Disharmony

by Leah Giarratano

  ‘Get even fatter, Toad,’ he said under his breath. ‘It’s good for your heart.’

  ‘Did you say something?’ said Zac, opposite him. ‘Oh no. Tuna.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Luke, too late.

  ‘Nguyen. Are you talking?’

  Holt was at their table in three strides. He stood as close as possible to Luke, speaking across the table to Zac. He didn’t shout, but the hall was silent as everyone watched the show.

  ‘I just said that I can’t eat tuna,’ said Zac. ‘I’m vegan.’

  Idiot, thought Luke. Are you that stupid? Don’t tell Holt anything else he can use against you.

  ‘You’re a vegan, Nguyen?’ said Holt. ‘So you can only eat lettuce, is that right?’

  ‘No…’ said Zac. ‘Other stuff too.’

  ‘Do you think that your dorm mates might like to eat some actual food today, and not just grass and leaves?’ said Holt.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Zac.

  ‘Well, Nguyen, inmates do not speak during meal service. Inmates do not touch their food during meal service,’ said Holt.

  ‘But the meals have already been served,’ said Zac.

  Luke put his head in his hands.

  ‘And you do not eat lunch at all today,’ said Holt. ‘Stand, Section Six.’

  Luke scraped his chair back, making as much noise as possible. Watson made a sound like he was trying not to cry. Watson was chubby and he’d lost maybe half his body weight since arriving in Section Six.

  ‘Because of your bunkmate, all of you will now take your sandwich, like so,’ said Holt, lifting Clarkson’s sandwich from his plate and dangling it with two fingers. ‘You will then drop it onto the floor at your feet.’ Holt tossed the sandwich onto the floor next to Clarkson’s sneakers. ‘And then you will stamp on it. You will then wait in silence at your table until everyone else has finished their meal. Ready now – lift your sandwiches, Section Six.’

  Luke heard Section One doing everything they could to stifle their delight. Holt was not above punishing even his boys if control was not maintained. He watched Zac, Watson, Barry and Hooley take their sandwiches from their plates.

  ‘Drop them on the floor now, Section Six, and stomp on them,’ said Holt.

  Luke knew he should just do as Holt instructed. I mean, it wasn’t as though he wanted to eat the foul thing anyway. But he had that feeling again. He guessed the sensation was as close as he was going to get to the anger that everyone else seemed to feel. He’d pigeonholed it as anger because it always seemed to pop up in these sorts of situations – when he was being told to do something by someone in authority. But while people in books described anger as boiling and seething until they erupted in fury, unable to control themselves, Luke experienced exactly the opposite. He felt just a little more cool, more still, more centred and quiet, and everything zoomed into pinpoint focus.

  Clingfilm-wrapped sandwiches burst on the floor around him, the sounds cracking like gunshots. The no-longer-controllable merriment from Section One bounced off the walls and it suddenly felt as though Toad Wheeler was standing even closer to him than Holt, shouting laughter into his ear. Luke put a hand on the table to steady himself.

  ‘Black, I will not tell you again,’ said Holt, very quietly. He took a step even closer. ‘Pick up your sandwich and tread on it. Now.’

  The laughter died and Luke sensed everyone almost breathing in synchrony, watching him. He smiled at Zac.

  ‘Did you have garlic for lunch, Mr Holt?’ he said, picking the sandwich up from the plate and tossing it high. Forty-eight pairs of eyes watched the wrapped sandwich spin in the air and then land splat at Mr Holt’s feet.

  ‘It’s just that your breath is rank, man,’ Luke continued, and lifted his foot. He skidded the front of his sneaker into the package, hoping for the best.

  He got it.

  The plastic skin exploded and projectile-vomited its tuna innards. An arc-like stream of creamy fish splattered its way up the leg of Holt’s military-pressed trousers.

  Nobody moved. Even the movement in the kitchen stilled.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Luke.

  Without taking his eyes from Luke’s, Holt reached for a paper napkin from the table. He bent and wiped at the goop. It smeared. He stood up again.

  ‘You are going to hurt, Black,’ he said, calmly.

  ‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘But don’t worry about me. It’s just a headache and a few bruises. I’ll be right, Mr Holt, but thanks for your concern.’

  A camp on the outskirts of Pantelimon, Bucharest, Romania

  June 27, 12.45 p.m.

  Samantha, Shofranka and Mirela draped the battered fold-up tables in cloths of crimson, gold and turquoise. Samantha bent to the grass for the stack of plates she’d carried down from Milosh’s truck. It was cooler under the trees, and despite the knot in her stomach she was very much looking forward to lunch. She understood that the anxiety she felt was just the floating fear from Lala and Esmeralda. She knew that the king wasn’t actually coming. No, they’d all just enjoy a lavish lunch without the men, and with the added bonus of Tamas.

  I’d like him for dessert, she thought, watching him striding across the paddock from the campsite carrying a huge platter of food. He wore a dark blue singlet now, which thankfully did not cover those muscular shoulders.

  At the last possible moment, before she could look like a dumbstruck idiot, she turned away to scan the horizon.

  Milosh and Besnik had done well in choosing this place to spend a few weeks. It was just far enough from Pantelimon to be out of the noise and rush, but close enough to visit whenever they wanted. She remembered they’d stayed here several summers before. Even then, aged ten or eleven, she’d been in love with Tamas, watching him and his big brother Luca and Mirela’s older brother Hanzi at the river swinging from a rope with some local kids.

  She offered a quick prayer to Goddess Gaia that she wouldn’t have a client this afternoon. It was a perfect day for a swim, and because it was a school day they’d have the river all to themselves without the Gaje kids.

  Shofranka set the good glasses out alongside the plates. The ruby, sapphire and emerald-coloured glass never showed the chips. Sam mentally chose her place at the table and swapped her red glass for green. She conjured a picture of Tamas sitting beside her, laughing at all the funny things she imagined herself saying over lunch.

  ‘So, where do you reckon we should seat the king?’ said Mirela.

  ‘Um, we’ll just wait for Tamas to carry down the throne, and then we’ll decide,’ said Sam.

  ‘We don’t have a throne,’ said Shofranka, blinking behind her dark-framed spectacles. Although she was only twelve, and still wearing pigtails, the glasses always made her seem sensible, serious. Which she mostly was.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s a relief, Sho,’ said Samantha. ‘On account of how there’ll be no king to sit in it.’

  ‘You really don’t think he is coming?’ said Shofranka.

  ‘Puh-lease,’ said Samantha.

  ‘Don’t be so certain, little witch.’ Tamas had reached the table. He set down his foil-covered platter and turned to her. He reached out a finger and stroked it once, slowly, down her nose. ‘I’d leave my palace in the city to come and find you.’

  Samantha stopped breathing. She wondered whether she’d ever be able to start again. He did not just say that!

  Mirela giggled and Tamas winked at her, grinning, before turning away.

  ‘So you think he really is coming, Tamas?’ said Shofranka, her face upturned eagerly towards him.

  ‘Hell no,’ Tamas laughed.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon that is, then?’ said Mirela, pointing out along the dusty road that led into the camp.

  Sam held a hand up to her face, more because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing than to shade her eyes. The sun was directly overhead now and it beamed down upon the weirdest vehicle she had ever seen.

  ‘What is that?’ said Mirela.

  At her
fingertips and in her stomach Samantha could feel the electricity of her best friend’s excitement.

  ‘It must be the gypsy king,’ Shofranka almost whispered.

  ‘And he’s driving an Excalibur,’ said Tamas.

  Sam had never heard of an Excalibur, but the car that was approaching their camp looked both old-fashioned and brand new, like a fairytale chariot tricked out by Mercedes-Benz. It was the colour of rich custard, with black windows and gleaming silver chrome, every part of the car glinting and sparkling in the sunlight. It sat low to the ground on fat black tyres that flashed with silver, kicking out dust behind them like plumes of smoke, as though the car ignited the road as it moved. Pumping from inside the midnight-black windows, a low boom of bass grew louder as it approached.

  Of course, the dogs went crazy.

  As Samantha stared, Mirela and Shofranka bolted across the paddock to meet the car. Bo was already there, running barefoot on the unsealed road in front of it, his hanky-stick-flag held high in the air. Oody and two other camp dogs flanked the vehicle, shouting their greetings, and Sam could just make out Hero dashing in and out around the shining front wheel, trying to take on the invading beast.

  ‘Looks like the king has come to take the princess home,’ said Tamas. The corners of his dark eyes creased in a scowl and he radiated hostility. Sam felt suddenly edgy.

  ‘Just be careful,’ he said. ‘Try not to say a lot. I know they call this dude the gypsy king, but he gave himself that name. Besnik told me that he started out as an underground criminal from Craiova.’

  They slowly made their way up to where everyone else waited, wearing huge, warm smiles for their new visitor. Sam felt a fog of worry settling over her family. Nuri grinned toothlessly, juggling the baby on her hip. Lala appeared delighted, but she had a firm hold on Bo’s shoulder as he hopped from foot to foot. Esmeralda beamed, her lips blood-red; Shofranka pressed in close to her skirts, only one pigtail and the rim of her spectacles visible; Mirela stared boldly at the newcomers.

  Samantha could see through the darkened windscreen that there were two people in the vehicle. As she and Tamas reached the others, a door opened and the gold-tipped boots of the driver stepped into the dirt. Is that purple snakeskin? thought Sam, incredulous. Who would wear that? Black leather-clad legs followed, and then the driver swung himself out. He wore a leather sleeveless vest to match the pants, each garment straining over a huge beer belly. A belt with a big gold buckle held the belly up valiantly, cinched low and tight around the driver’s waist.

  Tamas stepped forward, Esmeralda by his side.

  ‘Welcome,’ Esmeralda said. ‘What a beautiful day!’

  Tamas scowled.

  The driver said nothing. He reached back into the car and pulled out a large black cowboy hat. He put it on and that was the last Samantha ever saw of his eyes. He stuck a toothpick between his teeth and moved around the front of the vehicle. She spotted the handle of a pistol strapped into a holster belted around his chest.

  The bonnet of the car was pretty awe-inspiring, Sam had to admit; she figured that was the effect the owner was going for. A rearing silver dragon, wings spread, was perched at the precipice, guarding a chrome grill resembling gnashing metal teeth. She took a second look at the licence plate. One word: Royal. Hmm.

  The driver stopped at the other side of the car and cracked the passenger door. Sam had heard rumours about the gypsy king – hell, every Romani she’d ever met had something to tell – and she wondered how exaggerated the tales would be. But when he finally made it out of the car, she realised that, if anything, they’d downplayed his appearance. It wasn’t so much the fur-trimmed purple robes that fell from his shoulders and swept the ground. It wasn’t the gold walking stick topped with the head of a dragon. And it wasn’t even that when the king finally smiled all his visible teeth were gold. No, what made her lips part and her jaw drop was his size. Hugely fat were the first words that came to mind. Grotesque walking circus tent were the next.

  Esmeralda rushed forward and bowed low, her earrings swinging wildly.

  ‘Welcome, your Grace, to our humble camp,’ she said. ‘We are so delighted that you have come to visit us. I am Esmeralda Florica Anghelescu, daughter of Djordji Boiko Gabor. I met you once before, twelve years ago or more at a festival in Craiova.’

  The king made a noise deep in his throat. ‘You must forgive me, Esmeralda Florica Anghelescu, daughter of Djordji Boiko Gabor, that I do not recall our meeting,’ he said, gold teeth flashing. ‘However, I find that I recall very little, if anything, of that place. In fact, I remember nothing of my life before I came to Pantelimon.’

  The cowboy driver spat in the dirt.

  Samantha watched Tamas clench his fists at his sides.

  ‘Of course we forgive our gypsy king,’ said Lala, limping forward. ‘I am, however, afraid that I must lay claim to the poorest memory of the land. It is my age, you see.’ She smiled widely. ‘But you must be hot and thirsty, your Grace, and we have prepared something modest, if unfit, for our king. Would you please do us the honour of lunching with us?’

  At the table under the trees, ashamed that she cared, Samantha felt suddenly conscious of every chip and scratch in their crockery and glasses. Still, for a midweek lunch, with less than half the camp present, it was a lavish banquet. Esmeralda’s chicken rice was to die for, as always, and she’d also prepared a sweet, garlicky, tomato-based stew with the last of their lamb. A giant glass bowl brimming with dressed salad leaves, young cucumber, cubed avocado and marinated olives sat in the centre of the table. Next to it was a plate of plump chicken livers seared with garlic and onions and served drizzled in olive oil. With the warm freshly cooked loaves of bread, hot buttered potatoes in their jackets, ears of corn, and a week’s worth of cheese surrounded by fat black cherries on a platter, Samantha could think of no table more deserving of the title: fit for a king.

  Unfortunately, their guests did not seem to agree. Lala made certain their goblets were brimming with wine, and that their wide-bottomed water glasses were always topped up with whisky, but, with the exception of alcohol, the king accepted only a plate of salad and some cheese. And the driver merely moved food around on his plate with a fork.

  Well, a low-carb diet might help each of them a smidge, thought Samantha, scooping up lamb stew with bread and shovelling it in. But did these two have to poke the food around quite so gingerly, as though they’d never before seen anything like it?

  ‘So,’ said the gypsy king, taking a sip from his glass, ‘this is the camp of the famous stolen Gaje princess?’

  Lala laughed falsely. Next to Samantha, Mirela choked on an olive. Tamas sat bolt upright in his chair and Esmeralda gripped her fork tighter. Sam felt everyone at the table shift slightly. For the first time, she wished the menfolk were here.

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Lala. ‘Yes, yes. Step right up! See the Gaje princess stolen by gypsies! I apologise, your Highness, that we have stooped as low as to have adopted the ultimate Gaje stereotype: that the Roma steal innocent babies. But can you blame us? The world wants the fantasy! They want to believe that gypsies really do steal children from their beds in the middle of the night. As if we do not have enough difficulty fending for our own.’

  Esmeralda coughed and Lala quickly changed tack.

  ‘Oh, but not that we Roma are not prospering in our own right, just as we desire,’ she said, smiling, her favourite orange lipstick smearing her front teeth. ‘It’s just that fifteen years ago we were left with a sick and suffering Gaje baby. A little girl. She was just dumped with us, with no one to defend her. Please, your Grace, you would surely understand – to take this baby to the Romanian police – how could we explain how she came to be with us, and who would care about our story anyway? The baby girl would have gone straight to a Romanian orphanage, and whoever had carried her to the police would have gone directly to jail.’ Lala took a quick sip from her ruby goblet and continued. ‘But our camp kept the orphaned baby and we have saved everyone t
he trouble. She is now a much-loved member of our family.’

  ‘And well you did too,’ said the king, raising his glass. ‘And this is why I am proud to be the king of the Roma. To the Roma!’

  Everybody raised their glass in toast and drank.

  And then waited.

  ‘And this brings me to why I have come to visit you all today,’ said the king. Beads of sweat pimpled the top of his bald head, and the neckline of his robes shone wetly. ‘Many have told me what wonderful people you are here.’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Esmeralda.

  ‘And several people have mentioned that your witch is very skilled indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Lala.

  The king turned to face Lala. ‘And lately there has been talk that your understudy, the Gaje Princess, may also have some potential.’

  Samantha felt someone kick her under the table and from the corner of her eye she saw Mirela sitting with a studiously innocent expression.

  ‘She’s but a child,’ said Lala. ‘However, she is doing her best to learn the basics. Maybe in years to come she will prove to have some talent.’

  Hey, thought Samantha, thanks a lot.

  ‘Yes, well.’ The king daintily lifted a lettuce leaf to his mouth. Samantha was betting he’d have his cowboy drive him directly to McDonald’s when they left. ‘I am prepared to visit with her today to see how she is progressing,’ he said.

  ‘You are too kind, your Grace,’ said Lala. ‘It is good of you to try to encourage the youth in this way. However, I must insist that we offer you the very best of our hospitality. I regret that my son, Milosh, is not here to welcome you properly. But when it comes to offering you luck and blessings, as the senior witch I would be delighted to provide you with my service. After lunch, we will go to my caravan to discuss your needs.’