But a few moments later she saw that one ragged, skinny little boy, hauling a patched canvas bag that seemed much too big and heavy for him, had come over to stare at Boldo. This boy was particularly noticeable because he was so still. The young beggar boys Nadyha had observed that hung around were rowdy, loud, and always scampering around, probably trying to pick pockets. This boy just stood there, his face completely hidden by his big wide-brimmed floppy hat, motionless.
Nadyha kept curiously glancing at him as she told one woman about the benefits of fennel. “It makes a delicious licorice-flavored tea, and is especially good for ladies, madame, comprendez-vous? It’s also is good for the aching joints, the back strain—”
The boy had crumpled to the ground. It was like watching a vase thrown out of a second-story window, just down and bang, all a heap. In a second Gage was kneeling beside him. He bent—jerked—closer, leaning over the boy. Then he gathered him up in his arms as if he were weightless and went to bend over and whisper in Baba Simza’s ear. Simza looked startled, then said something to Gage. Without hesitation Gage went to Mirella’s and Niçu’s wagon, mounted the steps, ducked under the door, and disappeared inside the wagon with the boy in his arms.
Nadyha’s eyes opened wide with outrage and she planted her fists on her hips. Leaving the woman standing there she marched over to Simza and demanded in Romany, “What is all this?”
“I’ll explain later. It’s nothing you have to worry about,” Simza answered placidly, continuing to weave on her table loom.
“What? A gaje is taking a dirty little gaje boy into one of our vardos, and I don’t have anything to worry about?”
“Not exactly,” Baba Simza said with some amusement. “Get back to work, Nadyha, people are trying to give us money and I want you to take it.”
Nadyha stalked over to Niçu and Mirella, who were both talking to customers, but she interrupted. “Did you see that? Did you see Gage taking that dirty little boy into your vardo?”
“Yes, yes, Nadyha,” Niçu said with a touch of impatience. “And I also saw Baba Simza telling Gage to do it.” Mirella just shrugged and they both turned back to their customers.
With exasperation Nadyha returned to her Creole lady, who was now staring at her with impatience. But she had waited, Nadyha noted. As she began explaining about fennel again, in the back of her mind she was thinking, Stupid gaje! What does he think he’s going to do, save the world?
And somewhere from the back of her mind came a small, tiny voice, Maybe not the world . . . maybe he saves just one person at a time . . .
Circling the campfire with Anca, Nadyha quoted in her throaty voice:
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of they heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Anca swung her paw, missing Nadyha’s face by a mere inch, and roared, a deafening, savage, fearful sound.
It was long seconds before the utter silence of the crowd surrounding the Gypsy Pavilion was broken. Then they started cheering, whistling, applauding, and shouting, “Bravo, bravo Nadyha, Anca!” Nadyha smiled and nodded, then knelt to throw her arms around Anca, who simply watched them with her mysterious Tyger gaze.
DENNY ELBOWED UNCLE ZEKE in the rounded paunch so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him. “See! See! Didn’t I tell you! What did I tell you!”
Zedekiah Wainwright stuck a fat cigar in his mouth and joined in applauding, grinning widely. “Yeah, you told me, and I didn’t believe it, but now I do. But you really think you can tame that Gypsy woman? After all, she’s not like the performing bear.”
Denny shook his head. “No one’s ever going to tame Nadyha. But I’ll bet you she’ll do it. Didn’t you see her, didn’t you hear her? She’s a natural, and she loves it. Oh, yeah, we’ll get her all right. ’Cause she’s like Anca. No one, and no amount of money, could make her do it. She’ll do it because she wants to. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER TEN
When Denny had hopped on Cayenne and took off, he went straight to the St. Louis Hotel. Before the war, the luxurious hotel had been the centerpiece of Creole High Society, with its lavish banquets and balls, and the best Mardi Gras balls were always given at the St. Louis. During the war it had been transformed into a hospital, and Denny knew that it was still occupied by some wounded who hadn’t yet returned home, and that some soldiers were still quartered there. However, he also knew Uncle Zeke, and he knew that he had made friends with Nathaniel Banks, the Military Governor, and had wrangled a suite at the hotel when he was in town.
He threw Cayenne’s reins to a red-jacketed stableman and went into the entrance hall, an enormous rotunda with a vaulted ceiling, and up the elaborate flying staircase. Milling all around were Union soldiers and mostly black hall porters. Wryly he thought that before the Great War, he would have been swarmed by the concierge, maitre des hotels, and porters, trying to enter the luxurious hotel dressed the way he was, in plain black trousers, white shirt with no waistcoat, and cheap brogans. Now no one gave him a second look.
He went up to the second floor and down an endless corridor that led to two huge double doors; it had been named the Duc d’Orleans Suite, for that august personage had stayed there in the 1840s. Banging on the door, he called out, “Uncle Zeke! You in there? Let me in, it’s Denny!”
The double doors were yanked open wide, and his uncle nearly smothered him with a bear hug. “Denny, we’ve been worried to death! Where the devil have you been? I thought we were supposed to pick you up in Natchez a month ago!”
Zedekiah Wainwright held Denny at arm’s length and looked him up and down. He was a robust, burly man with a big chest and paunch; thick, curly brown hair shot through with silver; long, thick sideburns that were all the current rage; pleasant features that could turn hawkish in a moment; sharp brown eyes; and a rumbling boom of a voice. His clothing was somewhat a contrast to his workmen’s build and bluff manner, for he dressed expensively and finely. His suit was of tan broadcloth, perfectly tailored to fit him, and he had a thick, gold watch chain suspended from his vest. Sticking a much-chewed cigar in his mouth he said, “What happened to you? You look like a street beggar!”
“Long story,” Denny said. “Can I come in, even dressed like this?”
“Of course, boy, come on in. You look like you could use a brandy. And a tailor. Here’s Denny, Hervey. Bring us a couple of brandies.”
The sitting room of the suite was as elegant as a drawing room in a great house, with velvet-cushioned furniture and draperies and furniture of walnut and cherry. Denny collapsed onto an uncomfortable Louis XVI sofa and accepted the crystal snifter from the servant gratefully. “Thanks, Hervey. You’re looking well. Uncle Zeke hasn’t completely driven you lunatic yet, I guess.”
“No, sir. We’re glad to see you, sir,” Hervey said. He was a black man of average size and frame, the only things noticeable about him were his large, intelligent eyes and utterly expressionless poker face.
“So, what happened?” Wainwright insisted. “Where ha
ve you been?”
“First things first,” Denny said firmly. “How’s our lady?”
Wainwright sat back and puffed on his cigar until the end glowed like an inferno. “The Queen of Bohemia is now the finest steamer on the Mississippi River, Denny. She’s already been making us a boatload of money, and it’s only going to get better now that this war nonsense is over.”
Denny took a sip of the smooth old brandy. “That’s good news. Er—to put it mildly, I’m a little short right now. I saw her, she looks great. And Uncle Zeke, when I tell you the plans I’ve got for her, you’re going to make even more money, and then you can increase my allowance,” he said brightly.
“Is that right?” Wainwright said, his eyes glinting. “Since when do you know the first thing about the business end of a riverboat?”
“Since I met the Gypsies,” Denny replied with a grin.
DENNY HAD SHOWN UP at the Gypsy Pavilion the next day, all clean and polished and wearing a suit that would have cost Gage a month’s wages before the war. Gage had been astounded to find out that Captain Dennis Wainwright, the bluebelly beggar he’d picked up outside of Natchez, was in fact a rich man. Reflecting on it, Gage thought maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised; Denny had that certain air of self-sufficiency and confidence that wealthy people usually had. The thing that had thrown Gage was that Denny had suffered the hardships of the last several weeks without complaint. Gage knew that Denny’s experience as a captain in the Union Army had never included a field command, in fact he’d only been in close proximity to one battle, at First Bull Run, so he knew nothing about the difficulties of living a soldier’s life. Denny’s behavior, both to Gage and the Gypsies, had never shown the least hint of snobbery or irritation at his lot. Gage’s respect for Denny had gone up a couple of notches.
“I owe you, Gage,” Denny had said, taking a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Please accept this as a token of my gratitude.”
Gage had frowned. “I didn’t help you for money. I didn’t even do it for your gratitude, Billy Yank.”
“I know. But I also know that you don’t have any money, and that a lot of what little you had you spent on me. Take it, Gage. If you don’t, you’ll commit the sin of pride, and I’ll tell Baba Simza.”
Gage took it.
Aside from wondering about his friend’s apparent wealthy status, Gage couldn’t stop wondering about Denny’s insistence on giving Nadyha the poem by William Blake and getting her to recite it that night. What in the world was that all about? Denny had been very mysterious about the whole thing. Gage watched Nadyha as she almost danced around, selling her wares and talking eagerly to customers. That was all show for the gajes, he knew. But their song and dance and even Nadyha’s interactions with Anca, was Gypsy, for themselves. He couldn’t believe she had consented to perform as Denny asked.
Sitting unobtrusively on the steps of Nadyha’s wagon, he saw the thin, dirty boy and noticed, as Nadyha did, that he was behaving oddly for a street beggar. The boy’s face was half-hidden by his floppy hat so Gage couldn’t see his face. He wished he could; there was something oddly compelling about the small forlorn figure, and Gage would have liked to have observed him closer. That was when he crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.
In seconds Gage was kneeling at his side. Bending over him, he finally saw the face, and stiffened with shock. Quickly he scooped Cara Cogbill up in his arms and went to whisper in Baba Simza’s ear, “This is a lady, Baba Simza. Can I take her into one of the wagons?”
Simza’s eyebrows shot up, but she recovered quickly. “Not Nadyha’s, she’d be angry. Take her into Niçu’s vardo.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gage said.
Niçu’s and Mirella’s wagon was much like Baba Simza’s, only the bed was bigger. Sighing, Gage thought that this girl was going to get their coverlet dirty, for not only was her face and clothing stained with honest dirt, she was literally covered in coal dust. But it couldn’t be helped, and Gage thought privately that Nadyha was probably going to pitch an even bigger fit when she saw the coverlet, even though it wasn’t hers. Gently Gage laid the girl down on the bed and took off her hat. A glorious tumble of blonde hair—clean hair, Gage noted—spread out on the pillow.
He studied her face. She was very pretty, with delicate china doll features that wouldn’t have fooled anyone into thinking she was a boy, once they saw her full on, regardless of dirt and coal dust. Gage poured some water into a washbasin and began to sponge her face. Underneath the grime she was paper-white, and her lips had no color. He kept sponging her face, her neck, and he took off the bizarre gloves and bathed her little-girl hands. In spite of the heat of the day, her skin felt cool and clammy. She didn’t stir, her eyelids didn’t flutter, and no color returned to her face or mouth. Gage got anxious, and wondered about a thing he’d heard of called smelling salts. Would that be the thing to do? Did the Gypsies have such a thing? He didn’t know, so he went back outside.
Going to Baba Simza, he told her, “She looks about half-dead to me. I don’t know what to do. Will you help me, ma’am?”
She cracked a leathery smile up at him. “Help you? That’s an interesting choice of words, but I’m not really surprised. Here, carry me in there.”
Gage carried her into the vardo and sat her on a chair right by the bed. Simza said, “What a pretty child.” She bent over her, placing her hand on Cara’s chest and bending over her with her cheek close to Cara’s nose to gauge her breathing. It was quick and shallow. “I’m going to need some things. Get Nadyha.”
“Uh—not Mirella?” Gage asked, half-pleading.
“No, Nadyha and I are the drabengri. It’ll be good for her.” Slyly she looked up at Gage. “You’re good for her.”
“Huh? But—oh, never mind, I’ll go ask her and hope she doesn’t set Anca on me.”
He went outside and waited until Nadyha had sold half a dozen palmetto fans to a lady. Then quietly he said, “Nadyha, that boy that fainted isn’t a boy. She’s a lady, and it seems like she’s really ill. Baba Simza asked if you would come help.”
Her face darkened. “We’re busy here, Gage. How are we supposed to sell all of our goods if we’re all tending to one of your gaje strays?”
“Uh—I’ll sell. I’ll try, anyway.”
Nadyha rolled her eyes. “You don’t know a gaje shawl from a Gypsy diklo. Try not to give away stuff with that tender little heart of yours.” She stalked into Niçu’s vardo.
A finely-dressed lady that looked like a mostly Spanish Creole was fingering a bright shawl contemplatively. Gage sidled up to stand in front of the table. “Hello, ma’am,” he said.
The woman looked up and her eyes narrowed. “And who are you, sir?” she asked frigidly.
Gage sighed. “I’m just a dumb gaje, ma’am. But that shawl sure would look pretty on you. And it’s only three dollars.”
BABA SIMZA AND NADYHA did in fact have sal volatile, and when they waved it under Cara’s nose she stirred, then woke up with a start. Her blue eyes widened with consternation as she looked around the vardo, then at Baba Simza sitting by her and Nadyha standing by the bed staring down at her with her lips curled. “Wh—where am I? What happened?” Cara asked weakly, then coughed.
Simza lifted her head and gave her a drink of cool water. “Shh, shh, be still, bitti gaje. We are Gypsies, and you’re in one of our vardos, our living wagons,” Baba Simza said soothingly. “You fainted, whish, gone. It’s the heat, and I think you haven’t eaten in a while, hai?”
Cara looked confused. “I—I don’t remember.” She put one white hand up to rub her forehead, then said, startled, “Oh, no. You—you know I’m a girl.”
“Yes, we noticed that,” Nadyha said dryly. “Don’t worry about it just now. Drink small sips of the water. I’m going to fix you a good tea and some broth. I think you’ll be fine after you get cool and eat something.”
Nadyha left and Cara looked at Baba Simza with trepidation. “What—what are you going to do
?”
“Do? Do you mean, am I going to do something to you, or with you, that you don’t like? No. Don’t be afraid, you’re safe here. I’m a drabengri, a Gypsy medicine woman, and I know all about what’s wrong with you. You feel the stomach roll, the head is pounding, you feel hot on the inside and prickly on the outside. You need to drink water, the tea, the broth, then eat. But for now just rest.”
Cara relaxed a little, though her eyes were still darting around, trying to take everything in. When Nadyha returned with green China tea and offered it to her, she shrank a little. The young woman didn’t seem to be nearly as sympathetic as the older woman. But now Nadyha spoke politely, though with distinct coolness. “Here, I’ll hold your head, I know you’re very weak. But it’ll pass quickly.”
Simza and Nadyha removed Cara’s heavy jacket and shoes. Cara was so weak she couldn’t even sit up for them to take off her coat. Nadyha asked, “Have you been ill? Is there anything wrong with you?”
“No, I’m usually very strong, and I haven’t been ill in—in—a long time. Until today, I mean.”
“Then you should be just fine in about an hour,” Nadyha said briskly.
She rose and in Romany said, “An hour, that’s all, Baba Simza. Then she goes.”
“We shall see,” Simza said calmly. “Now, go get Gage and tell him to come get me. I need to get back out and sell, and so do you, Nadyha. Just about everyone that comes here wants to see you and Anca and Boldo. Gage can sit with her.”
The River Palace: A Water Wheel Novel #3 Page 18
