by Sarah Price
Sahara noticed the Rom Baro say something to Nicolae who merely responded with a simple nod. If he spoke, she could not tell. However, whatever was said brought great joy to the Rom Baro. His face lit up and he smiled, raising his hand again as he announced, “At last! It is done! We feast tonight! A slava to celebrate the bori!” A cheer rose out of the crowd before they dispersed, laughing and talking eagerly as they began to prepare for the slava that evening.
Forgetting about the lovely necklace she wore and the feeling of apprehension in her chest, Sahara quickly descended the steps and hurried toward the Rom Baro. Several men stopped talking as they watched her pass them. Their laughter slowly subsided as they saw where she was headed. The Rom Baro was talking with Nicolae and another man as they stood by one of the brightly colored wagon. In the sunlight, the Rom Baro looked older than he had the previous night. His dark, gypsy eyes were tired and sunken in his wrinkled face. His black hair, dotted with grey strands, was thin and dull. It hung down his back, pulled back in a similar way as Nicolae’s but not as full. Sahara saw him reach up with a tremulous hand to squeeze Nicolae's shoulder as they talked. The pride the Rom Baro felt for his son was more than obvious.
“Excuse me...”
The Rom Baro turned around slowly, his eyes meeting Sahara's. His expression was hard and he narrowed his eyes as though angry. “What is this?” His voice was sharp and harsh as he looked at Nicolae, disapproval written on his face. He said something to Nicolae that Sahara could not understand and she could hear the crowd mumbling behind her. When he turned back to Sahara, his eyes fell on the necklace around her neck. Suddenly, the frown disappeared from his face as he repeated with a gleam in his eyes, “Indeed, what is this?” His voice was softer as he reached out to thumb the gold necklace. His eyes clouded. She wondered if he was thinking of Nicolae’s mother, of the moment when she received the necklace, most likely as a gift from the Rom Baro. “Ah, the kapara.” The Rom Baro blinked twice before he smiled at the woman in front of him. “You are wearing the kapara.”
Sahara lifted her chin, hoping that the Rom Baro did not think she had stolen it. “If you mean the necklace, Nicolae gave it to me.”
The Rom Baro's face lit up as he dropped his hand from the necklace. His eyes crinkled into half moons as he laughed to himself. Rubbing his hands together, the Rom Baro glanced at Nicolae. “You gave it to her, yes? And she wears it now, I see.” Nicolae joined his father's laughter. The Rom Baro looked back at her, noticing the crowd of people that had gathered close enough to hear the exchange. “So, shey-bari, the necklace is yours? It is but a small price for such a beautiful woman.” His words were stiff and heavily accented.
She narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding inside her chest. “But larger than my father's lost wager!”
The Rom Baro nodded his head at her, a mischievous smile playing on his dried lips. “You are gadjo, shey-bari. There is no question about that.” His steady gaze unnerved her. It was as if he knew her, the way he stared at her. “Your father gambled away so much, yes? But do we gamble with what is most dear to us? Perhaps you were not his to gamble…just as another was not his to keep, too.”
“What do you mean?” Sahara demanded.
Nicolae straightened his shoulders and lowered his voice. “It is mahrime for a woman to question a man.”
“Mahrime?”
“Forbidden, S'hara.”
Sahara sighed, frustrated by the word games they played. “Then yes, I'm gadjo. But what exactly did you expect?” She turned toward the amused Rom Baro. Angered by the smile on his face, Sahara spun around as she stormed past the curious faces watching her. Children clung to their mothers' skirts. The older men gaped at her audacity. Younger women watched her with wide, amazed eyes. Never had they seen a woman speak in such a tone to the Rom Baro or any other man. It was unheard of and certainly deserving of punishment.
Sitting in the shadow of a wagon, Sahara lowered her head into her hands. The tears flowed freely now that she was alone. She felt lost and empty. Her father had gambled with gypsies and sold her to wander forever. Nicolae had been right. She could never go home. Sahara angrily wiped the tears away. There's no use crying, she thought. What's done is done. Her finger caressed the thick chain around her neck. The gem felt cold under her touch. She lifted the necklace. Her eyes grew as she saw the gem again. “What would you have gambled away for this, Papa?” Suddenly, she began to laugh. For a gold chain worth a penny compared to what she wore around her neck, her father had given her away. Now, a prisoner to these gypsies, Sahara wore a piece of jewelry worth ten times what her broken father had gambled for her.
It was her father who broke the silence first. She was nursing the infant, sitting alone in her section of the boat, next to several crates filled with stale hard tack and dried meat. She had not seen him approach her, nor had she seen him standing behind her. He must have been watching her for quite some time. But the woman did not know this. Instead, she hummed to the baby in her arms, watching the sweet puckered mouth as it drank from her breast. It was the most wonderful of moments, to feel the drawing of the milk as it fed her sweet child.
He cleared his throat.
She was startled and jumped, causing a momentary cessation in the nursing process. But the infant did not cry, just sought the breast once again before hungrily eating. “Father!” She adjusted herself, covering her baby’s face and her own bare breast with a scarf. “I did not see you there,” she stammered. She had been living with silence ever since the baby had been born. No one had spoken to her and she had, in fact, become invisible. She hadn’t minded, after all. Instead, it had been welcome. There were no questions, which meant she did not have to produce any answers.
“It has been decided that you will leave to join another family,” he said softly.
She frowned. “Another family?”
“Once we are on land, you will join another and the child will be promised to the first born,” he said. “It is the only way.” He did not say another word nor did he spare a glance at his first-born grandchild. Instead, he turned on his heel and fought his way back to his area. The woman watched him leave, not speaking. Her expression was blank but her heart pounded inside of her chest. She knew that no one would ever own her for her heart belonged to another man already.
Chapter Four
The two men danced. Their bronzed limbs moved wildly, rhythmically, beautifully in time to the music. The golden glow from the fire caressed their skin, casting shadows around the audience. Sahara felt light as her head paid heed to the devil's race from the strings. The fiddle breathed music, eerie music that hypnotized Sahara. The two men, dressed in colorful costumes made from sheer silk scarves, slapped their hands and
knees, leaping into the air and twirling around like a child's toy top. The other gypsies sat around the fires, watching the dancing as they tore into pieces of chicken with their teeth. Occasionally, someone would forget their meal for a minute to trill their tongue in time with the music. Several children fought over a large chicken leg. Their selfish struggle grew louder and continued until they were finally silenced by their mother.
The music raced, faster and faster. The two men twirled around and around, their shadows falling over every face that turned up to watch the crazed and flamboyant dancing. Faster and faster they spun around. Harder and harder Sahara's heart beat. As the men twirled, Sahara began to clutch her hands together. The fiddle kept racing and the men continued to dance faster. Suddenly, the music crashed to silence and the two men crumpled to the ground. They laid there in the ensuing silence. Sahara saw their backs rise and fall as they caught their breath. Were they as excited as she or just exhausted, she wondered.
“You like?”
Sahara looked up at Nicolae. Already she had drunk more than her share of barreled ale and bottled whiskey. Blinking back her intoxication, Sahara realized Nicolae looked more beautiful in the firelight than she had remembered. His sk
in was a golden brown and his eyes sparkled the color of the flames. A wave of his black hair, the same blue black color as her own, hung across his forehead. For a second, she almost reached out to brush it aside. Composing herself, she narrowed her eyes. “It meant nothing to me.”
“You lie,” he said softly, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. The sound was gentle and soothing. He reached out, touching her cheek lightly with his finger. “But that is just fine, S’hara. You will learn soon enough to appreciate the music that flows through your blood as well as to your ears.”
Sahara shrugged her shoulders, trying to deny the emotions the music had aroused in her. Or was it his touch? “Think what you like.” If anything, it was her blood that raced in her veins when he laughed again. Her skin tingled where he had touched her. She wished he would touch her again. She wished the dance could continue to distract her. Whenever he was near, her heart pounded and she felt weak. The ale and whiskey weren’t making it any easier to resist the power of his presence. It was too overwhelming and she didn’t like the direction of the thoughts running through her mind.
When she looked back toward the dancers, she saw that the two men were nowhere in sight. They had vanished from the clearing. Instead, a young boy and girl stood where the two men had collapsed. Their wild, gypsy beauty immediately caught Sahara's attention. Slowly, the music began. This time, the fiddle sang soft and gentle as the boy and girl danced a love story. “How beautiful...” The words escaped her mouth before she could detain them. She glanced at Nicolae to see if he had heard her. He was staring at her with a hint of a smile. Sahara frowned. “I meant, they are beautiful children. Are they brother and sister?”
Nicolae chuckled softly as he reached over to touch her hand. Holding it, Nicolae stroked her soft skin. “Brother and sister, S'hara? They are husband and wife.”
She felt Nicolae clutching her hand, the warmth of his touch sending a chill through her. She forced herself to return her gaze to the young children dancing. The dance was beautiful, their movement completely fluid and in tune with the music. Their arms wrapped around each other as they stared into each other’s faces. But, for Sahara, the love story disappeared. She only saw two young children play-acting as they mimicked what they had been taught by their parents. “They are so young,” she whispered. “No more than twelve, thirteen!”
Leaning closer to her, Nicolae lowered his voice. “She is thirteen, he is fourteen.”
Sahara gawked at him, amazed at the difference in gypsy culture. “They are still children.”
He shrugged. “To you, yes. To us, they are man and woman.”
“Do all gypsies get married so young?”
Nicolae stared at her, her face illuminated in the glow from the fire. Her hair, shimmering in the light from the fires, draped down her back, almost brushing the ground they sat on. When she turned her face back up to his, her dark black eyes pierced his heart and met his own dark eyes with a hidden passion. He released her hand as he reached out for the clear bottle before him. Raising it to his lips, he finished what was in it. “Yes, S'hara. All gypsies get married so young.”
Her head began to spin in time to the music. Suppressing a smile, Sahara reached for her own bottle. She held it by her lips, staring at Nicolae with such burning intensity that even she could not understand what she felt. He was truly beautiful in the glow from the fire. His skin glistened with small beads of sweat, just enough to make his white shirt cling ever so slightly to his chest. Feeling brazen from the liquor, she asked quietly, “And you, Nicolae? Did you marry so young?”
He watched her drink the gypsy liquor from her bottle. Unconsciously, her lips lingered on the end of the bottle. Their eyes locked, and for just one moment, neither could speak. The silence said enough. Swallowing, he signaled for more rakiya. An old woman came over and handed both Nicolae a new bottle, which Nicolae promptly uncorked with his teeth, spitting the cork out. “Did I marry so young?” He waited for Sahara to look at him. “I did, yes.”
“And where is your wife?”
Appearing indifferent, Nicolae shrugged his shoulders and pushed the faded image of Miquela out of his head. “My family arranged for me to marry her in order to strengthen two kumpanias. I was fifteen and she was thirteen. When I was sixteen, she died.”
“That’s so young!” Sahara gasped.
He simply nodded. “Yes, so young.”
“Did you love her?”
“Love?” He shook his head. “What is love at that age?”
“Why didn't you remarry?”
Nicolae looked back at the dancers. The girl was dancing for the boy. The boy watched her, not responding to the seductive flashing of her skirt as any man should. Suddenly, Nicolae realized they were too young to understand what their dancing meant. Disgusted with his own reckless emotions, Nicolae turned away from the dance, his face dark from the memory of his past. “Perhaps I did.”
Sahara reached over and touched his arm. When he looked at her, there was a sense of sadness clouding over her face. “And where is she?”
Nicolae put his hand over hers. He stroked her skin and stared back into her face. She was beautiful, the way she looked up at him. He sighed and gave her a soft smile. “Perhaps I did not.”
Sahara blushed, an innocent giggle escaping her intoxicated throat. Had she sounded disappointed? Had he noticed? She took a quick gulp from the bottle, tossing her head back. She couldn’t look at him anymore. He was too handsome with those high cheekbones and piercing black eyes. Tonight, his hair hung over his shoulders in gentle waves. It was so long and soft, that black color so similar to her own. “That must've been many years ago that she died.”
“Ten.”
“That long?”
“Enough!” His voice lacked the teasing undertone. Several people turned to see who had angered him so quickly. Even Sahara seemed taken aback. Nicolae stared at her, speaking in a low voice. “I speak of myself no more!” He knew where the questions were headed and he couldn’t face the past. Not tonight. He softened his tone as he said, “You tell me of you, yes?”
At first, she wanted to refuse him. Her feelings were hurt by the sudden turn of his manner toward her. Nicolae was her only friend in this strange place with strange people. No one else had attempted to befriend her or even speak to her since her arrival. It would be wise to keep Nicolae's friendship, she reminded herself as she fingered the necklace around her neck. “What do you wish to learn of me?”
“You are a woman, yes? Why did you not marry?”
“My people...”
“Gadje?” He laughed at her.
“Yes, gadje don't marry so young. Sometimes, yes. Usually the girl is younger than the man. Ever since I was little, I helped my father with the tavern. I never had time to court anyone. Nor did anyone ever appeal to me.” Sahara looked away. Was that the truth? Or was it the fact that no one wanted her? Her father had never given her the chance to meet any young men. Instead, he had worked her day and night, cleaning, cooking, serving, slaving. The only men she had ever seen were drunk, pawing at the local saloon girls. “No one wants a girl who lived and worked in a saloon all her life.”
“What did you say, S'hara?”
She looked up, surprised that she had unconsciously spoken her thoughts aloud. “Did I say something?”
Nicolae nodded. “You said something about living and working in a saloon.”
Embarrassed, she felt her cheeks flare up. Had she spoken the words aloud? She took another swallow of rakiya and set the bottle down. “I'm hungry, Nicolae.” At her announcement, Nicolae stood up, his knees cracking as he stretched. He helped Sahara to her feet, his hand firmly grasping hers as he led her toward the cooking fires. The aroma of chicken and pork attacked Sahara's nose. Feeling weak, she leaned on Nicolae for support. She hadn't eaten since the previous morning. Feeling drunk from the rakiya, she looked up at him, a distant smile on her lips. “My goodness! Look at all that food! Gypsies certainly do not starve.” As her eyes t
ook in all the different pots of food, she heard Nicolae laugh softly. Looking up into his amused eyes, Sahara smiled back. “I think I want some of every thing!”
“Before you eat everything, shey-bari, there is water in that bucket to wash the dust from your hands.”
While Sahara obediently bent over the bucket, washing her hands, Nicolae looked around at the anxious faces of the gypsy women that waited for his command. With authority, he motioned to the old woman standing nearest to them. Pointing to a black cauldron, he spoke some words Sahara couldn't understand. The old woman answered in heavily accented English, her calloused hands waving rapidly. Nicolae nodded and said some more unintelligible words mixed with English that came out quickly and blurred with lots of “ssh” and “isti” sounds. A younger girl ran off, returning shortly with a clay bowl. The woman, dressed in black with her hair covered by a sparkling cloth, lifted the lid of the cauldron, grabbed a heavy wooden spoon and slowly scooped the thick stew into the bowl the girl held.
Nicolae took the food from the girl, nodding his thanks to the older woman as he handed it to Sahara. “You will like this, S'hara.”
“What is it?” Suspiciously, she eyed the chunks of meat in the thick gravy. Hidden in the sauce, she could barely make out the gray strands of onions, faded yellow corn, and overcooked pieces of potato.
He noticed her hesitation and read it as mistrust. “Papin. You will like.”
Without waiting for her, Nicolae walked back to the entertainment. Sahara turned around to stare at the tittering women. They always seemed to be laughing at her, watching her in amusement. It was frustrating and annoying. It was not her fault that she did not understand the culture or the language. She fought the urge to throw the bowl of “papin” back at them. Instead, Sahara insolently lifted her chin in the air and turned on her heel. She could hear the old women murmuring softly as they discussed the gadjo girl's rude behavior in their own gypsy language.
