“Here!” Vaclav screamed, and canting his powerful arms back and forth rapidly to give his thrust momentum, he threw the corpse onto the hard packed earth in front of the roaring crowd. It landed and split open with a thick clotty sound like wet cheese spilled on cobblestones. There was a momentary hush, and then the mob began to caper and shout triumphantly, shaking their fists at the sky. An old woman delivered a sound kick to the rib section. A youth with flashing white teeth ground his heel into what had been the shoulder. I saw Old Joseph leap up from his campstool and, linking arms with one of his cronies, he danced a whirling jig.
She’s gone, it’s over, I thought, and a wild glee raced through me as I stared at the wavering flames of the torches, the dark shifting shapes of the crowd.
“Maniacs, maniacs,” I heard Zahara whimpering, at the same time I found myself mesmerized and drawn by the sight of two smoke-stained faces: Vaclav’s lit with a kind of unholy joy, and Mimi’s glazed with horror—as the gypsies pulled the corpse to pieces.
I saw Lenore shrink against Mimi, saw my wife’s protective arm around my daughter, screening off the sight of the frenzied gypsies destroying the carcass. Mimi needs me I thought, taking two quick steps toward the clearing. My jacket snagged and I stopped. Zahara tugged me back, and I turned to see her reeling, on the verge of passing out. I caught her, she sagged heavily against me.
“Christ, Christ, I can’t stand it,” she breathed. “Imre, take me out of here, please.” Her knees buckled again and I steadied her.
***
We walked a looping path away from the madness and toward her red caravan. Inside, I helped her ease onto the bed, and lit a lamp. Zahara’s eyes were closed, her lids fluttered lightly; her skin was very pale, and I wondered if she’d fainted.
Outside the screams and cheers rose louder. I glanced out the window, seeing the gypsies heave the rubble into the pit of the grave. More water was poured over the remains to hasten rusting; they dumped in barrel after barrel of quicklime—it rose up from the hole as white as smoke—to destroy what was left of her body. They would destroy it all, because they believed anything left—any possession—might allow the old woman to find her way back into the land of the living.
I remembered Old Joseph’s words: They’ll burn the caravan at sunset, and it will make an end to the misery she made. In the end, I thought, it wasn’t a funeral—only a mock ceremony made by apes. Zahara groaned and I turned back to her. She opened her eyes.
“All right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Just. Queasy. A moment there.” She drew deep breaths between the words.
“That’s right,” I said. “Take nice slow breaths.” I sat down, lightly took her hand, and patted the knuckles.
“They’re burying it, aren’t they?” She began to sit up.
“Shhh, lie back, rest yourself,” I said, touching her shoulder gently. Her eyes flashed on my hand, then looked into mine. I saw that she wanted me, but she was waiting for me to begin whatever might be between us. Her lips looked very full, very soft. I swallowed nervously, closed my eyes.
Outside, there was a great hollow booming—the sound of someone beating a drum. Wild violin music joined the rhythm. I opened my eyes. The gypsies were tamping the grave with the flat backs of the shovels, then stamping the ground more firmly with their bootheels. A moment passed, I focused on the scene beyond the window, while a sharp voice inside me shouted Mimi, Mimi over and over. My hand fell away from the round softness of Zahara’s shoulder, and I leaned back. A curious mixture of relief and disappointment flooded over me.
“Stay with me awhile,” Zahara begged. I nodded, unable to meet her eye, then waited what seemed a long time before she dropped asleep.
I was just shutting the door to Zahara’s caravan when I saw Mimi. She was crying. One hand held a white cloud of handkerchief pressed to her lips, the other firmly clasped Lenore’s arm. I was certain she’d seen me on the steps. I called out to her, but she wouldn’t look at me. She was hurrying toward our green wagon, her small face dark with fear and pain. And thinking of the terrible moments both inside the caravan and afterwards, I wondered which of us was the source of her evident grief—Anyeta or myself.
-16-
“You have blood on your shirt,” Mimi snapped. I walked into the kitchen, glanced down seeing the smudgy blots where Zahara had rested her head against my chest while we lay under the old woman’s caravan.
“It’s your blood,” I said, beginning to unbutton my white shirt and to remove my grue streaked pants and spattered jacket. The blood had dried—especially on my trousers—leaving stiff patches that lay unpleasantly against my skin.
“Is that what you did—take off your clothes to fuck that bitch?” She hurled at me, banging a fry-pan heavily on to the cookstove, jarring me into silence. “I saw you coming out of her caravan! I thought I could trust you—”
“Lower your voice,” I said, nodding toward Lenore’s end of the wagon. I moved toward our bedchamber, opened dresser drawers rummaging for clothes. Behind me, I heard Mimi picking up the cast-offs.
She ran toward me carrying the blood smeared white shirt. “These are smudges, not drops. You were holding that slut in your arms!” Mimi shook it between her fists.
I shook my head back and forth, not in denial, but in trying to shut out the memory of staring up through the cracks in the floor, of seeing her maddened, naked, kneeling—and of witnessing the hideous amputation. “A moment of comfort,” I started to say.
Mimi’s arm whipped out. The bleached muslin shirt caught me across the face. I felt the bone buttons flay my cheeks. The fabric stung my eyes. I made a fumbling grab, missed. The shirt dropped to the floor with a small clicking sound. I stared at her; her chest was heaving, her color high.
“That’s enough,” I said. “Nothing happened.” She glared at me while I pulled on a pair of dark gray flannel trousers. “It’s all over now. In the morning we’ll pack the caravan and go back to Hungary.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No.” She folded her arms across her chest.
My hand shot out, seizing Mimi’s arm, my face pushing close to hers. “What more do you want?” I shouted, squeezing the thick purplish scar that braceleted her wrist. I felt my face turn violent red. “She’s dead, Mimi, for the love of Christ your mother’s dead!” Flecks of spittle flew, landed on her shoulders, her dark hair. My chest hitched, I began to pant. I suddenly pushed her away, and my voice cracked. “. . . Burnt up, gone,” I said, my anger draining.
Mimi brought her arm up, slowly wiping the dots and flecks of saliva. I felt the tension mounting in the room.
“She’s no-o-o-o-t-t-t-t!” Mimi shrilled at the top of her voice. The sound of her scream rang in my ears. “She’s not dead!” Veins throbbed in her temples, she clenched her fists, her face was a leering mask. “It’s her, it’s her, it’s her!” she howled, leaning back and tilting her head toward the high ceiling. Her mouth was open in a grimace, her eyes closed.
Her head suddenly snapped forward and she turned on me. “Don’t you understand—it’s been her all along!”
I felt a part of my mind withdrawing, I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?” I asked in a low voice.
“There is no Zahara!” she said. Mimi’s mouth opened, a deep choking sob came out. She suddenly rocked forward, covering her face with her hands, and I heard her weeping as if her pain was so great, so unspeakable, it was beyond any sorrow she’d ever known.
Pity surged up inside me, and I gathered her small form in the circle of my arms. “Shhh, shhh, now,” I soothed. I held her while she cried, put my fingers in her hair. She looked up; her face red, her lips trembling.
“Imre,” she began, then hesitated. Her huge violet brown eyes met mine, I saw frozen glassy tears, heard the arctic sound of winter wind in her voice. “Zahara was the one,” Mimi whispered, and I felt brittle frost closing round my heart at the dread words.
“Zahara claimed the hand of the dead,
herself—and then she killed my mother.”
-17-
She’s gone mad, I thought, raking my hand through my hair, and if I keep listening, she’s going to make me crazy. Unless it’s too late already. I sighed, only half listening to the hum of her voice.
“I sent for Joseph’s son—for Vaclav,” Mimi was saying. “If you won’t believe me, at least listen to him!”
I was distantly aware of knocking, footsteps. She stopped talking, and it was the silence that made me look up.
It was Lenore and Vaclav. Dwarfed by the leader’s towering bulk, she looked even tinier as she stood on the edge of the steps leading to our bedroom. She cleared her throat as a kind of signal to us announcing his arrival, and retreated. He nodded his big shaggy head in a curt greeting and Mimi pulled me toward the kitchen.
***
“Zahara’s been trouble for years,” Vaclav said, covering his glass with his hand when Mimi lifted the decanter to pour another round of brandy. “She’s always been a restless, fretting woman. She made her husband’s life a misery, I can tell you that.”
“Let’s talk about Frederic for a minute,” I said. “She told me Anyeta killed him.”
Vaclav stretched his long legs, then tugged the tight roll of a Romany diklo—a blue silk scarf—at his throat. “Well,” he drawled, “that depends on your perception.”
“Like everything in this damn country,” I said sarcastically, reaching for the brandy. I’d never liked Vaclav—now, having witnessed his barbaric antics, I despised him even more. I poured myself a drink.
“Anyeta whored around a lot, it was how she got her way, got certain things from men—”
“Men like you?” I asked. “Or your father?”
“Imre—” Mimi interjected, but Vaclav put his big hand up.
“Yes,” he said, “me included; not that it matters anymore.” He stared at me. His eyes, a rust-rimmed brown, protruded slightly, moving restlessly in their sockets. “From where Zahara sat, Anyeta looked like she was having a grand old time. Plenty of money, plenty of lovers. And Zahara was bored with her own marriage. So she made a pact of some kind with Anyeta, and in exchange Anyeta killed Frederic.” Vaclav grunted. “Make up your own mind who murdered the man.”
“And what did Anyeta get?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? But the more Zahara got involved in sorcery, the more she liked it. She knew Mimi was coming and she wanted to grab the old woman’s power herself. My father says she did.”
“There’s no scar on Zahara’s wrist,” I said evenly. I felt Mimi’s eyes searching me for clues of infidelity.
“Oh, it’s there, Imre. You just haven’t seen it yet.” He grinned, making his huge brushy mustache twitch. I felt loathing well up at the thought of this arrogant oaf sitting at my table, spewing his nonsense.
“She won’t stop,” Vaclav said, “until she has all of you under her thumb.”
I began to see the game they were playing. Joseph wanted power—for himself, for his son. I looked at Vaclav, trying to gauge the depth of the man. Was he afraid to claim the hand of the dead? Was that it? I was suddenly certain Joseph had done it, that he wanted to get rid of Zahara. She knows too much, I thought wearily. I was tired. I downed my glass, excused myself and went to bed.
“Don’t go,” I heard Mimi say, “Vaclav has more to tell you. Anyeta—”
I flapped my arm to still her. It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, “And I guess you have a thing or two to tell him—” but I didn’t. I was sick of accusations and intrigue, and that was part of it; but I was also worried about what they might do to Mimi if they knew. I shuddered; in my head I heard Vaclav screaming: Is it not written? Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
***
I lay tossing on the bed, unable to sleep despite the soothing cadence of their low whispering. Toward dawn, I heard Vaclav yawn, the sound of his chair grating on the wood floor as he stood up to leave.
Sleep began to descend on me, my eyelids grew heavy, the feather pillow seemed softly cool, inviting. I heard Mimi escorting Vaclav to the door, fatigue evident in her voice, her tread. Pale light filtered over the threshold through the parted drapes, I could make out Vaclav’s bulking form, he was poised to leave when the quiet in the camp was ripped apart by the sound of screaming.
I struggled to get out of the bed, but an invisible weight pinned me down. “Christ, it’s some kind of spell,” Vaclav said. I saw him moving slowly like a man wading through chest-high murky water. Mimi looked up vaguely, her reaction out of synch with the piercing cries.
I saw the glowing ball of the sun suddenly loom above the twisted alpine peaks. At the same instant, Vaclav sank stone-like onto the steps, his head nodding heavily against the door jamb. Mimi gave a little cry and staggered back. Her face went dreamy, she sat down, then quickly stretched full length, her hands cradling her face.
The screams rose to a hideous strangling cry, then abruptly ceased. I blinked at the blaze of daylight, my arms flailed at the weighty counterpane, and then, powerless to resist I dropped heavily asleep.
***
Sunset. My eyes opened wide. I was lying on my back, my arms crossed on my chest. My joints seemed stiff and cold. I sat straight up, rising from the waist like a coffined vampire in the old tales. I began to rub my hands and wrists, and as twilight dimmed into darkness I felt a tingling sensation that turned to heat suffusing my limbs. Outside, I could hear movement in the camp and I recalled the screams. Lenore was just waking, throwing off the heavy sleep. Mimi and Vaclav were already gone. I dressed quickly and left the caravan.
***
There was a great knot of muttering gypsies outside Zahara’s small wagon, and I edged toward the group, then elbowed my way inside.
An overturned chair with one cracked spindle lay against the boards. I had a glimpse of dangling feet, blood. Two men supported the long torso and the limp, brown booted legs while a third was in the act of cutting a makeshift noose. The body suddenly slumped, and over the men’s high shoulders I saw a ruined face. Two dark gaping sockets. Furrowed cheeks sheeted with blood. The tongue was a bloated sausage protruding from flabby lips. The eyeless head was cocked at a sickly angle. Ithal. It was Zahara’s son Ithal.
As the men turned him completely around to lay him on the bed, I heard a high excited chattering. Constantin leapfrogged from a bench to the center of the kitchen area. His stubbly face was flushed with excitement, his mouth working. Still asquat, he bounded around the room, squealing and clapping his hands. “Wi—” he trilled, “wi—rgh.”
“She’s a witch, all right, she killed ‘im,” one of the men said in a sullen voice, and Constantin gurgled the word over and over until I broke in.
“What are you saying? Where’s Zahara?” I asked, leveling my gaze at the gypsies, at the same time I wondered where Joseph and his son were.
“Taken. We’ve had enough of her dirtywork. No one’s safe around the likes of her,” Feri said, wiping his blood-caked hands on his pants.
“How could she kill him? How could she lift him?” I paced toward him, grabbed one of the old man’s ragged sleeves, and pointed at the frayed twist of rope hanging from a nail in the ceiling joist. “It would take someone strong and tall to hang a struggling man—someone as big as you—or Vaclav—” I began, then stopped, remembering that Vaclav had dropped asleep on my doorstep when the screams began at dawn. I heard their deep rumbling laughter.
“Cunning, she is,” Feri said, and I saw the others nodding. “Spells us into sleep at dawn, sends him a vision perhaps. Armaya, a curse; because with a curse it’s not what you say, it’s what you think, eh? But something malignant, something black enough to make the lad tear the eyes from his own head. And then,” he patted Constantin’s greasy hair as if the ape-like little man had a lucky life, “climb on a chair, kick it away and take the swing.” Feri nodded solemnly, and Constantin began to chirp.
They can’t be right. She wouldn’t kill her own son. This was more of Jose
ph’s work. “Where is she?”
“Tonight, the old man’s caravan. Tomorrow, with God and St. Mary’s help, in hell,” Feri said, and I saw him raise one dirty hand and fork the evil eye.
Hurrying, I turned, shoved my way through the roiling crowd of gypsies. They bumped and nudged at me and I stumbled down the stairs. The moon was a narrow white sickle floating in the starless sky. I sprinted toward the sagging barrel-topped caravan with the broken ribs that belonged to Joseph. I heard taunts and catcalls from the ragged band of gypsies huddled around Zahara’s caravan. I felt their savage eyes watching me.
An old woman shouted my name in a cracked voice, “Hey, Lovari—horse dealer!” she shrieked at me. I kept up my pace, ignoring her. A thin sharp stitch pierced my side.
“Yekka buliasa nashti beshes pe done grastende,” she squealed. I didn’t look back, I knew she was raising her skinny brown arms, hoisting her skirts and bending over, making an obscene gesture. “You understand? With one asshole, you can’t sit on two ponies!” she trilled. “Hey! Hey turn around!”
I had a fleeting glance of her bony arms angled out like the handles on a jug, she shook her thin backside. Her gaudy dress swished back into place. “Both of them, pony boy!” the old woman yelled; the rest of what she said was indistinguishable, lost against the clot of dark pine-infested hills that surrounded the clearing. I frowned, then began walking faster. Behind me I heard the distant echoes of their low laughter.
Twenty yards away, angry male voices rose inside Old Joseph’s wagon. Zahara shrieked. Holding the cramping muscle in my side, I broke into a painful run. I heard the sounds of struggling, her white face appeared between the tattered canvas flaps. “Stay back, stay back, it’s a trap!”
The Gentling Box Page 8
