by Alix Nichols
“It’s good to be back,” he said.
“I’ll pray to Saint Sara tomorrow that you never leave your family again.”
“Don’t waste your prayers on a losing battle. Pray for Nouna’s health instead.”
She gave him a disapproving look. “Of course I will. She’s waiting for you in the caravan, by the way.”
He turned to go to the family RV, but Levna grabbed his arm.
“Kes, I know you’re making good money and sharing it with your family, like a good son should, but . . . ”
“But what?” He knew what this was about—he endured the same conversation every time he visited.
“The way you live—it’s wrong, my son. It’s not the Gitan way. You’re soiling yourself.”
He sighed and stared at her. There was no point in arguing. He had tried more times than he could remember and had lost every one of those arguments. He’d quarreled with his parents, uncles, aunts, and other clan elders until they shouted themselves hoarse, until the campfire could no longer be revived, and until the rising sun took everyone by surprise.
But there was no convincing them that his choices were not so terrible. He’d gone away to live by himself among the unclean non-Gypsies—the gadje—and had broken a number of age-old traditions. He had refused several Gitan brides his parents had found for him, and he mingled with said gadje more than was strictly necessary.
The clan hadn’t banished him yet, but he had a feeling their “king” itched to do just that.
As he stepped into the caravan, he took a few moments to adjust to the dim light, in such contrast with the brightness outside. Nouna was in bed, propped up with large pillows and embroidering a piece of frilly cloth. He smiled. His grandmother wouldn’t be caught idling, which included reading and watching TV, even when she was ill.
“Ah, the black sheep has arrived,” she said, putting her work aside and stretching her arms toward him.
He sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her. She’d grown so small and frail, diminishing with his every visit. But her eyes were still bright, and her tongue was as sharp as ever.
He stroked her white hair. “How are you, Nouna?”
“Mitcho, my boy. Especially now that you’re here. I knew you’d come for Sara la Kali’s Festival.”
“I’ve never missed Saint Sara’s celebration.”
“And that may be the only thing standing between you and banishment.” She put her withered hand on his cheek.
“Come on, Nouna. They won’t throw me out. Banishment is for lying, cheating, and other crimes against the community. I have committed none.”
She sighed and pulled him to her narrow chest. “Come to your senses, racli, will you? Return to where you belong and take a wife. You’re my favorite grandchild, and I swear I’ll die the day you’re cast out.”
He drew back and tut-tutted. “This is pure blackmail.”
“Not at all. I saw it in the cards.” She grabbed his hand and clasped it to her chest. “And in my heart.”
Nouna had always had a penchant for drama.
Someone entered the caravan.
“Tata!” Kes stood to greet his father.
“We’ll need your assistance tomorrow.” Django Moreno patted his son’s cheek.
“I’ll be honored.” Kes hoped his father could see he meant it. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’ll be carrying Sara’s statue, so I won’t be able to help with channeling and controlling the crowd—”
“Hang on. Are you telling me the elders picked you to be one of the riders who carry Saint Sara into the sea?”
“That is correct,” Django said with visible pride. “Luckily, they turned a blind eye to your antics when considering my candidacy.”
Kes chose to ignore that comment. “Congrats, Tata, you’re moving up in the world.”
“Yes, well, what you need to focus on is that the mayor’s office expects fifty thousand pilgrims to show up tomorrow. We’ll have the usual crowd of Gitan and Manouche Gypsies but also lots of Roma from Eastern Europe. Many of them are participating for the first time, so you need to keep your eyes open.”
“Do we expect gadje tourists like last year?”
“More than last year. They mainly come for the party afterward, but many of them will also want to join the procession. One of your tasks is to discourage as many gadje as you can from entering the church.”
Kes nodded. “It gets hot enough in there as it is with all the worshippers and their candles.”
“Exactly.” Django bent to plant a kiss on his mother’s forehead and sat down next to her. “Go greet everyone else and then stay with Uncle Gino and help him with the last preparations.”
“Yes, Tata.”
Kes kissed his grandmother’s hand and sauntered out.
OK. He’d better get started. There were so many people to pay his respects to that he’d compiled a list on his phone and ticked the names off as he advanced from one caravan to the next. He was lucky the families tended to stick together, or else he’d need a GPS to locate his relations in the huge parking area.
Kes visited his clan every month, and yet the first day was always a challenge. In the gadje world, he was an adult who made his own decisions, took full responsibility for them, and answered to no one. But here, he was expected to obey his elders and execute their orders without discussion. He resented it with all his heart, even if he sometimes missed it out there in the gadje world—a world where he was alone with no one to celebrate with when he succeeded and no shoulder to cry on when he failed.
But tomorrow’s assignment wasn’t the usual, petty kind. Tomorrow, he’d be in charge of people’s safety, no less.
He prayed he wouldn’t screw up.
* * *
The next day, Kes stood guard by the entrance of the town’s medieval church as a group of men on white stallions carried Sara la Kali’s doll-like statue out and raised her high above their heads. His father was among them. Like the rest of the horsemen, he wore a black hat and carried a lance.
Saint Sara was dressed in so many layers of colorful robes that she almost disappeared under them. Only the top of her dark-skinned face peeked through her frilly collars.
Kes couldn’t help but smile. Staturewise, Sara la Kali was the opposite of Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the Redeemer, in both literal and figurative senses. The Vatican tolerated but didn’t officially recognize the Gypsies’ Black Madonna. Not that anyone in Kes’s fervently Catholic community gave a hoot.
She was their patron saint, their mother, and their protector. They flocked to this sleepy town in Camargue—a marshland south of Arles known for its pink flamingos—for the privilege of seeing and touching Sara la Kali.
The crowd chanted, “Vive Sainte Sara!” as they followed the statue down to the sea.
Kes and his fellow “shepherds” stayed on the fringes of the procession. They guided the masses, rounding up those who went astray and watching the teens whose eyes were on the tourists’ backpacks instead of Saint Sara.
As the horsemen reached the beach, they rode into the Mediterranean waters, holding the statue high. The crowd followed. Soon, the shallow coastal strip and the beach were black with ecstatic worshippers. Most of them asked Saint Sara for forgiveness or for help. Many thanked her for her kindness, and all found comfort in their communion with her.
As a child, Kes, too, had prayed and chanted all the way from the church to the sea. Then at sixteen, he stopped voicing his feelings for Saint Sara. It was the age when he began cultivating his devil-may-care persona who didn’t let anything too close to his heart. He shocked his family by declaring that treating an inanimate object as if it had a mind and godlike powers was irrational.
He never took those words back, no matter how many head slaps his irreverence earned him.
And yet, every year on May 24, the urge to talk to the Black Madonna overwhelmed him. Watching the little effigy float into the sea compelled him to tell her his secrets and
ask for advice.
Should I seek the gadji out, or should I try harder to forget her?
As if it were easy to forget that particular gadji.
It had been three weeks since the memorable weekend with Amanda in Deauville. Having gone through her purse while she showered, he knew her real name and her address. What he also knew—right from the horse’s mouth—was that she didn’t wish to go out with him. And yet, when he recalled how she looked at him, when he remembered the passion with which she kissed him, he knew she wanted him.
He’d also gathered enough from her social media accounts to know she wasn’t married or in a serious relationship. What if her rejection boiled down to dumb prejudice? If he could break through it, they’d have great fun together before he went off to Las Vegas in July.
He needed a sign, and Saint Sara was famous for providing those.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
He stared at the statue then at the sky. When he looked at Sara la Kali again, she didn’t move or even blink.
What did you expect, idiot?
An hour later, Saint Sara safely reentered the church’s crypt, and the crowd broke into small groups that played music and danced on every corner of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
Gitan men played their fiery guitars, and women danced flamenco puro. Hungarian Roma fiddled soul-wrenching tunes. But it was the crazy energy of the Balkan Gypsy brass bands that drew the biggest audiences.
Kes was listening to trumpeters from Serbia when a familiar female voice asked, “Hungry?”
He turned to face his elder sister. “Starving.”
“Follow me.”
Rosanna led him to the improvised table that was nothing more than boards and packing cases. On the table, yummy-smelling pots and a delicious-looking assortment of Spanish sausages and French cheeses were laid out.
Rosanna motioned to a folding chair. “Sit.”
“Where are the others?” Kes asked.
“Some are cleaning up the church; others, talking to the mayor. But I figured you’d faint if you went without food for another hour.”
He laughed. “I can handle myself. But since you’re offering so kindly . . .”
She put a paper plate and plastic tableware in front of him.
He picked up the plate and gave her a quizzical look.
Rosanna’s face contorted into a grimace that was half pity and half apology. “The elders have decided you’re too polluted to eat from the ceramic plates that the rest of the family uses. I’m sorry, Kes, but you’re to eat from disposables.”
“What the hell?”
“You’ve lived among the gadje for too long. You can’t be considered clean anymore.”
“Is that the real reason the others aren’t here to eat with me?”
“No! Really—no.”
His stomach clenched. “So the elders think I’m soiled. And I may be contagious, right?”
She smiled weakly.
“Do you think I’m contagious?” he asked.
“No. Well . . . I don’t know. The gadje don’t observe strict cleanliness rules, and you . . . you spend too much time with them.”
“Rosanna.” He paused, frustration pooling into a tight ball in his chest. “You’re thirty-five and the mother of three. You went to school for ten years—on and off, but still. You can’t seriously believe in this stuff.”
“She doesn’t,” a tattooed young man said, sitting down next to him.
Marco, thank God.
Kes smiled, relieved to see his first cousin, partner in childhood pranks, and best friend. Marco was the only person in the clan who got him. Even though his cousin’s own choices had always been more conformist than Kes’s—except maybe the tattoos—Marco always took his side and defended him tooth and nail.
“You may not believe it”—Marco gave him a wink—“but Rosanna’s recently made a gadji friend.”
Kes looked at his sister. “Is it true?”
She shrugged. “Well, yes. But it’s different. She’s a specialized nurse. She’s been coming over daily to help us heal the baby, and we sort of . . . became chummy.”
Kes tilted his head to the side. “And the Furies are OK with it?”
Rosanna looked around. “Please don’t call the Puri Council that. They might overhear, and then we’ll all be in trouble.”
“OK, OK.” Kes chuckled. “Let me rephrase my question: Is the Senior Gossip Squad fine with you having a gadji friend?”
“She’s very polite. She admires our music and our culture.” Rosanna placed a ceramic plate and silverware in front of Marco. “And she helped us make the baby stronger.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“He can hold his head up now, and his colic is gone. The Puri know it’s thanks to Charlotte.” Rosanna smiled. “We’ll baptize him in a few weeks, and you’ll finally be able to see your new nephew.”
“Good.” Kes winked at her. “I was beginning to wonder if he was real.”
“It’s to protect him from evil spirits, you idiot!” Rosanna’s heavy hand connected with the back of his head.
“Ouch. I hope you go easier on your kids, woman.” Kes rubbed his nape and smiled. “I was just kidding with you. Anyway, back to your chum. I can’t believe the Puri approve of your friendship.”
“They’re totally OK with it.”
“They’re more than OK,” Marco said. “They’re close to adopting her into the clan. I’ve heard them talk about proclaiming her some sort of honorary Gitane.”
“I forgot to tell you,” Rosanna sat down next to Kes and grabbed his hand. “Joseph will be back next week. You should stay for his homecoming party.”
Her eyes were bright with the joy of her husband’s imminent return from a seasonal job in neighboring Spain.
“He was gone for less than two months,” Kes said. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s the first time we’ve been apart in fourteen years,” Rosanna said. “It’s been super hard for both of us and the kids. So the next time those Spanish farmers want his help, it’s either the whole family—or even better, the whole clan—or nada.”
Kes shook his head in wonder. “You guys are still as taken with each other as when you eloped all those years ago.”
“I guess.” Rosanna grinned. “I went with my gut feeling at the time, even if Tata and Mama thought I deserved ‘better’ than Joseph.”
“Do you think I should do the same?” Kes surprised himself by asking. “Go with my gut feeling?”
“Is this about a girl?”
He nodded.
She grinned. “Absolutely, little bro.”
Well, if Rosanna’s words weren’t a sign from Saint Sara that he should pursue Amanda, then he didn’t know what was. If this entire conversation wasn’t a message from the Black Madonna, then she was no more than an oversize doll, and he, a superstitious halfwit.
Which he was not.
Therefore, it was a sign.
* * *
The woman on the other end of the phone interrupted Amanda’s well-practiced pitch. “Yes, your CV is very impressive. We’ve studied it carefully.”
“Then you must have noticed how I rose through the ranks thanks to my hard work and skills.”
“We have, indeed.” She cleared her throat. “The problem is you’re overqualified for this job.”
Of course she was. But she needed to work—and good positions were too few and far between. “Isn’t it a good bargain for you?”
“No.” The woman’s voice was firm now. “You’re ambitious and competent. You’ll expect to grow quickly, and when it doesn’t happen fast enough for your liking, you’ll get frustrated.”
“I can handle my frustrations.”
“Amanda—if I may—this is a junior position. You’re young, but you’ve already held managerial positions at ENS. This job is wrong for you . . . and you’re wrong for this job.”
Amanda bit her tongue to hold back the insult she would re
gret later and hung up. Imbeciles! They didn’t realize what an exceptional favor she was doing their shitty little firm by applying for that lowly analyst job. She was a top-level professional with a sterling record as regional project manager in Thailand, then regional sustainability manager for Asia, and then overall sustainability manager slated for policy and development manager.
An employer would have to be crazy to pass up someone like her for a job below her previous pay grade.
That a-hole Julien must have called everyone in the industry to blacklist her. She could find no other explanation for her failure to land a job—even a lower-grade one—for an entire month. With a CV like hers, she should have been snatched up within a week. And it wasn’t just her opinion. Every headhunter she’d talked to had said the same thing. A month ago, they all assured her she’d be back on track in no time.
Lately, they’d been more evasive, more inclined to talk about the economy that hadn’t picked up yet, the soaring unemployment rates, and the scarcity of managerial positions in energy and power. One even suggested Amanda might want to consider assistant jobs in another sector.
Ha! She’d rather sell her apartment and move in with Mom than give Julien the pleasure of telling everyone that upstart Amanda Roussel was finally where she belonged.
She pushed the phone away and began to pace the room. Her original plan for the afternoon had been to research five or six companies and submit applications, but it was getting late and she was exhausted. Not that she’d done much today besides making a few phone calls and writing cover letters. But she’d spent a month holed up in her little apartment, unwilling to see anyone who wasn’t a potential employer or go anywhere that wasn’t related to a job interview.
It had been a tough, lonely month . . . well, lonelier than usual. She hadn’t had any fun, and she’d hardly smiled in four weeks, except for that crazy weekend in Deauville, a.k.a. her one-night-plus-one-morning stand with Kes, the Gypsy gambler.
Amanda shook her head to drive the image away. That drunken casino trip had been the most stupid, reckless thing she’d done in her whole life.
