The Gypsy King (21 page)

hands, the intensity of passion in Isabella the fortuneteller, then her thoughts raced back to the footbridge and she became anxious again. But this time it passed as quickly as it arrived and she was floating through the sky, leaving vapor trails as she flew with arms outstretched, her heart and soul soaring at what was now a happy ending to what used to be her old, sad and useless story.

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eronique found herself enjoying her days and Vnights with the
kumpania
very much. She filled her days helping the women in the camp get through what seemed a never ending array of chores—preparing and cooking all the meals, fetching water for cleaning, scrubbing laundry by hand at the river’s edge, cleaning the bedding, bathing the children, swatting the voluminous dust and sand from rugs and eiderdowns with handmade brooms—it seemed as if every woman in the camp was busy from sun up till well after sundown. She helped wherever and whenever she could, pushing herself through the quotidian chores during the day and by sundown she

realized she welcomed the evenings immensely.

Many of her nights were spent wide-awake

watching the moon slide gently across the open sky, lying on an eiderdown and sucking gingerly 214

Morgan Rush

on a cheroot. The thin, twisted dark tobacco tasted rich and smoky and quickly developed into an amazingly relaxing habit she picked up from the men in camp. Her favorites were flavored with vanilla bean and a touch of cinnamon. She enjoyed them more than her Gitanes. She could lie for hours, silent and introspective, blowing grayish white smoke rings up toward the clouded moon, each swirling ring seemingly lasting just as long as she could exhale completely. It was easier to calm her mind these days and she was beginning to feel like part of this traveling family of horseman, fortunetellers, musicians and artisans.

Her fondness for several of the dozen wild, yet innocent children, was well known throughout the camp and the source for endless chiding and inquisition about when she would begin her own brood. It was at these times that she was grateful for the language barrier, and many of the

questions miraculously got lost in translation. Still, the questions, and sometimes accusatory tones, from the women made her sardonic and solemn.

She had never really thought about having

children of her own until she spent time with this family, her
kumpania
.

It was on one of these nights that Veronique found a quiet spot under a massive cork tree and stared up at the dark blanket of sky. The rolling and rumbling clouds meant rain, probably

thunderstorms, too. She thought about the

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thunderstorms she had braved over the last month or two, or
three
. Much to her chagrin, she didn’t know exactly how long she had been enjoying her stolen time with the gypsies, but she honestly wondered if she could ever go back to her old life in Lourmarin. The gypsies offered her adventure and travel and a passion for life that she had never seen until she met Ahndray and her life now seemed teeming with options.

She admired herself for learning to face each new day with expectation and eagerness, along with the apprehension of being discovered. She understood this is what everyday life is like for the gypsies and, regardless of their circumstances they are proud and always eager to dance and celebrate life. She admired them and realized that they live their lives in a perpetual present—memories, desires, dreams and the urge to greet tomorrow with open arms, all grounded in the present.

She smiled as she remembered the first gypsy saying she memorized, “Without
now
there was no
before
, just as there could be no
after
. Ahndray would love these people,” she said with more sentimentality than she expected. She reminded herself that Ahndray had been gone for what seemed like a long time now. She still missed him terribly, but she resolved to accept that he would want her to keep living and loving and enjoying the life she always dreamed about. Nothing would bring him back. She had even come to an

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understanding with herself, forgiving herself for her foolish attempt to simply give up her own life.

She understood now that she had an obligation to life, that she was responsible to live as fully and with as much passion and zest as she possibly could. She thought about the pain, lust and pleasure she experienced over the past several moons and smiled.

She smiled more often these days, but also

missed her sister and especially her mother.
How
could she ever explain what had happened to her?

There were so many unanswered questions that Veronique began to feel anxious again because she wasn’t prepared to be where she was tonight anymore than she was prepared to meet Ahndray by the river that incredible night several months ago. Unprepared for
anything
that happened to her over most of her life, she began to change her perspective on what she could personally control and what she could not control any longer. She found herself opening herself up to whatever life brought to her and trying instead to embrace change. “Perhaps I have some gypsy blood in my veins, too?” she mused.

It was at that moment a warm wind rustled the trees and the shadow of a man suddenly stood directly in front of her. His presence was so unexpected, his approach so silent, Veronique found herself gasping at the imposing black figure blocking any view of the evening sky.

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“Hello, Veronique.”

His strong, white teeth glowed in the dimly lit night. He smelled of campfire, ginger and

hazelnut, along with an earthy, musky aroma that she found immediately enticing.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Oh. Oh, no. You’re not. Hello.” She coughed up smoke. It was all she could manage to sputter.

Before he finished a complete smile, she saw herself burying her nose in his chest with his arms wrapped around her, inhaling deeply.

Oh my…
she whispered in the back of her mind.

It seemed as if the sheer pull of the earth was sucking at her, pulling her into the damp ground.

She shook her head lightly, as if pushing the sensual vision out of her mind was even possible.

She watched as his smile radiated from his face.

Suddenly the moon was brighter than it had been all evening. Whatever thoughts had filled her head just seconds ago had vanished completely.

Magnetic. Powerful. Genuine
. The words were being shouted from an unknown visitor in her ears, coming at her from somewhere behind her, then to the left, the right, the voice seemed to swirl around her head, but she wasn’t frightened. In fact, she felt comforted by both of her new visitors.

She stood up out of politeness and brushed off her dress.

He was a powerfully built man and his skin

looked richly tanned in the moonlight. He wore a 218

Morgan Rush

red bandana and long white shirt that he kept tied loosely around his chest and torso with a thin strip of leather snaking through dozens of gold eyelets.

On each end of the leather string were small gold coins. His trousers were black and had piping down both legs as if something rummaged from a man with a military background. His belt buckle was burnished, it looked more bronze than gold in the moonlight.

She could see it was well worn. His shoes were large and black and shone brightly, which seemed unusual to Veronique since the entire

encampment was usually covered in a deluge of dust and thick red, brown mud. Solid gold hoop earrings at least a quarter inch thick dangled from his ears, their luster dancing against his

weathered, olive colored skin. Veronique followed her gaze from his earrings to a scar running from the bottom of his ear to almost his chin. She gasped. The similarity to her wound was

unmistakable.

“I have not wanted to bother you with your

past, Veronique, but we have new developments requiring me to take action,” he said in a stern, yet gentle voice. “My brothers and I have intercepted unwelcome visitors to our camp over the last several weeks and I am afraid that things are getting much more serious now.”

“I don’t understand. Who has been visiting

us?” she asked, sincerely upset that danger had 219

The Gypsy King

indeed caught up with her again.

He did not answer immediately.

He paused as if he was wondering if she was ready to hear unsettling news. His silence made her tense, anxious. She jumped at the chance to say something. “Slow down, please. First, what should I call you?”

She tried not to convey it, but she was confused and a bit flustered now. This man had more than a strong presence—he was unmistakably a leader of men, but he had a genuine character. She trusted him almost instantly. He also had an exquisite, muscular chest and shoulders and it was difficult concentrating on anything but his stature.

“My name is Raklo Zurka. I am the fourth

generation of descendents of Kore, son of Putzina, son of Yojo, son of Bartklo of the Lowara. Because of their importance, these generations of men change names as more important men rise up

through the families and split into smaller groups.

We are persecuted wherever we roam, but our families have spread throughout Eastern and Western Europe and we’ve been near your town of Lourmarin for almost two months, as you

know. We have traveled to many other towns you are familiar with in this Province. We are the Lowara and use
gaje
surnames of a Romany derivation and origin. You may call me Raklo. I am the Gypsy King.”

Veronique was instantly fascinated by Raklo’s 220

Morgan Rush

knowledge of his ancestors and wondered if he was one of the few gypsies who could read and write. Surely a man of his intellect was learned and she knew in her heart he had many other powers that she did not yet understand. His energy crackled and snapped in her soul when he talked. He handled himself as if he was very important and Veronique had no doubt that he somehow controlled her destiny in his bright blue eyes.

She found herself hypnotized by his voice and his manner. Visions of Nanosh sprang to her mind, then quickly to her moist undergarments.

But unlike Nanosh, who was dramatic and jovial, this man, this Gypsy King was intimidating in his deadly serious manner. Everyone else in the
kumpania
seemed to be buoyant and friendly, but this man seemed to be carrying the weight of very important decisions on his broad shoulders.

“We need to talk about what we must do now

that we all are in imminent danger. Come with me, Veronique,” he said flatly.

She could find no reason to argue with him

and, if she was in danger or putting the
kumpania
in danger, she needed to know about it. She followed the Gypsy King through the

encampment past all the other wagons to the very far end of the field.

His wagon was nestled in deep forestation and on the other side of a small stream dividing the 221

The Gypsy King

field from the main encampment. Veronique

realized this was why she saw very little of him at all. From this strategic location, he could come and go without anybody seeing him if he desired. It was late enough to be early morning now and everyone in the encampment was asleep. She

noticed that all the fires were out and even the mongrels used by the gypsies for security were dozing around the perimeter. The stream

separating his wagon from his encampment

gurgled peacefully.

They hopped across the stream and he walked toward his wagon. It had a new coat of bright red paint that was shiny even in the dim moonlight.

The wheels were painted gold. Even his windows were trimmed in gold. Veronique’s mind flashed to her first vision of Ahndray swimming in the river and she heard the word
regal
in her mind.

His roof was painted dashing white and the wide back step was painted white.

“May I offer you my wagon, Veronique?” He

extended his hand to her, walked beside her up and onto the porch and opened the door for her to enter.

She felt like a courted princess and entered his wagon willingly, with anticipation. Her head was swimming the moment she stepped into his

world. The interior was warm and well lit by four oil lamps burning in each corner, their thick, oily smoke swirled upward and escaped through

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carefully crafted, ornate copper pipes, each shining brightly from the dancing flames. She could feel the heat emanating from the oil lamps and shadows danced erratically.

On one side of the wagon’s wall were shallow, but finely crafted, bookcases containing hundreds of books, many from authors who Veronique was not familiar with. Along the bottom shelf, there were statues and a sculpture, and she was curious at finding only some of these recognizable from her school lessons years ago. Greek, Italian, French, even Japanese works of art lined the wall and the light from the three small windows cast long shadows over their beauty adding mystery to his exotic collection.

Across the room from the bookcase was a bed so large she had no idea how he managed to get it into his wagon. He must have built the bed piece by piece inside the structure. It was enormous.

Instead of an eiderdown, Raklo slept under a gold and purple comforter that looked so plush she could imagine it felt like falling into a thick cloud of feathers. The gold tapestry on the top sparkled in the moonlight and the fringe on the bottom was dark red velvet, which lightly grazed the floor.

Over the headboard were dozens of fine

photographs, the first pictures she had seen in the camp. They showed a variety of people in

different places. None smiled, but each had a stoic, contented look on their face. The look had become 223

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warm and familiar to Veronique.