The Gypsy

by Stephen Brust

  And as the fog cleared, he saw, directly before him, a circle with a dot in the middle. It was on a narrow door with a sign above it. The sign, in baroque lettering, read,

  MADAM MORIA, PSYCHIC AND SEER, APARTMENT C.

  Almost, the Gypsy smiled. There was no hesitation in his steps as he opened the door, which led up along flight of stairs. He climbed with easy confidence and knocked at the door with an upside-down changing by a single nail. He opened it at the same time the high, thin voice called, inviting him in.

  She sat behind a narrow table, and a deck of tarot cards, bright roses on the back, sat in front of her.Therher. Theremall stool opposite her.

  "You took long enough getting here," she snapped. "Sit down and cut the cards."

  TWELVE

  How the Devil Set Her Traps

  MID-NOVEMBER, 1989

  I got to wonder who it was

  Gave the key to you;

  I got to wonder what they pay

  For the things you do…

  "IF I HAD THE VOICE"

  The Coachman walked slowly. At the best of times,he hadn't liked walking. On the ground he felt shortened, vulnerable; give him the high box of a coach any time, with sixteen legs before him and four wheels under him. Two legs are not the same, especially not when a Worm has eaten a quick hot hole right through the middle of you.

  He thought briefly of Madam Moria's upstairs apartment. He had gone back there, once the Wolf had gone away. He went up to her door, thinking she would take him in, would at least let him sit and breathe if not bandage his wound. But she hadn't.She wat. Shen angry and hard as only old women can be. "Away," she told him, waving at both him and a grey cat sitting on her door mat. "Be gone. I had my Wolf and you threw him away. Do you think I will let you chase away the guest who comes to me tonight? Go on, go read your future in the bottom of a bottle."

  And then she shut the door on him and the cat.The cat.Theked up at him with cold yellow eyes, obviously sharing Madam Moria's opinion of him. "You don't understand," he explained. "The Wolf was hungry. It wouldn't have gone away unfed." The cat was unimpressed. Useless to argue with yellow-eyed cats or old women, he told himself. And made his way gingerly down the stairs.

  And Spider had been very angry as well, when the Coachman returned the carriage and team with no fares at all to show for the day. "You won't drive for my anymore, you drunk son of a bitch!" he yelled."You're nothing but trouble, bringing cops and every other damn thing down on me. Get the hell out of here!" And he shook his whip at the Coachman, as if he knew how to use it. The Coachman thought about cutting him up with his own, to show him. But he'd done enough cutting for one day, and he was cold and tired and in pain, and one drink too sober to stand up to any of it. He started the long walk home, wondering if anyone would be there when he arrived.

  His feet had taken him down an alley, behind the warehouses, past the loading docks where the street lights were yellowing the night and two cursing men were trying to get a crate up on a forklift. He stopped to watch, one hand pressing gently against the warm wet bandanna inside his shirt. She could at least have bandaged me properly. The workmen stopped briefly.briefly.Oneis forehead, sweating despite the cold,while another brought out a pint bottle and unscrewed its cap. They passed it between them and the sweet note of brandy rang clear in the air. The Coachman snuffed after it longingly. That hot kiss, that comforting warmth could ease his pain now.

  They went on with their work, and he leaned against the end of the loading dock, shivering and watching them. A semi was backed up to the dock,its open van gaping black. There were six large crates labeled LAKOTA MUSEUM OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY waiting on the dock. The men were cursing someone who hadn't shown up to help with the work, and the way they moved told the Coachman they weren't experienced at what they were doing. One mounted an idling forklift on the dock, and maneuvered it awkwardly up to one of the crates. But the crate edged away from the machine, and the man throttled the engine, making it snort white plumes of exhaust like an angry bull. "Put it in reverse," yelled the other,and the forklift driver yelled something back, but the machine surged forward instead, and the huge crate buckled before its roaring advance.

  "Reverse, damnit!" shouted the other man again,and the driver pulled a lever and backed the hulking machine away. A piece of crate tore away with it,pine planks ripping yellow, and the Coachman felt a cold shiver run down his spine as flashing silver eyes and a tossing white mane were revealed. Blue roses were braided in the mane, and the stallion champed a silver bit in his white teeth. Veins stood out in his proud muzzle and in the forelegs lifted high to paw at the sky. Whoever had carved the carousel horse had known what a horse was about. The Coachman would almost swear that it was held motionless only by the vertical pole through its body, that but for the pole the stallion would leap forth from the remnants of the shipping crate. In spite of himself, he stepped closer.

  There was a great deal of swearing and yelling from the two men, with the one throwing his hat down in disgust. They changed positions, with the other man climbing up on the snorting forklift while the former driver pushed vainly at the crated horse, trying to get the crate into a position for the forklift tines to go under it. It was too heavy.

  The Coachman moved a step closer. "Your pardon," he said.

  They noticed him for the first time. The driver looked impatient and annoyed, the other annoyed and curious. "For some of your brandy, I'll help."

  The crate man stopped his useless shoving. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, looked at the Coachman, nodded, and dragged the flask from his pocket, handed it over. The Coachman took it, feeling the liquid weight welcome in his hand. He tipped it back once, and it kissed his mouth deep, promising to take the chill away. A second time, and it curled itself warm around the pain in his gut, quieting it like sleep quiets a colicky child.

  "That's enough," said the crate man, snatching it back. "You can have the rest when we're done." He set the bottle down on the dock behind them, and gestured toward the crate.

  The Coachman nodded. He took his place, and together they tipped the crate up and toward them. The forklift came closer, its tines lowered, snorting and reaching for the crate.

  It came too fast, and the crate man yelled and jumped aside. For one moment the Coachman had the full weight of the crate, taking it, standing eye to eye with the rearing white stallion, and he thought he could hold it. But then his heel bumped the brandy bottle, and even through the snorting of the forklift and the driver shouting, "Where's reverse?" he heard the bottle break. His boots grated on broken glass and then he was slipping, falling backwards off the dock. The white stallion came after him, hooves pawing the sky, and then he felt the hot breath of the forklift sear him as it careened off the loading dock as well. A gleaming metal tine tore his hip, letting his blood out in a rush of warmth and red. He was tangled with the stallion, the front legs straddling him and the angry silver eyes staring down into his.

  Somewhere nearby the workmen were yelling, and a woman was laughing, a throaty sweet laugh as the horses of the Coachman's mind broke their traces and ran away into the engulfing blackness.

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  Let the moonlight show the path

  To a standing cypress tree.

  I'll tell you tales along the way

  Of what you've done to me.

  "GYPSY DANCE"

  When the Coachman didn't come back, Daniel put on his green overcoat and went out again. The grimy walls of the room had become oppressive. The cold night air was preferable to the moldy exhalations of the ratty little hotel room. His fiddle wept with him, as naturally as his feet and hands and heart. The street before the hotel was lit with red and blue neon, flashing names of beers and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. On one corner,three girls tiredly smiled. They weren't as young as they wished they were, and the sequins on their dresses dangled loose from too many casual caresses,the seams strained from having too often been hiked up in the back seats of cars. They reminded Daniel
of dancing bears, ruffs on their necks and rings in their noses, fur gone patchy with bad food. He moved a little down the street from them, opened his case on the sidewalk, and played them a tune of innocence and dreams. He saw them listening and becoming uneasy, so he changed it to an old ballad with laughter beneath the tears, with sorrow amid the joy. Their lives were the words and they knew the song well.Thewell. They stood quietly in the wash of the music, watching the cars stop and go again at the light, waiting more passively than they had before.

  He wondered where the Coachman was. He thought of his brothers, but it made the music grow unbearably sad, so he played for the whores once more.

  A fourth one came out of a nearby bar, riding awake of crude laughter. "No hair on her pussy yet!"someone shouted after her, and she hurried away from the bar and toward him. Her heel caught in a crack on the pavement and she teetered briefly before getting her balance again. As she hurried past Daniel,he caught a reek of animal musk in a cloying perfume. Her eyelids were painted purple and silver, and her cheekbones had been rouged so heavily they looked bruised. She hesitated, then edged toward the other whores on the corner.

  They turned on her swiftly, mercilessly. "This ain't amateur night, sweetie!" one snarled at her, while another advised her, "Get home to your mama, girl."

  "I'm… I'm looking for my friend," she said, and her voice trembled like a fiddle string.

  "You ain't got no friend here, jail bait. Get your skinny ass out ta here 'fore it gets kicked."

  She moved away quickly, wobbling on her high heels, and the way she glanced up and down and across the street convinced Daniel that she was telling the truth, she was looking for her friend. She fled past him once more, the perfume again assailing him.Fivehim. Fivesteps, then she paused, then backed closer to the building to let two men pass. They glanced at her, one shaking his head and the other making a laughing comment before they entered the bar. She did not move away from the wall after they had passed, but pressed against it, like an animal trying to conceal itself. Daniel played on, the songs that seemed comfortable in a city, and after a moment he sensed her venturing closer. He looked at her from the corners of his eyes.

  "Hello?" she said tentatively.

  He went on playing. So young, this one. She should be home with her mother. Perhaps the old ways were better, when a girl like this would have a man chosen for her, would know that she had a future planned. She was old enough, this one, that in some kumpanias she would already have a babe at her breast, and perhaps another on the way. But those were the old ways, the very old ways. Now these people liked to torment their young, to keep them between, neither children nor women, but creatures of both worlds, and vulnerable to the hurts of both.

  "Remember me?" she asked softly, venturing a little closer. He wished she were downwind of him; the reek of her perfume overpowered even the dirty air of the city. He shook his head slowly and he continued to play.

  "Don't you remember me?" and the plea in her voice was very real. "We saw you earlier today.Chtoday.Chrissytopped to listen to you play and I put a dollar in your coat and then Chrissy and I went to her house and changed because she said we were going to a party. Only when we got to the bar, her friends weren't there. So she told me to go fix up my face,because I forgot I was wearing makeup and rubbed my eyes, but when I came out, she was gone, and they chased me out of the bar. Please, have you seen her? Remember her? She has curly blonde hair, she's real pretty, she had on silver Spandex and a black Guns'n'Roses tee shirt and red high heels."

  Her voice was running down and his fiddle followed it, going softer as she spoke, so that when she paused, his fiddle was a whisper in the night. He shook his head again slowly, studying her. He looked at her. The shiny blue pants bagged at the knee, the high heels were a size too big for her; her feet kept sliding down in them. Chrissy's clothes, he thought to himself, like the low-cut shirt that exposed the tops of her breasts. "Your perfume is awful," he muttered, the first words he'd spoken to her.

  "Chrissy said it was really expensive, and she got it from a woman with really good taste," she said,and then her face crumpled slightly. "I know. It's awful. It's giving me a headache, I tried to wash it off in the bathroom, but it wouldn't go away. Please,didn't you see my friend?"

  He shook his head slowly, his fiddle moving with it.

  How could he know where her friend was? Perhaps her friend was playing a child's trick, and thus leaving her stranded with an adult's problem. Or maybe she had just left; children playing at being adults were never patient.

  "I don't know what to do," she said softly, fear snaking through her voice.

  It isn't my problem, he thought, and then wondered what his brothers would say to that. But where do you draw the line? Where do you decide when to step in and when to stay back? The Dove simply knew, while the Owl could point to a hundred little signs that would have told him all he needed. But he,Daniel, was forever stumbling through such decisions and then torturing himself afterwards. He cursed silently, and the curse translated itself into a wail the leapt from the fiddle into the night.

  The girl took a step back, and somehow that hurt.To hurt.Toe hurt, he said quickly, "Stay here with me."

  "Here?" she said, puzzled.

  What did I say that for? he wondered. Because I wanted to, came the answer. "Maybe your friend will come back. Maybe she's looking for you." He knew it would be useless to tell her to go home.

  "I don't have any more money for you," she said in a small voice.

  He shook his head. "That was not me you saw."

  She seemed offended. "Yes, it was. You were on the other side of the park, wearing a red coat and playing your tambourine. I put the dollar right in your pocket."

  "No,I don't have a-" he stopped, then her words suddenly made sense to him. A tambourine? Raymond! A sudden joy lilted from his fiddle, and she stepped back, startled by its strength. Then it made her smile, and she was pretty, he could see her prettiness through the cracks in her thick makeup.

  She moved closer, standing almost in his shadow,the smell of her perfume thick in the night. He took his fiddle through a sweet little waltz and saw her comforted by it.

  "Tell me of this tambourine player," he said.

  She frowned, as if wondering if he were teasing her.

  Then she said, "You were playing a tambourine,sitting on a bench, a bus-stop bench. Near Pine, I think."

  "It wasn't me," he repeated. "But perhaps it was my brother. Please tell me about him."

  She blinked. "Well, he played for us, and I gave him a dollar. He was just," she struggled for words."Really nice." She paused, looking up and down the decayed street. "Like you're nice," she said suddenly, honestly. But the next words came after too long a pause, and he knew they were not new with her. Probably, like the clothes, something borrowed from Chrissy. "I've always liked men older than me.They me.They much more sure of themselves."

  He looked at her, letting all his years ride in his eyes. He expected her to falter, but she edged closer,as if drawn to him. She wrapped her arms around herself and huddled deeper into her thin shirt. He turned away and tried to ignore her standing at his back, found that he couldn't. He could feel her sheltering behind him. He glanced back and she looked directly into his eyes. All her fears looked out at him for an instant, and then she looked aside, a modest casting down of eyes that he had not seen in many years. Daniel sighed. Despite all her silly pretenses and false boldness, she was afraid. He'd have to help her.

  He felt her edge closer. This time he turned slightly as he kept on playing, so he could watch her and still see the street. She'd got her courage up again, for this time she met his gaze squarely. Deliberately, she dropped her arms, set her hands on her hips. Thrust one hip out a little, and cocked her head. It reminded him of the pose of a store mannequin; nothing natural about it, no reason to stand that way except to display clothes or body. Especially not on a chill night like this. He deliberately dropped his eyes to her body, then met her gaze
again. She almost stepped back, but when he made no other advance, her face grew puzzled. He suspected none of this was going the way her friend had told her it would. She was supposed to taunt, he was supposed to react, then she got to repulse him. A dangerous sort of game for young girls to play.

  It was cold tonight. He could feel her shiver. Not just from the cold, but from this game of dares she played against herself. She challenged herself, to see if she dared face the danger after she'd created it. He didn't see any way she could win.

  "My name's Lore lei," she told him coquettishly,and he heard part of the truth in the name. When he made no response, she twitched her young hips kittenishly and moved closer, so close that he nearly brushed against her each time he drew the bow across the strings.

  "I'm Daniel," he told her, putting no more into the words than a polite exchange of names. A man in a passing car called to the whores on the corner. Lore lei flinched, clutched at his elbow for a second, and then snatched her fingers back.

  Her cheeks, already reddened with cold, darkened further with embarrassment. She had lost face before him; he sensed a sudden hardening of her determination. She'd show him. He tried not to sigh. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and chose a new line. "I really like your hair," she said. "The blackness, the way it curls. And I like your mustache. I wish more men grew them. I like men that are really,you know, masculine."

  He knew what really masculine was. He was willing to bet she didn't.

  She giggled, nervous and high, pushed herself deeper into her game. "I always wonder, though,how you kiss through a mustache like that. Know what I mean?" Teasing invitation.

  Again, he did and she didn't. He glanced at her.She her.Sheclose now that when his arm moved with the bow, it brushed her upper arm. He breathed out heavily, trying to clear her perfume from his head. So young, this one. He watched her body moving gracefully, unconsciously, to his music. She reminded him of something, of someone so long ago it seemed like another life. Maybe it had been. Had he ever really been that young boy, sneaking away from the fire to follow the girl to the edge of the woods and then into them, or were they just the memories of the music?So long ago. The sweet stirring in his loins was like an old ache, and the music went warm with longing,not for this painted little girl, but for a young girl and boy who had kissed and touched, how may lifetimes ago?