by Paul Park
Or there was a third alternative. Nothing could happen at all. Then what would she do?
Outside in the open air, when they climbed up to their camp, Ludu seemed happy, cheerful, excited, unconcerned. She opened a bottle of wine that the villagers had packed in ice. They sat in the long shadows over the grass sea, punctured at intervals by forested islands. They drank wine from earthenware cups, and ate big strawberries and Turkish peaches. Later there was black bread, mustard, onions, and potted ham. The air was cooler as the evening came.
Miranda felt her heart grow lighter as the sun sank behind the trees. Above them spread the burning sunset. If she’d learned anything since Christmas Hill, it was to take each moment separately. The policemen had come into the garden of the Russian consulate in Braila and she had fired her gun at them—what else could she have done? And she’d hit one, and the black horse had taken her away. Later she had crossed the river and arrived back at Macin.
Away from the towns, everywhere she was a hero. That first night Ludu Rat-tooth had taken her into a Gypsy encampment where the word had already spread. They didn’t care about de Witte and the German plans, and Miranda hadn’t told them. For them it was enough she was Miranda Popescu, and she had killed a man.
That first night the old men and women drank her health around the fire, while she sat in a daze. For some of them and for Ludu Rat-tooth, the war was already won, the Germans driven home, Antonescu and his partisans, Ceausescu and the vampire all defeated. “You’ll remember me when you are living in the Winter Keep,” she said now, raising her cup. “Please, maybe you will take me with you. You’ll remember the Gypsies when you are queen?”
Her words reminded Miranda unpleasantly of things that Gregor Splaa and Blind Rodica had said. In back of that, because she was trying to maintain her mood, they reminded her of a game her American father and mother had played on long trips in the car, driving north during the vacations or out to Colorado the summer she was twelve. Stanley had invented the game, which was called, “If I were king.”
“If I were king,” he’d say, “no one in the state of Maine would be allowed to make any kind of representation, painted, carved, or otherwise, of a lobster. They wouldn’t even be allowed to say the word. They couldn’t even say ‘lob’ if they were talking about throwing a ball. I’d fine them—just a few dollars a time, but it would take the place of these damn tolls.”
Or Rachel, once on the beltway around Indianapolis: “If I were king, I’d get rid of this entire state. I mean, who would miss it? What’s the point?”
Or Miranda: “If I were king, I wouldn’t allow anyone to advertise a restaurant with pictures of a pig in a chef’s hat eating sausages. It’s just too disgusting. What kind of psychotic pig eats sausages?”
“Don’t blame the pig,” said Rachel. “The pig’s a victim.”
Or Ludu Rat-tooth: “I want you to promise you will let us go to school and own land like other people. We won’t be punished for talking our own language. That was my father’s dream—you’ll promise me?”
Or Miranda again: “If I were king, no one could use the word ‘nitely,’ on pain of death.”
Or Ludu: “And you must promise me you’ll let us worship our King Jesus without shame. That you’ll close the temples with their false gods no one believes in. And the corrupt officials, and the policemen…”
Miranda had fired her gun at a policeman. He’d had a black moustache and a raspberry birthmark on his cheek. He’d fallen over, crumpled up around a wound in his stomach while she climbed onto her black horse. He’d been wearing a helmet and a blue uniform. Later people had told her he was one of Codreanu’s thugs, that he deserved death a dozen times—what did that mean?
In these villages, where the men brought out their weapons to show her and the women kissed her hands, now in a few days it was as if she had a power at her back pushing her forward. And there was a role in the lives of these people that someone could definitely play. All of them had stories to tell, bitter stories of oppression and harassment.
But was this the role for her? She found she wanted an assurance from Aegypta Schenck. Some sort of reassurance about the dead man—legionaries, people called them in the villages, and told stories about their cruelty. She had fired almost without looking. He’d had a black moustache just beginning to turn gray, and he’d worn a helmet with a metal shield above his eyes. He had crumpled up around his wound, and she had turned away, climbed onto her horse. Later details she had learned from others as the rumors grew.
She sat here eating her sandwich. Sometimes she missed Peter so much she found it hard to breathe. Andromeda as well. The sensation of missing them came in waves.
Ludu Rat-tooth had taken out her statues. As the sky grew dark she arranged them underneath the arbor and held small pieces of saturated bread to their lips. Miranda had stood up to watch the sunset, and when she turned back, the girl was smiling and holding out an unlit candle. She pushed her hair from her face, which in the last light seemed beautiful for a moment, animated and bright-eyed. She looked happy, and Miranda felt a corresponding happiness.
This place was magic to the Gypsy girl. Through her, Miranda could feel some of its magic. With the part of her that thought in words, she thought: Maybe one day I’ll see Peter and Andromeda again. Maybe one day I’ll see Stanley and Rachel and the rest.
When it was almost dark, she followed Ludu down the slope into the mine, unused since Aegypta Schenck had bought the property in the old days. The lamp was burning in the salt chamber. They lit their candles and put them in the entrance of the tunnel to the outside air, “to call the ghost,” Ludu said. Then she sat down on the salt throne and laid her forearms on the salt rests. She showed Miranda how to cuff her wrists and lock the rusted chains. All the time she was prattling happily. “Don’t worry about me. The last time I was here, my father locked the chains on me and then I fell asleep. I just fell asleep and had the strangest dreams. I dreamed there was a pit dug in the earth, and I was bringing the wooden bucket. But Gheorghe caught my arm—he wouldn’t let go. ‘Look,’ he said, and I could see something moving in the pit. At first I thought it was just worms and bugs. But then the more I looked, the more I saw all kinds of animals. That was when my father brought you to Mamaia Castle.”
“Do you miss your father?” Miranda asked.
“Yes.” Then she shook her head. “He used to beat me.”
There must have been some kind of airshaft at the top of the chamber, because the lamplight flickered. It shone on a wall that looked greasy and wet, though it was dry. Seams of dark rock alternated with the coarse, gray salt, which had a cleansing smell. It was pleasant at first. But after a few minutes you could taste it in your throat.
The strangest thing about this girl, Miranda decided, was that it didn’t bother her to talk about the past. Cut off from her family, it didn’t hurt her to look back. But was there a difference, she now thought, between Ludu’s situation and her own? The girl was smiling as she spoke, and Miranda could see the rat-tooth and the rest of her sharp mouth. Ordinarily she took pains to hide it, and hid her mouth under her hand whenever she smiled or laughed. Now her hands were fastened down.
Miranda walked to the door again and stooped to look out. The little valley was now darker than the cave. When she turned, the ghost was there.
Ludu had leaned forward so her coarse, curling hair was in her face. Now she sat back and shook her head. In the lamplight her almond-shaped eyes had a yellowish cast. She turned away from Miranda. She pressed her shoulders and her cheek into the salt wall that formed the back of the chair. “I remember,” the ghost murmured.
After a moment Miranda stepped forward into the center of the chamber. Aegypta Schenck didn’t move her head, but still peered at her sideways, her chapped, spotted cheek against the rock. Miranda saw the strain in her arms and legs as she tried to press herself into the wall.
“Yes,” she murmured, “you will do.”
She spoke in Englis
h, a language the Gypsy didn’t know. Miranda stood listening to the hiss of exhaling air, watching the sudden, jerky expansion of her aunt’s chest as if she breathed through an effort of memory and will—a grudging concession to her host.
Miranda closed her eyes. She had something rehearsed. “I know I disappointed you when I saw you before. Peter was my friend,” she said. “He was sick, and I couldn’t let him die. Not for you and not for anyone. I’m sorry.…” There was more, but the words gave out, and she listened to the rasping breath.
“Oh, that,” whispered her aunt. There was a hiss and a rattle, and then, “Oh, child, that is old news—indeed.”
The important thing, Miranda thought, was to speak normally as if to a normal person. The wine she’d drunk was helping. “So you’re not mad?”
A pause. “I am not angry. Much time is gone.”
The important thing, Miranda decided, was to avoid long gaps in the conversation. “It wasn’t such a bad place,” she pleaded, “where you were.”
Silence, and the hiss and breath. “I have yet to thank you. For setting the bird—free.”
She meant the brandywine bird, her aunt’s spirit animal, which Miranda had liberated from its cage in tara mortilor. Was that why her ghost was free now, why it appeared to people in places like this? It had never occurred to Miranda. “I saw your bird,” she blundered on. “In the castle garden. Were you watching me?”
All this time her aunt had pressed away from her as if she wanted to escape. But now she turned her head. Miranda listened to the hiss, and then her coarse whisper. Nor did she deign to answer Miranda’s question: “That was a long time—ago. When I last saw you. In those days I was—scarcely cold. I was at the—border. Now I have crossed Elysium—from end to end. In five years I have—seen such things. No, child—I am not angry.”
Miranda wiped her mouth. Remembering the way her aunt had hugged her in tara mortilor, she wondered if she should approach closer. She wondered if there was a way to generate some human warmth inside this creature, who now said, “Don’t touch me!” as if she sensed the impulse.
Miranda didn’t need to be told twice. She stepped back, held her hands up. She listened to the hiss and breath, and told herself there was no reason to be afraid. Her aunt would never hurt her, maybe. “I want to tell you something,” she said. “Something I did for you. I stole the German plans. They will cross the river at the Cosmesti Bridge on June eleventh. But the Russians know about it now and they’ll be warned.…”
Miranda let her voice trail away. The ghost looked anything but gratified. Her face was stiff with strain, her cheeks were wet. Her breath came hissing out.
“Why did you think—I would be pleased?”
“Because of what you did!” Miranda cried. “Didn’t you tell me the story about me and the diapers?”
The ghost wasn’t able to speak more than a few words without swallowing, after which she took a breath. She squeezed out a hiss and a rattle between each phrase. “Did I say that? I don’t remember—asking you—to fight a war. I thought I told you to bring peace—to Great Roumania. I thought you might—provide a voice. I thought you might—help us. Schenck von Schenck was my name. Your father’s name. We are not enemies—of Germany.”
This was disconcerting to Miranda. Abruptly, it got worse. “What is the date—today?”
“The seventh.”
“I thought so. You will not have heard. At dawn this morning—German infantry—attacked the Russian lines in Lithuania—along a ninety-kilometer front. The defenses were weak. Fourteen regiments—were pulled back from the line—yesterday night. They were packed in rail cars—to be transported south—to Cosmesti and the Roumanian—frontier.”
The words came rough and slow. “I tell you—there are crowds of German boys today—dazed and wandering the Elysian Fields. But there are twice—as many Russians. One hundred thousand men—surrendered without fighting. Among them was—Felipe Romanov, the tsar’s only son. Today the Reichstag met—in special session—to declare a celebration—in Berlin.”
There was nothing to say to this. Miranda found herself examining Ludu Rat-tooth’s hands, knotted into fists. The chains were tight around the leather cuffs. “Do not blame yourself,” the ghost continued. “The Russian generals—considered many pieces—of information. The letter you delivered—was just one. There were arguments—concerning authenticity.
“So you were not—the only person fooled. And yes, the cause goes back—to Kaposvar. The officer who planned this scheme—was Arslan Lubomyr—a friend of my old enemy—who holds your mother prisoner. Who sent the illness to America—that almost killed the Chevalier de Graz.”
What a relief, thought Miranda savagely, not to be the only person fooled! “How do you know these things?” she cried. “How do you know?”
“Rumors fly fast … among the dead.”
In a war, thought Miranda, they must spread very fast.
The air in the salt chamber was oppressive, though there must have been some draft from somewhere, because the flame trembled in the lamp. It shone on the black and mottled walls whose surfaces looked wet but were dry. Above Miranda the vault was hacked away in chunks.
Forward progress seemed to have stopped in that small room. She found she couldn’t look the creature in the face. The silence was intolerable. “So,” she murmured. “What should I do now?”
“Are you—asking me?”
Miranda said nothing.
“I want to know—child—because you have—rejected me before.”
After each phrase Mother Egypt took a swallow, then a hissing breath. “I want to know—child. I had a plan—that I had built—for many years. You were to bring me—out of death—and I would help you. Instead—you left me here—in pain. I had gifts for you—letters—you didn’t read. So are you—asking me?”
“I want to know what’s going to happen!” Miranda said. “I want to know what I am going to do.”
“I cannot—know the future.”
A new kind of oracle, thought Miranda bitterly. The future seemed to stretch out in front of her, trackless and empty. And the past, shredded and trackless, too.
Stanley had once told her when she was complaining about a history paper: “It’s the past that gives the world its shape.” Robbed of whole years, woken from a dream, was it any wonder she made such mistakes?
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Peter was my friend. I couldn’t let him die.”
She listened to the hiss and rattle. “Are you—asking me?”
“What?”
“Always there is—something—in you. Something to be—broken down. I remember when you were a—child. When was the last time—you asked me or anyone—for help?”
The light flickered in the glass chimney. Her aunt now made a low coughing sound, and it took Miranda a moment to realize she was laughing. The Gypsy’s head had fallen forward. “Child—I remember that—expression on your face—when you were—six years old. You were always—stubborn.”
“Then don’t ask me!”
“Say it again. Do you think—the white tyger—is just words? No, it is something—that you are. Or you become. Or you are not, without my—help.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” Miranda said after a pause.
“No one asks—child.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Miranda said. “I’m not a child. Why should I believe you? What are you saying? That I can’t be anything without your help?”
“I’m saying you must—offer me—an empty cup.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Miranda cried, indignant. “And I should trust you? What have you given me so far? A gun. Fine, thanks. A man is dead who never did me any harm.”
“You are the daughter—of a soldier.”
“A dead soldier. Anyway, I threw the gun into the water. I don’t need it.”
“No—you don’t. I did not mean for you to use it—as you have.”
Miranda looked into the girl’s face. She cou
ld almost see her aunt there, lurking behind the red, pimpled skin. The slitted eyes, high cheekbones, lumpy nose. The Gypsy’s eyes were shining in the light. They had a yellow tint. Her lips were pulled back, showing her sharp teeth.
The two candles in the doorway flickered and went out.
“You have—rejected everything—and ask why you have—nothing. But you must just—open your palm.”
Tears in her eyes, Miranda looked into her open hand. “Show it to the Gypsy girl,” whispered the ghost. “She reads fortunes. Not like me.”
Hesitantly, Miranda stepped forward.
“Show me!” said the ghost. Miranda reached out gingerly, expecting to be slapped. And in an instant she knew why: Rachel had never punished her like that. Stanley had never punished her. But her aunt sometimes had rapped her across the fingers after she’d asked her to stretch out her palm.
Miranda saw the strain in the girl’s body as she pulled against the leather restraints. The chains pulled from the wall in a sudden eruption of salt powder that burst into Miranda’s mouth and nose. The ghost was free. She threw her back against a corner of the wall, forcing her into the rock. The glass chimney of the lamp tottered and broke, and the flame went out, and they were in darkness.
Miranda felt herself pressed down into the gravel floor, her cheek against the floor. She felt the blood on her cheek, the stinging salt. The ghost’s voice was in her ear. Miranda recognized the hoarse, rough whisper of her dreams. “Say it now! Admit it! Stubborn child!”
Terrified, Miranda twisted her head and tried to scratch at the hands that held her down. She heard her aunt’s throaty laugh: “You cannot hurt me. Only a Gypsy girl who never did you—any harm.”
