“No one expects you to do the show,” Simza said calmly. “Mr. Wainwright has told me that we are very welcome to do whatever we’d like, even if it is to stay in our rooms until we reach New Orleans.”
Nadyha said quietly, “I might just do that.”
Simza frowned and then asked, “Do you remember when that narkri bitti gajo hit Anca in the head with that bottle?”
Puzzled, Nadyha answered, “Of course.”
“And what did she do?”
“Do? She got angry.”
“Yes, she did. You see, she knew it was nothing that she had done to deserve that boy throwing things at her, and she got angry. She got angry, but she didn’t lash out at the boy. You’re like Anca, Nadyha. You’re strong, and you know yourself. You can be angry, but be angry at the sin; and you cannot make the man pay, for that judgment is for Dovvel Himself. So be angry, and sin not.”
Nadyha thought: Am I angry? I just feel sickened and weak. And I don’t care what Baba Simza says—I don’t even care what You say, God! I wish I could make that man pay!
The more she thought about their conversation, the angrier she grew; but the part about “sin not” escaped from Nadyha’s fevered mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Niçu and Mirella came to Nadyha’s stateroom at dawn, as usual. As they had their morning prayer Simza noted again with regret that Nadyha refused to say the prayer, merely standing with them and holding their hands, her head bowed.
When they finished, Niçu said, “It’s feeding day for Anca, Nadyha. I think I’ll take Boldo down too, walk him around a little. He likes it so much, everyone wants to feed him.”
“How are Tinar and Saz and Cayenne?” Nadyha asked. It was the first time she’d asked about the horses since the attack. “I miss them terribly.”
“They’re fine, they miss you too, Phei,” Niçu said affectionately as he herded Anca and Boldo out the door. “But you know that Gage and I take almost as good care of them as you do.”
Simza saw the longing in Nadyha’s eyes, and how she seemed a little restless this morning, roaming around the room, aimlessly plucking at the flowers and fingering the many notes she’d been sent, but not reading them. Simza followed Niçu out into the hall and said, “Tell Gage it’s time.”
He grinned at her. “You’re sure about this, Phuri Dae? I’ve never heard of a Wise Woman of the Gypsies to permit this kind of mahrime.”
“It’s not mahrime, if it was I wouldn’t allow it, and it’s in the Bible,” Simza retorted. “Now, get along with you. Oh, wonderful, now that the cat is leaving here comes the other one.”
Matchko strolled in, his tail held high, and started weaving in between Nadyha’s legs. “Matchko, you silly cat, where have you been?” she murmured, then picked him up and went to sit on her chaise on the deck. He settled down in her lap, paws tucked neatly beneath his chest, and started purring.
Mirella brought Nadyha a glass of juice and smiled down at the beat-up tomcat. “I think he’s had more adventures on the Queen than either Anca or Boldo.”
Matchko had pretty much made himself the mascot of the boat. He wandered at will, and nothing and no one could dissuade him from strolling nonchalantly into the Moravian Salon or the Bohemian Room. He always took part in the shows, in one scene or another. Most nights he stayed with Denny; when they had first boarded, Matchko had dashed out of Nadyha’s stateroom and nosed around until he’d found Denny in second class. He spent a lot of time down in the cargo hold, with Tinar and Saz. Most of the crew had been horrified the first time he came down there. They thought that cats were bad luck, especially black ones. But Matchko had caught two rats down in the hold, and the crew suddenly reversed their opinions, because they had been even more horrified to think that their Queen of the Mississippi River had rats.
“You’re getting fat,” Nadyha said, pinching Matchko’s big belly.
Mirella sat down by her. “Do you know what that narkri tomcat has done? He went down to third class and charmed those two gajis, you know, the ones that dress that way, that are so flirty? Yes, the lubni, I suppose they are, but you have to admit they’re more—more—refined than most of the ones we’ve seen.”
With interest Nadyha said, “Yes, I know, Susanna and Fanny. Gajes call them ‘ladies of the evening.’ What about them and Matchko?”
“Dennis told me that Matchko started following them around, and they got silly over him, like he’s a baby, or something. Susanna and Fanny have made friends with some of the cooks and the bakers, and they beg for cream for Matchko all the time. That’s why he’s getting so fat.”
“Dinili Matchko,” Nadyha said affectionately, scratching behind his one ear. Looking up, she watched the shores flying by; they were going downstream now and were traveling much faster. They were passing a particularly lovely forest, with deep secret glades and soaring oaks and elms and pines. “I wonder about women like them, what kind of lives they have? How can they be happy, how can they—do what they do?” Nadyha murmured, and had a small involuntary shudder of revulsion as she remembered so vividly Frank Yargee’s rough hands mauling her, his fetid breath and body odor, of the touch of the slimy cold knife steel on her cheek.
“I’ve wondered, too,” Mirella said. “Those two girls are so young, but there’s not a shred of innocence about them. It’s very sad.” She studied Nadyha for long moments, then continued quietly, “I’ve also thought about them a lot since that mokadi jook attacked you, Nadyha. What if he had raped Susanna or Fanny? I really don’t think anyone would have been so outraged as they have. Isn’t that very odd? We’ve always thought that gajes had nothing but disgust for us Gypsies. But so many of them have been so kind.”
Nadyha considered this. It was true, she had almost been dumbfounded by the kind attentions she had received since Yargee had attacked her. Would a gaje prostitute have received the same consideration? She didn’t really know, she didn’t understand gajes well enough.
Then a tiny, timid thought came up from her heart into her mind: Would God have sent Gage to save Susanna or Fanny? Maybe, maybe not . . . Deep down, Nadyha knew that the Lord had sent Gage down to the cargo hold. But she shied away from thinking about Gage Kennon. As she reflected so often now, she felt as if she were broken, bruised, tender, not in body but her mind and in her spirit.
Nadyha knew that Gage and Denny had moved into the stateroom on her left, and her gaze wandered to the open French door. It reached from the stateroom wall to the railing, blocking the view of the promenade next door, but Nadyha knew that Gage and Denny never opened their balcony doors. It was another example of the extremely sensitive respect they were showing for her privacy.
But Nadyha didn’t really want to think much about other people and their concerns right now. Her anger, and the slight resentment she’d been subject to for a long time, was turning into bitterness. Truth to tell, she didn’t care a bit about anyone but herself, though this particular tiny, timid thought never made it to the forefront of her mind.
In the stateroom Baba Simza had been preparing some fruit to add to their breakfast. A knock came on the door, and she promptly went to answer it, as she always did now. To her shock, Mrs. St. Amant, in all her glory, stood in the hallway. When Simza opened the door, the lady took a step backwards, and made a small, graceful gesture to signal Simza to step outside.
Ynes St. Amant was three-fourths Spanish, one-fourth French, considered an extremely aristocratic Creole mixture. She was a tall woman, five feet ten inches, with a flawless olive complexion and heavy-lidded dark eyes. Her hair was shining ebony black, thick and luxuriant. On this morning she was wearing what was called a “walking dress,” or “promenade costume.” It was a deep moss green Basque jacket, trimmed with black satin frogs and jet buttons. Expensive Austrian lace peeped out at her collar and cuffs. Her skirt was of yellow, blue, and green plaid taffeta, and the width of the skirt nearly filled the hallway. From a matching moss green satin reticule she took two small white cards and held them out to Simza, wh
o took them slowly. She read, in gold gilt script: Mrs. Toussaint St. Amant, 12 Dauphine Street.
Mrs. St. Amant said in her well-bred, slightly French-accented voice, “Madame, I must beg your pardon for my presumption, intruding on you in this manner. But I am very anxious to make your acquaintance, and that of your family. I am Mrs. Toussaint St. Amant. Of course, I am aware of your stage names, but I haven’t had the privilege of learning your proper names?” she finished delicately.
With growing wonder, and sly amusement, Simza replied, “Gypsies have Christian names, Mrs. St. Amant, but by long tradition we keep them secret from non-Romany people. You may call me Simza.”
“Oh, I—I see,” she said uncertainly. It took a lot to make Mrs. St. Amant stammer. “Then—then please call me Ynes.” She cleared her throat and began again, obviously a prepared speech. “Simza, my husband and I were appalled to hear about the unfortunate incident. I understand that you all are in seclusion, and again I must beg your pardon for intruding, but I knew that I must call on you and let you know personally how very much I regret what’s happened.”
Simza simply asked, “Why?”
“Because good people should not be silent in the face of evil,” she said vehemently, then added in a more hesitant tone, “And because I—I realized that I, personally, should not think myself above this . . . above you, any of you. Will you accept my most heartfelt and sincere apologies, and please communicate to your family my sentiments?” she finished in a rush.
“Hai, I will do that,” Simza said. After a long moment in which she could see that the woman was still struggling, Simza said softly, “We forgive you.”
Ynes St. Amant’s eyes filled with tears, and fumbling a little, she took a handkerchief out of her reticule and quickly dabbed them away. “Thank you. Before I release you, Simza, there is one more thing I would like to tell you. My husband and I are patrones of the French Opera House. We believe that you all are so gifted, so talented, and such strong performers that you should consider the stage. Please talk to Nadyha and your family about it.
“Also, I would like to extend you all an invitation to call on me, at your earliest convenience. My at-home days are Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I will always be at home for you. Usually Fridays are family days, but if you should call on Friday, I shall be at home then too.”
Simza was puzzled; and there was no guile in her. “I don’t understand. You don’t live at your home every day? You only live there on Tuesdays and Thursdays and sometimes Fridays?”
Mrs. St. Amant looked taken aback, but then she smiled wryly. “No, Simza, that is the conventional way of letting people know when you receive visitors. And I hate to admit it, but sometimes I am ‘at home,’ but then I tell my butler to tell some people that I am ‘not at home’. This is a very common circumstance, but I think I’m seeing that you probably would not excuse me for it. Anyway, all I was trying to say is that whenever you call, I will be so glad to receive you.” And then Ynes St. Amant did something she had never done before. She held out both of her hands to Simza.
Simza clasped them warmly. “Thank you for explaining it, Ynes,” she said lightly. “It would not have been good for us to call when you were not at-home. Gaje things like that, we don’t know.”
“Maybe not, and that may not be a bad thing at all. I’ll take my leave of you now, Simza. Thank you for allowing me to speak with you, and explain to you . . . and apologize to you.”
“Go with miry deary Dovvel,” Simza said, and went back into the stateroom, closing the door behind her, and leaning against it to stare down at the cards she held. Nadyha and Mirella were still sitting out on the deck. Nadyha turned to see her, and called out, “Who was that?”
Shaking her head, Simza joined them and related what had just happened. Even Nadyha laughed when Simza told about her confusion at Ynes’s being “at-home.” “All my life I’ve thought gajes were crazy,” she grumbled. “Then, no! Miry deary Dovvel says I mustn’t think that. Still, I wonder . . .”
“I can’t believe that she apologized,” Mirella said thoughtfully. “I thought she was the haughtiest, most arrogant person I had ever seen.”
“Maybe she was, and maybe she still will be, who knows?” Simza said. “But you must see, God can take a bad thing, a very bad thing, and turn it to good? I think the only reason this proud gaji ever thought twice about her behavior was because of what happened, Nadyha.”
“Yes, but the bad thing happened to me,” she said fiercely. “And no good can ever come of it for me.”
Simza started to answer, but just then another knock came on the door. Nadyha complained, “I really wish people would leave me alone.”
Rising, Simza said, “No, you don’t,” and went to answer the door. This time it was what she expected. A basket was set on the floor in front of the door, with no sign of anyone in the hallway. Looking down at it, Simza sighed heavily and thought, If I don’t watch out I’m going to turn into a stupid old gaje woman!
This time Nadyha and Mirella had watched her, and now they came to see who was at the door. Nadyha’s eyes grew wide, and she cried loudly, “Puppies! Puppies! Oh, oh, aren’t they just beautiful, just darling!” Instantly she picked up the basket and set it on her bed. Inside were two chubby round balls of fur. One of them was quite a bit larger than the other, about eight pounds, with black and tan markings. The other smaller one was a lovely golden color with white markings. Both of them had long sharp noses and feather-soft ears that prettily flopped over at the tips. The big one had a yellow satin ribbon around his neck, and the smaller one had a green ribbon, and to it was attached a folded note.
Slowly Nadyha opened it and read: From an admirer who wishes you the best of all things. I pray you will know God’s comfort, His watchcare over you, and above all, His love.
Tears filled Nadyha’s eyes and she bowed her head. In a muffled voice she said, “Baba Simza, please go tell Gage that I said thank you.”
Matchko jumped up on the bed to look in the basket. Flattening his one ear, he hissed a little, then jumped off the bed and scampered out the door behind Simza. Nadyha laughed and picked up first one puppy, then the other, to feel of them, to let them lick her face, to smell their warm sweet-puppy scent.
Simza came back in, grumbling. “He says you are welcome, and I say that you should be thanking me. I’m the one who has to now, besides all the other narkri beasts around here, put up with two little jooks.”
“They’re not narkri. Besides, dogs are in the Bible,” Nadyha said, her eyes now sparkling. “There be three things which go well—”
“Those things are not greyhounds which are comely in going,” Simza retorted. But she was filled with joy to see simple delight shining on Nadyha’s face, and reflected that even those two silly dogs were well worth it.
NADYHA WAS SO ENCHANTED with the puppies that she forgot all about the last few dark days. She played and played with them. Niçu brought Boldo back, and the breakfast cart. Nadyha “introduced” Boldo to the puppies, and they immediately seemed to fall in love with him. They climbed all over him, licked his nose, batted at his paws. Nadyha laughed and laughed at their antics, and at Boldo’s long-suffering expression.
All morning she had so much fun with the puppies that she hadn’t a care in the world. At about lunchtime she suddenly said, “Baba Simza? Would you mind going to see if you can find Gage? Maybe he’d like to have luncheon with us.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit, it’s about time,” she huffed, heading to the door. Nadyha said, “And, too, I’d like it if Cara could come see me, after luncheon. I’m sure you can find a porter to take her a message.”
“Yes, Madame Queen of the Gypsies,” Simza said sarcastically, while secretly rejoicing.
Gage came into Nadyha’s stateroom in about two seconds. He looked relieved, happy, and wary. “Hi. So, do you like my gift?” he asked casually.
“You know I do!” she said. “Come, sit with us, tell me about them.” She was sitting cross-
legged on the floor, playing with the puppies.
Gage joined her, and the poignance of the two of them, sitting down with some pet between them, swept over him. Watching the playful little dogs, he couldn’t help but grin. “These are called rough collies. They’re herding dogs, but they also make good house pets.
“When we were on the way to St. Louis,” he continued discreetly, “I told Denny that I wanted to get a couple of puppies for you, and I asked him if we might be able to find some, young puppies but already weaned. Of course he and his family know everyone in St. Louis—or maybe Missouri—and he knew Mr. Cyril Hull, of Hull’s Dairy, which seems like a big to-do dairy farm and business. For years Mr. Hull has been using rough collies as their farm dogs, because they’re such good shepherds and watchdogs, and he breeds them. It just happened that he had an eight-week-old litter, and I got you the biggest one, and the runt.”
“Runt? What is runt?” Nadya demanded.
“It means small, stunted. With puppies it just means the smallest of the litter.”
“Mm. He is small, isn’t he?” Then she laughed, and Gage thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his life. “Like this other is big! They’re both just—just—darlings!” She lifted them both up and kissed them both soundly, right on the mouth.
“Better not let Baba Simza see you do that,” Gage sighed. “I got a feeling she might rinse your mouth out with carbolic soap, and she’d probably do mine too, just to make me pay.”
Mischievously Nadyha said, “I can’t believe you talked her into letting me have dogs. She’s always said she draws the last line at dogs in the camp.”
“Ah, it’s my famous charm, none of the ladies can resist it,” Gage joked, and immediately regretted it when he saw a shadow cross Nadyha’s face. But then she went on talking about the dogs, and how she was having trouble thinking of names for them.
Gage thought, It’s not her . . . it’s not Nadyha. Not the Nadyha I know. This girl is cold, and hard . . . Nadyha was always so warm, glowing, so fiery . . . is all that gone forever? Oh, Lord, I pray not!
The River Palace: A Water Wheel Novel #3 Page 28
