Gypsy in Amber

by Martin Cruz Smith

  ‘You’re asking the wrong Gypsy. Ask Nanoosh.’

  Howie was momentarily puzzled. ‘Oh, the Gypsy who died in the crash. But we only have you, and that won’t be for long.’ His voice was sad, but his face was as empty of emotion as a mask. ‘I think you’re out of secrets.’

  ‘The entertainment, I’d almost forgotten,’ Roman said. ‘The least I can do.’

  ‘Fortune-telling?’ Isabelle asked.

  ‘He’s kidding,’ Gerry said.

  ‘He’s serious,’ Howie said. He clapped his hands together. ‘He’s going to try it. Come on. Kaliban, duikker for your life.’

  ‘Where’s his crystal ball?’ Rosalind asked.

  ‘He doesn’t need one,’ Howie said.

  ‘Not now,’ Hillary said. ‘This isn’t the time for card tricks or jokes, please.’

  ‘Quiet, quiet in the audience,’ Howie said. He stood up and strode back and forth as he talked. ‘Ladies and germs. Hah-hah. Tonight only an appearance by royal command. A chance to gaze at the hand of fate, to pick a card from the deck of tarot, an opportunity to reach back in the past or forward into the future. Who will be the first to tax the mental powers of the victim? Pardon me, sir, the maestro. Yes, the chubby girl in the back row.’

  Rosalind put her hand down. She tried to look as cunning as she could as she posed her question. ‘How did Gerry meet Isabelle?’

  ‘They’re brother and sister,’ Roman said.

  ‘Very good, very good,’ Howie said and led the clapping. ‘Not a toughie, but he fielded it pretty well.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Rosalind asked. She was impressed if nobody else was.

  ‘Gerry is her younger brother, and she’s always had to look out for him. That’s why she wishes I were already dead’ – he shrugged – ‘so I couldn’t show up here. She loves him.’

  ‘He embellishes,’ Howie announced.

  ‘Let’s try something a little tougher than that,’ Gerry said. His face was red, not only from the heat of the fire. ‘You tell us about Judy Mueller.’

  Howie didn’t say anything. He squatted in the shadows and watched Roman attentively. Rosalind’s head jerked toward the goat tied by its tree. It was still there by the evidence of its orange minus-sign eyes.

  ‘The girl. I can’t tell you much about her life. I’d guess it was pretty dull if she could fall for your father, Hillary. No offense, I hope.’

  He lit another cigarette. ‘Howie would say that the only extraordinary thing about her was her death. He wouldn’t be wrong. She was surprised, but then you all were, weren’t you? Except for Howie. You thought it was a joke. You were going to scare her off so she wouldn’t marry Mr Sloan. So you took the yellow station wagon and honked the horn. Howie, you followed them before, so you knew what to do. She got in, and you took off. Hillary was along, so she wasn’t scared.

  ‘You took her into the woods. The whole thing was going to be a prank. You were all walking along. Nobody was holding her hands, nothing. Suddenly, from nowhere, Howie cut her head off. The rest of you stood around, not saying a thing, while he took her clothes off and chopped her up. Then, just in case you thought it was a whim on his part, he brought out the plastic bags, and he told you, Hillary, that your father was sending some things down to an antique show in New York. He’d know.

  ‘Well, you know all the rest, but there was one thing about Judy Mueller you didn’t know. She’d thrown your father over, Hillary. You didn’t know her as well as you thought. You didn’t have to kill her; she didn’t have to die at all.’

  There wasn’t a sound when he finished until Gerry said, ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘High marks,’ Howie said.

  ‘You made it up,’ Hillary said.

  ‘It was in her letters to your father. Of course, if you and he had had human communication, you would have known.’

  The revelation had been lost on Rosalind but not on Isabelle. Her black stare covered Howie.

  ‘That’s over, though. She’s dead, and you can’t bring her back,’ Roman said. ‘Isn’t there something you’d like to know about the future? Something happier than all that?’ He looked around. They looked in a state of shock. ‘No? How about you, Hillary? Wouldn’t you like to know if you’re pregnant?’

  Her eyes reminded him of the horse before he bolted.

  ‘Come on, this is just after-dinner entertainment. The Gypsy’s last act. Howie must be curious himself by now. He’s the father. Right, Howie?’

  Howie hovered in the shadow, a suspended mask.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Roman had Rosalind give him a tambourine from a sack. He used a charred skewer from the fire to draw nine lines on it, three descending like ladder rungs down the middle, the others describing a broken circle around them. He picked a handful of stones off the ground, selected nine and threw the rest away.

  ‘Let me explain first that we should be using beans but . . . ah, well.’ He put the stones in Hillary’s hand. She let them fall, but he caught them in the drum. ‘If they stay within the lines,’ he said, ‘you are. And if they don’t, you aren’t. You’ll excuse me for skipping the mumbo jumbo.’ He tapped the bottom of the drum with his fingertips. The stones danced with a life of their own. He felt the suspended breaths around him. He gave the skin one final tap and stopped. The stones came to rest, all nine of them inside the lines. ‘Congratulations.’

  Hillary didn’t say anything.

  ‘You are pregnant?’ Isabelle said.

  ‘That’s great,’ Gerry said. Howie didn’t reply, and the burst of enthusiasm became strained.

  ‘Would you like to know what sex it is?’ Roman asked. ‘We can find out if you want. It’s easy.’

  Hillary glared into his eyes as if he were a stranger. In a way, he was. His face glowed with a bronze wetness from the heat of the fire, and his thick black hair was coiled. With his shirt open, she saw a seashell hanging on a cord over the black hair of his chest. His eyes were lined with red.

  ‘It would be fun,’ Rosalind said.

  ‘Have you got an egg in one of the sacks?’ Roman asked Gerry. Gerry said he thought so and took out a carton. He made a joke about breakfast and took an egg out. He gave it to Roman.

  ‘Fine. Now, you have to hold this under your shirt against your belly for five minutes with the flat end toward you. Then we’ll break it open at the other end. If the yolk shows, it’s a boy. If the yolk doesn’t show, it means it was attracted to the female growing within you, and it will be a girl.’

  She just held the egg in her hand, so he pulled her shirt out and placed her hands inside it. There was some flour and salt beside the fire that he had used for the fish. He had Rosalind give him some baking soda from a sack. Gerry asked what he was making now, but Roman silently moistened the flour and soda and salt. When it was soft, he brought the bat out of his shirt and sprinkled some of its blood on the dough. Then he rolled it into a strip and wound it around a stick and placed it over the fire.

  ‘Okay, Hillary, let’s see what you have.’ He pulled her hands out of her shirt gently and disengaged the egg from her fingers. He held the warm egg close to his face, waiting until Gerry’s nervous coughing ended.

  Devla, Devla tut akharel!

  Anro, anro in obles

  Te e pera in obles,

  Ava cavo sastavestes!

  Devla, Devla tut akharel!

  He watched Hillary’s pale eyes as he repeated it.

  The egg, the little egg is round

  Just as the belly is round,

  Little child come in health!

  God, God is calling you!

  He struck the egg above the middle with a sharp stone and took off the cap of shell. He seemed puzzled, and he slid two fingers into the raw egg, searching. Hillary shook as he drew his fingers out, and after a moment when her mouth was open but mute, she screamed. Hanging from Roman’s fingers, dripping with albumen and blood, was a small, hideous human head grinning.

  ‘You dirty son of a bitch,
’ Howie said.

  Roman threw the head into the fire. The albumen crackled, turning first white and then black. The smell of hair rose out of the flames. Roman quickly drew the stick with the dough out. It had risen and curled around the skewer like a snake.

  ‘It’s an old trick,’ Howie shouted. No one paid attention to him. They had seen the head come out of the egg. Roman pulled the dough off the stick and gave it to Hillary.

  ‘Eat some. It has bat’s blood because the bat is the purest of all birds in that it suckles its young. You have to protect your own child.’

  She numbly took the dough and bit off an end. She chewed and swallowed and took another bite.

  ‘Now, Howie, it’s your turn,’ Roman said. ‘You have – ’

  If there had been more light than the fire, he might have seen it coming. All there was was a flash of color that reminded him of the frightened cardinal and then a soft penetration that spread from the temple over his face and down to his body.

  There was another howl that almost woke him up and a sense of being handled. It was the sound of crying that finally came through the fog and brought him back. The first thing he saw was the moon, no ghost anymore but a tangible entity. From its position through the leaves he knew he’d been unconscious for ten or fifteen minutes. His pulse roared over one side of his head. He expected that much; what worried him was that he couldn’t move his hands. They were tied to his side and around something else. It wasn’t a tree because when he moved, it moved. Then he felt the rough textured hair against his hands and a rank animal smell. He looked where the black goat had been and it was gone and he knew he didn’t have to look any further. It was bound to his back and from the limp way it followed his shifting body it was dead.

  ‘He’s awake,’ Gerry said.

  They were still around the fire although from Hillary’s face her mind was far away. Rosalind sobbed over the goat’s collar. They all looked scared, except Howie. As he stood, a red scarf with a weighted end dangled from a pocket.

  ‘You’re very sensitive,’ Roman groaned. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a devil’s head before?’

  Howie smiled in a new way; his beautiful head merely cracked for a second around the mouth. Roman rolled around until he had enough leverage to sit up. A sticky fluid ran down the back of his neck.

  ‘Secrets, real secrets,’ Howie said. ‘No more of that bajour junk.’ He stood between Roman and the fire, his silhouette hiding objects that cast strange shadows over the ground.

  ‘You had to kill the poor goat to tell me?’

  ‘It’s part of it. So is this. Recognize it?’ Howie took something small from his pocket.

  ‘It belonged to Nanoosh.’

  ‘Correct!’ He held it up for the others to see. It was a plastic dashboard religious statue like a million others, but it was black. ‘His Develeskie Gueri, right?’

  ‘The Black Virgin,’ Roman said. He tried sliding his hands out of their bonds. It was no good.

  ‘What religion, Kaliban? Christian?’ His voice boomed into the dark. ‘Isn’t her name Kali?’

  ‘There is a patron saint of the Gypsies known as la Kali,’ Roman said. ‘There’s a pilgrimage for her once a year in France.’

  ‘Yes, at Stes.-Maries-de-la-Mer. There are Kalis, Black Virgins, in Poland, Portugal, at Chartres, in Czechoslovakia, wherever the Gypsies are. Through all the cities they have gone through, like Calcutta, Karak, Karachi, Carakalu. Isn’t it true that there is another name for Gypsies besides Romany and that name is Kalo? Isn’t that true, Kaliban?’

  ‘Would someone please tell me what Howie is talking about?’ Roman said.

  ‘What are Gypsies, anyway?’ Howie went on. ‘The Dravidians, the people who inhabited India before the Aryans. Reduced to becoming wanderers, untouchables, thuggees. To pretending that they worship this Kali’ – he shook the plastic figure – ‘when the real Kali is right here.’

  He reached behind him and slammed down on the ground in front of Roman a statue two feet high. It was the representation of another black female but in a grotesque manifestation. Her breasts hung loosely under a green necklace of bodies and skulls. Around her waist she wore a belt of mutilated hands. Two of her many arms held up a demon’s head and a broad-headed sword. Her teeth were tusks, and her forehead was marked by a third eye. Most striking of all, though, was her tongue, still glistening with the goat’s blood.

  ‘Kali!’ Howie said. ‘Consort of Shiva. Her lust for blood grew from her battle with the demon Raktavira whose special power was that every drop of blood that touched the ground brought forth a new demon. She defeated him by drinking his blood as it flowed, creating a thirst that could never be satisfied. And a ceremony that demanded the death of a black goat and a man.’

  ‘The old stories about Kali and the thuggees?’ Roman said. ‘The English wiped them out a hundred years ago. There aren’t any more human sacrifices or men with strangler’s scarves or executioner’s swords.’

  ‘Then what are you doing tied to a goat, and what is this’ – he drew the scarf out and threw it aside – ‘and what is this?’ He reached back for the other hidden shadow and brought out a short crescent-headed sword. He sank it headfirst into the ground beside the idol. The fire’s glow curled around its twisted handle of silver and bronze.

  ‘That is an Indian executioner’s sword, probably of the last century,’ Roman said as if he were appraising a Queen Anne side chair. ‘It is sometimes called bhotani because it is from the city of Bhotan. Other times it is called bhowani. Or Kali or the Black Mother. There are smaller versions in junk shops all through New York City, but it’s difficult to find a real one. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Thailand, while I was in the service. That’s when I first became interested in Kali and you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s how we were going to scare that dumb librarian, with the statue. I knew that wouldn’t be enough. I knew everything was going fine when the cops gave me Nanoosh’s Kali. They thought it was Buddy’s.’ He paced behind the idol and sword, gesturing with his arms. ‘But you had to try to screw things up, and Gypsy or no Gypsy, that wouldn’t do. So we had to hunt you, us and Kali.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Roman said. ‘An interesting theory. Let’s say one or two facts are true.’

  Howie laughed. ‘You’re in no position to talk about theories.’

  ‘Why not? According to you, Gypsies have worshiped Kali for thousands of years. What would you know in comparison to what I do? The names of evil: Mot, El-Zebub, Lucifer, Baal, Seth, Leviathan. Kali’s names: Parvati, Uma, Gauri, Ambika, Durga, Chamundi, Minakshi, Devi.’ He looked at the others. ‘Does he know enough for your brother to become a murderer, Isabelle?’

  ‘He’s trying to save his life,’ Howie said. ‘He admits what I said is true. Kali is the goddess of destruction, the Clawed Hands, the Blood Drinker. This is her sword and that’ – his hand, the fingers spread, reached toward the idol – ‘is her face.’

  ‘And that’s one side of her, as it is for any god. If you knew her for thousands of years you’d know she could be all colors. The sky is black at night, but if your eyes were good enough, they could see the different lights of a million stars. Death is part of her because death is part of life. Was that your big secret, Howie? Maybe you can get that library card renewed.’

  Howie’s eyes narrowed to shadows, and his hand fingered the butt of the sword. He gained control of himself, and the hand dropped.

  ‘I almost forgot you were tied up,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘A worshiper of Kali, but you’re afraid to kill me? Why?’

  Gerry moaned and looked at Howie. Rosalind stared, mesmerized by the stubby sword. Roman spoke to them, trying with his voice and eyes to blunt the image of a bruised man tied to a dead goat.

  ‘Howie surprised you when he killed the Mueller girl. There weren’t any marks on her arms, so I know you didn’t help him. The trouble was that you saw him do it. Now he needs you to kill somebody so you
won’t be witnesses anymore; you’ll be killers, too. That’s why he drummed up this story.’ The sweat poured over his face. In their eyes he glistened. ‘Let’s see, I guess you’re the man of the hour this time, Gerry. Then Isabelle, I suppose you’re next to take a couple whacks. Then your turn, Rosalind. After that, Hillary, and then you’ll all dump what’s left in the lake. If I hadn’t shown up, it would have been some kid at the festival. That must have been something to look forward to.’

  ‘Not all of us can tell fortunes,’ Hillary said, breaking her silence.

  ‘Everyone makes his future. All of us but Howie. Te aves vertime mander, te yertil tut o Kali. You have no future.’

  ‘You’re threatening me,’ Howie said with amazement.

  ‘She is.’ He nodded, and Howie followed the gesture to the idol by his side. Roman went on, completely without malice. ‘She does according to her wisdom in destroying what is useless or what has lived its destined time.’

  ‘There’s only one person here who’s lived his destined time,’ Howie said. He yanked the sword out of the ground and dropped the plastic statue in the fire. It bubbled, losing its shape and releasing a bitter odor. He watched with satisfaction and strode past the fire to the others.

  ‘Now?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘We’re not going to have any ceremony.’ Howie thrust the sword at him, handle first. ‘Here.’ He forced it into Gerry’s hands and forced the fingers around it. ‘It’ll be easy. One swing.’

  ‘I don’t think I can do it,’ Gerry said. He seemed to be in physical pain.

  ‘Damn it, get up. You don’t even have to look. Just swing the thing and I’ll hold him still. Get up.’ He grabbed Gerry and pulled him to his feet. Gerry looked at Howie in terror, and his knees folded. He dropped the sword as he hit the ground and curled up.

  ‘You little twit, get up or I’ll use it on you,’ Howie said. His rage was slipping away from him, reshaping his pale face. Hillary saw it. It was the face from the egg.

  ‘I can’t,’ Gerry cried.