Summer of The Dancing Bear

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  “Please continue, we’d like to know,” Kata said.

  “Pieces of garments?” Maja asked. “What does that mean?”

  “Dordi! Dordi! Dear me!” exhaled Goya.

  “Family and friends bring pieces of clothes from a sick person to be purified by contact with the saint,” Zara said. “Some leave gifts of silk kerchiefs, pieces of cloth. Women rub the hems of the Saint’s dresses, pray, ask for favours.”

  “I look up to Saint face,” Goya said, moulding words with her hands. “Light, flame, candles. Sweet face smile at me.”

  She lifted her arms to the sky. “Saint smile at me,” she repeated, her eyes brightening as if the miracle were happening that very moment. “Gypsy magic! Saint see me.”

  “Is this where you met your husband?” Maja prompted.

  “That same night,” Zara answered. “Yes. Not far from the crypt. We all think Saint Sara sent him to our Goya. Or her to him. Like me and my rom.”

  The musicians’ melodies swung from sorrowful to happy, from sentimental to tumultuous, keeping the listeners in suspense and the dancers in thrall to the rhythm. The crowd of swaying bodies grew. The stomping feet and the snapping fingers and the shrill whistles picked up tempo until all Kata could see was a swirl of sideburns, half-closed eyes, peacock feathers, skin-tight pants, black boots, frilled skirts, silk shirts, and flowers falling from women’s hair to be trampled beneath the furious feet below.

  Hands cradling her face, Zara began her own story: “Late one night, I went for a walk, sorting out my thoughts. I knew my former fiancé’s family would be arriving any day. I sat by the fire.” Zara turned to her groom and whispered: “You must leave, Antonio. I must tell our story. I must tell it how I feel it.” Antonio squeezed her shoulder and walked toward a group of men nearby.

  “I stared into the glowing embers and I could still see my sweet Sara. I was bathed in her gaze. She’d seen me, seen into my heart. I felt someone watching me. I turned my head … and stared into the most beautiful eyes. His eyes.” Zara gestured toward Antonio.

  Kata felt as if she’d just been licked by a flame – that’s how it had been the first time she saw Lorca, the day the bear danced, his deep, green eyes the colour of oak leaves.

  Goya took over the story: “He hold my hand. Take me under tamarisk tree. Branches sigh, whisper. Happiness, I find.”

  Kata envisioned every detail of Lorca’s face, lingering on the deep curve of his lips.

  “I? Who I was?” Goya asked. “Gypsy girl, yes,” she said, answering her own question. “But not virgin. No more. Lose my worth. Bring shame to my father. Bring shame to my clan.” Her face lit up. “But love? I find. I know pa-ssion.”

  She stood up, propped her arms on her hips and commanded: “Never look another man’s woman like that, my pralo, my brother! Men die for less!”

  Kata and Maja looked around in fright, and Zara smiled, mischievously.

  “Goya’s lover,” Zara declared. “The voice of her lover. Threatening. It was the same with me and my Antonio.”

  Goya nodded approval as Zara carried on. “‘Will you marry me?’ my Antonio asked, as if we were the only two people in the world. His next words were: ‘Then take me to your father.’”

  Goya looked deeply into Kata’s and Maja’s eyes, and confessed: “I look at my rom, my Sun, God, Love.”

  Kata felt light-headed. As Zara and Goya wove their love stories, Kata pictured Lorca. She imagined him wanting her, loving her among the wild flowers, jealously protecting her. She could see herself sitting on the grass, but felt as if she were in some unearthly state where her whole being vanished except for her burning face, and the warm wind rising in her chest and stirring that same low pit of her stomach, below the nauseated area of her belly button, that part of her body she would be afraid to touch, she was warned never to touch.

  For a moment, Kata feared her usual panic attack, but it quickly passed. She felt bewildered and like never before utterly frightened by the new sensations. Worst of all – by a disturbing lack of trust in herself.

  Goya tugged at her kerchief to let the silver hair spill down her shoulders. “My son born nine month later. Child of love.”

  “A woman who bears a child with a man she does not love will weaken the spirit of her people,” Zara said. “Our children’s souls must have a passion for life and love before they are born.”

  Goya waved her hand toward the band: “Look. Our dancers! Eyes fear-less, like eagle. Limbs swift, whirl-ing.”

  “Children born of love,” Zara declared.

  The women’s voices rose and fell with the melody, peeling away the layers of ancient magic and answering the questions Kata thought had no answers, the questions of life and love, birth and death and existence. She felt possessed by the unpredictable run of musical notes mingling with the thumping of the dancers’ feet on the trampled earth, by the glistening sweat on the smiling faces with eyes half-closed as if in a trance.

  And now, Lorca loomed above her, hand extended: “Would you dance with me?” he asked.

  Kata stared at him. Fear gripped her at the thought of touching him, holding him while in this feverish state. What if he were to sense her attraction to him; feel her burning face? What if he knew? If he knew how much she … desired him? The word sounded so unfitting, dirty. That was not her! That could never be her! Is this even love? Or pure lust, disgrace – those horrible words again? But he stood there, hand out. She tried to move. She opened her mouth to speak. But nothing happened. No movement, no voice. She became acutely aware of her own awkwardness. If she were to stand up, she would certainly draw attention to her spindly legs, her thin unwieldy figure. She shook her head in a “no” and continued staring at him, at the dimples in his cheeks and the deep curve of his lips. She noticed a glint of moonlight in his eyes and wondered if Lorca looked a little like Zeus under a moonlit sky. The notion that no woman could resist Zeus, the notion she once found absurd, suddenly became believable.

  Chapter XVII

  The Wedding

  “No woman’s ever worth the money a man pays for her. You hear me?”

  “No matter what ducats a man pays for a woman. He’s cheating, ha?”

  “See that girl, there? Let me look at her teeth. How do I know you’re not cheating me? How do I know she’s not an old mare?”

  “You think I would let you look into that girl’s mouth? You old horse dealer. No wonder your woman doesn’t love you. Treat women like horses, do you? When you learn how to treat a woman, come and talk to me, ha? You don’t have the ducats worthy of that girl.”

  “And you don’t have the girl worthy of my ducats.”

  “Now that I see what a mean old goat you are, I can’t part with my girl for all the gold in Madrid! Look how sad she is to leave her dear mother. So the deal’s off. I’m taking my girl home! Where she belongs!”

  Jasmine sat on the grass next to Kata and Maja, clapping her hands in joy and along with other women encouraging the mother of the bride: “You tell him, pen, my sister, you tell him! I wouldn’t give one of our women for a hundred of your men! Yes! You men have to learn how to love a woman!”

  “That poor bride,” Maja asked anxiously. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Just look at them!” Jasmine said, laughing. “Does that young bride look like she’s sad to leave her mother? And does that groom look like he cares how much his father has to pay? They know it’s a game.”

  “But why?” Kata stammered.

  “It’s the battle of wits between the father of the groom and the mother of the bride,” Jasmine explained. “Nothing to do with the young couple.”

  “Brides are bought?” asked Maja.

  “The groom must pay for the bride, yes. But it’s just a game. An old custom. All the money is managed by the chief of the tribe.”

  “All those hurtful words. What about that?” Kata asked.

  “Also customary,” Jasmine said. “An age-old, man-woman struggle. The men from the brid
e’s side join the men from the groom’s. It’s a bartering game, see? And the women do the same. This way, the whole pretend-squabble turns into the chance for men and women, husbands and wives, to fix their mistakes – yet preserve their pride. But the guilty mind” – and here she winked – “is always reminded of what’s really meant.”

  “The bride’s gown is so beautiful,” Maja sighed.

  Jasmine fumbled with the posy pinned to her bodice. She removed it and separated the sprigs of jasmine into two smaller bunches. She pulled a few hairpins out of her pocket, each ornamented with stones of varying hues. “Which one?” She held her hand out to Kata.

  “Oh, no! Thank you, but I couldn’t.”

  Jasmine lifted a dark tress falling over Kata’s forehead. “Yes?” she smiled and pinned jasmine sprigs into Kata’s hair. “Thick black hair, like a gypsy. A purple stone for you with white jasmine. Beautiful.”

  She leaned over to Maja and pinned her hair up as well, in the same way. “A pink stone for you, to go with your rosy complexion.” Maja was beaming.

  Goya and Lorca sat on the grass next to them. “Well, my moon fairies, the debate’s heating up,” Lorca announced. “The ceremony’s about to begin.” Turning to Jasmine, he added: “Are you ready, my sister?”

  “Yes,” Jasmine said, exhaling. She gathered her skirt, got up from the grass, and with a wide sweep of her hand at the sky declared: “Our universal church, the open heavens. My witnesses, the moon and the stars and all the people I love. While I breathe free air and feel the wind on my face.”

  “I have something for you, my fragrant Jasmine,” Lorca said.

  The same young boy who fetched Lorca’s fiddle earlier produced another instrument.

  “My sweet saint!” Goya murmured. “My rom’s mandolin, from fragrant meadow heaven. My Lorca, since little boy. His great-grandfather’s mandolin, keep with him, wherever he go. Make earth into heaven.”

  Lorca and the boy bowed to each other. Lorca picked up the instrument as if it were a precious object and glanced at his sister. The notes, barely audible, turned into a gentle trembling of air.

  Kata leaned her head back. How well she knew these notes. Had known them always, as long as she could remember. The notes of her childhood that she heard late at night, while sitting on the windowsill. Jasmine’s soft voice permeated the night air:

  my dress in rags

  jewels of stardust

  my home gypsy carts

  i sing and dance

  for copper coins

  and i sell cookie hearts

  i’m a poor gypsy girl, just a poor gypsy girl

  with no ducats of gold

  but my heart and my soul, soar with a swallow

  it can’t be bought or sold

  “It’s been a long, long time. Since … we’ve had peace,” Jasmine whispered. She wiped a tear and flung herself around her brother’s neck before lifting her face to the sky. “A new life. For my rom and me. I plan to give him my love and my body but not my gypsy spirit. That’s mine and only mine to keep.”

  “And what would that be?” Lorca said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

  “My spirit?” she teased, twirling her gathered skirt flirtatiously, mimicking Lorca’s wry smile. “My spirit is that of the earth and the sun, the wind and the rain, and the silver dust of falling stars, of course. As I’ve told you many a times, my pralo.”

  “I see the moon has turned pale,” Lorca aid. “Dawn’s almost here. They should be taking their bread and salt soon. Here they are. I think our Romany boda, gypsy wedding, is truly beginning.”

  An elderly man with a handlebar moustache approached the young bride and groom. His waistcoat was scarlet and black, dotted with metal buttons that resembled old coins. His wide black trousers were tucked into high black boots. A white shirt gleamed under his coat and he carried a long whip.

  “Ahh!” Lorca exclaimed, “our chief!”

  “Wow! He looks like a soldier,” Maja said.

  “The get-up, yes,” Jasmine said, laughing. “The soldiering, no. Not for him. Or any of us.”

  As the chief neared, the bride and groom stood. The music, the dancing, the singing and the pseudo-quarrelling over the bride’s worth came to an abrupt end. Everyone gathered in a tight circle. Kata slipped through the crowd to the first row of onlookers, only a few steps from the bride. The voices hushed and all eyes turned to the chief.

  The chief appraised the audience, then turned to the groom and in a booming voice commanded: “Swear, Antonio, that you will leave this woman you want to make the mother of your children if you ever discover you no longer love her. Do you swear?”

  The groom swore, repeating the chief’s words.

  Nodding with satisfaction the chief turned to the bride: “Swear, Zara, that you will leave this man you want to make the father of your children if you ever discover you no longer love him.”

  The bride also repeated the chief’s words.

  “As you love each other today, may you love each other forever,” the chief declared with a tone of finality.

  He then lifted a small flatbread high in the air for everyone to see. Breaking it in two pieces, he sprinkled salt on each, and handed them to the couple, saying: “When you are tired of this bread and salt, you will be tired of one another.”

  Then the bride and groom exchanged their pieces of bread. They ate the bread, slowly, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  The chief completed the ceremony by opening a simple switchblade he plucked from his pocket. The groom unbuttoned the sleeve on his left arm and exposed his wrist. The chief made a scratch on the groom’s wrist. The bride pushed up the bangles on her right arm and thrust it out, allowing the chief to make a tiny scratch on her wrist as well. He placed her arm on the groom’s, so each cut pressed against the other. He whipped out a white handkerchief and tied the couple’s wrists together.

  Kata felt Jasmine’s arm around her shoulder. “No matter what happens from now,” Jasmine said, “whether they live together as husband and wife until death, or go their own ways, they’ll always care for each other.”

  The bride and groom entered a tent and the hushed crowd came to life, cheering, clapping, and throwing aloft handfuls of rice.

  “The marriage union will take place now,” Jasmine said. “I hope you girls don’t mind hearing about these aspects of married life.”

  “Being chaste is not the same as being naïve,” Kata said, surprised by the confidence in her own voice. Maja nodded in agreement.

  “His is an old Spanish clan,” Jasmine explained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they have four of their matrons showing chicken blood on a handkerchief tomorrow as proof of her virginity. When I first got married, it was my blood. I guess we’ll see tomorrow. This couple seems to be following the old customs.”

  Jasmine straightened her tight bodice and the many folds of her skirt, bangles on her arms and ankles clinking. “Well, I’m about to take salt and bread myself. And here comes my rom. His cronies have been giving him advice how to act on his wedding night. As if he needs any.”

  Kata saw the man she thought looked like a gnarled tree, whose silhouette she had glimpsed the first night at the encampment. Jasmine introduced him as the man she planned to make the father of her future children. Kata was puzzled. She never imagined him as anyone’s future husband, least of all wed to the beautiful, vivacious Jasmine. She saw him more as a gnarled tree, dried and decayed, a symbol of suffering, an allegory for the transience of human life.

  Where had she seen the words that affixed themselves to Jasmine’s rom? She closed her eyes to images surfacing like a photograph from the depths of emulsion in a darkroom tray. But this picture was not from the photo shop in the back of the school auditorium. It was from the art exhibit of the Dutch painters she’d visited with Aunt Agata. She could see the canvas in its full size, the power of light and shadow – chiaroscuro. As she gazed into the painting, she felt as if she could see through the eyes of its creator.
The inscription read that the three graves in the middle could still be seen in the Jewish burial ground at Outderkerk near Amsterdam; but the surroundings were the invention of the artist, Jacob van Ruisdael. Jewish Cemetery, circa 1670.

  And here he was, the man whose shadowed silhouette she’d glimpsed from a distance the night before, her first night at the encampment. Her first night? It seemed so long ago. He placed his hands around Jasmine’s waist and lifted her up, twirling her while she giggled like a child. He put her down and kissed her forehead.

  “My rom,” Jasmine announced with a flourish.

  Kata stepped closer to better observe him. He had thick, bushy hair he wore in an upright sweep, shorter than most other gypsies. For a moment, their eyes met – his deep-set and dark, harbouring a ferocity she’d never seen in a human face. His high forehead and high-ridged nose gave him a severe look. But below the cheekbones, his face narrowed, leaving an indentation in his cheeks as if he were sucking them in, his mouth appearing too narrow for the fullness of his lips. The broad top half of his face, sombre and intense, was set apart by a moustache clipped as if a piece of fur had been glued under his nose. And when he looked at Jasmine and she at him, they seemed alone in a perfect world. But the most striking feature was his indescribable sensuality. Kata suddenly understood how Jasmine could fall in love with someone like him.

  Goya approached, wearing a blue satin jacket with embroidered flowers that gave her a festive air. Her hair was in two thick braids, one over each shoulder, a red carnation behind her left ear. Large gold hoops swung from her earlobes. She carried the same sort of bread as had the chief. Jasmine and her rom, the gnarled tree, stood waiting.

  Goya broke the bread in half, sprinkled salt on each piece and repeated the same words the chief had used to marry the first couple. Jasmine and her rom exchanged their pieces and ate them. With the help of another woman, Goya raised a large earthenware jug high above the couple’s heads and poured a shower of grain over them. Then, the two women threw the jug on the ground where it shattered. Goya picked up the broken handle and invited others to choose their lucky charms.