The coffee was truly delicious, as were the wonderful almond shortbread biscuits, topped with a candied cherry half, that I was surprised to discover Luka had made. We chatted about things other than the reason I’d come, and during the course of the discussion I learned not only why they’d moved from Nowra, but also why Luka had said they didn’t like to get involved with police business. I made a note to myself to check the case at some stage, but she told me Luka had “seen” the body of a small child and had gone to the police to tell them. They hadn’t believed him of course, but he’d been so insistent that his vision had been the truth, he’d written to the aunt of the missing girl—who’d previously come to his sister for a reading—telling her where the child was buried. The woman had made her husband accompany her to the spot, where they’d found the child’s clothing neatly folded up, as he’d said it would be, and the remains of her body.
When news had got out about Luka’s involvement, many people in the community had decided to believe that it had been he who’d murdered the child and had used his “powers” or “visions” as an excuse to cover his guilt. Even when the murderer had been caught and had confessed, there had remained too much animosity for them to keep on living in a small regional town, so they’d packed up and moved to Sydney.
“You bake, Clyde?”
“Yes, I do. How did you know that, Luka?”
“It wasn’t me going all spooky on you—it was the way you examined the biscuit after you’d taken a bite. I could see you trying to work out what was in it and then there was a tiny glimmer of recognition when you worked out it was almonds in the mix.”
“But with baking powder,” I said, having also recognised that slight bitterness one gets when you add it to plain flour instead of using self-raising.
“I’ll send you the recipe,” he said.
“I’d like that.” He’d stopped flirting—if indeed that was what he’d been doing—I could see he was trying to be friendly, and was curious about me, but was staring, as if he was weighing something up, or trying to see inside me.
“What is it you’re looking for, Luka?”
He chuckled. “If you gave me something of yours to hold I’d tell you, Clyde.”
I snorted and looked to Gălbenele, but she shrugged. “What have you got to lose, Mr. Smith? Are you afraid?”
“No, I’m not afraid.”
“I usually get to meet four types of people who come in here,” she said. “Those who want reassurance; lonely housewives whose husbands are too busy to pay attention to them; poor people who want to know when they’ll get rich; and people who want someone to fall in love with them who’s totally unsuitable.”
“You see, that’s where I have the problem. It’s about the money.”
“What money?”
“Charging for something that’s insubstantial. Paying for horoscopes or card readings and whatever else you do.”
“I don’t charge.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There are no fees, nothing is agreed beforehand. There’s a bowl on the table they can put money into if they feel they’ve had good advice. Most women leave with the same amount of money in their purse they came in the door with.”
“Then how do you manage to get by?”
“What people do put in my bowl is more than enough to pay for the rent and our food, with some left over to keep me happy when I go shopping. We make most of our money from the second-hand books and the bric-a-brac we have for sale. However, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Smith, it’s illegal to charge for telling fortunes in this State. I give advice—good advice—even though most people don’t want to hear it.” She glanced at the sampler I’d translated.
“Then you’re more of a psychiatrist than a—”
“I’m what people want me to be. If they want to know if they’ll win on the races or whether their child is going to be a boy or a girl, I don’t give them a direct answer. The more timid ones ask for tea leaves, the ones who’ve had more experience ask for a Tarot reading—the interpretation is everything. But there’s one thing I never do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Promise anything, Mr. Smith, or give desperate people hope that’s unrealistic. People who promise to tell you where you’ll find your lost wedding ring, child, or husband are frauds.”
“And you’ve always had this gift? Of being able to read cards and tea leaves … the Tarot?”
“No. It’s something you learn and it’s not a gift; not like my brother’s. You start young, learning to read signs and using playing cards—regular decks of diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs. They have some recognised meanings, unlike Tarot cards, which are very specific but far too ‘foreign’ for most Australians who are scared of the unfamiliar or the arcane. No matter whether it’s a regular deck or a Tarot set, it’s the giveaway signs of the person wanting the reading that tell you everything you need to know. You learn to judge desperation, hope, love, sadness, all of those things in the merest movement of an eye, the curl at the corner of a mouth, or the way people move their hands and fingers. If I was asked to do it in the dark, I wouldn’t be able to say anything.”
“Ah, at least I hear some truth in that.”
“Why should I lie, Mr. Smith? I have nothing to hide, I’m not extorting people, I’m just helping them, like a priest or a counsellor would, but I use items to help me in that endeavour. Many people who come here prefer to think there’s a spirit world guiding their actions rather than take responsibility for their own lives.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insulting, or to demean your—”
She laughed loudly. “I’ve had a lot worse, haven’t we, Luka?”
He nodded and then offered us both a cigarette. I didn’t really want one, but I’d heard one should never refuse the offer of anything from a Romany person. My mother used to say it was because they’d curse you if you refused, but I’d seen and heard enough about the persecution of the gypsies during the war to understand their closed society only allowed them to extend courtesies of the type Luka had just done, in the form of offering a cigarette, if they trusted or liked you.
“And did you learn your gift in the same way as your sister?”
It was hard not to escape his direct look. I put it down to the piercing blue of his eyes. He shook his head. “I’ve always had it.”
“It’s very rare, Mr. Smith,” Gălbenele said. “Here, I know you don’t believe. But just give my brother your shoe for a moment. Take it off—”
“No,” the young man said. “Just the shoelace.”
I laughed. It was ludicrous, but I bent down and untied my lace, pulled it out through the shoelace holes, and passed it to him. He didn’t look at it, he merely kept staring at me. So, mindful of what his sister had just told me about body clues, I kept my face as neutral as possible and my hands clasped in my lap, while he worked the lace between his fingers.
“This isn’t your shoe, Clyde. This is someone else’s. Someone who wears the same size—it’s an eleven isn’t it?”
I flinched, despite my attempt to remain sitting passively. Harry and I had the same shoe size, and he’d left the pair I was wearing in my wardrobe when he’d gone home this morning. They were almost brand new and still pinched his feet, so I’d decided to put them on, to wear them in for him a little. It was stupid, but I did it anyway … practical or just juvenile and romantic, who knew? But it had been nice having something of his close to me during the day. Our weekend together had been perfect.
“Give me your tiepin,” he said, placing the coiled shoestring on the table in front of us. I released it from my tie and slid it across the table, and then I relaced my shoe.
“Everything about you is new, Clyde,” he said, fingering the tiepin while still looking at me. Some things, like your shirt, which I noticed the moment you walked in the door, is very new. Everything else about you is not much more than ten years old … except for this.” He held the pin up in the air betwee
n us, so that it interrupted our eye contact.
“The shoes you normally wear were made for you with a great deal of love and care. You’ve had those for longer than ten years. Despite your feet being much wider now than they were when you were first measured for them, you continue to wear them because of who made them for you. Oh, I’m sorry …”
I wiped my eyes quickly with the back of my hand. My father had made all my shoes before I went away to war, and apart from new modern pairs for casual wear, I continued to wear those that he’d crafted and stitched for me. Like my mother had done with my cardigans and jumpers, every movement of the needle had been accompanied by a tiny bit of love.
I was about to protest, to cry out that he couldn’t possibly have known about my da, when his eyes glazed and he slumped in the chair.
“Luka?” his sister sprang from her chair. “Quickly, Mr. Smith. Over there in the corner, there’s a cushion on the chair, help me lay him on the floor.”
Stretched out on his back, he quivered for a bit, moaning, and then a small trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to the edge of his lips.
“Should I …?”
She shook her head. “He’s bitten his tongue, that’s all. He doesn’t get these attacks often, Mr. Smith. It’s not epilepsy, we’ve been to doctors all his life. It’s as if whatever thoughts he’s had have overwhelmed him.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. Just wait. It means he has a message for you.”
*****
“The Bishop children, is that what this is all about?”
We were on our second cup of coffee. I’d had to ask for a glass of water. Although I loved it, it was thick and rich and very sweet. I’d carried Luka to his bedroom upstairs at the back of the house and had laid him on his bed and undone the top few buttons of his shirt and loosened his belt.
“Everything we’ve received has indicated that you and your brother have something to do with the case.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing we can help you with—I’ve heard about it on the wireless, that’s all. No one has come to me for a reading and mentioned it, if that’s what you’re thinking. If you believed, and there was something that belonged to the person who took the children, perhaps Luka … I can see from your face you’re confused, Mr. Smith. He can’t tell the future, only the past, and perhaps the present from something the owner has worn or touched over time. No one can predict the future, no one.”
She was right, I was confused. “Perhaps I’ve read too many stories about gypsies, fortune telling, and precognition. I’m sorry. I did tell you I’d brought my preconceptions with me.”
She smiled softly. “Telling the future? That’s carnival business. Real Romany people would have nothing to do with that sort of nonsense. Me? Well, as I told you, I’m a healer and a helper. Luka? Well, he’s something altogether different. No one knows or understands, but it’s the rarest of gifts. He likes you—that’s unusual in itself. Don’t worry, I can see that you have your iron in another fire, and if I can see it, so can he. He’s lonely. He extended a hand of friendship. That cigarette? I’ve only seen that once before, offering a stranger something that’s been close to his body—even though it was in a packet in his pocket.”
I took a business card from my pocket and scribbled on the back. “This is my home number. Normally, I wouldn’t hand it out. But when he wakes up, I might be able to give him some information where he might find … friends.”
She laughed and then held out her hand. I shook it. “Finding those sorts of … friends has never been hard for my brother, Mr. Smith. He needs what you men call a mate, a man’s shoulder to lean on every so often, as do most men in this world. At least that’s been my experience. We women, we’re open to sharing our secrets, baring our souls with close friends. But men? Phht, I don’t know how you cope being so strong and stoic all the time.”
“Not all of us are as strong and stoic as you might believe, Gălbenele.”
“I think that’s why he likes you, to be perfectly honest.”
“I’ll get your statue back to you as soon as I can,” I said, staring at the empty plinth on the wall.
“Her face and hands are covered in gilt so not to alarm those who come for readings. Saint Sarah is the patron saint of the Romany people. She’s black, did you know that?”
“Black?”
“Yes, the colour of her skin.”
“Everyone’s pink inside.”
She smiled at me. “I think I might grow to like you too, Mr. Smith.”
“Are you—?”
“Yes, we are alone. That’s what you were going to ask, isn’t it?”
I nodded and then smiled at her from under my eyebrows. I’d been playing with my tiepin.
“How did you know I was going to ask that?”
“Brother and sister living together, newly arrived from a town that forced us to leave. It’s obvious isn’t it? Where are our parents?”
“I’ve learned not to ask about missing parents, Gălbenele. The war isn’t that long ago. They could have been left back there, at home, wherever they came from. I know first-hand what went on to people of your race.”
“They went back, you know.”
“Your parents?”
She nodded. “In 1938, when we knew things were going to get bad, they went to convince my grandparents to come to Australia. I was eighteen and Luka was sixteen. They never came home.”
“I could find out what happened for you?”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’d prefer not to know. Had they survived they would have written. They were terrible times …”
“Yes,” I said. “I lived through them … over there, in Europe.”
She was about to say something when she tilted her head towards the ceiling. “He’s awake. You should see what he has to say.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“So, men who aren’t strong and stoic can also be fearful of words?”
I raised an eyebrow at her and sighed.
He’d taken off his shirt and singlet by the time I entered his bedroom, after knocking lightly at the door first. I stood in the doorway and watched him sitting on the edge of his bed, wiping his neck and chest with a flannel. There was a sink in the corner of the room and a jug on a night stand.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded but didn’t look at me. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry.”
“The shoelace, Clyde. Speak with the man it belongs to. Listen to him. His story is as deep and as painful as yours. He’s there for you more often than you are for him.”
“And you got this from a piece of leather?”
“No, I got it from examining who you are, observing you from the moment you walked in the door and the careful way you treated your shoe, as if it was something precious. Besides, it’s new, and you were almost reluctant to pass me the lace. It’s invested with care and …”
“Love?”
“You’re a fortunate man, if that’s the case.”
“But how did you know about my normal shoes?”
He didn’t answer, but stood and told me he was going to get changed, and said I could turn my back while he put on a clean shirt and changed his trousers. I’d noticed the wet stain on his pants when I’d laid him on his bed. He’d peed himself a little during his attack.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m not shy.”
He snorted softly, and then, at the same time as he skinned off his slacks, said, “Neither am I.”
I drew in a sharp breath.
“That’s a bad burn.”
“Two men held me down and branded me, Clyde. Called me a witch and then do you want to know what they did to me?”
“I’d rather not.”
He turned around and took off his skivvies and threw them into a laundry basket in the corner of the room. On each buttock was a burn mark in the
shape of a cross with a line through it, like an Ӿ.
“Jesus, Luka, what did you do to deserve this?”
“This brand, on my hip, at the front goes right down between my legs to my anus,” he said, turning around. “I lost my left testicle as a result, Clyde. And do you know who did this to me?”
I shook my head.
“The man who’d been my lover for two years. His ‘mate’ caught us at it behind the showground in Nowra, and my so-called friend said I’d cast a spell on him.”
He looked so miserable at his confession I didn’t know what to do. What I really wanted was to put my arms around him and hold him tight. I didn’t suppose it was that hard for him to see my anguish on his behalf, so he simply hung his head and nodded. I decided standing at a distance was a coward’s act, so I folded my arms around him. There was nothing sexual in it, despite him being stark naked and me fully clothed. He needed comfort. I couldn’t imagine what courage it must have taken to open up to a person you’d only just met about something so horrible. After a minute or two I moved away and then asked if he’d like a cigarette. He smiled and said yes.
“It’s a wonder you could recover from something like that, Luka,” I said as I held out my lighter. “I’ve seen men with far less physical violence inflicted upon them unable to go on functioning like real human beings.”
“There’s hate and then there’s hate, Clyde. I can see in your eyes you understand the difference.”
“Yes, I do. But—”
“I wanted to go down to that pool, at the north side of the beach, where men can meet each other. But then, when I got there, no one had swimming costumes on and I couldn’t bear to take mine off, for fear of being stared at.”
“So what do you do? For …?”
He laughed. “What most men who are married do, or those who are lonely do. Public places at night, in the dark, where no one can see clearly, or when they have the heat so badly between their legs they don’t care about scars.”
“Promise me something, Luka.”
“What’s that?”
“Just for the time being, keep away from any public conveniences at night.”
The Gilded Madonna Page 18
