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.”
She pulls out a deck of cards. “Now for the Tarot...”
Ha! Cards! Now, that is much more to my liking!
The wagons are once again pulled into a tight circle and we set up. Buba Nadya is at her table with her crystal ball and Tarot deck. I have my own table for the shell game, and that is what I do in the daytime. I have been doing quite well at it, and my purse begins to fill. Of course, I have to give half to Zoltan for my board and keep, but that seems fair—after all, I could be out alone in the wilderness, with neither food nor friends, and I much prefer it here.
In the nighttime, I perform. While Gyorgy plays the gypsy melodies on his fiddle, with Jan on his guitar, Marko and I dance the flamenco. We start, back to back in full glorious costume, clap hands, and go into it, feet pounding, castanets clicking, faces arrogant and held just so, but with eyes flashing and possibly promising... other delights.
I am not the only dancer, of course. There is Lala and Yanko, and Fifika with her Luka, and when the six of us are whirling around the campfire, well, it is all very exciting.
And since the dancing is fiery and wild, sometimes the men who come to watch get a little too excited and are rude, thinking we are loose. We are not loose. The Romani are very protective of their women. These men make unwanted advances to us, offering up fists full of reales for services other than dance. We point them to our tip jar, but sometimes they insist too strongly and Zoltan has to come up and announce that there are no women for sale here and then warn the men to leave, as the show is over. They do leave, thinking that there is probably a sharp knife up every gypsy man’s sleeve, and on that suspicion, they are right. I also know that I am not the only girl here with a shiv up her own sleeve as well. They do leave, but they are generally quite surly about it and mutter curses as they go... dirty gypsies . . . whores, all of ’em . . .
At night when we are abed, I begin telling stories to the girls to help put them to sleep. Mostly Cheapside Tales, as stories of the urchin gangs of London would be closest to their experience—after all, they are often called beggars and thieves, so they can appreciate the similarity. I certainly cannot tell them of my meeting with Napoleon, or the Duke of Clarence, or any of that ilk—I would be tossed out of camp as a liar.
The kids begin to anticipate the stories and are a good audience—all except for that imp Nuri. I caught her early on trying to get into my seabag. I shook my finger in her face and warned her that she should never do that again. After all, there are two loaded pistols in there... True, I have removed the percussion caps and have them on half-cock so they cannot be fired, but still... She looks at me with her big brown eyes, sticks thumb in mouth, and promises that she will not. But just in case she tries, I have secured my bag with a far more complex knot.
After a couple of nights of storytelling, it is requested that the back of the wagon be opened so that others can listen, just like back on the Bloodhound.
. . . and Rooster Charlie comes running around the corner with five Shankies on his tail, howling for blood . . .
Chapter 47
We are at Valencia, beautiful Valencia, on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea.
“So there is the sea, Ja-elle,” says Medca, who stands by my side, looking out over the expanse of water. “You wanted to be here. Will you leave us now?”
I look up and down the coast that lies below me and reply, “I see no great amount of shipping here, so I will go with you to Granada, if the Roma will have me. It is close to Gibraltar, and I know I can book passage from there.”
She squeezes my hand. “I am glad, Ja-elle, to have you with me a little while longer.”
I give her hand an answering squeeze and stand back and suck in the glorious sea air.
In our time together, Medca has told me of Granada, the beautiful city to the south, where lies the Alhambra, a great Moorish temple and place of great learning—or it was until the Spaniards kicked all the Moors out of Spain, and most of the Jews, too.
In Granada there are limestone cliffs where the Roma have carved caves into the rock and where they spend the winter months before going on the road again in the spring.
“They are not caves like you think, Ja-elle, all dark and dank. No, the interiors are smooth and white and dry, and at the entrance of each is a portico with windows, with a small sod roof above and flower gardens all about. They were built over the years by our people because nobody else wanted the cliffs, and now they have been turned into places of simple beauty. I... I had hopes that Jan and I would have one some day, but...”
“Now, Sister,” I murmur. “Let’s just wait and see how life plays out, all right?”
Another squeeze of hands and a quick embrace, and it’s back to the camp.
We have been here in Valencia for two days now and intend to stay for five more, as it is a wondrous city, full of life, and the money, always a consideration, is good.
When Medca and I get back from the cliff, she hurries off to see Jan, and I’ve got a mind to find Marko. But just then, Buba Nadya comes up and latches onto my arm.
“Come, Ja-elle, we have a job.”
But I wanna stay and play with Marko! cries the little girl in me, but I meekly follow the old woman down the path to the town.
“What sort of job?” I ask, a bit surly.
“The gadzso woman whose fortune I told last night,” says Buba, leaning on her cane and beginning to breathe a bit hard from the exertion of the walk. “She wants me to find some money.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“The outsiders believe that the Roma can find money in a house, like in a minute, so we can steal it and run away quickly.” She puffs. “This woman is a widow. Her husband died last month but left no will, no money for her. She has begged me to come look. I agreed, for a quarter of the money if I find it, nothing if I do not.”
“So why am I here?” I ask.
“Because I need someone young and spry. Did you know that Ja-elle means ‘mountain goat’ in the old language? It seems to fit you.”
Hmmm . . . well, I have been called worse . . .
We eventually come upon a small farmhouse. There is a pigsty over to the side and a fenced-in garden area. There being no other houses about, the pigs are allowed to run free. I can hear the lowing of a cow coming from a run-down barn.
Buba knocks on the door, and it is opened by an old woman who says over her shoulder, “The gypsies are here, Magda.”
This Magda appears in the doorway and looks at us very suspiciously. She is plainly the other woman’s sister, and it is equally plain that she doesn’t approve of this at all. Both are dressed in black widows’ weeds. I am sure the silverware has been hidden.
“I am afraid, Brunilda,” quavers Magda, wringing her aged hands. “They are gypsies.”
“We must, Sister. The gypsies know things... dark things... that we do not. There is no other way. We must have Gaspar’s money.”
We are ushered in and Buba casts her eyes about the room. It is raftered with heavy timbers overhead. There is a kitchen on one end, a dining area with a table on the other. The stove is lit and it is quite warm in here. There is another doorway, which probably leads to a bedroom.
I stand there useless, while Buba lifts her arms and starts mumbling unintelligible words—not words in any language that I know, anyway. The two sisters cross themselves and look worried. At length, Buba stops and, with eyes closed, says, “Your husband, he was a big man.”
She says this as a fact, not a question.
“Sí, Señora. Very big.”
“And he died slowly.”
“Sí. He was sick for a week before he died.”
“Ah,” says Buba, and she commences mumbling again. Then she says, “I will need something of his... Something he held close to him.”
Brunilda thinks for a second on this and then goes to a rack by the door and reaches up and pulls down a very worn leather cap and hands it to Buba Nadya.
“It was his. He wore it every day.”
Buba takes it and holds it to her forehead, mumbles a few more words, and then goes rigid.
“He is here,” she whispers. “And he is not happy.”
The two sisters clasp each other, eyes wide.
“He is very jealous of his money,” says Buba in a more normal voice. Brunilda nods to that. “And he wants you to wait outside.”
“Do not do it, Brunilda,” warns Magda. “They will steal!”
“You have nothing we want,” says Buba, lifting her chin and putting on a haughty look. “Either you go out, or I will not be able to find the money.”
Brunilda pushes the furious Magda out the door and closes it behind them.
Buba waits a moment, then flings the cap aside and says, “All right, Ja-elle, let us get to work.”
Mystified, I say, “But how can we, unless you actually did talk to Gaspar?”
She laughs. “No, he was most silent.”
“But it could be anywhere, Buba Nadya—buried outside, in the field, in the garden, in the barn.”
“No, little one, it is not in any of those places,” she says, placing a finger on my nose. “You must learn to think... Think like a gypsy.”
When I look baffled, she goes on.
“The man was very miserly with his money and did not trust his wife, else she would know where he kept it. Or, at least, he would have told her about it before he died. And remember, he did not die suddenly. That much must have been plain even to you.”
I nod.
“He would not have buried it outside for fear the pigs would root it up. Not in the garden, either, because it was his wife who tended that. The barn? No. It is in need of repair, and workmen hired to fix it might find it. No, he would keep it in the house, close by him. But not here in the kitchen—that was her place—no, probably the bedroom, and up high.”
“High?” I ask, beginning to feel like a dumb schoolgirl.
“Come, come, Ja-elle, I thought you were a bright one,” she says, shaking her head and clucking her tongue before continuing. “She said he was a big man when I led her into it. And did you see how she had to reach up for his cap, she being quite short?”
I’m thinking that if Buba Nadya Vadoma and a certain John Higgins ever got together, they could form a very formidable detective agency.
“So we will start with the bedroom. Bring that chair for you to stand on,” she says, moving off in that direction.
I grab the chair and follow.
“And by the way,” she says, pointing down as we pass the stove. “That is where they hid their silverware. Do you see?”