Gypsy Moon
Page 34
“I want you,” he whispers close to her ear, letting one hand stray to brush the side of her breast.
She blushes slightly and whispers back, “Not now, Mateo!”
“When?”
“When the patshiva is over, my love.”
He squeezes her and pulls her closer.
“Mama, Papa!” A dark child toddles into the ballroom, the bottom of his flannel pajamas flapping in the breeze. He runs to the gilded couple and they scoop him up in their arms together, whirling him about the floor.
“What is it, little Fate?” asks his papa.
“The silver bells… I heard them! I heard them, Papa, just like you said!”
“The bells?” his mother asks.
He nods vigorously, the raven locks about his beautiful face dancing a merry jig. “Yes, Mama. Papa told me to listen for the bells when the moon is full. He said it would be my grannies coming.”
The Golden One smiles at father and son. Soon it will be time to leave Fairview.
Suddenly the stiff, liveried butler breaks in. “Pardon me, sir, but there are two old women at the front door asking for you.” He puts a gloved hand by his mouth and whispers, “Quite a disreputable pair, sir. They appear to me to be a bit tipsy, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
Mother, father, and son rush to the door.
“You’ve come! It’s a miracle!” cries the Golden One.
“We’ve folded our tent from the wintering-over. And now we’ve come to join the trek, Prince Mateo,” the old queen says.
“You will stay here for the night. We’ve been waiting so long for you to come,” the lovely woman says. “Mother has your rooms ready.”
“My dear granddaughter, we thank you very much. But every Gypsy knows that when you capture the wind within walls it becomes stale. The front lawn will do nicely. We’ll sleep under the stars.”
The old women awake in the scarlet-and-golden dawn to the sound of a thousand silver bells tinkling in the bluegrass-scented air. Stretching for miles in all directions, they see the bright caravans converging on Fairview.
Soon their leader appears—black eyes flashing and gold-handled whip snapping signals in the morning air. He mounts his painted caravan and moves out. Beside him sits his golden-haired woman, her scarlet petticoats rustling in the breeze. She holds a sleepy little Gypsy prince in her arms.
“Let us take to the road!” the prince calls to his followers.
The high-wheeled Gypsy wagons form a bright-colored snake far off into the distance. Their drivers sing, they laugh, they drink May wine. “Life is life!” they call out to friends and strangers along the way. The road is long, but so are the patience and goodwill of the Rom. They will live their own way, but they will make many stops along the trail.
Philadelphia is to be their first. The big tent awaits and the crowds with pennies for Poor Little Pesha.
A hush falls over the hundreds in the audience beneath the huge tent. The moment they have waited for has arrived at last. The ringmaster has made his announcement. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air.
Suddenly there is a sound like thunder. Six mighty black stallions charge into the arena.
“Hiyah!” cries the scarlet-and-gold-clad figure on the back of the lead horse. He stands high on the stallion’s back, waving with one hand while he grips the reins in the other.
He guides his great, devil-black horse back toward the tent flap and leans dizzyingly downward. When he comes back around, a beautiful blonde Gypsy in shining gold is by his side. The audience thunders its applause for the Golden One.
Vaults and somersaults, dismounts and remounts—the pair put the stallions through their paces. Never a missed step, never a falter; it is as if the riders have invisible wings.
Suddenly the tent flap flies back. The ringmaster’s voice booms.
“And now with great pleasure, we introduce to you the Prince of Fate! Soon to be admired by the crowned heads of Europe—the child sired by the wolf and born of the storm, the heir apparent to the Gypsy throne!”
Little Prince Fate, clad in scarlet-and-gold tights and a shining cape, rides his coal-black pony around and around to waves of cheers. The two old grannies in the front row nod with pride and smile to each other.
“He’ll make a find husband for our daughter,” Tamara says to her doctor as the black-eyed infant in her arms coos softly.
Then the golden trio leap from their mounts to bow before their admirers and smile to one another.
“You are magnificent, my Golden One!” The handsome prince brings the woman’s fingertips to his lips while his dark eyes consume her with love.
In that intimate moment, she remembers another time and place, when wolves howled, snow blanketed the forest, and this man taught her with his strong, demanding body what few women are lucky enough to learn about love. A familiar warmth creeps through her limbs. Her breasts ache for his touch. She moves closer to feel the heat of his flesh—to breathe in his leathery musk.
He drapes an arm about her shoulders, drawing her near. Their eyes kiss and exchange a secret promise. Then their attention shifts to the fruit of their love.
The child struts and sweeps his cape for the adoring audience. His parents look on, allowing little Prince Fate center stage. Already their minds are away from the crowds, the ring, the performance. They are thinking ahead to more intimate sport.
“This will be a fine night, a special night,” Prince Mateo whispers to his Golden One. “A night for making love and little Gypsy princesses.
She smiles, shy with him suddenly, and squeezes his hand. “Yes, my love. This is the night of the full moon.”
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