“Pardon, Señorita, but we are not yet open to visitors,” announces the man to the left. The other one does not say anything but merely crosses his arms and looks sullen. “What do you want?”
“Well, Señor, what I want is to get to the sea, and perhaps you will take me there,” I say, flashing my brightest smile. “But right now I’ll settle for something to eat.”
“We are not open to outsiders,” answers the sullen one. “We do not provide transportation, and we are—”
“What you are is Roma,” I say, reaching into my shirtfront and pulling out the token Django had given me so I can dangle it in front of his face. “Perhaps this means something to you. At the very least, it should get me something to eat.”
They exchange glances. The surly one spins on his heel and walks off.
“Follow me,” says the other man.
“I will, if you tell me your name,” I say, standing my ground.
“My name is Jan. Come.”
I follow him through a space between two wagons and find a hive of activity. Food is being cooked over open fires, and tables are unfolded and set up, and merchandise—pots and pans, baskets, woven goods—are set upon them. The food smells very good, and my belly gives a low growl.
“Sit there,” says this Jan, pointing to an empty table. “Medca, bring her something to eat. I shall get Zoltan.”
He leaves as I sit down to wait. I am beginning to attract some attention. A group of small dark-eyed children gathers about me.
“Buenos días, muchachos,” I say, brightly. “Qué tal?”
They say nothing.
Hmmm . . . tough crowd, I see.
I reach in my pocket and pull out the three walnut shells and one bean that I always carry with me, and think of my great friend and teacher Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, who taught me the old shell game back on the Mississippi. “Sometimes the simplest games are the best, Miss Faber,” he would say. “Especially when dealing with simple people.”
“Come, niños,” I say, placing the half shells face-down on the table. “Play a game with me.” I hold up the bean and then place it under one of the shells.
After moving the shells quickly about in a circular fashion for a few moments, I challenge one of the kids. “Where is the bean, Señorita?”
The girl points at one of the shells. I lift it up. “Alas, no. It is over here,” I say, lifting another. She looks at the bean in wonder. “Try again.”
We do it again, and again she fails to find the bean. I nod to an older boy. “You try it now, muchacho.”
Again the shells whirl and then stop. The boy points at one of the shells with confidence.
I lift it up. He gasps in disbelief.
I am spinning the shells again when Jan returns with an older man who possesses the hugest pair of mustaschios I have ever seen. He is obviously Zoltan, the boss man.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he growls.
“My name is Jacquelina Bouvier, and I want to go to Lisbon.”
“We are not going to Lisbon. We are going to Granada, and we will not take you. You are not Roma.”
“No,” I say. “But I can be valuable to you. I can sing, I can dance the flamenco, play the guitar and fiddle... and do other things, as well. Do you see the bean?”
Startled, he looks down at the table. I turn over all the shells and place the bean under one of them and begin to make them dance. Then I stop.
“Pick the one with the bean, and I will go away. If you fail, you must take me with you.”
“It is under there. Now be off with—” He reaches out and turns over the middle shell to find nothing under it.
“It is here, Señor,” I say, turning over the right-hand shell to show the elusive bean. “Now, perhaps something to eat?”
He barks out a short laugh.
“So how is old Django?”
Chapter 44
And so I slip into the life of a gypsy, and I find it a style of living that is very appealing to my nature. We roll from village to village, sending out criers before us, calling out, Tinkers! Tinkers! Weavers and Tinkers! Bring us your broken pots and we will fix them! Come see our fine wares, our delicate fabrics, and spices we bring from the Orient! Come! Come! Music tonight! Magic shows! Jugglers! Come to the merry dance! Come have your fortune told! Come!
And come they do. Oh, yes, they do, although they hide their children from us as the wagons roll along. They shield the little ones’ eyes, thinking we might snatch them up and make them Romani, and then the little tykes would never return to the settled lives they once knew. Babies are hidden, thinking we might sneak up in the dark of night to spirit them away. We don’t do that sort of thing, of course. We’ve got kids enough of our own, for God’s sake—the little buggers are all over the place—but that is how legends grow.
I had met the girl Medca on my first day with the Roma—it was she who had first brought me food on Jan’s order. As I wolfed it down, I reflected that it did not take too much of my female intuition to sense that something was going on between Medca and Jan—hot glances, secret smiles, and all that.
Hmmm . . . let’s see how that plays out.
Soon after, Zoltan decreed that I should stay until such time that I be delivered to the sea, and it was decided that I should bunk with Medca and her three younger sisters in the wagon that followed Zoltan—they being his daughters and all.
I was not immediately tossed in there, oh, no. First I had to be checked out by the matriarch of the clan, Buba Nadya Vadoma, a wizened old woman, seemingly made of nothing but leather, bone, and piercing eyes. She came on me like a winged bat, full of suspicion. First she grasps my right hand and peers at the palm. “Hmmm . . . It appears you have already experienced many things in your life. How many seasons have you seen?”
“Seventeen. Eighteen, soon.”
“Are you a whore? Don’t lie now. I will know.”
“N-no, Grandmother, I am not, nor have I ever been.”
“Humpf. Are you pure?”
“What?”
“Are you pure? Are you fit for marriage? Answer me.”
“Pure? I suppose so... Sort of.”
“I will take your word... for now.”
She lets go of my hand and takes hold of my wrists, one in each sinewy hand. It is like being gripped by the talons of a great bird of prey. She peers not in my eyes but at the hair on the back of my arms.
“Ha!” she says, then reaches up and pulls off my wig and throws it into the dirt. “La Rubia! I thought so! You think to fool Nadya Vadoma! Ha! It is not done!”
I sit with my shorn head bared. There are gasps, but the old woman says, “She may stay. She may sleep with my granddaughters. For now.” She shakes a gnarled finger in my face. “It is very lucky for you that you gained the trust of Django or you would not be here! But you will behave yourself while you are among us, and you will abide by our ways. Do you understand, girl?”
I nod, reflecting that, once again, Jacky Faber has been told to behave herself.
“Yes, Buba Nadya Vadoma. I understand.”
In order of birth, Zoltan’s daughters are Medca, Dika, Tsura, and Nuri. Medca is fifteen, Dika twelve, and the two little ones are eight and six. The youngest, Nuri, is a devil in little girl’s clothing. Most nights, the younger ones are kicked to the foot of the bed, as little sisters have been since the beginning of time, and soon they are asleep, so that Medca and I can talk. And talk we do. At first she is shy with me, but she opens up after a few nights and we lie head to head on the pillow, telling each other of our hopes and dreams.
I tell her something of my Jaimy, and she tells me of her Jan.
“He is the one for you, then?”
“Yes, Ja-elle, I love him with all my heart and he loves me.”
Buba Nadya has decreed that I be called Jaelle because Jacky sits too harsh on her tongue, and what Buba says, goes.
“So what is the problem, Medca?”
“Jan has no money. He
cannot pay the Bride Price.”
“Which is?”
“The money, or property, or other things a young man must give the father of the girl he loves in exchange for her hand in marriage.”
“Hmmm... In my country it is the girl’s father who must come up with the cash. It is called a dowry.”
“That is not the way with us.”
“Well, maybe Jan will come up with the price in the future. Will you wait for him?”
“Yes, I would wait forever, b-but I cannot. You see, Milosh does have the Bride Price. He has many cows and horses, while Jan has none. And Milosh has made his intentions known to my father.”
“Your father would agree to that?”
“Sí. Milosh is a good man. He is older, but he would take good care of me should I come to share his bed. He has told me that he would. My father would not give me to a bad man.”
“He is a good man, but he is not Jan, right?”
“No, he is not Jan.”
“Why not just run away? The two of you. Start a new life somewhere else?”
“A new life for a pair of gypsies out in the world of outsiders? No, it is not done. It would bring great dishonor to our families. We could not bear it. It could not happen.”
I think on this for a while, lying in the darkness and listening to Medca’s breathing. I believe she is weeping as quietly as she can, but weeping nonetheless.
“I know how to make money, Medca. I am very good at it, as you shall see. If I get up the Bride Price, would Jan take it?”
“No. It would shame him.”
Hmmm . . . Complications.
I curl into her, safe and secure in the night. I like being right here, right now. The nightmares do not come, and I am content...
. . . for the moment . . .
Chapter 45
Mister Chueng Tong
Envoy, House of Chen
Onboard the Vessel Mary Bissell
Off Cape of Good Hope
Bound for New Bedford, Massachusetts
USA
Jacky Faber
Or Most Recent Alias
Location, I Cannot Even Begin to Guess...
My dearest Jacky,
We have passed through the greater part of the Indian Ocean and are approaching the southern tip of Africa. After we weather that point, it will be clear sailing to America, where, hopefully, I shall receive news of you.
The voyage to here was rather uneventful, merely a storm or two, nothing to upset a real mariner, and the captain of the Mary Bissell is a true seaman, if not a true gentleman in the Royal Navy sense of the term, but then I must stop thinking of men in that way—valuing them by their manners and their position rather than by their true worth. His name is Josiah van Pelt, a former whaler, and a man of few words. He does his job in ferrying cargo and passengers from the Near East to America, and that is what he does. He does not entertain passengers in his cabin, nor does he socialize with them.
All of this is fine with me. I myself maintain as low a profile as possible. As a Eurasian man of commerce, I affect a halting manner of speech when speaking English, as well as a slight limp, and lean on my Bo staff whenever I appear on deck. I am courteous to all and seek to cause no offense to any onboard.
That, however, does not seem to be the direction of my path. There are six other passengers: a missionary, the Reverend Gerald Lowe, and his wife, Hortense; their daughters, Florence and Abigail, well-behaved girls aged fourteen and sixteen; and a son, Jeremiah, who seems determined to attach himself to me. I suspect he considers me sort of exotic, expecting me to whip out a samurai sword at any moment to lay waste to all and sundry. Sorry, lad, I have given up all things vainglorious and seek only to pursue the humble path of peace and enlightenment.
The sixth other passenger is a Mr. Obadiah Skelton, a businessman from New York, who was securing some spice contracts in Rangoon and is traveling back to the States to enjoy his newfound success. All that would be very fine and beneath my notice, except for the fact that he is a boor and a braggart and distresses everyone with his loud and obnoxious talk. He centers his braying on the elder Lowe daughter, and on me...
“So, China Man,” he proclaims at our dinner table—the passengers are given their meals at a long table on the second deck—very similar, I thought upon first viewing the arrangement, to the gun-deck table set for the junior officers on the many ships on which I served, and which saw many raucous good times. I suspect that such good times will not be held here. “How came you to be here, at the table with the white folks?”
I can sense that he has already had quite a bit to drink—probably hides a bottle in his cabin.
“I am an envoy sent by Honorable Chen to the other side of the world to set up a... trading post... ? In America.”
“Har-har!” he bellows, lifting his glass to his lips. “And what will this House of Chink sell? Eh?”
“The House of Chen deals in many things,” I say softly. “Fine antiquities, silks, rare spices—”
“Hell, we’ve got all that and more, Chinaman. You ain’t got a chance,” he says, and his look turns dark. “And what’s more, you ain’t gonna be welcome at any boardroom table, or dining-room table at any respectable house. No, you ain’t gonna be welcome anywhere... except maybe to work on the new railways. Can you swing a pick, Chop-Chop?”
“Please, Sir,” pleads Reverend Lowe. “He is a fellow guest here. Surely you cannot abuse him so. In our ministry we have met many noble—”
“Listen, Preacher, I am a freeborn American and I will say exactly what I want to say,” sneers this man, slurring his words and taking yet another drink of his wine. “And I gotta say you got a mighty pretty daughter right there, yes, you do. Hey, maybe me and her could get together. I’m rich and you all look poor as church mice.”
Reverend Lowe shoots to his feet. “I believe we are excused, Sir. Good evening.” He gathers his little flock and prepares to leave the dining room.
I also get to my feet.
“Good evening, Sir.” I am barely able to suppress my gorge in addressing the buffoon. “I suggest you leave that family alone. If you do not, it will be at your peril.”
He looks at me incredulously.
“You dare to—”
“What I dare,” I softly say, with a good deal of menace in my voice, “is for you to find out.” With a slight bow, I exit, leaving an astounded Mr. Skelton open-mouthed and alone in the room.
Will this end well? I do not know. I will leave it up to fate.
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 46
We approach the town of Albancio. It lies on the banks of the River Turia, which, I am told, leads down to the sea—the Mediterranean Sea, to be sure, and not the Atlantic, but the sea all the same.
I sit on the driver’s seat of the second wagon, next to Marko, a pleasant young man who has plainly taken a liking to me—and me to him. He is very good-looking, dark of complexion with black hair and brilliant white smile, and he is my dancing partner in the flamenco, as well. He has the reins in hand and is guiding the horse on our way. On my other side sits Gyorgy, Marko’s very good friend. It is he who plays the fiddle for our performances.
“A gypsy can make a violin cry,” proclaimed Gyorgy, upon our first meeting, and it cannot be denied that he is very good. I had picked up my own fiddle and played for him “The Rakes of Mallow,” “MacPherson’s Lament,” and Mozart’s Concerto no. 1 in B-flat Major for Solo Violin, and he listened attentively. When I stopped, he nodded and said, “Yes, a gypsy can make a violin cry, and you did make that one... whimper a little, Ja-elle.”
I answered his cheeky comment by sticking out my lower lip and giving him a rap on the head with my bow. Then we all laughed and got back to the business of making our way across the land.
I find I do not have to worry about any untoward advances from any of the men here, for the young females, of which I am one, are very closely watched, and it’s kind of pleasant not to hav
e to worry about that sort of thing for a change.
Buba has taken me under her wing. Not that I want to be under there. I’d much rather be off with Marko and Gyorgy and Medca and Jan, but she insists, so with her I must go. I think it is perhaps that I am new and everyone else has heard her stories ten times over... and, hey, everyone likes to teach a willing student.
“Come, Ja-elle, and I will show you some things about fortunetelling. Now, first, you take their hand and look at it while shaking your head and saying, “Tsk, tsk. Ah, poor thing, you have had great trouble...” With your fingernail, trace their lifeline... like this. Everybody has great trouble in this life, and they will be quick to tell you of it. Ask a few questions and they will tell you everything. You can count on that, and from what they reveal, you can tell their fortune. Trust me, they will be astounded by your wisdom.”
She also tells me of her people.
“The Gadzso, or ‘Outsiders,’ call us gypsies. The legend is that the name comes from ‘Egyptian,’ and the story is that we were given the name because we sheltered the Baby Jesus. As punishment for that deed, we were cast out by the heathen Pharoahs to forever roam the world.”
I take that one with a grain of salt, thinking that Baby Jesus sure got around for an infant, appearing in many stories in a whole lot of different cultures, but I say nothing and remain the attentive schoolgirl.
“They say we do things that we do not do. They say we steal children and deform them to make them better beggars. Do you see any beggars here, Ja-elle, pathetic or not? No, of course not. They say that we are tramps and thieves just because we travel about to fix pots and pans for people and play music and dance for them and tell fortunes, too. And that is all we do.”