Gloria doesn’t say anything, and for a long time we listen to the stream that flows in the darkness. Stars appear between the tree branches. I have a bitter taste of wild berries in my mouth, and my thoughts wander.
“In my opinion, Zemzem has become someone very important,” I declare. “That’s why he talked on TV. Only important people are shown on TV, right?”
“I don’t know,” Gloria whispers. “I don’t know.…”
Her voice falters like a candle in a draft. It’s obvious that tonight Gloria doesn’t have the energy to tell me my story. I close my eyes. In order to be less afraid of the darkness and the unknown, I call on my ghosts: Vassili and his huge mustache; Fotia and Oleg, with their athletic shoulders; Anatoly, who squints behind the thickness of his glasses; Iefrem, whose hair is curlier than a lamb’s; Dobromir, with his angelic smile; and Liuba, who sings with feeling. In my dreams they make a radiant family, a protective circle that surrounds me. They will always be with me wherever I go. Zemzem, too, shrouded in mystery and wearing his combat uniform.
I take Gloria’s hand and try to sleep, even though my stomach aches because of the unripe wild berries.
chapter twenty-eight
WHEN we reach Romania, Gloria has totally lost her stoutness. She has coughing fits that scare me stiff. No matter how often she tells me that she is as sturdy as the trees, I don’t believe her. But I don’t know how to say “Iamsickandineedadoctor” in Romanian. Besides, we have no money left for medicine.
So while she rests on a bench, I decide to go to work as we did at Kopeckochka. I go to an open market and sit on the ground in the square. I extend my hand.
Even before I get a first coin, a group of children surround me. We don’t speak the same language, but insults need no translation. They tell me to scram, that this isn’t my turf. One of them—the leader of the gang—wears a hoop earring and bracelets. He shoves me. When I straighten up, I think of Emil and Abdelmalik: “If you don’t fight, you’re dead!” Quickly I get to my feet and swing from one foot to the other, fists raised to the level of my face. Whoosh! A blow in the air. And thwack! A kick! I move and dodge. And I send an unstoppable uppercut into Hoop Earring’s face.
The circle widens. Hoop Earring is on the ground. His nose is bleeding, and I’m sure that he’s going to make me pay for that. I get ready to take on whatever comes next, but instead of rushing at me, Hoop Earring starts to laugh.
He laughs so hard as he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his sweater that the others start to imitate him. I don’t get it. And then Hoop Earring gives me a thumbs-up—which means “bravo”—and asks me my name.
“Koumaïl,” I say, still wary.
Hoop Earring motions for me to follow him, but I point toward Gloria, who has fallen asleep on the bench.
“Mama?” he says, raising his eyebrows.
I nod.
Hoop Earring pauses, then smiles. With his hands he gestures as if he’s eating and says, “OK!” It seems that I have a new friend, and I rush to wake up Gloria.
This is how we arrive at the Gypsy camp.
chapter twenty-nine
THE Gypsy camp is a large gathering of caravans set in the curve of a river, not far from a concrete factory that reminds me of the one at Souma-Soula. There are dogs, pigs, chickens, dented cars, tangled-up electrical wires, and laundry drying on lines between the trees. Kids are running around, and women are chatting as they braid baskets. It’s clear that people here know how to deal with the hazards of life.
The patriarch of the camp is named Babik. He is a wise man, with a black hat and tattoos on his arms. He has traveled a lot since he was born and speaks every language in the world, better than an encyclopedia.
He invites us into his caravan with Hoop Earring, and we sit on a bench. For a while Babik watches us without saying a word. He screws up his eyes, especially when Gloria coughs, and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Just to do something, I show him our passports. That makes him laugh.
“Passports are good for administrations! Put them away!” he says. “I’m only interested in hearing your soul.”
“Hearing my soul?”
“Precisely.”
“But … how?”
Babik folds his tattooed arms. “Can you sing?” he asks.
Pitifully, I shake my head.
“Can you play music?”
I tell him about Fatima’s violin lessons and my sad squeak-squeak that irritates the ears.
“Well …,” Babik sighs. “Can you tell stories?”
I smile. “Yes, that I can do!”
“Fine, I’m listening,” he says.
With a patriarch like Babik, it’s useless to lie. So I tell the truth about me, about Gloria, Jeanne Fortune, and the train accident. I tell him about the militia, the bell under the canopy, Abdelmalik’s death, the war, the poisoned waters of the lake, the glass dust that lines the lungs deep down; I talk about each of the stopping places of our journey, from the Psezkaya River up to the village square where I hit Hoop Earring on the nose, and also about each person that I’ve met, loved, and lost. The list is long, and my story lasts a good while, but Babik doesn’t interrupt me even once.
“Your soul is beautiful, Koumaïl,” he says when I finish. “It is brave and as refreshing as dew. But Gloria’s is fragile and worn out. She needs to rest.”
He turns to Hoop Earring and gives him instructions in Gypsy dialect. Then he looks at me and adds, “You will both sleep in Nouka’s caravan. You’ll remain under my protection for as long as necessary.”
Gloria is too tired even to smile, but I can feel that she is relieved. I thank Babik a million times, and Hoop Earring takes us to Nouka’s caravan, at the back of the camp, under a weeping willow.
Nouka is a small woman, neither old nor young, with red hair sticking out of a scarf. She installs Gloria on a worn velvet sofa covered with cat hair.
Nouka’s hands are decorated with painted swirls. She speaks Russian as well as Babik does. She was his wife in the past, but not anymore. She is nobody’s wife now because she is free.
Nouka also speaks the language of trees, clouds, insects, and earth. Nothing is foreign to her. Not even the secrets that are haunting our minds. I don’t have to explain anything about Gloria’s soul. She puts her hands on Gloria’s forehead, on her throat, and on her chest.
After a while she tells us, “Get out, children. I must take care of this woman.”
In my life I have been lucky several times. It’s particularly true on that day, in Nouka’s caravan under the willow. Because if I hadn’t learned to box with Abdelmalik, I wouldn’t have punched Hoop Earring’s nose, and we wouldn’t have met Nouka, and I’m certain that Gloria would have died.
And if Gloria had died, the truth is that I would have let myself die by her side.
chapter thirty
IN the Gypsy camp life is a lot like it was in the Complex. There are drafts, we make heat with whatever is at hand, women do the laundry in large vats, we’re wary of the police and of the river cresting. But more than anything, I can play like a child again.
My best friend is Hoop Earring, but there is also Angelo, Titi, Sara, Panch, and Nanosh. Thanks to them, I learn how to fish, to set rabbit traps, to dance, to sing, and to speak Romany. I discover the best places to beg and how to climb the factory wall to lift cement bags, which we give to Babik for the needs of the community.
At night the men make a huge fire. They take their accordions, their guitars, their violins, and they play for hours, like shadows in front of the flames. I listen to them, seated on the ground, as still as a stone. This music makes me wish I could live and die at the same time. Like the hook of a fishing rod, it pulls my heart out of my chest.
“Are you crying?” Hoop Earring asks me.
“No, of course not!” I say as I wipe my tears.
At night in Nouka’s caravan, everything is quiet. I sleep in a small corner with the old cat, who shares his fleas with me. During that time Gloria lies on the velve
t sofa and fights against illness.
Nouka knows remedies for Gloria’s illness. She gathers plants in the woods that she boils in a pot; the smell reminds me of the time when Suki and Maya were taking care of me. If I recovered, Gloria can too, I believe.
“Rest your soul,” I tell her. “Get stronger! Don’t worry about me. I’m happy here. Babik is a good patriarch.”
She smiles with her eyes.
She can hardly talk.
Sometimes she grabs me by the hand and hugs me.
chapter thirty-one
SUMMER comes. I bathe in the river, and Hoop Earring teaches me to dive. We splash the girls; they scream like a flock of frightened birds. I swim underwater until I grow short of oxygen.
I am not afraid to die.
Sometimes Hoop Earring tells me to shush and we tiptoe up to the reeds, above the flat rocks where the girls lie down to sunbathe. We stay there, hidden, like hunters, and when we are lucky, one of the girls removes the top of her swimsuit.
When we go back to the caravans, I feel strange and Hoop Earring doesn’t say a word.
One day in August a child is born in the community, and it’s a very moving moment for all of us. In total silence Nouka approaches the cradle where the baby is sleeping. She looks at the palm of his minuscule hand. Then, in a strong voice, she makes a prediction.
“The future is beautiful!” she says. “This child will live one hundred years!”
Shouts of joy burst out, and we dance until dawn to celebrate the event.
The next day I ask Nouka to look at Gloria’s palm. Nouka bends down, studies Gloria’s hand, and whispers something in Gloria’s ear.
I stay seated against the sofa, my heart beating madly, waiting for Nouka to leave. I want to know what the future holds.
“So what did Nouka say?”
Gloria strokes my hair. “The future is beautiful, Koumaïl. She says that I’ll live as long as necessary.”
“Until you’re one hundred years old?”
“Until as long as you need me.”
Relieved, I smile. “I’ll always need you!” I say.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria whispers.
She blows me a kiss and tells me to go and play. I run off to meet Hoop Earring at the river. The future really is beautiful! My childish optimism erects a wall between me and any anxiety.
But one day summer comes to an end.
chapter thirty-two
FALL has arrived. The frost freezes the puddles between the caravans’ wheels, and the laundry is taken inside. Soon snow will come.
Gloria is better, her strength is back, and the dog no longer barks in her chest. Nouka doesn’t need to gather any more plants.
“Gloria’s soul is still weak, but you can keep on going now,” she assures us.
In the camp everyone is getting ready to go. Gypsies never stay too long in one place. They roam the globe, following the sun and their lucky star. It is their destiny.
“Due south!” Hoop Earring says as he puts aside his fishing gear. He sighs.
I sigh too. South means that we have to go our separate ways and that we will have to be strong to overcome the challenges that lie ahead.
Hoop Earring takes me one last time to the fields to gather the rabbit traps. We collect them one by one. We discover a young weasel that got caught in the last one. She died of exhaustion.
Hoop Earring loosens the trap.
“Be careful, Koumaïl, my brother,” he says. “Over there in the west there are many human traps. If you get caught, they lock you in a cage and you die. Just like this.”
He places the weasel’s body on a bed of grass. We remain silent, standing shoulder to shoulder.
The day we leave, I remove Oleg’s violin from the gear and go to see Babik.
“The strings are strange, but you’ll know how to play it,” I say.
The patriarch strikes the wood of the violin. He pinches the strings.
“It’s a very valuable gift, Koumaïl,” he says. “Each time we play it, we will think of you. This way we’ll keep listening to your soul.”
My heart tightens because I think of Fatima.
“If you see a very beautiful girl who comes near you to listen to the sound of this violin, and if her eyes are closed and she sings better than anyone else, tell her that I did not forget her.”
Babik smiles and promises to give the message. I kiss his prickly cheeks and I leave in a hurry before I cry.
Then the caravans are attached to cars and the procession begins. Panch, Titi, Sara, Angelo, and Nanosh are gathered against the windows to see me one last time. Gloria and I wave to them. Hoop Earring is not among them, and it’s better that way.
* * *
Gloria and I start going west quickly, our throats tight, once again seized with the awful feeling that we’ve left something of ourselves behind. I lecture myself in silence: Come on, don’t be sentimental, don’t be sad! If you look ahead, the future looks good! And I gather all the hope I have left and imagine the Eiffel Tower covered with snow, and my mother waiting for me near the golden angel of Mont-Saint-Michel.
As we reach the bottom of a hill, I suddenly realize that I walk faster than Gloria. I turn back to her.
“The gear is much lighter now and I’ve grown a lot,” I tell her. “Let me carry it.”
She stares at me. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Are you sure?”
I show her my arms, which have become muscular, and my legs, which are much thicker.
Gloria seems surprised. “Well, now I see that you’re right!” she says.
Without hesitation she puts the gear on the ground.
I am so proud to load it over my shoulders. “Soon I’ll be as strong as Fotia and Oleg,” I declare.
“And you’ll have a mustache as long as Vassili’s,” Gloria adds, laughing.
I laugh too. It’s difficult to imagine myself with hairy cheeks.
“Do you think my mother will recognize me?” I ask.
“A mother always recognizes her son, Koumaïl.”
I climb the hill easily, and as I reach the top, anxiety grabs me. I wait for Gloria and take her hand.
“Even when I’m all grown up, I’ll still need you, right?” I say.
Gloria does not answer. She breathes slowly as she walks, as if she wants to conserve air, and I pray that Nouka wasn’t wrong about her future.
“What everyone needs, Koumaïl, is a good place to live. Come on, tell me once more what you know about France.”
I walk at her pace along the road. I talk and talk and talk. Each word makes marvelous things appear on the horizon.
chapter thirty-three
THE last memory of my childhood is also the most painful one. It’s one I would like to forget, to pluck from my mind the way you pull out a weed in a garden, but it’s not possible.
It happens near the Hungarian border, per page 47 of my green atlas. A Greek truck driver dumps us in a large parking lot on the side of a highway. Gloria made arrangements with him, but now he’s scared of the customs checkpoint. He no longer wants to hide us behind the curtain of his cab, so he abandons us to our fate, insha’Allah.
It is dark and the wind is cold. We go into a service station to take shelter.
I like this place, flooded with light, where anyone can use the toilets for free, drink from the taps, warm up under the electric hand dryer, and admire the candy stand. This is the way it is in democratic and free countries: you come in, nobody asks you anything, and you can stroll quietly between the shelves. If you’re tired, you can rest on plastic chairs; no one bothers you.
“Sit down,” Gloria tells me. “Don’t go anywhere. Pretend you don’t exist. I’m going to try to make arrangements with someone else, OK?”
“OK.”
Gloria is the queen of making arrangements. First, she inspires confidence. Second, she speaks politely, and people always agree to help us, like the man at the Matachine did, and all the cart, car, bus, and truck drivers who agreed to ta
ke us from the Caucasus up to this point.
I look at Gloria as she approaches the counter where the truck drivers are having coffee. From where I sit, I can’t hear what she tells them. I only see her smile, knowing they must find her nice and reassuring. The drivers look at her with their big men’s eyes. They make room for her at the counter, and one of them orders her a coffee. Afterward they laugh, all of them together, and I can see that Gloria has red cheeks because of the warm coffee.
They talk a long time while I stay on my chair, without moving, as inconspicuous as a ghost. A lot of things go through my head, and I think about what we’ll be able to do when we get to France, like eat butter croissants or Camembert cheese. I think about that because I am hungry and I wish Gloria would hurry up, otherwise I’m going to faint.
Finally I see her arm in arm with one of the drivers; they go toward the service station exit. Quickly I grab the gear to follow her, but she motions to me firmly and mouths, “Stay there! I’ll be back.”
Upset, I put the gear at my feet and I wait. Now I feel uncomfortable, alone in the middle of all the drivers who come and go. To seem more at ease, I take my catalog out of the gear.
I turn the pages so often that they threaten to come loose. I learn by heart each tiny detail about the storming of the Bastille; about Napoléon, who died on Saint Helena; about the Métro and Coco Chanel, the symbol of French elegance. I learn how to use the public toilets and that Eugène Delacroix’s head is on the one-hundred-franc bill. I learn the hours of Galeries Lafayette, the big department store, and the top speed of the Paris–Lyon TGV, which is the jewel of the French railway system. I can even list all the castles of the Loire Valley—Chambord, Azay-le-Rideau, Chenonceau, Amboise.… But none of it matters if Gloria leaves me in this service station.
What could she possibly be doing with this truck driver? I wonder.
Just as my anxiety becomes unbearable, Gloria appears at the door. She’s alone, out of breath, her hair undone, and she has a box of cookies in her hand. I jump to my feet.
A Time of Miracles Page 8
