Disharmony

by Leah Giarratano

  ‘Well? Why aren’t you at the horse fair?’ she tried again.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘All the other men are gone,’ she said. She scratched at her bare midriff. ‘Oh, is that it? You’re too young?’

  ‘I’m seventeen,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to shoot Besnik.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s called patricide, and the Gaje lock you up for it,’ said Sam.

  Tamas looked at her. Looked away. Looked back.

  She bit her lip.

  ‘You read too much,’ he said. ‘No one understands you.’

  ‘Patricide,’ she said. ‘It means murdering your father. Apparently it’s frowned upon. You’re supposed to love your father.’

  Tamas scudded another rock out across the field. Oody went crazy.

  ‘Well, you don’t have a father like mine,’ he said. He rubbed at his chin and blinked down at her. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said.

  ‘That’s cool, don’t worry about it.’ Her throat tightened. She studied her bare feet. ‘The whole princess-stolen-by-gypsies story pulls in the punters.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I said don’t worry about it.’

  But she always did. For the Roma, family – ancestry – was absolutely everything. Everybody knew that x was the son of y who was the nephew of z and the great-grandson of abc. Hour-long songs were dedicated to the lineage of a family. Dirt poor or filthy rich, nothing was more valuable to a gypsy than knowing where you came from, who you were.

  Samantha had no idea.

  ‘Well, you are bringing in a lot of rich Gaje these days, Witch,’ said Tamas. ‘Besnik and Milosh were pretty happy about the money they had to horse-trade today. You wait and see what they come home with.’ His full lips twisted like he’d just tasted sour milk. ‘I just wish I could have been there.’

  Samantha was beginning to wonder when her recent luck was going to run out. It was true – she was raking in money for the camp. For the first time in years she’d been able to walk close to Milosh without copping a filthy look. Lala still kept a close watch and warned her with their secret whistle whenever he was on the move, but even she seemed less tense, smiled more often. Last week, Samantha had even watched Lala fall asleep before she did, and that had never happened.

  For as long as Sam could remember, Lala had been the camp witch and Samantha her apprentice, but their main income had come mostly from the horses. Besnik was gifted when it came to spotting a potentially great horse and buying it at a dirt-cheap price. He had an eye for horses who were mistreated, underfed, whipped too often, worked too hard. He and Tamas would lead the limping creatures back to camp and Tamas would spend hours and hours with them.

  Whenever she could, Samantha would steal away from afternoon chores to watch, leaning against a tree in the twilight until she grew too cold, too hungry, or it became too dark. Tamas didn’t let any of these things stop him, though. He’d sit in the paddock by the broken horse, whispering quietly, continuously, late into the night. The camp fires would spark and spit into the night sky, striving to rejoin the stars, but still Tamas would sit. As the light left, he seemed to merge into the dirt, become part of the evening.

  Samantha had no idea how he could ignore the smells of the chicken fat dribbling and sizzling into the fire, the earthy beat of the beans boiling, the unbearably yeasty aroma of hot bread.

  Sometimes he’d sing softly. Sometimes he’d just speak nonsense, on and on, describing, in ridiculous detail, the things around him. Sam would close her eyes and listen and feel the horse relaxing. She could sense their ears finely tuned to the sound of his voice; their taut, terrified muscles daring to let go; even their skin, tight as a drum under their hard hair, seemed to loosen, to yield as he spoke.

  Tamas would draw closer and closer to the horse each day. Within a week or so, they would be inseparable. He’d brush them until their manes rippled in the breeze like silk, whispering into a flicking ear all the while. Before long, he’d be up bareback on his new charge, and together they’d break free of the paddock and canter away into the purple hills. And when Besnik ordered Tamas on to other duties, the new horse would wait, pressed up against its fence, hot-chocolate eyes scanning all movement in the camp until they again found his. In the meantime, every fifteen minutes or so, the horse would whinny softly, calling him.

  She knew that at least seven of Tamas’s new horses were right now beyond reach of ever seeing him again. Tonight they’d be in their new homes, now valued, valuable horseflesh, each traded for gold or cash, or for at least five new nags who would resemble what they used to look like mere months ago. Samantha would bet Mrs Nicolescu’s fat wallet that they would be very old horses indeed before they forgot those couple of months with Tamas.

  She smiled wryly. She had a lot in common with those horses. All of them just wanted a little more time as close as possible to Tamas.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Witch? You’re not putting a spell on me, are you?’

  Samantha’s head snapped up. Tamas had stopped throwing rocks.

  ‘I – um, I’m just – I’m just thinking about the heat,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a warm midsummer.’

  Oh no. She was so used to her daydreams about Tamas that she’d become lost inside one while he stood right next to her. What did she just say? Did it make any sense? Had she spoken at all? She raised a hand to her throat.

  Tamas took a step closer. ‘Well, you do look a little hot, Sam,’ he said.

  Samantha tried to swallow.

  Somehow, she suddenly found this difficult.

  ‘What’s that in your hair?’ He leaned forward. As though in slow motion she watched his hand reach towards her face, the burnt-gold hairs on his tanned forearm muted by a light dusting of dry camp soil. He plucked the faded fabric rose from her hair, held it to his nose, smiled down at her.

  ‘Mmm. Smells gorgeous,’ he said.

  This time when she tried to speak, nothing came out.

  ‘Hey, speaking of making money, looks like you’re on again, Sam,’ he said, his eyes leaving hers. She followed his gaze back to the circle of vans and trucks and the caravan. Lala was making her careful way over, phone to her ear.

  Samantha watched the only woman she’d ever known as mother hobbling awkwardly towards her, her Gaje-designed specially built-up left shoe still leaving her with an ungainly limp so that she wobbled and weaved as a drunken Gaje might.

  Damn. Sam felt like stamping her foot in the dirt as Tamas had, but instead she swung back to him and tried to turn her frown upside down.

  ‘I guess I’d better go then,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Looks like someone around here is needed.’

  He whistled through his teeth, and Oody, panting in the shade of one of the trees, bounded to his side.

  ‘Um…’ she tried. She was acutely aware of Lala, hot in the sun, still speaking into her phone, painfully making her way over. ‘Are you going to the Carnivale this weekend?’

  ‘Um, are you on drugs?’ he said. ‘Of course I’m going.’

  ‘Oh, cool.’

  Lame, Sam. You are so lame. She figured her face would actually catch fire if she blushed any harder.

  Tamas laughed, his white teeth flashing, and stepped out towards the hills, Oody at his side.

  ‘Later, Witch,’ he threw over his shoulder.

  ‘Later.’

  She watched his broad shoulders for a moment longer then turned and ran back towards camp, already ashamed that her crush had cost Lala a few more painful steps than was necessary.

  JUNE 27, 12.30 P.M.

  ‘Ow! Ow! Lala, you’re killing me!’

  Samantha tried to grab at Lala’s hands, but the old woman rapped her knuckles with the back of the brush and kept right on ripping at the knots.

  ‘Don’t you blame me for this mess, you bad cat,’ said Lala. ‘You could have a family of rats living in there.’

  Samantha pouted, tears of pain pricking her eyes. S
he could feel Lala’s anxiety – it stiffened her neck and made her jaw hurt. She forced herself to stop grinding her teeth.

  ‘But why would the gypsy king come to our camp today? Wouldn’t he be at the horse-trading fair with the other men? Maybe your friend’s warning is a mistake?’

  Lala tugged harder. ‘He’s on his way here,’ she said. ‘To visit you.’

  ‘You said that before, but it makes no sense. Maybe he told your friend he was coming to visit the witch, and he meant you, but she got confused. Why would the king of the gypsies come out to see me? He’s never even been here before.’

  ‘I know, I know. You think I don’t know? And Milosh is away. What is he going to say?’ Lala stopped brushing. ‘You are going to have to stay away from Milosh tonight, kitten, you promise me?’

  Samantha was beginning to feel nauseous from the fear emanating from Lala. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She sat still in the chair and met Lala’s rheumy eyes in the mirror.

  ‘It will be okay, Lala. Everything will be fine.’ She spoke quietly, calmly.

  ‘Don’t you use that on me, Witch,’ said Lala, but Samantha could feel her shoulders dropping, the brush now more careful in her hair.

  ‘Lala, let me finish here,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my hair, please. Shouldn’t you go and see whether Esmeralda needs you? She must be shrieking by now knowing that she has to serve lunch to the king.’

  Sam felt Lala’s tension ratchet up again. ‘It is a shame,’ she said. ‘A terrible shame! We should have feasting and music for his visit. What will he think of us?’

  ‘Well, maybe he’ll think about choosing a better time for paying a social visit,’ said Samantha. ‘Besides, from what I’ve heard, that man could live without a feast or two.’

  The brush tugged extra hard and Samantha whimpered. Lala fixed on Samantha’s eyes in the mirror.

  ‘You will not be defiant today, Samantha White! You will not use your clever words. And you must promise me you will not try any of your… your tricks. The gypsy king can cause us many problems, and if you’re to blame, Milosh will leave you in the street when we move on. I have not kept you safe here these fifteen years to lose you now.’

  The old woman’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Lala!’ Samantha spun in her seat and cupped Lala’s tissue-paper cheeks in her hands. ‘Please, don’t cry! You will kill me!’ She felt as though a fist had just been shoved down her throat. ‘I’m going to be good, I promise. I will be perfectly well behaved. Look, see?’

  She grabbed the brush and began dragging it through her hair, the pain nothing compared to the sickness she felt when Lala was hurting. She concentrated her energy outwards, trying to make Lala feel better.

  ‘You’re a good girl, kitten,’ said Lala, slowly lifting herself to leave. ‘I will go to help Esmeralda. If she has not put that Bo and his crazy dog into the pot, he will be a very lucky boy.’

  Samantha finished brushing her hair and re-tied the leather thong around her forehead. Despite Lala’s conviction, she was almost certain that the gypsy king was not on his way out to visit them. The Romani people adored gossip and rumours, and once someone had spun a good story, the tale would whip around the camps and cities like a summer fire.

  She peered into the mirror again and ruffled through the well-used make-up bag on the table. She carefully blended midnight kohl along her eyelids, flicking it up, cat-like, at the corners. She smeared her eyelids in shimmering green and finally slicked on some pale pink lip gloss.

  At least Tamas will see me all dressed up.

  She jumped from the step of the caravan and skipped through the camp, waving at old Nuri, cross-legged in the grass, rocking Bo’s newest brother off to sleep. Swallows glided silently, high above her, looping lazily like fish in the blue, cloudless sky. She could smell and hear Esmeralda cooking. The scent made her salivate and the curses made her laugh.

  She rounded the tarpaulin-covered flatbed truck she shared with Milosh and Lala when it was too cold to sleep under the stars. The girls bustled around the campfire like chickens just thrown a handful of corn.

  ‘What can I do?’ she yelled, trying to make herself heard.

  ‘Waaa! The Witch Princess herself. Here to grace us with her presence!’ Esmeralda took a cigarette from her lips and put one hand on her very round hip. The gold scarf around her head was dark with sweat. ‘You are the cause of all this catastrophe, I understand?’

  Esmeralda’s voice had one volume: maximum.

  ‘Hey, I’m just a working girl,’ said Sam. ‘A very hungry working girl. Whatcha cooking? Is that lamb?’

  ‘Lamb? The Princess wants lamb?’

  Esmeralda carefully manoeuvred between four black, fat-bottomed pots suspended over the fire, dipping bread into one and tasting. ‘Well, this here is supposed to be supper for the men, but because of this whole catastrophe this afternoon, yes, Princess, you shall have your lamb.’

  Esmeralda’s first-born, Mirela, looked up from the pot into which she was dropping pieces of a carrot hidden in her hand. Each orange disc fell from her fingers as she expertly sliced it with a small silver knife. Although only thirteen, Mirela was a great cook, was wanted by the Gaje police, and was Sam’s best friend in the whole world. Well, not counting Birthday Jones…

  When she bent to pick up another carrot from a bag at her feet, Mirela gave Samantha a big wink from beneath her heavy black fringe. Sam grinned back.

  She spotted Lala scolding Bo and Hero over by the main town-car. While Esmeralda was busy with the rice, Sam bent to a foil-wrapped package at the feet of little Shofranka and gave her a can-I-steal-some-bread? raise of her eyebrows. Shofranka gave her a sure-of-course-you-can smile in return. Sam reached quickly into the foil and tore a chunk of bread from a warm, flat loaf within. She raised it to her nose and breathed, then scoffed it quickly. Smiling, she drew closer to Esmeralda.

  ‘You’re not buying this gypsy king crap, are you, Esmeralda?’ she said. ‘I mean, as if he’s coming out here.’

  She made a game-show hostess sweep with her hand around the camp. Her favourite place in the world it may well be, but this was no Romani palace.

  Esmeralda stopped stirring the huge pot.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I am doing, Samantha White,’ she said. ‘I am preparing the most important lunch that you’ve ever seen in your life. And I have no tables set up. And there is no band, no menfolk, and I have no roasted meat. I’ll be very lucky to find some whisky. It is a complete disgrace. Lala came to me just a half-hour ago with the news, and I was planning only chicken and rice for all of us.’

  ‘He’s not coming,’ said Samantha.

  Esmeralda wore her favourite bright red skirt. It cascaded past her toes and into the dirt. Printed gold cherubs bearing harps and violins cavorted around the hem as she moved. The mud and oil smudges from the campsite only added to the cherubs’ party scene.

  ‘You are only a child,’ Esmeralda said, quietly.

  ‘What?’ said Samantha. Esmeralda felt funny. And she never spoke quietly.

  ‘Samantha,’ said Esmeralda. ‘I love you.’

  Mirela was watching intently, her silver knife stilled.

  ‘I love you like a daughter,’ continued Esmeralda. ‘Like a child from my womb. I will always love you. But you are not Romani. I don’t know what you are. All of us have always known that the day would come when you would draw attention. I don’t know whether today is the day. I don’t know what is going on.’

  Esmeralda put her cigarette back between her lips and spoke around it, the smoke trickling into her squinting, glinting eyes. ‘But what you do need to understand is that the gypsy king will be here shortly. And he’s coming to see you.’

  Esmeralda threw the last of her cigarette into the fire. She reached down to the grass for her trademark knife, standing in the soil where she’d stabbed it. She wrenched it into the air – a curved, heavy machete that made short work of any animal the men brought for her attention. The pendulous c
handeliers in her ears swung riotously with the movement. She gripped her knife waist high.

  ‘I can tell you, though, Samantha,’ she said. ‘We’ll be ready.’

  Samantha felt her tongue dry around the last of the bread in her mouth and she coughed. Whether the king was coming or not, Esmeralda sure believed he was.

  Sam squatted next to a bundle of corn still in their husks, and began wrapping them in aluminium foil. When she had a pile, she poked them into the ash at the edges of the fire. The sun beat down on the back of her neck.

  ‘Where is that lazy boy?’ Esmeralda suddenly shouted. ‘Tamas! Tamas! Get over here now!’

  Mirela found Sam’s eyes and smirked. Samantha poked her tongue out just as Tamas loped around the corner of the truck, Oody at his feet.

  ‘Lunch ready?’ he said, flashing his grin.

  His white teeth were perfect, and he wore a silver charm around his neck on a thick black cord. Samantha had made them for everyone last Christmas, first blessing each with gypsy luck with a midsummer’s night spell. It shone dully against his tanned bare chest. She dropped her squat and sat down hard on the grass, staring up at him. She’d known him all her life, but she’d never get sick of that view.

  ‘Go and put a shirt on right now!’ said Esmeralda.

  Oh no, don’t do that, thought Samantha.

  ‘And then get back here immediately. I want you to set up three tables and twelve chairs under the trees over there.’

  Esmeralda pointed her wooden spoon towards the copse of trees where Sam had spotted Tamas earlier.

  ‘What for?’ he said. ‘It’s too hot to move everything over there. We don’t need the tables today. Let’s just eat here.’

  For a woman her size, Esmeralda could move fast.

  She was by Tamas’s side in a second. Gripping him by the bicep, she started slapping her wooden spoon against the backside of his jeans.

  ‘Grandson of Nuri, son of Besnik! It is only for my love of your angel mother…’ Esmeralda took a deep breath and landed a slap with each of her next words: ‘May. She. Rest. In. Peace. That I do not use this spoon on your head!’