telling the truth. He looked into your eyes when you thought that you were about to die and he saw your soul. It seemed white to him, not black.’

  ‘Then why is he saying all this stuff about me?’

  ‘You should be pleased. He is exaggerating terribly. Many of us here feel that you did not kill my brother. They will hope that the Bulibasha gets angry with what is being said and pronounces you innocent.’

  ‘And do you think I killed your brother?’

  ‘I will only know this when the Bulibasha gives his verdict.’

  23

  Sabir tried to look away from what was happening in front of him, but couldn’t. Yola’s cousin Alexi was giving a masterclass in applied histrionics. If this was someone secretly on his side, then Sabir decided that he would rather sup with the Devil and have done with it.

  Alexi was on his knees in front of the assembled judges, weeping and tearing at his hair. His face and body were covered with dirt and his shirt was torn open, revealing three gold necklaces and a crucifix.

  Sabir glanced at the Bulibasha’s face for any signs that he was becoming impatient with Alexi’s dramatics, but, to all intents and purposes, he seemed to be drinking the stuff in. One of the younger children, whom Sabir assumed must be one of the Bulibasha’s daughters, had even crept on to his capacious lap and was bouncing up and down in her excitement.

  ‘Do I get to say my piece?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone else will talk for you.’

  ‘Who, for Christ’s sake? Everybody here seems to want me killed.’

  ‘Me. I will speak for you.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I have told you. It was my brother’s dying wish.’

  Sabir realised that Yola didn’t want to be drawn any further. ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘The Bulibasha is asking whether my brother’s family would be happy if you paid them gold for his life.’

  ‘And what are they saying?’

  ‘No. They want to cut your throat.’

  Sabir allowed his mind to wander briefly into a fantasy of escape. With everybody concentrating on Alexi, he might at least manage a five-yard head start before they brought him down at the edge of the camp. Action, not reaction – wasn’t that how they trained soldiers to respond to an ambush?

  Alexi got up off the ground, shook himself and walked past Sabir, grinning. He even winked.

  ‘He seems to think he put that over rather well.’

  ‘Do not joke. The Bulibasha is talking to the other judges. Asking their opinion. At this stage it is important how he begins to think.’ She stood up. ‘Now I shall speak for you.’

  ‘You’re not going to do all that breast-beating stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know what I shall do. It will come to me.’

  Sabir dropped his head on to his knees. Part of him still refused to believe that anyone was taking this seriously. Perhaps it was all some gigantic joke perpetrated on him by a tontine of disgruntled readers?

  He looked up when he heard Yola’s voice. She was dressed in a green silk blouse, buttoned to one side across her chest and her heavy red cotton dress reached down to just above her ankles, interleaved with numerous petticoats. She wore no jewellery as an unmarried woman and her uncovered hair was bunched in ringlets over her ears, with ribbons alongside and sewn into, the chignon at the back of her head. Sabir underwent a strange emotion as he watched her – as if he was indeed related to her in her some way and that this intense recognition was in some sense relevant in a manner beyond his understanding.

  She turned to him and pointed. Then she pointed down to her hand. She was asking the Bulibasha something and the Bulibasha was answering.

  Sabir glanced around at the two surrounding groups. The women were all intent on the Bulibasha’s words, but some of the men in Alexi’s group were watching him intently, although seemingly without malevolence – almost as though he were a puzzle they were being forced to confront against their wills, something curious that had been imposed on them from the outside and which they were nevertheless forced to factor in to whatever equation was ruling their lives.

  Two of the men helped raise the Bulibasha to his feet. One of them passed him a bottle and he drank from it and then sprinkled some of the liquid in an arc out in front of him.

  Yola came back to Sabir’s side and helped him rise to his feet.

  ‘Don’t tell me. It’s verdict time.’

  She paid him no mind, but stood, a little back from him, watching the Bulibasha.

  ‘You. Payo. You say you did not kill Babel?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And yet the police are hunting for you. How can they be wrong?’

  ‘They found my blood on Babel, for reasons that I have already explained to you. The man who tortured and killed him must have told them about me, for Babel knew my name. I am innocent of any crime against him and his family.’

  He turned to Alexi. ‘You believe this man killed your cousin?’

  ‘Until another man confesses to the crime, yes. Kill him and the blood score will be settled.’

  ‘But Yola has no brother now. Her father and mother are dead. She says that this man is Babel’s phral. That he will take Babel’s place. She is unmarried. It is important that she has a brother to protect her. To ensure that no one shames her.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Do you all agree to abide by the Kristinori’s rule?’

  There was a communal affirmative from around the camp.

  ‘Then we will leave it to the knife to decide in this vendetta.’

  24

  ‘Jesus. They don’t want me to fight somebody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what the Hell do they want?’

  ‘The Bulibasha has been very wise. He has decided that the knife will decide in this case. A wooden board will be set-up. You will lay the hand that you killed Babel with on to it. Alexi will represent my family. He will take a knife and throw it at your hand. If the blade, or any other part of the knife, strikes your hand, it will mean that O Del says you are guilty. Then you will be killed. If the knife misses you, you are innocent. You will then become my brother.’

  ‘O Del?’

  ‘That is our name for God.’

  ***

  Sabir stood near the Bulibasha and watched as two of the men erected the board that was going to decide his life or death. You couldn’t make it up, he thought to himself. No one in their right minds would believe this. Not in the twenty-fi rst century.

  Yola handed him a glass of herb tea.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘To give you courage.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘A secret.’

  Sabir sipped the tea. ‘Look. This guy Alexi. Your cousin. Is he any good with knives?’

  ‘Oh yes. He can hit anything he aims at. He is very good.’

  ‘Christ, Yola. What are you trying to do to me? Do you want me to be killed?’

  ‘I don’t want anything. O Del will decide on your guilt. If you are innocent, he will spoil Alexi’s aim and you will go free. Then you will become my brother.’

  ‘And you really believe that they will kill me if the knife strikes my hand?’

  ‘Without a doubt they will kill you. It must be that way. The Bulibasha would never allow you to go free after a Kriss has decided that you are guilty. That would go against our custom – our mageripen code. It would be a scandal. His name would become mahrime and he would be forced to go in front of the Baro-Sero to explain himself.’

  ‘The Baro-Sero?’

  ‘The chief of all the gypsies.’

  ‘And where does he hang out?’

  ‘In Poland, I think. Or perhaps it is Romania.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’

  ***

  ‘What happens if he misses
my hand and gets me?’ Sabir was standing in front of the board. Two of the gypsies were attaching his hand to the board with a thin leather strap, which passed through two holes in the wood, above and below his wrist.

  ‘That means O Del has taken the decision away from us and has punished you Himself.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Sabir shook his head. ‘Can I at least stand at an angle?’

  ‘No. You must stand straight on, like a man. You must pretend that you don’t care what is happening. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. Gypsies like men who behave like men.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how encouraging that is.’

  ‘No. You must listen to me. It is important.’ She stood in front of him, her eyes locked on to his. ‘If you survive this, you will become my brother. I will take your name until I take my husband’s. You will have a kirvo and a kirvi from amongst the elders, who will be your godparents. You will become one of us. For this, you must behave like us. If you behave like a payo, no one will respect you and I will never find a husband. Never be a mother. What you do now – how you will behave – will show to my family how you will be for me. Whether the ursitory allowed my brother to choose wisely, or like a fool.’

  ***

  Alexi upended the bottle into Sabir’s mouth, then finished it himself. ‘I like you, payo. I hope the knife misses. I really do.’

  Achor Bale grinned. He lay in a sand scrape he had dug for himself, on a small rise about fifty feet above the clearing. The scrape was well concealed from marauding children by a gorse bush and Bale was covered by a camouflage blanket interleaved with bracken, twigs and other small branches.

  He adjusted the electronic zoom on his binoculars and focused them on Sabir’s face. The man was rigid with fear. That was good. If Sabir was to survive, this fear of his would stand Bale in good stead in his search for the manuscript. He could use it. Such a man was manipulable.

  The girl, on the other hand, was more of a problem. She came from a defined culture, with defined mores. Just like her brother. There would be parameters. Lines she would not cross. She would die before telling him of certain things she considered more important than her life. He would have to approach her in other ways. Through her virginity. Through her desire to be a mother. Bale knew that the Manouche gypsies defined a woman solely through her ability to have children. Take this away and the woman had no centre. No meaning. It was something he would bear in mind.

  Now the girl’s cousin was walking away from Sabir, the knife in his hand. Bale adjusted the binoculars again. Not a throwing knife. That was bad. The weight would be difficult to gauge. No balance. Too much drift.

  Ten yards. Fifteen. Bale sucked at his teeth. Fifteen yards. Forty-five feet. A crazy distance. It would be hard even for him to hit a defined target at such a divide. But perhaps the gypsy was better than he suspected. The man had a smile on his face, as if he felt confident about his abilities.

  Bale swung the binoculars back towards Sabir. Well. At least the American was putting on a good front for a change. He was standing straight up and facing the knife-thrower. The girl was standing over to the side, watching him. They were all watching him.

  Bale saw the gypsy draw back his hand for the throw. It was a heavy knife. It would need some power to take it that distance.

  Alexi swung forward, driving the knife in a long, looping arc towards Sabir. There was a communal gasp from the onlookers. Bale’s tongue darted out from between his teeth in concentration.

  The knife struck the board just above Sabir’s hand. Had it touched? The blade was curved. There couldn’t be much in it.

  The Bulibasha and a few of his minions were moving at a leisurely pace towards the board to inspect the position of the knife. All the gypsies were converging on the Bulibasha. Would they kill Sabir straight off? Make it a communal effort?

  The Bulibasha pulled out the knife. He flourished it three times around his head, then reached towards Sabir’s arm and cut through the leather straps. Then he threw the away from him disdainfully.

  ‘Oh, what a lucky boy,’ said Bale under his breath. ‘Oh what a lucky, lucky boy.’

  25

  ‘The police are watching you.’

  Sabir raised his head from the pillow. It was Alexi. It was obvious, however, that if Sabir expected any mention of – or even an apology for – that morning’s proceedings, he would have to wait a very long time indeed.

  ‘What do you mean, watching me?’

  ‘Come.’

  Sabir rose and followed Alexi out of the caravan. Two children, a boy and a girl, were waiting outside, their faces tense with suppressed excitement.

  ‘These are your cousins, Bera and Koine. They have something to show you.’

  ‘My cousins?’

  ‘You are our brother now. These are your cousins.’

  Sabir wondered for a moment whether Alexi was having him on. By the time he had gathered his wits together and had realised that no sarcasm was intended, it was too late to offer to shake hands with his new family, for the children had gone.

  Alexi had already started walking towards the periphery of the camp. Sabir hurried to catch up with him.

  ‘How do you know it’s the police?’

  ‘Who else would be watching you?’

  ‘Who else indeed?’

  Alexi stopped in his tracks. Sabir watched as his face gradually changed expression.

  ‘Look, Alexi. Why would the police bother to keep me under observation? If they knew I was here they would simply come in and pick me up. I am wanted for murder, don’t forget. I can’t see the Surete playing a waiting game with me.’

  They had reached the ridge behind the camp. The children were pointing towards a gorse bush.

  Alexi ducked down and wriggled his way underneath the bush. ‘Now. Can you see me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You come and do it.’

  Alexi made way for Sabir, who eased himself beneath the thorns. Straight away he encountered an indentation which allowed him to slide down underneath the bush and emerge, head forwards, the other side.

  Sabir instantly saw what Alexi was getting at. The entire camp was within his line of vision, but it was a virtual impossibility for anyone inside the camp to see him in turn. He backed awkwardly out of the den.

  ‘The children. They were playing panschbara. That’s when you draw a grid in the sand with a stick and then throw a bicycle chain into it. Bera threw the chain too far. When he ducked down to collect it, he found this place. You can see that it is freshly made – not a blade of grass to be seen.’

  ‘You understand now why I don’t think it’s the police.’ Sabir found himself trying to weigh Alexi up. Estimate his intelligence. Judge whether he might be of use in what lay ahead.

  Alexi nodded. ‘Yes. Why would they wait? You are right. They want you too badly for that.’

  ‘I must talk to Yola. I think she has some explaining to do.’

  26

  ‘Babel was a drug addict. Crack cocaine. Some of his Parisian friends thought it would be amusing to make an addict of a gypsy. Our people rarely touch drugs. We have other vices.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do…’

  Yola placed her fist against her chest. ‘Listen to me. Babel also played cards. Poker. High stakes. Gypsies are crazy for card games. He couldn’t leave them alone. Any money he got, he would go straight to Clignancourt and gamble it away with the Arabs. I don’t know how much he lost. But he didn’t look good, these last weeks. We thought he was sure to end up in jail, or badly beaten up. When we heard about his death, it seemed at first that the gambling must have been the cause. That he owed money and that the maghrebins had gone too far in punishing him. Then we heard about you.’ She transformed her fist into an out-turned palm.

  ‘Did he really have anything to sell? When he wrote that ad?’

  Yola bit her lip. Sabir could tell that she was struggling internally with a problem only she could resolve.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m you’re brother now. Or so I’m told. Which means that I will act in your interests from here on in. It also means that I promise not to take advantage of anything you tell me.’

  Yola returned his gaze. But her eyes were nervous, darting here and there across his face – not settling on any particular feature.

  Sabir suddenly realised what her brother’s betrayal and death might really mean to her. Through no fault of her own, Yola now found herself locked into a relationship with a total stranger – a relationship formalised by the laws and customs of her own people so that she might not, of her own volition, easily end it. What if this new brother of hers was a crook? A sexual predator? A confidence trickster? She would have little recourse to any but partial justice.

  ‘Come with me into my mother’s caravan. Alexi will accompany us. I have a story to tell you both.’

  27

  Yola indicated that Sabir and Alexi should sit on the bed above her. She took her place on the floor beneath them, her legs drawn up, her back against a brightly painted chest.

  ‘Listen. Many, many families ago, one of my mothers made friends with a gadje girl from the neighbouring town. At this time we came from the south, near Salon-de-Provence…’

  ‘ One of your mothers?’

  ‘The mother of her mother’s mother, but many times over.’ Alexi scowled at Sabir as though he were being forced to explain milking to a dairymaid.

  ‘Just how long ago would this have been?’

  ‘As I said. Many families.’

  Sabir was fast realising that he was not going to get anywhere by being too literal. He would simply have to suspend the rational, pedantic side of his nature and go with the swing. ‘I’m sorry. Continue.’