Summer of The Dancing Bear

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  Maja stood up and chimed a cheerful, “Hello.”

  “This is my great-grandmother, Goya,” Lorca announced. “You can get acquainted. I’ll go help with the food.”

  “I’d better help, too,” Jasmine said, standing up. “Only the young bride and groom can play princess and prince tonight.” She winked and walked away, flourishing her skirt with one hand.

  With Goya squinting into Kata’s face with Grandma’s brown eyes, it was as if Grandma was standing there pretending to be someone else. She wished that she could say something, anything, a simple hello. But her throat was dry and her body frozen.

  “Bread,” Goya was saying, oblivious to the effect she had on Kata. “Fresh from grill. Pass it around.”

  Goya reached into the basket on her arm and took out a round loaf of corn bread. Then she peered at Kata again.

  “You Kata? Yes?” Kata swallowed and nodded. “Your grandma’s heart … soul.” She spoke the last few words to herself in a low voice. “Your grandma, my pen, my sister in spirit. True shaman.”

  Two wrinkled hands crisscrossed with protruding veins were folded on the gathers of Goya’s skirt. Gently, as if guided by some spirit, Kata lifted Goya’s hand. She held it for a moment, amazed at how much it resembled … The last time she kissed Grandma’s hand, it was cold and stiff and lifeless.

  A group of village women dressed in black had gathered in the house. Their faces all looked the same – grey and sombre. They checked that the mirrors were covered. Kata was not allowed in the large dining room in the guesthouse. That’s where the body lay. They had brought in Grandma’s aluminum tub to wash the body three times. They took one of the last linen towels from Grandma’s hope chest. Someone announced that Jovanka had grown the linen, harvested it, soaked it in the marsh, woven it into thread and made it into cloth on the loom built for her by her father.

  Then the voices quieted and all Kata could hear was murmuring. Fragmented phrases arose from one particular voice: something about omens, magic and the blasphemy of it all. What will Saint Peter say about her? She was a sorceress, like an old gypsy. The voice doubted Grandma’s soul rising to heaven. Was it Nana Novak? Roza? She even thought she heard laughter. Laughter? She wanted to ask why. But there was no one left to ask. Grandma was in there. She was the body Kata was not allowed to look at until it was ready for display.

  The water from the aluminum washtub was spilled on the lawn, over the pink and white-tinged daisies. She remembered the exact spot where the water splashed – the dappled shade where Grandma used to rest after her morning chores.

  Later, everyone was allowed into the dining room. Grandma was laid out on the large table that was at its full length as if it was Grandpa Mihailo’s saint’s day and at least a dozen of the villagers were expected for dinner. In fact, the last time this table was fully extended was on Christmas Eve, after the pig was roasted on a spit and left on the table overnight to be carved the next day, with cookie sheets under it to collect the drippings.

  In her coffin, Grandma was dressed in the navy silk dress she always said she was saving for the day she rejoined her Mihailo. Wreaths of carnations and roses were strewn over the table. Kata had peeked at Grandma’s hands clasped on her chest, holding the dark wooden cross she always kissed before taking a sip of holy water. She had leaned over ever so carefully to avoid crushing the flowers or ruining the fine dress that still smelled of lavender. Kata had pressed her lips on the back of Grandma’s hand that now looked small and stiff, incapable of feeding the chickens or baking cookies or picking cherries. Grandma’s hand was cold and lifeless and it froze Kata’s heart.

  And now, for the first time since Grandma went to be with her Mihailo, Kata had the desire to kiss the hand of an elderly person. It felt natural to lift Goya’s hand and hold it against her cheek. Gently, she kissed the back of the hand.

  Goya’s arm enfolded Kata’s shoulders and she found herself sobbing against the warm bosom. Eyes closed, she allowed the melancholy her mother warned against to flood her. She remembered standing on the wall of Kalemegdan fortress in Belgrade, overlooking the confluence of the Sava and Danube, as raindrops drowned in lazy swells. She imagined herself a raindrop, flowing away into unknown lands of unknown people who held all the answers to all the questions without answers.

  Chapter XVI

  Saint Sara

  because my mother is a gypsy …

  my love is like an ocean

  deep and never ending

  and all I ask of you my love

  is your heart unrelenting

  because my mother is a gypsy …

  promise that you’ll leave me

  when you no longer love me

  because my mother is a gypsy …

  A clear female voice lifted the notes, accompanied by the jangling of the tambourine and the rhythmic clicking of castanets. After every stanza followed the refrain, “Because my mother is a gypsy” in drawn-out notes that evoked both sorrow and joy.

  One of the musicians waved at Lorca to join the group but he shook his head. Two men approached, grabbing his arms and pulling him upright. He tussled but they persisted. Goya placed her arm on Lorca’s shoulder: “Must do your part, young man.”

  Lorca shrugged and made his way toward the musicians.

  A young boy ran into one of the tents and in a flash returned with a fiddle. With a reverence beyond his years the boy handed it to Lorca. After tightening the screw at the frog end of the bow, Lorca pressed the fiddle into his shoulder and leaned his chin against the instrument. His bow gently caressed the strings, then suddenly dug into them, and then stroked them again with a gentle bounce. The tune, at first soft as a sigh, soon peaked to a bird-like trill. A second fiddle joined in, followed by a guitar. A female voice rose, soon joined by a deeper one.

  It was the woman in the flowery frock, the beautiful woman with perfect curves, a perfect hair sweep, and now with a perfect voice.

  The male voice? That was Lorca’s. The most soothing baritone she’d ever heard. Not too loud or harsh. What had happened to the rough patches in his voice? She remembered those very well. She’d known them most of her life. Would recognize them anywhere. Except that they were gone. Kata covered her eyes. She could not face it, could not face the idea of that woman smiling into Lorca’s eyes, singing to him, with him, draping herself over him.

  The voices paused. The guitar and fiddles subsided, allowing a flute to emerge in clear, clean notes. And when the flute waned the female voice rose again, joined by the deep male one, the perfect one, Lorca’s, and by the fiddles, the tambourine, and the wildly clicking castanets, enticing the listener to laugh and cry and sing at the same time. The dancers were soon on their feet.

  Kata lowered her hand in time to see Maja tapping her foot to the music, swaying along with Goya and a group of women sitting on the grass. Most sang along while some joined in only for the refrain, infusing it with such passion that nothing else mattered. More food appeared, with people picking up pieces of hot roast pork in one hand and large chunks of bread in the other. Hungry revellers attacked large bowls of coleslaw and mixed salads. They munched and hummed to the music and occasionally banged pieces of cutlery together or against the glass bowls. Maja turned to Kata and with her mouth full mumbled something that sounded like, “This is amazing.”

  “Look!” Kata said shaking Maja’s arm. “Look at them.” She gestured toward the band. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Why don’t you look for yourself?” Maja asked.

  Kata glanced over. A group of people blocked her view, but a flowery frock was leaning against a pair of black pants, just like Lorca’s. All the musicians wore the same type of pants. Was that woman’s arm resting on the man’s shoulder? The hand was gesturing, as if echoing the conversation, the heavily ornamented fingers flashing in a fast dance, bangles shimmering on her wrist. Kata couldn’t see the man’s face. But the purple shirtsleeve was identical to Lorca’s. And then she glimpsed another purple shirtslee
ve with yellow moons printed on it.

  The crowd parted and she saw a peacock feather aloft, above the purple shirtsleeve with the yellow moons. The shirtsleeve with the yellow moons wrapped itself around the waist of the flowery frock. Kata sighed in relief. Lorca was heading toward her. She pretended to be absorbed in something else.

  “Many of the customs seem the same as ours,” Kata said to Goya.

  “Two love birds sitting there? See?” Goya motioned to the bride and groom. “Met at gypsy fiesta. In Camargue.”

  Seeing the blank look on the girls’ faces, she explained: “In Provence, in France. Beautiful. There is gypsy shrine. Every year in May, from all over Europe, from Canada, America, our people come to worship Saint Sara.”

  “You have a saint?” Kata exclaimed, while at the same time pretending not to notice Lorca sitting next to her. “Are your people Christian? My grandma said your people came from India, or from Egypt.”

  “I love your singing,” Maja said to Lorca.

  He smiled. Kata glanced at his face and their eyes met. She envisioned herself sinking into his embrace. I could hide in his arms. I could sleep in his arms. I could die in his arms. I could … die in his arms.

  “I heard that some gypsies are Christian,” Maja said to Goya and Kata was glad of the interruption.

  “We are an old, complex lineage,” Lorca cut in. “Even we don’t agree on our origins.”

  Goya raised her index finger with an air of importance. “Our Romany speaking, we keep. Our Romany ways. But much travelling, our life. Learn other speaking. Take on religion, ways of other people.”

  As the questions began, Goya talked over them: “Our Romany creed, never abandon. Our God, o Del. O Del is sky, or heaven, fire, wind, rain. Earth, phu. Always here. Before sky. Earth always here we call Divine Mother. One day, come O Pouro Del, ancient God. Suddenly, here, his a-co-lyte, o Bengh, the Devil. Now, o Del always Good, o Bengh, Evil. Both, power. Con-ten-ding. All around, in nature. Here.” She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable and sculpting words with her hands.

  Some men summoned Lorca again to help with chores but Kata did not mind. She was safe – as long as the flowery frock with her talking hand was “draped” over the shirtsleeves with the yellow moons.

  Goya continued. “O Bengh make two papusha, statuettes, from earth, mud,” Goya continued. “But, o Del breathe spirit in them.” She closed her eyes, and expelled air from her inflated cheeks, as if she were a drawing from the wind that came to life as breath. “So, Damo and Yehwah, or Adam and Eve, born. That one story only. Many tribe, many story how God come.”

  She nodded, to end the discussion. Then she raised her arms above her head and began to sway with the melody and to hum along with the singers.

  Why had Grandma never mentioned Saint Sara? Goya’s accounts were of a gypsy girl who was the servant of Mary Salome and Mary Jacobe living in Palestine at the same time as Christ. Suddenly the concept of a gypsy was no longer so mystical, nor evil as some of the villagers thought, an idea Kata had struggled with most of her life.

  She knew gypsies believed in omens, magic. But now she found out they also believed in saints, and had their own. Seeing Goya so absorbed in her story, the flickering fire illuminating her untroubled face, Kata felt that her own belief in Christ and the Virgin Mary was not marred by her belief in omens, as some villagers claimed. Her fears about Grandma not making it to heaven were easing. She realized that Saint Sara would make sure all the good gypsies went to heaven, just like everyone else. And Grandma, although not a gypsy, was certainly good. Saint Sara would intercede to clear up any misconceptions.

  “After Christ crucified, three Mary flee,” Goya said, again picking up her story. “From Palestine. Sara call: ‘Take me, take me.’ At sea, big storm. Boat lose oars. Everybody drown? No. Sara look at stars. Show sign. She smell land on wind. ‘Ha! Ha!’ she say. ‘I gypsy girl! Save saint. Three Mary I save, like dream tell me.’ She come to Camargue. Use gypsy magic. Ha!” Goya chuckled, joyously, triumphantly, as if the saints had just been saved at that moment. Kata felt a sense of bliss.

  “More story,” Goya announced. “Sara beg in Provence. Beg poor fisher-folk, give dress to saints. Fisher-folk poor, but give. See, they poor, but share. We poor, but share. Share everything. Happy, sad, feast, famine.”

  We share everything, our happiness, our sorrow, Kata recalled Lorca’s words from the night before.

  She looked up at the pinkish clouds in slow retreat to unveil a pale night sky. Everything seemed so different, new and old. So many ideas that made no sense only a few days earlier were now taking shape.

  She inhaled, deeply and freely, as if she were a swallow about to soar into the sky. How simple and rational everything seemed now that she understood the gypsy approach to spiritual as well as everyday life.

  “Is this yours, miss? Miss! Is this yours?” A young boy was shaking Kata’s shoulder, while a young girl was patting Maja’s back, asking the same question, holding out a small object. Kata stared at the thin gold chain in the girl’s hand, with a tiny oval locket just like the one Grandma had given her shortly before she died – the necklace Kata always wore. She passed her hand around her neck, but the necklace wasn’t there. She glanced at Maja who seemed just as puzzled, staring at the tiny watch in the boy’s hand that was identical to the one Maja had been wearing. The boy and the girl were hopping from one bare foot to the other, giggling and elbowing each other.

  “Take it! Take it, it’s yours!” the children exclaimed, each grabbing a hand and placing an object in it. Their lively, agile figures disappeared into the crowd.

  “Show-offs. Their skill,” chuckled Goya. “Ras-cal. That Jasmine’s boy. Cle-ver. Like fox.” She spoke something in Romany and wagged her finger in the direction where the two children had vanished. She shook her head: “They good. Yes, they good. Your jewel, make tight.” She paused and added: “You, learn. We not easy to know.”

  “Is the story about Saint Sara finished?” Kata asked.

  “Story never finish, child. Story live. Live in me, tell story. Live in you, listen to story. After, much after, you tell story. See?” Goya grinned, her long white hair straying from the bun, shrouding her shoulders.

  She told about Sara who had also stolen the nails that held Christ to the cross and had taken away his crown of thorns. For relieving some of Christ’s suffering, she earned the gypsies their right to steal small objects.

  Then, with hardly a pause, Goya clapped her hands to the music: “Young bride and groom, see there? To be married.” She called out to the young couple and they approached reluctantly.

  “I am Zara,” the bride whispered shyly.

  “Antonio,” the groom chimed in with youthful confidence.

  The girls gazed in admiration at the bride’s saffron gown. A jewelled headpiece resembling a crown of gold ducats harnessed the waist-long black hair. The groom’s silky shirt matched his bride’s dress. The moonlight, the licking flames, and the glowing lanterns made the couple, Kata thought, look like a princess and prince from a fairytale kingdom. Were they much older than her?

  “Find your jumel, bride, in Camargue,” Goya said to Antonio. “There, many a lad meet his girl. Like me and my rom. God bless his soul in fragrant meadow heaven.”

  “Wow! You met your husband in France?” Maja loved romantic stories and looked at Goya with anticipation.

  Goya nodded: “What night! Never forget.”

  Zara blushed and glanced at her fiancé. “We all know Goya’s love story. The year was 1914, the second year the gawdje were allowed to be present inside the Church crypt on May 24. Up to 1912, only our people had the right to spend the whole night in it. The gypsies simply wanted to pray. Pray to their Sara, to my Sara.” The shy bride’s voice, filled with a mixture of restrained excitement and reverence, painted scenes of adventure and Kata ached to see and touch these mysterious, sacred places.

  Maja clapped her hands. “Did you meet your husband in the cr
ypt, Grandma Goya?”

  “Oh, no, not in the crypt,” Zara replied for Goya. “But we all know how Saint Sara helped her. Goya was fourteen, two years younger than I am now, and promised to a Hungarian rom. But she felt nothing for him.” A swift glance at her fiancé promised passion simmering below her bashful surface. “You see, our families get together to give the future bride and groom the chance to fall in love.”

  Goya closed her eyes and smacked her lips in a pretend kiss. “So, I kiss him.” She opened her eyes and puckered her lips as if sucking on a lemon: “Feel nothing. Again, I kiss, feel nothing. His family come to gypsy fiesta in Provence. To make wedding. I be married. At fiesta.” Goya stared absentmindedly into the night, then continued: “I put on seven skirt, like bride. Go to crypt. Pray. To me, Saint Sara, Sara La Macarena, Virgin of Spanish Gitanos. My clan from Spain. I pray for love.”

  Goya closed her eyes and used her hands to smooth the air in front of her face. “I walk in crypt. Water seep, stone under my bare feet. Old altar. Bull sacrifices, wor-shipping Mithra, my father say. No. Much blood there. In centre, Christian altar. Right? Sara. Beautiful statue. Barren women pray to her. Blind. Crippled. Pray, pray. My beautiful Sara grant wish. Not all. Some. When she see you. When she bless you.”

  “Amazing,” Maja chirped.

  Goya sighed. “My wish – love.”

  Kata’s head pulsated with a musical rhythm like that of a great throbbing heart, enveloping the fields and the trees and the sky.

  An emboldened Zara took over the story as if it were her own. “And here was Goya, in front of the saint of the wanderers and the poor, Saint Sara. Pieces of garments left behind by others hung all about her.”

  Goya lifted her hand up and sighed, painfully: “Ah! Why I tell this? New world now. New story.”