Viva Jacquelina! (34 page)

 

“Pull off, pull off them high-heeled shoes
All made of Spanish leather,
Get behind me on my horse,
And we'll ride off together.
Yes, we'll ride off together.”

 

Again I stop to say that the great Lord Donald comes home to find that his Lady Gay has run off with Gypsy Davy and he ain't at all pleased, so he says...

 

“Saddle me up my coal-black stud,
He's speedier than the gray,
I'll ride all night and I'll ride all day,
And I'll bring me back my lady.
Yes, I'll bring back my lay-die.”

 

Of course, all the Romani about me are chortling about this, knowing full well that this song could never be sung for the outsiders, for they sure don't want to hear about their women, high-born ladies or not, running off with no yellow gypsies! Oh, no, they don't!

I skip a lot of the many verses wherein the great Lord Donald catches up with his wayward bride and pleads for her to come back home, but she answers him...

 

“Last night I slept in a feather bed,
With my husband gaily,
Tonight I lay on the river bank,
In the arms of Gypsy Davy.
In the arms of my Black Jack Davy.”

 

I end with a great strumming of chords and a bow, to great applause from my friends.

Marko comes up, beaming, to lead me to the dance.

God, I love it so!

 

Later, much later, when all the dancing, all the singing, all the hurly-burly's done, and I lie curled up next to Medca in our wagon, I think on things, and my thoughts turn to Jaimy.

I'm sorry, Jaimy. I know I should spend more time on my knees praying for you and, yes, for Lord Richard Allen and all my friends, and not singing and dancing the night away, which is what I have been doing, but I just can't . 
.
 . My nature is to be cheerful and my foolish self is very likely to be led astray by happy, frivolous things, things of the moment, and I just can't help it, Jaimy, I can't. There is a wildness in me that can't be denied.

I hope you are well, Jaimy, and I live for the time I shall see you again.

Amen.

The stay in Cartagena is in its second day and we are having a grand time. The Roma are in high spirits for they have had a fine season on the road and are looking forward to their winter homes in the limestone cliffs overlooking Granada.

Almost everybody, that is. Things are getting close for Medca's marriage to Milosh, and Jan sure ain't getting any richer. I have to comfort her each night, but I don't know if it does any good, poor girl.

I, however, have been getting richer. With the art supplies I bought in Valencia, I have set up as a miniature- portrait painter in the daytime when I am not singing, playing, and dancing, and have done quite well at it. I have, of course, done Medca and Jan, to their delight, and many other of my Romani friends as well.

And yes, we still have occasional problems with some of the local hotheads
,
but those are generally resolved by the appearance of mighty Zoltan and his formidable presence. We had some trouble last night, but the
Majos
eventually went away—not happily, but they did go away.

 

It is early afternoon, and I go to visit Buba Nadya Vadoma. But not to paint her portrait, oh no, she will not let me do that, saying she is too old for that sort of nonsense. Rather I go to answer what I know will be her questions.

I sit down at the table with my Tarot cards in my lap, unseen, so far, by Buba Nadya.

“All right, Mountain Goat,” she says. “I examined your deck and found no marks. How did you do it? You are not Romani, so it is not magic. So how?”

“Nuri!” I shout, standing and yelling at the girl who is hanging about close to our wagon. “Stay away from my stuff!”

I sit back down. “That girl will be the ruin of me, I swear.” Heavy sigh, and then I pick up the deck and shuffle and deal out a perfect Tarot spread:
Empress, Hermit, Moon . 
.
 .

“All right,” spits Buba. “I know you can do it. But show me how. Now.”

I smile and pull the deck to me.

“You see, Buba, the deck you examined was not the deck I used,” I say, lifting the other deck from my lap. “I switched them when your attention was elsewhere—like just now when I got up to yell at Nuri. Now, look at this deck you see before you. No, the backs are not marked, as you well know, but the sides are. It is what is called—at least in New Orleans in America—a
shaved
deck. Look at the stack from the side and you will see that I have sanded down the edges of the important cards so that they are slimmer than the others and I can feel them with my fingers. Some—
The Fool, The Hierophant, The Chariot
—I shave on the left side. Some—
The Magician, The Tower, The Devil
—I shave on the top, and so on... and so on.”

Comprehension dawns in her dark eyes. “So...” is all she says.

“Yes, Buba, just so,” I say. “You have taught me, and I hope I have taught you. I give you that deck. If you practice, you will be better at it than I in a very short time. I hope you will use it wisely.”

She looks at me, her dark gaze level.

“I will, Ja-elle,” she whispers. “But are you sure there is no Roma in you?”

She smiles as I rise to go.

“I would be proud to have Romani blood in me, Buba, and I—”

I don't get any further, as a breathless Medca comes rushing to us.

“Trouble, Buba!” she cries, her voice full of fear. “Men from the town. They say they are the police... They are with Zoltan now!”

Buba Nadya Vadoma and I are up in an instant. We go to the center of the wagons, and sure enough, Zoltan stands tall and furious before six very heavily armed men. I get close and listen. A small fat man with a red sash across his chest is pointing his pudgy finger at Zoltan and speaking.

“So you see, gypsy man, this is the situation. You and your people come here unbidden and squat upon the sacred land of Cartagena! Ah, but you have not paid money to camp on the public land of Cartagena, oh, no. I am Don Pedro de Castro,
Jefe de la Policia,
and I demand that money in the name of the good people of Cartagena!”

“But,
Jefe,
” says Zoltan. “We have always been welcome here. Come, good sir, have some wine and let us talk this over.”

“We want none of your wine, as it is sure to be poisoned,” says the oily little man, all puffed up in his importance. “What we want is two hundred
reales!
”

“Madre di Dios!”
exclaims Zoltan. “We cannot possibly raise that amount of money! We are poor travelers!”

“If you do not,” hisses the Chief of Police, “we shall imprison your people and burn your filthy wagons. We have the militia to do that—hundreds of soldiers. We will put your men to labor, and your women to... other things. Do you get my meaning?”

He grins, showing crooked teeth through a thick black mustache.

Zoltan stands stricken, but I do not. I turn away and head for our wagon. On the way, I see Medca's sister Dika.

“Dika,” I cry. “Get me three oranges, cut in half and laid on a tray! Bring it to our wagon, now!”

Mystified by all that is happening, she goes to do it. I plunge into the back of the wagon, open my seabag, and pull out a certain bottle, one filled with a purple liquid. I am withdrawing the cork with my teeth as Dika comes in with the tray of sliced oranges.

I take my shiv and make cuts into the orange flesh and then pour my Tincture of Mushroom over them. The fruits seem to suck it up avidly. I recork the now half-empty bottle and toss it back into my bag.

“Thanks, Dika,” I say, as I pick up the tray and head out toward the very one-sided parley.

I do not go up and offer the fruit to the
policia,
oh, no. What I do is skirt by them, as if I am trying to escape notice.

“Here!” shouts one of the armed men upon seeing me. “What are those?”

I drop my gaze down into one of complete submission. “Th-these, Sir? They are special treats for a wedding party. It is tradition... for the bride and groom only.”

“Ha!” says the
Jefe.
“Bring them here! What need dirty gypsies of weddings? All they do is rut like dogs in ditches! Give 'em over!”

Meekly, I hand over the tray, and soon purple juice is coursing down the greasy jowls of the Chief of Police and those of his cohorts.

Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he announces, “So that is the way of it. Two hundred
reales
in my hand tomorrow, or the lot of you will be tossed in prison and your wagons burned.
Comprende?
Good.”

He looks about, clearly enjoying his display of power.

“Now,” he continues, preparing to leave, “I will take a hostage to insure that you will not just pack up and leave. Who shall it be? Someone young and comely, I hope.”

His men chortle in glee at the great man's wit.

I step forward and say, “I will be the hostage.”

The
Jefe
looks me over. “She will certainly do. What do you say, men?”

They agree heartily, with much low laughter and rude gestures in my direction.

“Very well,” says the head man. “Let us leave this pigsty.” He points his finger at Zoltan. “Tomorrow, noon, or face the consequences, gypsy.”

If looks could kill, all six of the worms would lie dead on the ground before him, but looks do not kill and noble Zoltan must stand helpless before these petty thieves.

A rope is tied around my neck and I am pulled away and dragged off. But before I am gone, I lock eyes with Buba Nadya Vadoma, who stands with hands clenched and held tight to her sides, and understanding passes between us. She knows I offered myself up as hostage because I knew that if the scum tried to take a real Romani girl, there would have been riot, the consequences be damned, and it would have been a disaster for our band.

What she does not know is that I have an ace up my sleeve, one that I have already put into play. As she mutters what I am sure are dark curses upon the scurvy heads of those who take me off, I give her a secret smile and a very broad wink.

 

Much later, I come strolling back into camp, idly twirling the rope that had been around my neck and whistling a merry tune, which I do believe is “Whistling Gypsy,” ah yes, a slightly more upbeat version of “Black Jack Davy,” which I had previously performed around the campfire for the enjoyment of my Roma friends, and which seems real appropriate right now.

As I enter the center of the circled wagons, I am greeted with astonishment by Zoltan and Buba Nadya Vadoma, who seems no less astonished to see me return, apparently unharmed.

“What the hell, girl?” exclaims Zoltan. “What is going on? What happened? What... ?”

“Although there is no longer a threat to us from the
Jefe de la Policia,
whom I last saw climbing the steeple of the Cathedral de Santa Maria la Vieja, stark naked and proclaiming himself to be the new mayor of Cartagena...” I say, all nonchalant, “... and although all his henchmen are now in jail or the insane asylum, and the political future of Don Pedro de Castro, Chief of Police, looks grim—he did take a few pistol shots at the present mayor on his way up the steeple—it might be better, Papa Zoltan, if we did break camp and push on.”

He needs no further urging and barks out orders. Bags are packed and thrown into wagons, kids rounded up and tossed in same, horses put in harness, and the wagons begin to form the line...

. . . but not before Buba Nadya points her finger at me and crooks that same gnarled finger into a summons for me to meet her in her wagon. No mistaking
that
look.

I obey the summons, but not before I collect my seabag, for I know what she will be asking.

“So explain, Ja-elle,” she says upon my entry. “And no nonsense about spells and such.”

I open my bag and pull out the half-empty bottle of purple liquid and put it on her side table. Then I open my paper packet of three dried mushrooms and place two of them beside the bottle, keeping the third one for myself to maybe show Dr. Sebastian, or Mr. Sackett, whichever of the two scientists I happen to meet up with first.

“Now, Buba, what you must do is chop up the mushrooms very fine and then boil them in about a cup of water, strain the liquid, then add an equal amount of brandy.”

She nods warily. “And what does this potion do?”

“It makes those who drink it see things somewhat... differently,” I say. “Like those men who had taken me today? Well, several of them thought to have some sport with my poor self and made so bold as to run their rough hands over me. But then, suddenly, their attention was somehow distracted and they began to talk of purple clouds and purple birds flying about their heads, and other such things, and I was no longer bothered, as they seemed to have better things to do, like staring off into the distance with drool running down their chins, muttering about wonderful visions—visions far more wonderful than some skinny little gypsy girl.”

“
Hmmm,
” says Buba. “Strange things you tell to me, Ja-elle.”

“Well, you be careful with this stuff, Buba,” I say. “You do not need to be known as more of a witch than you already are.”

She snorts and gives me a level stare and again points her finger at my face.

“This old woman wonders”—she says with a slight smile and a shake of the head—“which of us is
really
the witch.”

Well, I
was
once called a witch, back there in Puritan Boston that time, but it wasn't true.

Not really.