“I never heard of the Netotsi before,” Dany said.
Reggel loomed over the table to tell her, his eye on Roman. “A shame. But, perhaps, they should best be forgotten.”
“She might be interested,” Roman said. “I think keeping Gypsies as slaves for three hundred years is interesting. The slaves who escaped were called Netotsi. The army recaptured some and tortured them until they confessed anything they were asked. That way the Hungarian bishops could approve a general slaughter of cannibals instead of families running for their lives.”
The presence of another Gypsy awakened Tomo. Thoroughbreds minced through his mind. God said that Gypsies could eat anything but the flesh of a horse. There was no wealth but gold and horses. From his six-stringed violin, he drew the lament of the Khassiyem: “I am lost, Father, Brother. My favorite horse has run away. Yes, last night I couldn’t sleep. I loved her.”
“Yet you are different from the other ciganyi. A Gypsy who deals in art, who impresses cardinals and lovely women. You impress me. Do you know when I compliment you?”
“There was a queen once who wore the Crown of Saint Stephen,” Roman said. “She loved Gypsies, too. To show her love she tried to make them into Hungarians.
“She had their horses and wagons taken away so they couldn’t wander and she outlawed Romany so they couldn’t conspire without being understood. As her greatest act, she had all their children taken away so that they could be free of their parents’ influence. A great caravan formed of children and babies. The Gypsies clung to the wheels of the carts and killed themselves while they could still see their children and their children could still see them.
“The plan of this virtuous queen failed. The children turned into Gypsies and it was decided that the reason was they were born criminals and no one could help them. Of course, she was a saint to try.”
Tomo plucked his violin like a guitar. The restaurant’s owner stood transfixed as his Gypsy sang in a way he’d never heard before. “Cut from heaven’s tree I have two leaves, see! One says, ‘You are poor.’ One says, ‘You are free.’ ”
“There is a saying in Hungary,” Reggel told Dany as he filled her glass again. “ ‘Give a Magyar a glass of water and a Gypsy and he becomes drunk.” We even have a word for it: mulatni. It means to enjoy oneself with a Gypsy. You must know what it means.”
Tomo was ready. The men at the tables passed cigarettes back and forth in silence, a conspiracy of silence urging the Gypsy on.
The first part of a rhapsody is built on the Hungarian love of melancholy, of endless, repetitive tragedy. It is a lassu, a memory of things lost, the notes ending so abruptly that pauses become echoes. Tomo’s slim voice turned rough with a bitterness that was improvised and real.
“The days are shorter, the nights longer. Why do I shiver? Why do they say the Gypsies have changed? I don’t understand.”
The song, a variation in monotone, stirred restlessly as if it were in pain, repeating itself a fifth higher.
“Watch,” Reggel whispered to Dany.
Again and again the cry came. Explosively, Roman’s hands came down on the table and he yelled out to Tomo. The bow leaped and ripped over the violin in instantaneous transformation, freed of regret. Now Tomo was the Gypsy violinist Reményi who played the Hungarian armies into battle in the wars of liberation. Reggel and the others joined in the friss, singing and slapping the tables, wine bottles ringing in 4/8 time, the men’s faces flushed with emotion. Tomo neared Roman’s table. Reggel’s voice boomed out words Dany couldn’t understand. Roman sang them, too, but on his face and Tomo’s was a subtle difference, a wild strain of mockery that sweetened their voices and made the song all the more unreal.
Then the third part of the rhapsody, the czardas, began. Dany found it hard to believe there was energy left to be tapped, but the war song was faint in comparison to the erupting orgy of the czardas. This was the final, total expenditure of sensation, the hymn of the Magyar raiders whipped into a frenzy by Gypsy slaves. The song was as illogical. There was no beginning or end to it, nor any line of development; it lasted as long as Tomo’s bow could move and there was a voice left to match it.
In the end there was only Roman and Reggel and then Roman alone, and the words veered sharply from Hungarian to Romany so that she understood the last stanza of an old Lovari song:
“When a dead swallow flies, and follows us over the river, Oh, we’ll forget the wrongs we’ve met. But till then, Oh never. Brother, of that be certain.”
There was no clapping, just as there would be no applause for a death or lovemaking. The patrons, numbed, stuffed money into Tomo’s vest and stumbled out of the restaurant. Tomo, ten pounds of sweat gone, collapsed in a chair. Dany realized with amazement that an hour had passed since the beginning of the rhapsody. Not one drink or dinner had been ordered during that period. Reggel’s party stood at the door and waited for him to join them.
Roman alone took mercy on the proprietor and ordered a dinner.
“You already ate,” the maître d’ told him.
“This one is for the violin.”
The men in the convertible watched as Reggel helped Andos into the microbus and scolded him the way a father might a naughty boy. He talked loudly to the bus driver but his words were lost in the sound of the traffic.
The microbus drove off, leaving Reggel alone under the restaurant canopy. The convertible began pulling out. A couple came out of the restaurant. The girl was typically American. The man was black, they thought at first, or Spanish.
“It’s the antique dealer.”
“Gypsy? With her?” The other man leaned forward.
“We’ll wait until they move away.”
Reggel didn’t leave them. All three got into the old Chrysler.
“Your fortune?” Roman couldn’t help being amused. “You want your fortune told?”
“What better night? I am full of czardas, of mulatni. Now is the time to have my fate read by a Gypsy.”
“Not this Gypsy.”
“No, no, never. I heard the way you ended the song. You’re dangerous. I wouldn’t ask you to tell my fortune.”
“Who, then?” Dany asked.
“Look around.” Reggel waved his arm. “I have been in this city six years. In that time there are Gypsy women everywhere, a fortune-teller for every street.” He put his finger to his eye. “Always a sign of an economic downturn, mark my words.” He laughed and slapped Roman’s back. “Am I right or not? If you want to know how a country’s economy is doing, count its fortune-tellers.”
He started the car and they swung out into the street.
“What do you want to know?” Roman asked.
“You’re laughing at me, Gypsy.”
“Yes, I am. That’s one of my privileges, Magyar. But tell me what you’re after.”
Reggel tapped his chest.
“Tonight I am after the truth. Tonight I am on a search and a Gypsy will lead me.”
“You’ve had too much wine. You’re drunk.”
“With Gypsies. You are my good luck, Romano Gry. Did you know that? You are the Holy Crown’s good luck.”
“You’re wrong again. I don’t want any part of the crown. When this week is over, I’ll walk away and forget about the two of you.”
“Fine, walk away, then. Now, take me to my fortune.”
11
Vera Pulneshti’s fortune-telling ofisa was on Canal Street where it divided Chinatown and Little Italy. She came to the door wearing a dragon robe and eating a pizza.
“Romano, what are you doing here? It’s two o’clock. I have four welfare offices to go to in the morning.”
Her “tea room” was decorated with the appropriate symbols of yin and yang and Sicilian Evil Eye charms. In a back room, Dany could see children watching a color television. They also seemed to be listening to a radio and a
record player.
“It’s very important that he gets his fortune told tonight,” Roman said.
“I have to get these kids to bed sometime, Romano. Your friend is getting married in the morning or what? Why is he in such a hurry?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be able to tell me that?” Reggel asked.
Vera fixed him with a black glare. She set the slice of pizza down and wiped her mouth and hands, then she pulled a pin from her bun of hair and let it cascade down her back. The Chinese robe turned from housecoat to royal gown.
She slapped up the front of a rolltop desk. The pigeon-holes inside were stuffed with tools of her trade.
“Tarot, Gypsy tarot, I Ching, throwing sticks, palm, sun chart, tea leaves. Name it.”
“I brought my own cards,” Reggel said.
Vera nodded with the hauteur of a queen accused of spitting in a public place. Expertly, she separated the aces and face cards from Reggel’s deck and gave the rest back. As she shuffled the cards she kept standing up without once taking her eyes from his.
“Take four and put them in a row on the table.”
Reggel did as she told him.
“Turn over the one on the far left.”
It was the ace of spades, upside down.
“A violent end,” Vera intoned. More casually, she added, “You can forget about the other cards.”
Reggel shook his head with disappointment.
“I hoped for a little more, you understand. How much do I owe you for this?”
Vera looked down her hooked nose at him. The nostrils flared.
“Nothing,” she dismissed him.
Reggel shrugged and put his wallet away. Roman and Dany waited by the door. Vera picked up her pizza.
“On the other hand . . .” she began in an offhand way.
“. . . There is a charm I can buy,” Reggel finished for her in Romany.
Vera scowled and her eyes jumped from Reggel to Roman.
“Who is this man? Romano, I want to talk to you.”
“Not now, Vera.”
She advanced on the door, waving her slice of pizza.
“You want some cards read? I’ll show you some cards read.”
Roman pulled Dany and Reggel out. When they reached the bottom of the stairs they looked back up. Peering down over the railing with Vera were five children of varying ages, all hurling curses and one or two throwing food.
“I think she liked you,” Roman told Reggel when the three of them had escaped outside.
There were even fewer cars on Canal Street then and most of them headed for the Manhattan Bridge. One or two neon lights on the Chinese side of the traffic were still lit, pastel characters against the dark blue of the night.
“It is late,” Reggel said reluctantly.
The air was cool at this seam between hot days and he slapped his hands together.
“Come on,” Roman said. “We can’t miss early Mass.”
On the way home, Dany slept on Roman’s shoulder while Reggel drove alone in front. Traffic was light and the Chrysler cruised at sixty. Roman was content to watch the occasional lights of barges in the river.
“She’s asleep already,” Reggel said.
Roman looked forward to the oval of Reggel’s eyes in the mirror.
“Isn’t it a shame?” he said. “If you’d known about her, you wouldn’t have had to threaten the Rom in Hungary.”
Reggel drove up the ramp to the East River Drive and said nothing. The window was open an inch and air blew at his hair, worn long in the Hungarian fashion rather than in any attempt at style. The flesh that age added to his face hadn’t smoothed the massive cheekbones. If Vera shook his self-confidence it didn’t show. Reggel might have been driving by the Danube.
“Don’t underestimate me,” he answered finally.
The Manhattan Bridge receded on the right and the Williamsburg Bridge approached two miles ahead. Cars surrounding the Chrysler moved to one side of the highway to exit. Reggel pushed his foot down on the accelerator and picked up speed on the empty highway. The one other car with them, a convertible, did the same.
The convertible moved away from Reggel’s rearview mirror to his side mirror and began sliding up to pass. He moved the Chrysler a foot over to give the other car more room. The Twenty-third Street exit was coming up, where the drive would curve right and head for the Midtown Tunnel. Reggel glanced over at the convertible as it pulled alongside. There were two men in it, and the one on the passenger side was staring back at Reggel.
The convertible inched forward so that its door was on a line with the Chrysler’s bumper. Reggel waited until the car edged closer without passing. He reached for his gun.
“Get down!” he yelled to Roman and Dany.
The man in the passenger seat turned completely around, facing Reggel with what looked like a red plastic pillow. He shouted something at his driver and let go of the pillow, which didn’t fly away in the wind the way a pillow should but rolled ponderously in the air, bloated and carmine, directly into the Chrysler’s windshield. It exploded in rays of red paint, covering not only the windshield but the limousine’s side windows, the wind spreading it to coat every inch of glass.
The Chrysler was in the middle lane when the bag hit. Two seconds elapsed before Reggel found the window handle, rolled it down completely and put his head and shoulder out. By then it was too late to overcome the car’s momentum.
A bumper dug into the metal rib separating north- and southbound traffic and the limousine’s rear end fanned out, driving it into the rail at a steeper angle. Cartwheels of sparks flew around Reggel’s face as he fought to force the steering wheel to the right with one hand. The heavy car shuddered, nearing the roll point.
Just as the highway straightened, the steering wheel snapped out of Reggel’s hands. The car swayed into the barrier with its side, sheets of sparks following the car. He regained control of the wheel and eased off the barrier. From his side window he could only see his own lane and the southbound traffic.
“They’re a hundred feet ahead in the right lane.”
Reggel glanced into the car at the sound of the Gypsy’s voice. Roman had moved to the front seat and rolled down the right side window. In between them, the windshield rippled in tides from the wind. Red streaks matted Reggel’s hair, and Roman thought for a moment the Hungarian was shot, then realized it was paint that had come in when the bag hit.
“Where are they now?” Reggel asked.
“Coming back.”
Reggel seesawed the wheel to check whether the fender wings were bent into the tires. They weren’t. When he put his head out as far as he could, he could see the convertible slipping closer. Delicately, he steered into the middle lane. From the windshield back, the Chrysler was entirely red.
The convertible’s brake light lit up. Reggel fishtailed into two lanes to avoid it. When he returned to the middle lane the convertible had vanished. Roman tapped him on the shoulder.
“In back.”
The rear window was striped with paint, but in his side mirror Reggel made out the convertible’s bumper just behind him. The convertible rammed him at sixty, driving the Chrysler toward the barrier. Reggel stepped on the accelerator and steered away with one hand. The convertible hit again. The Chrysler’s left headlight exploded against the barrier before Reggel escaped back to the middle of the highway.
The East River Drive is a relative straightaway up to 125th Street, and the two cars were a third of the way there when they passed the Midtown Tunnel. Arc lights shot past the blind windshield like phosphorus bullets. Reggel took his hand off the wheel long enough to throw his gun into Roman’s lap. It was slightly smaller than a .45, with the brand name WALTHER across the grip.
“I can’t do both,” Reggel said.
“Don’t take it, Roman.”
&
nbsp; Reggel pulled his head in enough to give Dany a furious stare in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t be an idiot. He has to.”
“He doesn’t. You can just stop.”
By way of explanation, Reggel’s foot let up on the accelerator. At once, the convertible smashed into the back, forcing the limousine out of the middle lane to the low concrete guard curb along the outside. The collision threw Dany to the floor. She tried rising but fell with each heave of the cars.
“Will you do something now, Gypsy?”
Roman squeezed out the window, holding the gun in his left hand. Dany’s yells were lost in the grinding of chrome on chrome. Wind wrapped hair around his eyes as the convertible swung in and out of view. Reggel’s automatic felt unfamiliar and useless, but Roman climbed half onto the roof despite the bucking, until he was sure there was no way he could fire around the bulk of the limousine.
The Chrysler bounced off the guard curb once before Reggel bullied the speedometer up to ninety and pulled away from the convertible’s grip. The straightaway was approaching the steep curve of an overpass, and looming beyond was the traffic of the Triborough Bridge. Reggel had surprised himself by staying on the road as long as he had; he wouldn’t have a chance once they hit the overpass and the cars. The convertible gave them a final shove and he corrected the wheel. The Gypsy was back in the car. Reggel blinked the water out of his eyes and said nothing. His stiff hand tightened on the wheel as the car lights around the curve became separate and distinct.
Roman fired. The bullet traveled twenty inches from the front seat before smashing through the center of the windshield, leaving a small hole but a wide honeycomb pattern of shatterproof glass.
He fired through the left side of the windshield in front of Reggel and put a third bullet through the right. Swinging the gun’s butt end, he punched out the crystalized glass, with each swing more of the windshield disintegrating and more of the highway appearing. At the end, he was peeling a wall of safety glass over the dashboard as the wind blew in long strands of red paint.
“Yes,” Reggel shouted. He helped Roman pull the last brilliant wall of glass inside the car. Sitting back, he gripped the wheel with both hands.