by Sarah Price
Sahara frowned at the foreign word he called her. Ignoring her ignorance of the gypsy language, Sahara asked, “Where are the men, boy?” She guessed him to be no more than nine or ten and already he was doing men's work.
He shuffled his bare feet in the dust, glancing over his shoulder at the other boys, by now a good distance away. His black eyes looked around, hoping no one was coming. If one of the adults saw him speaking with the woman, he would get scolded for certain. Quickly, he pointed in the direction the horses had come from. “Some men are there, bori.” Quickly, he darted away, racing toward the other boys herding the horses away from the camp.
Sahara watched the boy run until he caught up with the others. A taller boy slapped the side of the boy's head, shaking a finger at him. They were too far away for Sahara to hear what was being said but she could imagined the boy was being berated for abandoning his chores to talk to her. Shrugging her shoulders, Sahara started walking toward the place the boy had pointed. As she neared, she could hear deep voices talking
quietly. She wondered if the Rom Baro was there. She walked around the wagon, the small group of men looked up, startled by Sahara's unexpected presence.
Silencing the others, one man stared at Sahara with his mouth gaping. His dark, wide lips moved silently. Motioning toward Sahara's uncovered head, he whispered, “Mahrime.”
“Where is the Rom Baro? Where is Nicolae? I want to see them immediately!” Her clenched fist rested on her hips as she stared at the shocked men. Silently, they nodded their heads to one another as if confirming what they already thought about the gadjo girl. The men turned their backs, whispering among themselves about “mahrime”. An older man glanced over his shoulder at Sahara before spitting on the ground.
Sahara caught her breath. “How dare you!” When she realized the men were ignoring her, refusing to divulge the Rom Baro or Nicolae's whereabouts, Sahara whirled around furiously and stormed away.
The sun shone from high in the sky. Lord, she thought, as she sought comfort in the shade of a wagon. It must be afternoon already. She leaned her back against the wagon, hugging her knees against her body as she shut her eyes and remembered the music beating into her soul. Never in her life had she imagined that she could dance with such ferocity. A blush rose to her cheeks as she visualized her dance with Nicolae. The gypsy music, along with the liquor, had raped her of any sense. Surely, she thought, Nicolae will think I like him now. That will be corrected at once, she assured herself.
Sahara ran her fingers through her hair before leaning her head on her knees. Her silky hair fanned over her arm and she eyed the white streak she had always thought so unnatural. Her father had mumbled once about her mother having the same streak. But Sahara didn't remember her mother or her white streak. Her father had rarely spoken of his deceased wife but Sahara sensed a part of her father had died along with her mother. Certainly he had loved his young, wild European wife. But, Sahara realized sadly, he had never mentioned any of Amaya's history. Now, Sahara feared, it was lost forever.
Breathing deeply, Sahara began to drift into an uneasy sleep. Her head still ached but in the back of her mind, she could hear the gypsy music take possession of her again. The wind blew through her as she imagined she was dancing in the middle of an open field. She was alone, dancing wildly like the other gypsy women. Her body swayed with each movement, her hair caressing the earth. The music slowly faded away. She could hear a commotion from the edge of the field. But as she looked in the direction of the noise, she could see nothing through the mist. Frightened, she collapsed against the ground, trying to hide from the unseen. The noise grew louder but Sahara kept her eyes shut, her cheek pressed against the earth. Suddenly, as if several feet from her ear, she could hear sharp thunder. The thunder stopped for a split second before it crashed right by her head.
“S'hara!”
Sahara raised her head, startled out of her light sleep by Nicolae's voice calling her name. He stood on the steps of the wagon, staring into it. Sahara frowned, trying to separate the fantasy of her dream from the reality of the fury in Nicolae's eyes when he slammed the door shut and caught sight of her crouched in the shadow. Quickly, he jumped down the steps and towered over her, his black hair tousled and his hands curled into fists on his hips. His eyes wrinkled in the corners as he glared down at her. Sahara looked up at him, her black eyes frightened. Through his legs, she could see the anxious faces of the other gypsies, silently waiting for Nicolae's confrontation. Sahara looked back at Nicolae, frightened by his anger.
Nicolae bent down, grabbed Sahara's arm, and dragged her to her feet. She could feel his free hand tangle into her hair. Roughly, he pulled it by the roots until she cried out. But he did not loosen his hold. Instead, he shoved her into the crowd that was forming near the wagon. The crowd opened up, staring at the furious man and feisty woman with a gleam of satisfaction in their eyes. “This, my bori...” He shoved her roughly around the circle of people, still pulling fiercely at her hair. Sahara could barely stand up as she struggled to free herself while keeping most of her hair. Tears welled in her eyes, half from pain, half from humiliation, as she heard Nicolae yelling, “This is your new life. You have chosen it, yes?” She tried to protest, horrified at Nicolae's fury and frightened for her life. “And you will abide the rules and traditions, yes? Otherwise, you will be punished!” The crowd began to respond with nods and grunts, words that Sahara could not understand. “You must never be outside without your diklo! It must always cover your head!” With all of his strength, Nicolae pushed her away from him. She felt herself falling and landed on the ground at the feet of some older gypsies. Her skirt flew above her knees. Sahara sat up, tugging desperately at her dress, hoping to regain some dignity. Nicolae noticed the blood on her lower shin and ankle. Sahara's terrified eyes looked up at him, questioning his outburst with ignorance. For a few long seconds, no one spoke or moved. Nicolae glared down at her, watching as Sahara dab at the cut with the bottom of her ripped dress, tears spilling freely from her eyes.
The crowd dispersed around the side of the wagon. Nicolae watched them from the corner of his eye. Once they were gone, his anger vanished. Biting his lip, Nicolae moved toward her crumpled body. He knelt before her, one hand reaching out to brush her hair out of her face. “S'hara...” Tenderly, he touched her chin, tilting it to look up at him. The confusion he read in her face made him feel even more ashamed. “Come. I will wash your cut.”
Forcing her tears back, she met Nicolae's eyes and slowly reached out for his hand. He helped her stand than put his arm around Sahara's waist when he saw the cut caused her pain to walk. No one was there to see the Rom Baro's son, the future leader of the kumpania, take the beautiful raven-haired gadjo woman away from the encampment, his anger replaced with tenderness. Sahara sat down on the grass, her fingers playing with a rock on the ground as she watched Nicolae. He was standing near a wooden bucket of water, his back to her. She could see his taunt muscles move as he dipped a cloth into the bucket and rung it out. Turning around, Nicolae caught her eyes lingering on him before she turned away, blushing. Clearing his throat, he approached her timidly. Once again, Nicolae knelt down before her, lifting the hem of her skirt in order to wash away the remaining blood. “I am sorry I was so angry. I did not mean to frighten you, S'hara.” His voice was soft and stilted as he mumbled. “I heard you had left the wagon without the diklo covering your hair.” He glanced up at her face. “That is a mockery against me, S'hara. Always wear that scarf over your head.”
“Why?”
“Last night, my bori, the ceremony was to join you with this Machwaiya kumpania. All bori and romni wear diklos, see? It is...how do you say...an honor?” Sahara's eyes travelled to the ground as she sought the rock that had slipped out of her fingers. He reached out for her chin and tilted her head so that her eyes met his. “You must understand. I would lose face if I didn’t reprimand you in front of the people. I am the future leader, bori. I must always be strong, yes?”
>
Sahara put her hand on top of his. The pressure of his hand on her bare leg sent tingles up her spine, especially when she met his gaze. “Nicolae,” she said softly. “If no one explains your customs to me, how can I obey them?” The softness in her voice warmed him. She noticed the change in his eyes immediately. “Nicolae, you don't know how dreadful it is! I don't know anyone here. No one but you.” She fought back the tears in her eyes. “I feel so lost, Nicolae. Where am I going? What am I to do? I have no home, no family, no place to go to. If I stay with you and your people, I have to give up everything I know but, in reality, I have nothing left to give.” The tears starting to stream down her cheeks. “You're the only one who's made me feel safe, who even talks to me. I am so lost.”
“S'hara, you are not lost but found,” he whispered.
“Found,” she repeated as if tasting the word on her lips.
“And now, you are just tired, yes? Exhausted from drinking so much rakiya and dancing so fierce last night.” He wiped away the tears. “Perhaps you ought to get some food then nap, yes? Would that make you feel better?”
Nicolae lead her to where the Rom Baro's wife stood near a large cauldron. Ignoring the woman's shocked look at Sahara's uncovered head, Nicolae ordered the woman to bring Sahara some bean soup. Obediently, the old woman sought a clay bowl similar to the one Sahara had used the night before. The woman filled it with the thick, brown soup. Steam rose from it, the smell filling Sahara's stomach without even tasting it. Nicolae took the coarse bowl and handed it to Sahara. “Fausi, my bori.”
Not understanding what he had said, Sahara took the word to be a blessing over her food. “Fausi to you too, Nicolae.”
Nicolae looked at her, puzzled for only a brief moment. As he realized what she had meant, he laughed. He reached out and tugged playfully at her hair. “Fausi is bean soup.”
Sahara smiled innocently, holding back her own amused laughter to avoid drawing more attention. She didn’t like how the people avoided her. No one spoke to her but they were constantly staring at her all the time, watching and talking to each other in low tones with that foreign tongue. Sahara glanced at her companion. “Perhaps you will teach me the gypsy language?”
“It is no different than yours.”
Sahara lifted the bowl to her lips, tilting it only slightly to drink the juice. “Your kumpania speaks English?”
Nicolae nodded, his eyes observing a small group of younger men seated in the shadow of a wagon, polishing their black, leather boots. “We are in America, yes? Then we speak the English language.”
“So what are these foreign words? I've never heard of `kumpania' and `fausi' or `Rom Baro'. And everyone has an accent...”
Smiling as he explained to her, Nicolae spoke solemnly. “S'hara, the Machwaiya kumpania is a mixture of Serbian and English gypsies. We are from Europe, yes. But my grandfather led his kumpania out of the Old World and brought us here. You must understand one thing, my bori. No one likes the gypsies. So we move from place to place, never settling down, never adjusting to life in America. Only transporting our European culture to a new land, yes? And these words...they are a mixture of many cultures. But they are our culture. It is easier to speak English in America but among us, some words have remained. It is not our language. We are not worthy of a language to call our own, just as we are not worthy of a land to claim. Does that make sense to you, S'hara?”
A silence fell over them. Sahara looked around curiously, her eyes resting on a group of the younger men. Already they drank the rakiya, even though most of them had just awoken. A couple of the men walked around the corner of a wagon, leading several horses into the clearing. A large black stallion with a half white mane bucked and kicked as a rowdy man tried to jump upon its back. The other men laughed as he fell off, rolling quickly away from the furious stallion's feet. Nicolae glanced at Sahara, surprised to see her eyes wide and curious. “That horse interests you, yes?”
Sahara tore her attention away from the horse. “He's magnificent!”
Nicolae nodded his head once. “That he is. But he is wild, yes?”
Sahara looked back at the galloping horse. Several men were holding onto the rope that was tied around its neck. A tall, lanky man with a bare chest and leather strand around his forehead grabbed a stick that lay nearby. Raising it above his head, he smashed it against the stallion's back. “Oh!” Sahara cried out, her stomach suddenly churning. As the man raised the stick over his head again, Sahara turned quickly to Nicolae. “You must stop him! He'll kill the poor beast before anything else!”
Nicolae took a deep breath, reluctant to interfere. “Sahara, however the men choose to tame their horses is not my concern. Nor should it be yours.”
Hurting for the poor beaten horse, Sahara could only watch as the one gypsy man continued to thrash the beautiful stallion. She winced when blood ran down the horse's flank. Turning her head away, she whispered, “Please, Nicolae, I cannot stand to watch!”
With a nod of his head, Nicolae led Sahara away from the area. He took her back to the tent she had awoken in the previous morning. He pulled the canvas back, waiting for Sahara to duck under his arm before he followed her inside. The flaps closed behind him with a soft swoosh. Alone inside the tent, Nicolae watched Sahara as she stood with her back to him. The scene with the horse had visibly frightened her. Nicolae made a mental note to tell the men not to tame the horses near camp for a while. “I am sorry,” he began, “that you saw that, S'hara.”
Slowly, she turned around. Her face was blank as she stared at him. “I am sorry that it happened,” she responded. “How can I belong to such a people, Nicolae? I don’t understand anything and, that which I do understand, I don’t care for at all.”
Nicolae stared back, curious about her words but he did not ask. There was a pain in her expression, a sorrow that tugged at his heart. He wasn’t certain how to respond. He had never questioned the gypsy way. He knew nothing else. Yet, when he saw her face, her eyes so teary, he knew that she was seeing the life from a new perspective, one that he had not considered before her arrival. Being the future Rom Baro left him with little choices. He knew that years of history would not be changed in one day or even one year. He found himself drawn to her and, without thinking, he pulled her into his arms.
For several long minutes, Sahara let him hold her, finding comfort in his arms that had frightened her just a short while before. Her body tucked neatly against his and she felt his heart pounding against her chest. She hated herself for feeling a rush of emotion in the arms of this man. She felt protected and safe. But, she also felt dangerously close to something else, something that she could not describe. It was a surreal feeling and, for a split second, Sahara tried to push him away. Nicolae ignored her struggle and lowered his mouth onto hers. His kiss took her by surprise and, for the briefest of moments, Sahara refused to yield. But as his arm crushed her even tighter, the burning sensation in her stomach spread until she shut her eyes and let the handsome gypsy force her mouth open. The tension left her as she leaned against him, the fight gone in final acceptance of the passion she had tried so hard to deny.
“No!” Nicolae suddenly freed her and stepped away. He hurried to the large flap. He stood with his back to her, his shoulder heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Sahara watched him, breathlessly. What had she done now? Did he think her too brazen? Perhaps he mistook her for one of those kinds of girls, the kinds that frequented the saloon in order to seek the company of men. The realization overcame her and she leaned backwards, reaching out for the back of the chair to steady herself.
Nicolae spoke softly, his back still to her. “You will stay here until I return tonight, S'hara. I command you to not leave this tent.” Then he was gone.
She had to gather her thoughts before he came back for her. Certainly Nicolae believed she was going to sleep with him that night. He was mistaken. Quite wrong, she thought as she started pacing around the post again. Her father had rented out the rooms upst
airs on a nightly basis, although Sahara was well aware that it was a rare occasion that a man truly spent the entire night. As a young girl, the animal noises from inside had aroused her childish curiosity. But when she realized what was going on, the noises had disgusted her. Sahara shook her head as she leaned against the tent post. There was no way Nicolae would be her eternal downfall. Sinking to the ground, Sahara sighed. The solemn tone with which he had spoken the words left no doubt in Sahara's mind that if she left, he'd hunt her down and find her. She shuddered, holding her head with her hands as she realized the seriousness of her predicament.
Sahara raised her eyes toward the top of the tent as she sighed and moved over to the feather mattress. Rolling onto her stomach, she remembered how her father's tavern had slowly decayed after Amaya's death. The outside was no longer whitewashed but a grungy grey as the shutters broke and eventually fell off the building. That was when the rooms upstairs began to be rented out to amorous strangers. And then, Patrick sold the piano. He had cried when the men came to take it. It was the only thing Amaya had truly loved, besides herself. She would sit for hours, playing her wild, European music. Sahara could still hear the tin clanging of the keys in her ears. Not unlike the music she had danced to the night before. Wild, free, romantic, and full of gypsy.
Nicolae was right. There was no reason to try escaping only to return to her father. He had overworked her and abused her, mentally and physically, whenever possible. How many nights had she gone hungry as he gambled away the money his tavern made? How many nights had he drunk more than the customers? How often had he slapped her for waking up late after working all night? He had always seemed so angry and distant from her. She could not remember any tender words or kindness from him, especially after her mother had succumbed to the fever and died. No, indeed, returning to her father was not an option.
She hated the new family almost as much as she hated the new country. It was wild and barren when compared to Europe. The people spoke a strange language and lived in small wooden houses. Except for the few small towns that they came across every few days, there was too much land separating people from each other. The towns were untamed and dirty, with few ladies and even fewer gentlemen. The rest were cowboys and outlaws, as far as she could tell.
