Canto for a Gypsy

  “Listen.”

  He handed Roman a plastic tube and placed the other end over a cylinder. A throaty purr lowered to a whisper as Kore depressed the carburetor lever. No factory-ground pistons hummed as sweetly as the product of Kore’s skill. When he lifted the lever the lobby reverberated.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “You can’t buy a car like this,” Kore said, pleased with Roman’s enthusiasm.

  Roman wasn’t finished, though. He searched the engine block until he found the vehicle identification number, then opened the door to check the VIN on the dash. They both looked like originals, but they didn’t match.

  “Well, that’s the last one,” Kore protested. “I’ve already done the numbers on the transmission and the chassis. Don’t worry; when it comes to stamping numbers, I am a Kalderash goldsmith. Everything is taken care of. Look.” Kore leaned into the car and took a stack of papers from the glove compartment. Roman recognized a Motor Vehicle-50 form on top.

  “Racki and I went into a showroom to see the new models. The manager was going to throw us out until I shook some money at him, and then, of course, he took me into his office to buy a mobile right away. Well, greed is a sad thing; the man couldn’t think straight. His office had glass walls, so he could see Racki going from car to car, getting behind the wheel, you know. He notices Racki is scratching a little bit as if he has, you know, some sort of problem. He wants to sell me this car, so he doesn’t say anything, but all he can see is Racki scratching here and there as if the chal has bugs by the kumpania. And finally the manager remembers that he has to get in his cars afterward. He jumps up and runs out yelling. Naturally, I am insulted and leave, but not before I’ve been in his desk and chor five of these ownership forms, one for myself and four for my friends. Notice that I did not allow selfishness to overcome me.”

  “You certainly didn’t. You have me down here as the owner.”

  “Do I?” Kore seemed surprised.

  “Never mind. What else have you got?”

  Kore quickly showed Roman a pair of Canadian passports. Paper-clipped to the front of one was a picture of John Petulengro.

  “What nav gajikanes did you give him?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “Of course,” Roman laughed. “John Smith.”

  Kore nodded proudly and then drew Roman off to a side of the lobby. Although there was no one in earshot, for once he spoke quietly.

  “Romano, there’s something I have to say. You know that with me it has always been Rom Romesa, Gajo Gajesa. But if you are determined to bring this girl along, it’s all right with me. I’m ashamed of the way I acted at your apartment the other night. I don’t have any excuse. Do you forgive me?”

  “Easily.” A lot more easily, Roman knew, than it was for Kore to break one of his firmest laws. “Come on, before we start crying, let’s go down to the party.”

  “Rom san tu, Romano!”

  “I’m glad you’re getting the idea.”

  They started for the basement door arm in arm.

  “Romano, come here!”

  Standing in the entrance of the lobby was Celie Miye­yeshti and one of the two small girls who always attended her.

  “Come with us to the party,” Roman invited her. “I’ve never felt like a party more than tonight.”

  “Forget the party. Come now.”

  Kore stood aside.

  Celie was a witch, if witches are women who can rule without money or sex. There were around the world matriarchs who knew more of the race’s unwritten history and laws than anyone else, and she was one of them. The King of the Gypsies was a pale fiction next to the immense fact of Celie Miyeyeshti.

  “All right. Drink some for me,” Roman told Kore.

  She led the way to her black Fleetwood limousine. The night air was balmy and every jackhammer, bus engine and sanitation truck in the city seemed to have ceased the moment before.

  Celie, enormous with necklaces of gold coins and a volume of red petticoats, took up the backseat with just enough room left over for her two small attendants. A man Roman didn’t know sat on a jump seat. As soon as Roman pulled up the other, Celie’s car began moving.

  “What do you know about Saint Stephen’s Crown?” she asked.

  Besides being very old and very fat, her face was charged with energy, and Celie overwhelmed the others in the car like a sun among planets.

  “Everyone is asking that question.”

  “I’m asking it now.”

  Evasiveness might do for priests; it wouldn’t with Celie. He told her about his visit to the cardinal’s office.

  “Why you?”

  “They had some reasons that weren’t good enough. Besides, I’m leaving in a few days.”

  “You’re not leaving,” Celie said before he was even finished speaking.

  Roman sat back on the jump seat as well as he could. They swayed as the car went around the corner, but his eyes never left hers.

  “Does this have anything to do with the gaji?”

  A gloaming streetlight passed over Celie’s face but he read nothing except resignation.

  “Don’t I know you too well for that?” She dismissed his question and touched the knee of the other Rom. “This is Punka Lovell. He came here tonight from Royal Town because he has something to tell you.”

  Royal Town was London. Punka was short even for the Lovell clan, and he spoke in the round dialect of the English Rom, calling gaja “gorgio.”

  “We got a call today from friends in Vienna. They said the Department of Minorities is going to take all the chals.”

  “Where? What Department of Minorities?”

  “In Hungary. Take all Gypsy children to special schools to solve the minority problem. The kapos of the Rom were taken to the department last night and told. But the chief kapo was told in private that the order wasn’t final if they could influence a Rom here to do a favor for them. He was talking about you and the Holy Crown.

  “It’s insane. Why threaten thousands so one Rom here would look at a crown? Only a fanatic would do that. What makes you so important?”

  “Romano is an important man,” Celie said stiffly. “There are times when I have my doubts, but someday he will prove it. Romano, what do you think of this?”

  “It’s a bluff. A madman’s bluff.”

  “You know the man?”

  “We met in the cardinal’s home. His name is Reggel.”

  The car cruised north on the East River Drive.

  “You could tell the cardinal, then,” Celie suggested.

  Roman knew it wasn’t the sort of suggestion she would have made if she thought he’d take it. He had no more control over his decision than over the plunging car.

  “I’ll tell him I’ll take care of the crown.”

  “Boona,” Punka cried.

  The English Rom’s eyes smudged with tears of relief. All Roman could see on Celie’s face and on the faces of the two small girls was satisfaction.

  The car stopped and let Roman out. By now he knew the car had been moving toward Kennedy for Punka to carry his answer back. As if there were more than one answer. Punka waved out the window as the car pulled away. Celie never looked back.

  * * *

  Captain Ferenc Reggel followed the flashlight of Congressman Imre Szemely into a playground between Seventy-seventh and Seventy-eighth Streets. The congressman played the beam over the walls and up the basketball backboard. The net was ripped off, and written over the hoop was SPORTS IS A RIP OFF.

  “You see, even here,” Szemely said.

  They walked the length of the court to the back door of a store facing First Avenue. Szemely unlocked it and they went in. Glossy black sausages were strung out on enamel tables below racks of spiced hams. One wall was stained red from the bright tempura of rose paprika. A man sat
at a table waiting for them, the overhead light catching the white bristle over his chin and hollowed cheeks. As Reggel and Szemely approached, he removed his steel-rimmed glasses but did not stand.

  “Doktor Martinovics, Kapitany Reggel,” Szemely introduced them.

  The congressman was nervous despite the fact the meeting was taking place in his store. He fumbled around the cabinets looking for glasses and an ashtray. The other two men ignored him.

  “I remember you,” the doctor told Reggel. “Your father and I were friends—did you know that? That was when he was in the Royal Guards.”

  “That was a very long time ago,” Reggel answered with the accent on “very.”

  “I’ve seen you since. I left for the last time in fifty-six, remember?”

  Reggel didn’t need the reminder that Martinovics was one of the last to escape Budapest. In New York the doctor of philosophy had become head of the largest Freedom Fighter organization. Other Hungarian émigré groups existed, but Martinovics’ was the one that hadn’t succumbed to self-pity and paranoia. It did so by keeping its hate for the Communist regime pure and sharp. Szemely was the elected representative of the Seventeenth Congressional District, but he was the doctor’s surrogate, and Martinovics’ influence was just as great in Chicago, St. Louis, Cleveland and Los Angeles.

  “Why did you ask to see me?” Martinovics asked Reggel.

  “The Holy Crown.”

  “Ah, yes.” He took the bottle Szemely had found, poured out two glasses of golden Tokay and pushed one to Reggel. “I have heard something about it recently.”

  “Why did you have Szemely demand a show of the crown here?” Reggel asked. “You could have stopped its return or just let it go. So why this?”

  “This is democracy,” Martinovics informed Reggel. “Representative Szemely can do whatever he likes.”

  The store owner nodded in servile agreement.

  “I want to know what you plan when the crown is on display. A disruption to embarrass everyone? Even steal it? If you want to protest, to walk about with signs, go right ahead. Only be warned that if I ever see the crown in danger I will protect it any way I see fit.”

  “My friend’s son, once the crown is in your hands it is already in danger. We would be the ones rescuing it, not you. There is a rumor going around that you plan to melt the Holy Crown down.”

  “Do you think that, Doctor?”

  Martinovics winced in disgust. “It’s a very unhappy thing that exile does to one’s friends. You would think they were talking about China instead of Hungary sometimes. At any rate, why should I be telling the Communist policeman about our plans? I fail to understand why you come at this late hour with threats.”

  “No threats, Doctor. I come with an appeal. Don’t show the world Hungarians fighting like animals over the Holy Crown. Anything else, but leave this alone. I am a Socialist officer and you are an émigré. So be it, but we are both Magyars first. Your first duty is to the preservation of Saint Stephen’s Crown as the symbol of Hungary, not to endanger or humiliate it with political quarrels. If you love your country you will not do it.”

  “I am not in love with the government you want to take it to.”

  “No matter what government, it is still Hungary,” Reggel almost shouted. He continued in a lower voice. “It will no longer be a hostage on foreign soil but back where it belongs. In time all governments change.” He waved aside the start of Martinovics’ objections. “What it changes to I don’t know and I don’t care. Marxist, Fascist—so what?”

  “A great deal.” The doctor shoved his chair back and stood up. “I care what happens. The men who died with me in Budapest, they cared. It’s traitors like you who don’t. You have the country and now you want the crown so that the regime can clutch it to its breast and say, ‘Yes, this proves beyond any doubt, we are truly the legitimate heirs of Hungary.’ Well, Reggel ur, we may not count for much in Hungary, but as long as the Holy Crown remains here we can put a stop to that last farce.”

  The whites of Martinovics’ eyes were yellowed and flecked with blood. His suit, once custom tailored, hung on a body shrunk with age. Reggel sensed the despair of a man whose body had started to betray him and filed the fact away for another day.

  “You see, I remember you very well, Captain. Even to the boy who led the procession to the Basilica on Saint Stephen’s Day, you with your prayer book and the girls with their bouquets. How soon was that before you were getting whores for the Wehrmacht? Now you kill for the Russians while better men have to die here a thousand miles from home.”

  Szemely turned his face away and rested his hands on a sweaty coil of sausage. Reggel listened unmoved. He’d expected nothing less from Martinovics than the most violent denunciation. Szemely was uncomfortable because he was Americanized.

  The doctor’s harangue lasted a full ten minutes, and at the end of it he sat down to wet his mouth.

  “Will you leave the Holy Crown alone, though?” Reggel asked.

  The old man glanced from his anxious cohort to the unruffled security officer. A wry smile broke through the grizzle of his lips.

  “I could have some men here in a minute who would not leave you alone,” he told Reggel.

  “The crown.”

  “You dare.” Martinovics sighed in awe. “You dare to plead with me.”

  “Let me put it another way, then. I order you.” Reggel spoke so softly he had to repeat his words.

  “How could Captain Reggel order me?”

  It took an hour for Reggel to explain to the doctor and prove it beyond the old man’s most desperate disbelief. It was Reggel’s only card but a trump and, once played, assured success. At two in the morning Reggel left by the back door for the playground and the street.

  “One thing,” Martinovics called out.

  Reggel stopped, turning around. The doctor was framed in the doorway, a silhouette except for the light around the steel frames of his glasses. Reggel, having won, listened with the mildest of interest.

  “If you ever return to me, Magyar, consider yourself dead.”

  As Martinovics moved back into the room’s light his face seemed more hollow than before, the hand on the doorjamb like lines of chalk. Then the door closed.

  7

  Roman put his hands on the window and leaned toward the river. On the far bank a utility plant loosed deceptively white puffs of smoke into the sky. She’d been asleep when he came home and gone when he woke up, so he hadn’t told Dany yet that they weren’t going. The wind tugged the puffs free of their giant stacks and carried them like orphans to the sea.

  Breakfast was meat fried with garlic and onions. He took the pan and a fork with him back to the window and watched again while he ate.

  Toothpaste turned the garlic sour and he cut himself shaving. His body was nearly hairless, but he had a beard that dulled one razor blade a day. When he was dressed he gave the nick a last look in the mirror, avoiding his eyes. Before leaving, he removed his tie and exchanged his suit coat for a leather jacket.

  On the street nothing changed. The same neighbor walking the same brace of clipped white poodles was at the corner. Her coat was white with rings of white fur and raised the usual grim possibility in his mind. She smiled at him because he always seemed happy to see her.

  He found Kore in a garage. A dozen Gypsies stood around while two others carved stolen cars with acetylene torches. Kore sat disconsolately on an oil drum.

  “You heard.”

  Kore nodded. His clothes seemed more battered than ever.

  “It’s only another week,” Roman pointed out as much for his own sake as Kore’s.

  A torch’s blue-and-white flame burned through the fender of a Jaguar. The fender fell on a waiting blanket. On the ground in an unrolled pack were the tools of the trade: the lock drill called a slapper, hooks for passing through windows to lift lock
s and rings of manufacturers’ master keys. A gaja dealer arrived and stood on the side without a welcome. He stared at Roman, who was immaculate in contrast to the other Gypsies.

  “There are too many complications around you, Romano,” Kore observed at last. “With every light another color.”

  Serious Romany was a language of metaphors and Kore was very serious.

  “A man can ride two horses only so long. Each day I see you are more with them than us. First the girl and then the police. Maybe you want to be the first Gypsy in their heaven?”

  Enviously Roman watched the men dismantling the sports car. Even in their iron masks they followed tradition. For hundreds of years nobles commissioned Gypsies to “buy” horses for them, then asked in what direction it would be unwise to ride. There hadn’t been many Gypsy antique dealers.

  “Give me another week, Kore. Then I’ll be free.”

  Kore’s eyes showed skepticism but he softened.

  “I hear you’re working with Hungarians. I can get you a gun.” He gestured at the car dealer.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I forget. You don’t even carry a proper knife.”

  Kore raised his hands. There was nothing more he could do.

  “What are you going to do?” one of the Gypsies asked when Roman was gone.

  Kore raised his hands again with frustration. “I’ll wait.”

  * * *

  The car Odrich rented was a Chrysler Charger. He drove it to a garage rented beforehand by one of his men, a tall blond named Karl. Karl was waiting, dressed in work coveralls.

  When the garage door closed behind him, Odrich turned on the headlights. On each side of the grille, panels rolled up to reveal the lights. Odrich turned off the ignition.

  “It’s best to take the spring out entirely,” he said. “We can tape the crown in.”

  Phillips screws collected in Karl’s hand as he worked on the left headlight. Once it was loose he pulled it out to hang by its wires over the bumper.

  “And from the car to the church, Papa?” he asked. “Have you resolved that yet?”

  “Yes. That antique dealer stays on my mind and it came to me while I was thinking of him, so at least he’s served us that purpose. We use a perfectly simple method. The crown goes underwater.”