Gypsy in Black: The Romance of Gypsy Travelers

by Sarah Price

  It was two weeks after they had camped. Lounging around the fires, his stomach full from drinking and eating, Nicolae had been eyeing a young Poxadeshti girl. Her long, dark hair flowed around her shoulders, as she danced with several other unmarried, no status girls. They were girls who lost their status through breaking gypsy laws one-way or the other. Shunned by the proper gypsies, they were there for the taking, usually for the night by single men. Nicolae could remember leaning over to a gypsy he had been talking with earlier. “She's a beautiful one. Wonder what made her mahrime.”

  The gypsy, a Mesteri man named Marks, had laughed, cradling his bottle of liquor in his arms. “Beautiful yes. Dances like the devil.”

  An older gypsy sitting nearby snorted at them. “Dances like Amaya.”

  Immediately, Nicolae had turned to the man and asked him about Amaya. “I was betrothed to her daughter,” he explained.

  “Amaya is dead now, yes. But the girl...” He rubbed his chin, hiding his smile. “She is a looker. Just like Amaya. Long black hair with just one thick streak of grey over her one ear. Breathtaking. But wild.” The old gypsy leaned forward, pointing a stiff finger at Nicolae. “Be glad Amaya ran off with that damned Irishman with her bastard daughter. Otherwise you'd have the devil's child on your hands.”

  Nicolae had tried to hide his eagerness as he pushed the man further. “You know where she is then?”

  “Best I know she is in up north. Small town near Sioux Falls. Don't remember the name of the town.”

  His heart had pounded. Certainly his father would be able to find her. “How did you know it was Amaya's daughter?” At last, he thought, my waiting has paid off.

  The older gypsy had reached for a bottle of rakiya, taking a large swallow before lifting his leg as he stretched out on the ground and passed wind. Sighing, he scratched his stomach. “Knew both Amaya and the Irishman before she ran away with him. It was her alright. Spitting image of Amaya. The Irishman owns a tavern and I was only there once, at least three years ago. Might be married to some gadjo, yes?”

  Deep down, Nicolae had known otherwise. O Del would never lead him this close to finding Sahara only to snatch her away. After all, He was the good god. Nicolae calmed himself as he looked back at the dancing girl. Her beauty had faded. She was of not interest to him now as he wondered just how beautiful his betrothed truly was. Later, he had sought his father and informed him of his startling discovery. As the warmer weather came, their kumpania had slowly travelled north into Minnesota. The few towns along the North Dakota border were small and it didn't take long for the Rom Baro to recognize the Irishman. The plan had been put to order and action took place.

  Sahara broke his memories as she gently leaned against him. Nicolae stroked the side of her head, holding her tightly in his arms. “So you see, S'hara, my bori, you are home.”

  “Home?” A soft sigh escaped her lips. She had always known she was different. Her father had never loved her, not after Amaya had died. At one time, not so long ago, she had thought that home; it was all she had ever known. But everything made sense now. The gaping hole in her heart was filled. She had never belonged to the Irishman. He wasn’t her father, hadn’t been even before Amaya died. Now, as she shut her eyes, she remembered the music that Amaya played on the piano. It was gypsy music. She remembered her mother’s voice, accented and strong. But in all of her memories, it was her mother by her side, that soft vision and gentle feeling warming her soul. Yes, now she remembered more. There was a connection, a connection between those memories and the past few days. Indeed, she had felt something was off, too familiar. Now, as she relaxed to Nicolae’s embrace, she felt relieved. With the clarity, she understood why she was almost glad that Nicolae was hers to comfort her. Yes, she felt confused and frightened but she wasn't alone. For the first time in years, she knew she wasn't alone. “What is home?”

   

  Her days were spent caring for others and she didn’t like it. From before the sun rose until long after it had gone to sleep, she took care of her own baby as well as the man’s two sons. The older one resisted all of her attempts to feed, clothe, and nurture him while the younger one seemed to respond in a more positive manner. This created a deeper chasm between the girl and the older boy. It grew the point that she ignored him and paid her attention to the baby and younger boy.

  Most nights, after she put the three to bed, she would collapse, exhausted. She slept soundly, even if it only seemed like minutes, not hours. Her dreams were empty at night. She had no fantasies or memories that visited her during her sleep. It was as if she knew, even subconsciously that, in the morning, she would start all over again.

  Chapter Nine

  The two ladies moved out of Sahara's way as she walked toward the front of the store. She could feel their inquisitive stares at her outlandish attire. The full layers of skirts and brazen red blouse plainly announced her association with the gypsies. Ignoring the ladies, Sahara stepped toward the fabric counter. She stopped in front of a bolt of black cotton. The plain cloth suited Sahara's mood. Fingering the soft fabric, she shut her eyes.

  Gypsy, she thought. For several days, Sahara had obsessed over the new heritage Nicolae had given her. Her emotions were in a turmoil as she tried to grasp the enormity of his story. Sometimes her new past excited her, like a wonderfully pleasing dream. At other times, she resented having lived a lie all of her life. But, in the long run, she felt as though she had just been born. She fell into this life with her arms open, embracing the new world that surrounded her.

  Was it only a week ago that he told me, she thought to herself. So much had happened. It didn’t take long for the town people to chase the gypsies away shortly after their arrival. “We are always on the run from folklore we did not create,” Nicolae had explained. Sahara knew that town people did not trust the gypsies, often believing the stories about gypsies stealing chickens and children. In the morning hours, the camp was packed up and the wagons loaded. Once again, the caravan travelled down the road. The day was just as grueling as the first time Sahara had traveled with the gypsies. At the end of the day, she ached just as badly. Her hands blistered from driving the horses, the old ones were calloused over but new ones broke open. But, she didn’t complain. Instead, she held her head high, refusing to relinquish the reins to the old man. In her mind, she saw her mother, guiding her along the way. If her mother had been so strong, Sahara knew that she could be, too.

  The children still laughed and the older gypsies smiled. In new towns, they could trade horses, sell goods, trade, and tell fortunes. After traveling all day, the men on the horses returned to the traveling caravan. They had ridden ahead to scout out the area. It was Nicolae who reined in his horse, a solid black horse with a lone white stripe down its nose. The horse snorted and pranced in place. “Only over the hill,” Nicolae announced. “We will camp there for a few days.” By the time dusk fell, the new camp was set up and the music enticing the new town people to venture to the camp to satisfy their curiosity until the novelty would wear off and the kumpania would be forced to leave once again.

  “May I help you?”

  Sahara opened her eyes. An older gentleman, his grey hair neatly combed back from his crown, stood in front of her. Both of his hands rested on the wooden counter, one finger anxiously tapping on the bolt of black cloth. Sahara glanced over her shoulder at the two ladies, both wearing fine satin dresses and twirling parasols over their heads. They watched Sahara curiously, their eyes wide and heads tilted. Turning back to the man, Sahara nodded at the black cloth. “How much?”

  “Twelve cents a foot.”

  Immediately, Sahara's temper flared and she narrowed her eyes. “You're trying to cheat me!”

  “Take it or leave it.” The gruffness in his voice signaled that he was not going to bargain with her.

  “I have but no choice. Two yards will do fine.” Sahara watched him carefully as he measured out the two yards. While he wrapped the material, Sahara br
owsed through some more bolts of cloth, finding two more that caught her eye. After the man had measured and wrapped those, Sahara pointed to some thread and needles. Without speaking, the man shoved them on the counter next to the wrapped material. He took out his pencil, licked the point, and began to figure on a piece of paper. “Two dollars and nineteen cents,” he finally announced.

  Sahara raised a delicate eyebrow, her dark eyes suddenly flashing as she calmly said, “And you call us the thieves.” She laid a crisp dollar bill and a nickel on the counter. “I believe you miscalculated,” she smiled as she took her package. “Thank you, sir.” She started to turn toward the door.

  “You with them stinkin’ gypsies?”

  Sahara turned back to face him. “Excuse me?”

  His face twisted into an angry glare. “I asked if you with them gypsies came into town earlier.”

  Tightening her mouth, Sahara fought the urge to spit at the man. Dryly, she questioned, “If I am?”

  “Tell them to stay away from my store. Don't want no problems.”

  “And if I'm not?”

  He smiled saucily. “Then have a good day, ma'am.” Furious, Sahara whirled on her heels, stormed out of the store and past the two snickering women. Not long ago, she was one of them, a town person with curiosity about the traveling people with bright colored clothing and strange words. But today, she thought, I am no longer Sahara the gadjo. I am Sahara the gypsy. A smile crossed her lips as she thought of the new material she had purchased. Sahara, the gypsy in black.

  The camp was alive with activity as she walked up the dusty road toward it. Her heart swelled at the sight of the men standing around the fires in the dimming sunset, drinking their rakiya as the women cooked their dinners. The children were nowhere to be seen. The closer she got to the camp, the louder the gypsy music. Her ears tuned in the music. It was not the same gypsy music, so full of fire and passion, that she had heard her first nights with the gypsies. Instead, it was slightly calmer with gentle folklore tones. It was the music the gypsies played for the gadjo. As Sahara reached the outskirts of the camp, she noticed several people dressed like town men. She was no longer surprised at these intruders on the gypsy life.

  Some of the younger town men spotted the black haired gypsy and nudged one of his friends. Soon, the entire group of town men stared at the approaching gypsy. Sahara noticed the attention given to her and lifted her chin in the air. But it wasn’t until they blocked her path that she felt her pulse quicken. She tried to appear strong and in control. Forcing an image of her mother into her mind, she stilled her beating heart. What would Amaya have done, she wondered? With newfound bravado, she stood before them, staring at each man, her hands on her hips, before asking, “You are not gypsy?” She didn't know where the question came from. It was obvious that the men were gadjo. But the question seemed to reinstate her own claim as a gypsy.

  The men laughed. A young man, probably twenty, stepped forward, slinging his arm around her neck. “I bet you'd like to read my fortune in private.” His words were slurred. It was clear that he had been drinking. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Before she could stop him, he started to drag her away from the fires and toward a wagon. She started to struggle but it wasn’t necessary. A strong hand stopped the young man, a force jerking him backward. Sahara didn’t have to look to know that it was Nicolae. He loomed large over the young man, quickly freeing Sahara from his grasp. He pushed her behind him, protectively placing himself between his wife and the group of men.

  The town man stared up at the large gypsy, his drunken smile fading into a frightened frown. “What do you want?” Nicolae's face was expressionless. He had seen Sahara walking up the road toward the camp. He had waited for her to find him but she never came. When he saw her with the town men, his temper had flared. Nicolae shoved past several men and hurried toward his young wife. Then he saw the one man try to drag her away. He was thankful that he had caught her before anything had happened. Too often the town men misbehaved at the gypsy camp, looking for the younger gypsy girls who might welcome their advances in exchange for money. There were none of those girls in this kumpania.

  “You touch my wife? I will kill you.” He spoke quietly, his rage so great that his voice was calm and even.

  “I didn't touch her!” The town man's face paled and he glanced around for help from his comrades. No one dared step in. With so many gypsies around, they would all be killed.

  Nicolae lunged for the man but Sahara grabbed at his arm. “No! Nicolae, let him go! He knew no better!”

  “No better than to touch a woman?” Nicolae calmed down, his hand covering Sahara's. “You did not provoke him, no?”

  Desperately she shook her head. “But do you really want to kill a man? Especially one like him? He is nothing compared to you…a weak little child.” She cast the trembling town man a disdainful look. “That isn't even a fight, Nicolae. It is murder.”

  Nicolae stared at the man for a long moment. Sahara thought she could see beads of sweat on the man's forehead. Finally, Nicolae put his arm protectively around Sahara's shoulders. “You are right, my wise bori.” He looked down at her. “Come. You must eat.”

  She stifled her sigh of relief as Nicolae lead her to the cooking fires. As they passed a group of men, Nicolae reached out for a bottle of rakiya and handed it to Sahara. She raised it to her lips, taking a long swallow before handing it back to him. He took it gratefully as they reached the fires. Duda noticed them sitting by the edge of the fire and quickly brought them each a bowl, serving it to them from behind. Sahara nodded at the old woman but Nicolae ignored her. Instead, he lifted the bowl to his lips, drinking the warm juices from the stew. With his fingers, he picked up a piece of meat. Sahara watched him before hesitantly following his example. The meat was tough and tasted overcooked. But she didn't complain as she finished what was in her bowl and set it before her. Nicolae savored his longer, apparently enjoying the coarse meat while Sahara drank once again from the bottle of rakiya.

  When Nicolae finally set his bowl down next to Sahara's, Duda was quick to take both bowls, careful not to mix them up as she washed them. Nicolae glanced at the old woman. “Duda works hard. She is a good wife.” He reached for the bottle from Sahara. After quenching his thirst, he set it between himself and Sahara.

  She watched as Duda washed the bowls. “Is her husband the Rom Baro?”

  “The Rom Baro, yes.”

  She had already realized Duda was married to the Rom Baro but she had never asked Nicolae. Now, Sahara questioned him with a frown. “She is not your mother though?”

  Nicolae gave a tired laugh as he looked at her. “My mother's sister. My mother died shortly after I was born and my father married her sister to take care of his two children. It is custom if the sister is not married already or recently widowed.”

  Sahara wrapped her hands around her knees, smiling mischievously at Nicolae. “And what would you do if I left you in such a situation?”

  He lowered his eyes and looked back at the fires. “I would be forced to marry again, S'hara.” He hesitated, his expression dark and pained, before he added, “So don't.”

  They were silent for several minutes. Sahara pondered the sorrow in his voice when he had spoken his last sentence. Did he actually fear she might leave him or die? Sahara smiled to herself, for the first time feeling drawn to the man she had married. He had waited for her, sought her out, and tricked her in order to marry her. The more she knew about him, the more she wanted to try for him. Try to be a good wife, perhaps even to be like Duda one day. “Well, I'll do my best to make sure that doesn't happen.” When he glanced at her to see if she was teasing him, she smiled seductively. “Is that more to your liking?”

  “I have more use for you alive, S'hara. Don't forget that.” He didn't wait for her to reply as he stood up. “Let us watch the dancing.”

  The dancing, although full of gypsy life, lacked the passion from the first nights. Nicolae always called it dancin
g “for the gadjo.” It was more of a show with colorful costumes and flamboyant, stereotypical music. Looking past the dancers, Sahara noticed Locke standing alone. He watched the gypsy girls with a lustful gleam in his eye. Sahara followed his gaze, startled to see a young gypsy girl dancing for what appeared to be only Locke. Sahara squinted, trying to make out the girl's face as she danced. Unable to make her out, Sahara laid her hand on Nicolae's arm. “Who is that girl?”

  Nicolae looked where Sahara pointed. “The girl with the gold costume on? She is Greggor's future wife. She has not become a sheybari yet.” When he noticed Sahara's confused look, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. “She is still a little girl.” His emphasis on “little girl” made it clear to Sahara that he meant she had not started menstruating. “When she becomes a sheybari, Greggor will marry her.”

  Sahara remembered Greggor as the boy Locke had fought several days ago. Perhaps the reason for their dispute ran deeper than personal dislike. Sahara looked back at the young girl, dancing eagerly for the lean Locke. Perhaps Locke and Greggor's fiancé were in love. “They are too young.”

  “Did you say something?”

  Sahara looked up at Nicolae and shook her head. She hadn't meant to speak out loud. “No, I didn't.”

  Nicolae looked down at her as she turned her attention back to the dancing. The longing in his groin began to grow again. All day he had felt the throbbing of desire whenever he thought of his new wife. Now, as he stared at her sunned face from being outside all day, he decided to not fight it any more. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he waited until she looked back at him. “I want to go to sleep.” The insinuation was clear. Sahara glanced once more at the dancing girl before forgetting the possible love triangle between Greggor, Locke, and the girl. Hesitantly, Sahara followed Nicolae.