by D B Nielsen
I realised that Vianne was trying to belittle me, but what I couldn’t work out was why. She was everything that I was not – sophisticated, mature, enchanting. And from her frequent trips to London on behalf of the designer label she worked for, I knew of her excellent grasp of English and her ability to speak it fluently. But she was deliberately speaking in her native tongue to exclude and alienate me. Sadly, even Adele’s English was far better than my French – another source of my discomfort.
I was suddenly hit by a tidal wave of homesickness. After everything I’d been through today, I wanted to cry. But, within seconds, hurt turned to resentment, resentment to anger.
‘What the hell?’ I exclaimed, immediately offended and on the attack; hazel eyes flashing vitriol at Vianne like sharp daggers intent on injuring. ‘Why, you fat cow–’
But my last words were smothered in Gabriel’s apologetic ramblings in rapid accented English as he announced that I needed to excuse myself as I was suddenly overcome with jet-lag. Perhaps sensing my intention, Gabriel put an arm around me and tried to steer me away from Vianne and an impending duel between the two of us and instead towards a stone bench some distance away. I refused to sit.
‘Putain! Fils de salope!’ Gabriel’s vehement expletives weren’t directed at me. ‘Saffron, ma petite puce, calm yourself. Ignore Vianne. She is jealous of you, tu comprends?’
If it were not for Gabriel’s restraining vice-like grip on my shoulders as he turned me to face him, I would have stormed back to where Vianne still stood, looking perfectly glamorous and bored, ready to scratch her eyes out. I took a deep breath, pressing my hand to my chest as if to slow down my heartbeat.
I certainly did not understand. I just couldn’t see how Vianne – the beautiful, mercurial, cosmopolitan Vianne – could possibly be jealous of me. And Gabriel’s casual use of a French endearment did nothing to put me at ease. Unwittingly, he made me recall Vianne’s snide remark about being Gabriel’s “little girlfriend”, already raw on my nerves. I was ready to rush into battle but, for once, I thought better of it. What was the point?
Looking into his silver-grey eyes, I said frostily, ‘I think I would like to be alone for a while.’
Gabriel’s eyes widened, in apprehension, I thought. ‘Alone?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, throwing off his arm impatiently. ‘I won’t go far. I merely intend to “calm” myself as you suggest. I’ll stay around the markets. You needn’t worry. I have my mobile phone with me. I’ll call when I need you. I won’t get into trouble–’
I don’t know why I bothered to convince him – it wasn’t as if the Anakim weren’t already keeping tabs on me.
I didn’t have to finish. Even Gabriel recognised the need to avert conflict between his girlfriend and me.
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned, holding my hands fast. ‘It is starting to get dark. Watch your wallet and mobile as there are gypsies in the area. It is best to avoid them if you do not wish to be robbed or worse. Leave them alone – they are wild things who value their freedom at all costs. If you have need of me, just call out.’
I nodded brusquely, wishing to depart. No sooner had Gabriel released my hands then I scurried past him and into the throng of people milling about the open market area and was lost to his sight. Darkness had fallen, obscuring faces and objects, and I was able to breathe a little easier then.
To begin with, I simply skirted the rows of market stalls lit by the streetlamps and the fairy lights hanging from canopies and tarpaulins, keeping half in shadow as I ambled along; glad to be away from Vianne’s mocking, dark gaze. The ground was hard and packed solid from the ice and snow and the heels of many boots which had trampled there before me. The wind carried the sharp smoke of wood fires, laced with the fragrant spice of cooking pots. Over it all lay the thick, pungent odour of fromage. Camembert. Brie. Roquefort. Chèvre. St. Paulin. Muenster. Mimmolet. Crottin de Chavignol. So many varieties that it made my head spin.
I strolled along, savouring the delicious smells that assaulted my nostrils – the pastries, palmiers, croissants and pastel coloured macarons, a delight to my olfactory and visual senses; the sausages in every shape and size; the fish – dry salted, smoked, marinated, and grilled. Stalls dedicated to herbs, vegetables, an assortment of honeys and homemade jams from wild strawberry to fig, lined the Seine in colourful disarray.
There was music as well, lively and bold, and threaded through the harmonies of the buskers on the street was the lyrical lilt of the rolling “r”s and nasal vowel sounds of the French language, drawing me along.
I passed a prettily-decorated stall selling steaming hot soup in Styrofoam cups and smelled something rich and spicy. My stomach gave a rumble of protest.
I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that morning. I was starving.
Fishing in my pocket for loose change, I handed over a couple of Euro in exchange for homemade French onion soup accompanied by a thick, crusty slice of bread smothered in cheese which floated on its surface.
It tasted heavenly.
Sipping the hot liquid slowly, I slipped in and out of jostling crowds, sometimes attaching myself to the tail end of groups of teenagers or following couples as each new bit of entertainment would lure them on. I went unnoticed.
And as I gazed upon the various distractions, oblivious to time passing, I finally reached a row of colourful tents and caravans. I’d chanced upon the gypsy encampment.
I was about to turn back when, arrested, I realised I was looking upon a tent shrouded in burgundy red fabric, its beaded draped doorway fluttering in the wind below a string of brightly lit lanterns.
There were seven of them in total.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do, wondering if this was an omen of some sort. Knowing I should be heeding Gabriel’s warning about not getting myself into trouble and avoiding the gypsies, I couldn’t help it – I’d never been one to meekly conform to the expectations of others. Before I knew it, my feet of their own volition made their way to the curtained opening of the fortune-teller’s tent.
Inside there was a distinct waft of incense, carrying the heady scent of clary sage. My eyes watered as soon as I stepped within and I fought against the urge to cough or, worse still, faint. The space was ensconced in semi-darkness and felt to me claustrophobic. No lamps or candles brightened the corners, just the tiny embers given off from the burning joss sticks that were eerily atmospheric. It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and, even then, I could only just make out a crystal ball used for scrying and a pack of tattered tarot cards upon the circular table draped with dark red scarves in front of me.
From behind a silk-framed, floral-patterned screen came a noise; a rustling, scraping sound that for some reason put me in mind of a caged animal. Or something worse, something darker and more sinister, rising from its hiding place at the scent of fresh blood...
I knew I was being fanciful but I didn’t feel threatened. At the time, I was naïve enough to believe that there was very little danger to myself. I did not know what lay beyond the screen but the strong, sickly smell of incense increased as I stepped purposefully forward.
I was impatient. Curious.
Impelled by something deeper, I forced my way into a place where I did not belong ... but was, curiously, expected.
A silhouette came to life behind the screen and, within moments, a hunched figure slowly shuffled into view. Her gold bracelets and charms and the tiny bells sewn into the fringe of her shawl tinkled as she moved.
‘You have come for a reading.’
It was a statement, not a question. She did not expect me to answer her. She was not looking for confirmation of her words but, feeling the need to acknowledge them, I gave a hesitant nod.
Her voice was slightly husky, with the distinct burr of the languages from the former eastern bloc. I would not have been able to tell where she hailed from but, hazarding a guess, I would have said that her accent was Romanian or perhaps stemming from its n
eighbour Ukraine.
Her face bore a lifetime of wear. It told a story of enduring hard times – of manual labour, childbirth, a nomadic existence. It told a story of experiencing great joy – of laughter, spry music, a thousand fortunes won or lost.
‘Sit,’ she commanded, authoritatively.
If I had been expecting Professor Trelawney, the Divination teacher from the Harry Potter novels, I would have been grossly deluded. Before me, the dark, knowing eyes of the gypsy fortune-teller held my own. She moved slowly to take the opposite seat at the round table and, as she did so, my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room and I became aware of several overflowing chests in the corners of the tent that spilled its contents contained within onto the many colourful scarves and shawls that lined the floor – an odd assortment of crystal balls, stubs of beeswax candles, a huge array of teacups for the art of tasseography, exotic-looking feathers, and jars filled with herbs, stones and animal parts of the kind found in a Chinese medicine shop that offered natural remedies and acupuncture.
I still had not said a word since entering as I took my place opposite her, slipping into the winged velvet-lined armchair.
Up close, I noticed that one of her eyes was shaded with the cloudy-white film of cataract, lending her a slightly sinister appearance. I cynically wondered if she’d deliberately chosen not to get her cataract removed as a means of drumming up more business as it seemed to me that it fulfilled some requirement of the stereotype of a gypsy fortune-teller. But then, I rationalised, that this woman would need no such tawdry tricks. She was the genuine article.
Delicately rearranging her purple shawl, she slid it from her shoulders and laid it down upon the table, explaining as she did so that it enhanced her psychic ability and did not interfere with the energies flowing within the tent. I had no idea what she meant, but chose to defer to her greater knowledge of these things.
She began by casting a circle and, in her native tongue, called the quarters, purifying the space around and between us. Then, reaching for the tattered deck of tarot cards, she began to shuffle them. I became mesmerised by her actions. I was immediately put in mind of a croupier working in one of the glamorous casinos in Monte Carlo featured in the James Bond films, but her nimble fingers and concentrated expression belied my wistful thoughts.
Suddenly, she stopped shuffling the deck to place the cards in a fan-shape, spreading them out on the table directly in front of me.
Contrary to my expectations, she asked of me no questions. I was almost certain that she would. Most psychics asked a myriad number of questions to elicit information from their client – some because they were charlatans and simply told people what they wanted to hear in order to cheat them out of pocket; others, who had the Gift, because they desired to give a better, more accurate reading. But I had remained silent throughout this entire procedure.
Instead, the old gypsy woman gestured for me to pick a card from the fanned deck at random.
I observed my lean fingers reaching out and selecting a card from somewhere in the middle of the spread, removing it gently between index finger and thumb. I turned it over and laid it upon the table.
And immediately gasped.
The Wheel of Fortune.
Inhaling sharply, I removed my trembling fingers from the card where it lay exposed upon the fortune-teller’s purple shawl and placed them in my lap, linking my hands together to stop their agitated movement.
The old gypsy woman stared at me out of eyes that saw too much. And I was suddenly afraid.
I thought then to leave. But before I could move, she began to speak. I heard her voice rise and fall, captivated by the sound of it. No longer was it rough and husky but, instead, I marvelled at the smooth, liquid sound of it. This was no language I had heard before. It was her dialect. It came from the old country.
It was a beautiful language with a musical quality to it. It trickled like honey from her tongue. And what an expressive tongue. It demanded the speaker’s liveliness and passion. A perfect vehicle to convey the richness of emotion. It was a language contrived to woo, to seduce, to ensnare. It was a language contrived to lament and to revile.
I understood not a word.
She gestured again to me. But I simply stared at her blankly.
‘Well? What do you see?’ she prompted delicately, switching back to accented English. Yet, giving me no time to respond, she stated crisply, ‘Hold out your birth hand.’
I reached out and let her take my left hand, instinctively knowing what she meant. Hers felt cool and wrinkled, like the folds of fine linen kept in the cabinet and only taken out on special occasions or when guests were expected.
She intended to perform palmistry on me.
‘“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards”,’ she murmured as she meditated upon my hand.
If I had been Sage then perhaps I would have known that the fortune-teller was quoting Kierkegaard, but I sat in front of the old woman in ignorance, only realising that she had stated something profound.
She traced the lines on my palm where they intersected and met. Her skeletal forefinger steady as she pointed out my past, present and future. The heat and perfume in the tent were suddenly overpowering and my nostrils were stinging with the heady incense wafting from the joss sticks beside me.
‘You have the Sight,’ she stated firmly.
‘No!’ I protested automatically, thinking of my twin and starting to feel slightly sick.
She looked at me sharply out of one clear, hard, dark eye and one opaque one. And now, more than ever, I wanted to leave the dark tent with its eerie occupant and its stifling heat and the strong scent of clary sage.
I rose to depart but she clung tightly to my hand, crushing the fragile bones beneath her strong grip. Who would have known the old woman to have such strength in her?
She would not release me but clutched tighter still until I thought all the bones in my left hand would break from the amount of force she exerted.
And then she began to speak again but this time in a hard, loud voice; the harsh, guttural sounds grating upon my raw nerves. Her good eye was unfocused and started to roll back into her head, but the other muddy one held my own.
Her mouth sagged at the corners as she spoke, as if she was having some sort of seizure. And despite her cryptic words and my inability to speak her tribal language, I heard with a perfect clarity what she had to impart to me.
‘“That which you seek lies beyond.
Enter the palace of the Queen of Darkness,
Enter the gates of the Underworld,
To the house from which none who enters ever returns,
Down the road from which there is no coming back.
Trace the footsteps of the goddess.
Follow the path of Desired and Sought Consciousness,
And choose Life.”’
As the fortune-teller’s head lolled forward onto her chest, I wrenched my hand away from her grasp. She made a sort of grunting noise and I backed away from the circular table where she still sat.
Then, quite suddenly, her head snapped up again and her eyes focused upon me.
She made a sibilant noise that sounded like a tsk but seemed to me like she was motioning to spit on the floor at my feet. I scrambled in my pocket for some loose change, wanting nothing more than to pay her for her reading and be gone.
Grabbing a handful of Euros, uncaring of the amount, I tossed them onto the table where I had sat just moments earlier and turned to go. But then her angry, harsh oaths assaulted my ears, forcing me to wheel around in fright.
She was wildly gesticulating, pointing down at the table in front of her and raining a litany of curses upon my head.
Instead of the Euros I had dropped carelessly upon the table in an effort to get away quickly, in their place now lay several game pieces, beautifully crafted, made of gold and shell, lapis lazuli and red limestone and engraved with a falcon, a winged bull and a winged lion.
&n
bsp; I stood there in a panic, staring in horror at the scene before me. Where moments before I couldn’t wait to leave, now I found myself frozen to the spot and unable to move, struck dumb by the realisation that I was embroiled in the game – the war – which the Grigori had begun millennia earlier.
The old gypsy woman was irate and I doubted that anything I could have said would have calmed her. I felt completely helpless as she continued to hurl colourful abuses at my head.
And then, as if by some arcane magic, Finn was there.
It was almost as if I had conjured him up from my imagination, knowing that I was in desperate need of a protector within this gypsy encampment as I was sure the fortune-teller’s voice was loud enough to carry to the other Romany tents nearby and call them forth – it was loud enough to wake the dead.
Finn’s eyes flashed a warning as he came to stand between me and the old gypsy woman, dwarfing her tiny form. But it was not enough to intimidate her as she continued to berate me. If anything, her speech picked up in pace and tone, sharpening to slithers of ice.
Finn began to talk with her, his dulcet voice clearly audible to me, even over her screeching. But it sounded strangely unlike his voice, and it took me almost a full minute to realise what was so different.
Finn was speaking Romany.
He was speaking a language that no outsider could possibly know or learn. For the Roma, their dialects were a closely guarded secret; a powerful language. They believed it held great magic. They did not give their power or magic away. And they would not allow an outsider to trespass on their domain.
But, of course, Finn did know it. Fluently.
His speech was not the botched attempts to converse in someone else’s tongue – unlike my exchanges in French. He knew it idiomatically and it trickled from his tongue smoothly and fluidly. His hands moved in an intricate dance of gestures as he spoke, sketching the dramatic way in which the gypsies punctuated their sentences.
