“We played one song, then switched to another gypsy tune. The women shimmied and swayed, the music got wilder and wilder. The room was baking hot—there was an enormous stone fireplace dominating one whole wall—and you could see the sweat shining on the dancer’s bodies, on the bosa veno’s faces. And the men in the audience were stomping and shouting. I remember, Imre, suddenly realizing, knowing—aristocrats or not—we had that audience in the palms of our hands.
“You know what the Romanians say when the bosa venos play, don’t you?”
I nodded, he gave out a small grunt.
“Right. Beng the devil comes and makes a link that tight,” he said, pasting the heels of his hands together and squeezing his fingers, “between the audience and the players. When the devil descends into that room, the bosa venos begin to play better, and the audience gets more and more frenzied. I tell you, boy, whether you believe that or not: never underestimate the power of the gypsy rhythms. I saw it that night.
“The place was on fire. People shouting, clapping, cheering. The Romany women shaking their dusky flesh. The gaje men rose up and we saw the coins streaking through the air like gold hail. Your father caught my eye, gave me a look that said it was just what we’d expected, just what we’d heard the Hungarian aristocrats did, and we’d get more money when we played the soul rousing finale. I gave the signal to the band and we launched into one of the most famous gypsy melodies of all time.
“We had them screaming. One old man in a white uniform got so excited he leaped to his feet, waving and brandishing his sword, the gold decorations and medals on his chest jumping and bouncing. ‘My God,’ he shouted. ‘My God, these men are playing nearly flawless Liszt!’
“I’d heard that was what the gaje thought—that it was simply amazing that a bunch of untrained, uneducated gypsies could learn to play the masterworks. The Romany opinion was not that we played ‘nearly flawless Liszt,’ but that old Franz—shrewd as he was—copied our classics and here and there accidentally put down a few wrong notes.
“Anyway—it didn’t matter, because the old man was in ecstasy and whipping up the audience for us, and that meant the layer of coins piling up could only get bigger, brighter, deeper. We played as if our shoes were smoking.
“But what we didn’t know, what we’d never heard was that past a certain point the nobles stopped throwing money. Money was for a pleasing performance. But when the gaje were ecstatic, they smashed mirrors and threw dishes.
“And sure enough, seconds later, the audience was pulling the mirrors off the walls, snatching plates from the massive hutch in the corner. Dishes and crockery sailed and crashed around the room as if a hurricane had hit.
“We stopped playing. They stopped the breakage. There was a dead silence in that room.
“‘Well, why don’t you go on playing?’ a young blonde haired man asked.
“None of us knew what to do. We were so uncertain, so embarrassed. Perhaps that’s when the devil fled—or arrived—depending on your interpretation of what happened. Anyway, finally we started playing again, but it wasn’t the same, and eventually most of the gaje left, taking their women to the rooms upstairs.
“It was only later on that we found out these country inns actually kept an extra supply of mirrors and dishes on hand for the aristocrats to break.
“Your father and I were such fools,” Joseph said, shaking his head. “We thought it was our fault the gaje had been driven to a frenzy, and the only honorable thing to do was to let the innkeeper take back the cost of the damage from the coins the men had thrown for us. By the time he made up his accounts, there was almost nothing left.”
“Was the devil there?” I asked him, hugging my small knees closer to my chest.
“Maybe,” Joseph said thoughtfully. “His mark was certainly on that innkeeper’s black heart; a man low enough to take advantage of our ignorance and pride, our meager hope of earning a little money. You see, the innkeeper got the price of the broken dinnerware and gilt mirrors twice. Your father and I, we didn’t know it was all standard—right there on every bill—the cost of the plates and the glasses was added to the price of the food.” He shook his head.
Years later, some of the bitterness at being cheated gone, he was able to see the humorous side and laugh about it. But I remembered it was one of the reasons he’d left Hungary. He was, he said, tired of wandering, of living in a country where gypsies—constantly accused of stealing—were themselves the victims of hold-ups. No, it wasn’t safe for the likes of a lowly horse trader; not when you considered that even a man as important as Bismarck needed an imperial escort to protect him from the bandits and thieves.
Looking at his still face, I thought about the depths, the great sensitivities inside him, about how in one form or another he’d been badgered, hounded, bedevilled his whole long lifetime. And saddest of all, I grieved inwardly, that had also been his end.
I turned back to my work, sighing a little, stripping his shirt from his narrow old man’s chest, then beginning to struggle with his trousers. I crumpled and slid them down to his ankles. Holding the cuffs in my hands, I jerked hard. From the corner of my eye I saw something fly out of the pants pocket, soar across the room. I heard the sharp tink of metal striking a wall first, then bouncing off the wood of the floor. There was a rolling clatter.
My eye fell on Joseph’s flung out hand, on his denuded middle finger and I turned. On the floor his ring was chittering in smaller and smaller circles, the gold flashing with every spin. It wobbled briefly, then came to a stop.
I let the pants fall and stood looking down at the ring. He hadn’t been wearing it yesterday, I recalled, and for some reason he’d put in his pocket. The seal on top of the ring was his own initial, a heavy Germanic J. I remembered he’d shown me once what was written inside: Deus Vult. God wills it.
Constantin should have this, I thought, stooping down. My fingers closed on the cool metal. There was a small blue flash; I registered a shock and drew my hand away. Friction, I chided inwardly, rub your feet on a carpet, touch something metal, and—
But not gold and not bare boards, another part of me spoke up, there’s no rug.
I seized the ring, closed it inside my palm. It was warm against my skin.
There was a kind of vibration—something like the resonance of a tuning fork—but felt in the flesh, rather than heard. I gave a weak smile, thinking it was the drum of my own pulse.
God wills it…
I held the ring up, peering through the circle at the faint inscription. His fingers were thinner than mine. I slipped it over my littlest finger. It was a tight fit.
I was aware of a rushing sound; louder then fainter.
“It’s like the whisper of the sea,” I said aloud, and suddenly I realized I was hearing the whisper of a human voice. It repeated the same low desperate cry, over and over. Help me. Please. Help me.
“It’s not possible,” I said, staring down at the ring, then gazing at the old man’s blank, patched eyes looming over the ashen cheeks. I was tired, overwrought—
“Please,” the voice begged. “Help me.” I closed my eyes feeling lightheaded, a faint nausea churned my belly. I swallowed uneasily.
Constantin should be here, he loved the old man like a father. He should have the ring, I thought, pulling it off, shoving it deep inside my pocket.
I finished dressing Joseph quickly, then I left to seek out Constantin. I walked along the road, aware of the ring’s weight like a lead drag in my pocket. It lay beating faintly like a small hot heart against my thigh.
***
I scratched on the worn canvas and Constantin lifted the flap to let me in; I had the sense he was waiting for me, and in the dim lamplight I saw at once he already knew. He was crying, his eyes were red-rimmed, his round face puffy.
I started to speak, but he put his finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. The caravan was smaller than mine; there was only a strip of fabric to separate the sleeping areas, and Lenore’
s bed was just on the other side of the curtain.
We slipped outside and drove off. The horses jogged over the fields and the harness bells seemed like a slow mournful music to my ears. Constantin sat quietly next to me on the driver’s box, his hands on his thighs, his short legs dangling several inches above the floor. He lifted his round chest and heaved a long sigh. I reached over to pat his arm, and suddenly I felt the weight of all of it—Mimi, the filthy sorceress, the old man’s death—bearing down on me.
“Shit,” I said. “Mimi tried. She tried to save him, Constantin.”
“Y-uh,” he said, nodding fiercely.
“Then that bitch came to the fore and killed him!” I flailed one hand helplessly, I was making him cry harder. “He was a joke for her. Maybe he was already dead when Mimi tried—I don’t know.”
Constantin pricked up, “N-uh.” He brought both his stubby index fingers to his eyes, then drew two lines down his cheeks.
The blood, I thought, realizing he was right. Anyeta wanted Joseph to suffer, to take that final agony to his death. His eyes burning like the desert, bleeding from wounds that felt like glass knives. My pulse began to throb and I suddenly thought about the ring in my pocket; how the old man had taken it off before he came to my caravan. “Constantin, did he know? Did Joseph know—before?” I breathed.
He nodded, and I thought, Oh Christ, this man knew and he’d come anyway, sacrificed himself on the altar of my life. I looked up. Constantin’s round face settled into a frown, he was tapping his chest, telling me he had known.
“You knew?” I repeated.
“Yu-uh,” he said sadly. He mimed touching his mouth, made the talking fingers flap like a bird flying off. Then he tapped my temple.
“Your thoughts,” I said slowly. “Like talking inside Joseph’s mind?”
“Y-uh,” he said, making the gesture of striking the hand, the coor dur duk—a Romany oath broken only at death. They were brothers . . . more than brothers, he was saying. They were one. He suddenly stared hard at me, as if he had something he wanted me to know. He pointed to me, to my ear, mimed talking. “J-uh—Juh-sef?” he said.
“Can I hear Joseph?” I said to Constantin, thinking it didn’t make sense, couldn’t be right.
He tapped his middle finger, mimed twisting a ring, and I felt sweat breaking out under my arms, trickling down my spine.
I reached into my pocket; my fingers, touching the ring, were moist. I drew it out shakily, turning it between my hands. Help me. Please. Don’t let—
“I guess he meant you to have it,” I said dropping it neatly into Constantin’s waiting palm.
“J-uh—Juh-sef,” he said. His eyes were very wide, he squeezed it tight in his small fist and held it against his chest. Then he cocked his head.
“You hear him?” I whispered, telling myself it couldn’t be. His eyes searched mine as if he were surprised that I didn’t hear the old man. But before I could say anything he suddenly groaned, clutching my arm.
“Witch,” he mumbled, jerking his chin forward, across the field toward my caravan.
“She’s there,” I breathed. “The sorceress.”
“Y-uh.” He mimed lashing at the horses, speaking in his halting stifled voice. “You drive fast, now.” I thought of the ring, the thrumming vibration, the words echoed in my brain. Help me. Please.
I saw the caravan in the distance, the windows lit by a ruddy glare, and my heart lurched with the sway of the wagon, kept time with the horses’ pounding hooves.
Constantin’s eyes were locked on the caravan ahead. He kissed the ring, then grimly shoved it deep inside his pocket. “I keep him,” he said.
-44-
We crept toward the caravan on foot. It was preternaturally quiet and as we crossed the field I could hear the horses stamping lightly in their traces. The low sound of their riffled snorting carried on the chill air. I wondered if Anyeta heard it too, was conscious of our sliding steps, our labored breathing as I followed the dark outline of Constantin’s broad back.
He paused alongside the bedroom window, his arm came up to hold me back briefly, and we looked in. The room was lurid with red fireglow. There was a dance of huge black shadows that flickered and played against the white plaster of the wall.
The image of thin arms rose and wavered in silhouette. A woman’s head in profile tilted backwards—as if she were uttering a silent laugh—I saw the black shapes of her teeth larger than life. There was a low snicker, and then the sound of her voice.
“Rise,” she whispered, and on the wall Joseph’s elongated shadow lurched and sat up in the bed. One of the cotton pads I’d used to staunch the blood arced through the air and landed on the floor with a wet sounding plop.
I strained at the glass and now I saw Joseph, his head slowly turning on his thin neck, his pallid face a mask of pain, his eyes raw gashes over the trembling mouth.
“Ask of me what you will.” His voice was a rattling sigh, mournful as the winter wind.
“Where’s the ring, old man?” Anyeta demanded, stepping into view.
Constantin screamed. “Mimi!” he shouted, wrenching the window out with a jerk. Anyeta turned, her eyes blazing with anger. I didn’t wait. I bounded away, racing toward the front door, praying it wasn’t locked.
***
I rattled the knob, felt it suddenly yanked hard from the other side, and I spilled into the room. The door swayed under my shoulder. I tried to catch myself and went down, one knee striking the floor hard enough to make me wince. I crawled forward, swiping at her ankles. Laughing at me, she skipped away from my swinging arms and retreated toward the kitchen. Anyeta capered out of reach and backed up against the table.
I glanced up and my eye fell on the row of long handled knives in their wooden rack suspended just over the counter. Just let me get a little closer, I prayed.
I started to get to my feet; Constantin was climbing in the window. She saw me avert my gaze, heard his movements and turned her head. It was time enough. I leaped up, plunging desperately toward the knife rack.
She was so quick our flailing hands knocked it aside at the same instant. It fell onto the counter with a crash. Three of the blades dumped out, jittering from the narrow slots.
She was bent under me, her long hair trailing over the edge of the counter. I felt her breasts against my ribs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her knuckles clamp down, clutching around the black handle of a knife.
I stood up, seizing her wrist and jerking it straight up over her head. She cried out.
At the level of my ear, the knife blade glittered dangerously in the red light. I bore down on her thin white wrist. Her breath was coming hard. I edged a knee between her thighs, used my height and weight to force her backward away from the counter.
“Drop it,” I warned.
“No!” she gasped, and in the instant she said it I pushed hard against her midriff, knocking the wind out of her, upsetting her balance. She fell back, I grabbed her wrist with both hands and wrenched the knife away.
We stared at each other across the small space, lightly swaying on our feet. I kept her at bay with the knife, her eyes followed the shifting blade.
Anyeta made a sudden dart toward the bedroom. I made a grab and my fingers tangled in her hair. I dragged her back, snaked my arm through both of hers. I held the tip of the knife against her throat.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Kill your wife.”
There was a kind of wavering in the figure’s face. Mimi looked up at me, her eyes rolling with fright.
“Imre,” she wailed. “Don’t!” Her mouth dragged open. Then she suddenly disappeared as if she’d been sucked back inside the gaping maw of Anyeta’s lips.
I stepped back, groaning.
“Go ahead,” the sorceress taunted, holding her hands up submissively. “Don’t you want to, half-gypsy?” She began edging toward the door.
I shook my head, the hand clutching the knife fell weakly to my side.
She began to chortl
e. “I think that’s wise,” she said, “and wiser still to remember this night in the future.” I looked up at her. “Even if she dies, I live.” Anyeta grinned, tapping her chest. “And when Lenore bends near to kiss a dead mother’s lips, it is me she will taste and I will take her.”
She fled through the open doorway and I hurled the knife across the room. It glanced off the wall, then fell clacking and rattling onto the floor. At the same instant Constantin cried out and I heard the sound of Joseph’s body dropping back heavily against the bed.
From outside, Anyeta’s eerie laughter floated back over the night-clad field.
***
I’d driven the wagon Lenore slept in closer to ours, then lit a fire on the grass between them. We’d kept a watch for Anyeta, but now Constantin and I were lying on makeshift beds we fashioned out of the benches and chairs in the kitchen. We’d gathered up all the spare pillows we could find, stretched the blankets over our toes. Neither of us was comfortable. Constantin played with the ring, idly staring a long time at the embers in the stove.
Near dawn he called my name softly, and I saw his hand reach toward me in the half gloom. I stuck mine out, thinking it was his way of saying goodnight, suddenly surprised to feel the weight of the ring in my palm. He smiled at me, then settled down to sleep.
Absolutely nothing happened when you touched Joseph’s body, I thought. My hands had ranged up and down his narrow chest, the age-dried skin of his wrists, his throat. I’d been trying to duplicate the thrumming vibration I’d felt, then heard. I’d laid my ear over his heart but there was only hollow silence.
I sat up, looking at my palm. In the dim light the gold winked like a small bright flame. “Is it the ring?” I asked, closing my eyes, slipping the band over my knuckle. “Does it have power?” There was a hush, a very small sound like the ratcheting of a miniature gear, then softly his voice filled my mind.
“Anything worn a long time becomes something like the person himself, absorbing thoughts, feelings, dreams.”
The Gentling Box Page 23
