The Cadence of Gypsies

by Barbara Casey

  They watched as the large wooden front doors to the villa opened, and a smiling elderly couple poured out. Behind them was another woman, slightly younger, a little on the stout side, and all smiles. “Welcome, welcome!” Carolina recognized the voice. It was Signora De Rossa.

  Carolina and the FIGs had arrived.

  Chapter 11

  It was almost dark when Lyuba returned from the village. Her potions had sold well and several women who had been shopping asked to have their palms read. It was usually the women who asked; men didn’t believe, or if they did, they wouldn’t admit it.

  She walked into camp and nodded to the other women who had already returned. The riders. They didn’t understand the value of walking. It was no wonder they didn’t know where to find the best herbs; they saw nothing but the back of a truck.

  She had found a four-leaf clover that morning on the way to the village—a sign of good luck. She had also found a 10 lire coin on the street where she had set up to sell her medicinals. She spat on it—also for good luck. A feeling of contentment was her companion this evening, something she had not experienced in a long while. That feeling gave way to alarm, however, as she approached her hut. In the large elm a magpie was chattering; a bad omen. As soon as she entered the door, she knew. Someone had been there in her absence.

  She stood not moving in the middle of the room listening, sniffing the air, feeling the air on her bare skin; her eyes searched. Behind the curtain, now partially open, on the shelf where she kept her medicinals she noticed. Two of the bottles had been disturbed; dried herbs had been taken. She immediately knew which ones. Ephedra and flitwort, healing herbs if used properly, but dangerous otherwise. Flitwort would cause severe mouth ulcers. But the ephedra, if misused, could be deadly.

  She looked at the other shelves; the bottles and jars were as she had left them. Then she noticed the photograph of her precious child. It had been moved. Someone had picked it up to look at it more closely. The lock of hair which she had carefully cut from the head of her beautiful baby had been violated. She picked up the photograph and pressed it to her breast as rage filled her body. Only one person would dare enter her hut when she was not present and touch her things. This time he had gone too far. She would teach Milosh a lesson he would never forget.

  She washed herself with the water she had collected earlier that morning from the nearby spring; it calmed her. Then she went outside to join the others by the fire. There was a mood of celebration, for the Bandoleer had returned to camp with a cow and its calf, the reason for his leaving in the darkness of night. That meant there would be fresh milk for the younger children. She sat down next to Djidjo, Milosh’s mother, and spread out her full skirt around her.

  “Milosh will soon be a man,” she said, looking deeply into the eyes of the other woman. “I think it is time that he learned more of the ancient healing and remedies. With your permission, I would like for him to join me in the morning when I go to collect my herbs.” Lyuba smiled. She knew that by asking permission, Djidjo would agree. She was filled with false pride. She expected recognition and respect where she deserved none.

  “I was wondering when you would see how smart he is.” Her tone was boastful. “He has the makings of the next Bandoleer, perhaps the next Gypsy King. You should teach him all you know.”

  Lyuba anticipated such a remark and held her tongue. “I will expect him at my hut tomorrow morning one hour before dawn.”

  Djidjo nodded. It would be difficult to get her son up that early and he would complain, but she would do it. After all, Lyuba had singled him out over all the others. She would teach him the ancient gypsy magic. How proud his father would be.

  The next morning Lyuba sat in the darkness just outside her hut watching and waiting. A few minutes before the time he was expected, she saw Milosh stumble out of his parents’ trailer and head in her direction.

  * * *

  Carolina and the FIGs had no trouble settling in at the farmhouse where they would be living for the next several weeks. Signor and Signora Granchelli immediately embraced them, taking them in like they were family. With Carolina and Dara both being able to speak Italian, there was little difficulty in communicating with their hosts, who could speak very little English, and translating for Jennifer and Mackenzie.

  Meeting Signora De Rossa for the first time was a little unnerving for Carolina for some reason. The signora soon put her at ease when she wrapped her ample arms around her. “Please, we have known each other for several years now—talking by telephone. You must call me Lucia. No more of this Signora De Rossa.”

  Signora De Rossa—Lucia—was a distant cousin of Signor and Signora Granchelli, the visitors soon learned. Either a second cousin or third cousin twice removed—they weren’t sure. And even after several minutes of enthusiastically discussing it, they still couldn’t resolve it. Either way, they were family; and now, Carolina and the FIGs would be considered family as well. The rooms that had been prepared for them were spacious, private, and took up the entire second floor of the three-storied farmhouse. There were three beds made up in the largest room that had two windows overlooking the barn, the chicken house and nearby pastures. This is where Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer would sleep. “I thought you would be more comfortable if you shared this room.” Signora Granchelli smiled at the young girls she now considered her own. Another bedroom had been prepared for Carolina. It also had two windows; these overlooked the vegetable garden and the vineyards beyond. Besides the two bedrooms, there was a bathroom down the hall, and a comfortable private sitting area. Vases filled with freshly cut white lavender were prominently displayed in each room making everything smell fresh, and making Carolina and the FIGS feel special. Something else Carolina noticed, as did Jennifer since she had the eye of an artist, was Signora Granchelli’s color scheme throughout her home: bright, happy colors of dark blue, burnt orange, and goldenrod yellow—the same as what Carolina had chosen for her bungalow.

  The Granchelli home, farm, and vineyard were situated several kilometers off the main road that ran between the village of Frascati and the Villa Mondragone. “When the weather is clear,” Signora Granchelli explained, “you can see the Old Villa from your window, Carolina.” The fact that she used the ancient name for the Villa Mondragone intrigued Carolina.

  Several generations of Granchellis had been born and reared in the old farmhouse, brought up to tend the fields, raise the food and livestock they needed for their own use, and produce wine from the vineyards to sell. Two of the Granchelli children, both daughters, had left the farm, preferring to find their own way that didn’t include the farm or vineyards. The ones who had stayed, however, three sons now with their own families, had built homes on the sprawling property, close enough to do the work necessary to maintain the farm and vineyard, but far enough away to allow privacy. “It is all we have ever known,” Signora Granchelli spoke with pride. “Even after Frascati outgrows its borders and tourists flock from all over the world to taste our fine wines, the Granchellis will still be here farming and making wine. That is what we do.”

  Lucia couldn’t stop looking at Carolina as Signora Granchelli showed her and the three girls around. Remembering her as that frightened little girl, and now seeing her as a young woman, was almost heart wrenching. There was so much she wanted to tell her, but this was not the time. For now she must be content to know that the child of the gypsy woman had returned.

  “All of you must eat,” Signora Granchelli instructed. “Airplane food is terrible.” This from a woman who had never traveled farther than the village of Frascati. “I have a little something prepared. Then you must rest. And then you can go about your business tomorrow. Mother Granchelli knows about these things.”

  And so Signora Granchelli became Mother Granchelli after only a few minutes. And Signor Granchelli insisted on being called Papa. After all, Carolina was about the same age as his youngest daughter—one of the ungrateful children who had decided to leave the farm—somethi
ng that was yet to be forgiven. Mother Granchelli clucked her tongue and shook her head. It was a subject that still caused hard feelings and, therefore, it should be dropped. But Papa had several other stories he could tell. The “little something” turned out to be a feast that only an Italian mother in the old country can prepare. Even Lucia who was used to Mother Granchelli’s ways was amazed.

  “I think spaghetti is my favorite food,” said Mackenzie helping herself to one of several home-made pasta dishes prepared by Mother Granchelli.

  Dara and Jennifer nodded their agreement, their mouths too full to speak. With all of the excitement, none of the girls had felt hungry when they first arrived at the Granchelli’s; but now with the wonderful smells of home cooking and surrounded by friendly chatter, each in her own mind thought of family. This was how it was supposed to be.

  When at last they finished eating, everyone helped clean up. It was then that Lucia told Carolina that she had scheduled some time off from her job, and that she would be happy to show Carolina and the FIGS, which Dara had explained was not pejorative but rather a term of affection, around. But only if they wanted her to, for her intention was not to interfere. “Perhaps I could make proper introductions at the Old Villa,” she suggested, thereby making their business there a little easier. Of course, Carolina gratefully accepted.

  “Enough business talk,” scolded Mother Granchelli. “All of you must rest until tomorrow. Tomorrow you can start your work, but not until. Today, you must rest.” She was so insistent that Carolina and the girls had little choice. They took naps, walked through the pastures and fields, explored the barns, and admired the grapes with Papa Granchelli that would soon be ripe for picking. “This is our best year yet,” said Papa with a wink.

  That night, after eating more food than any one of them ever dreamed possible, Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer said goodnight. They were more quiet than usual as they dressed for bed, in the room covered in wallpaper of yellow cabbage-patch roses and scented with white lilacs; the room chosen especially for them. Each girl was lost in her own thoughts, once again playing the game—what if and why; and being forever grateful that Carolina was one of them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been given this opportunity. Tomorrow they would get down to business, but for this one night—the end to the most perfect day they had ever experienced, because it was the closest thing they had ever experienced to having a real family—they would hold onto it for as long as they could, remembering each word, each look, each touch, each gesture…each expression of love.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ball sorted through the incoming mail, organizing it, as she always did, with the largest pieces on the bottom and the smallest pieces on top. The three small envelopes, each with a different style of handwriting addressed to “THE Headmaster Thurgood James Harcourt,” caught her sharp intuitive eye, and it was those envelopes that she placed on the very top. With the sorting finished, she carried the pile of mail into Dr. Harcourt’s office and placed it front and center on his massive desk where he could attend to it once he arrived. He liked to take care of his mail first, before starting on other important matters, so she always made sure he would see it—first.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ball.”

  Mrs. Ball jumped, nearly spilling the cup of coffee she had just poured for herself. Dr. Harcourt’s new-found cheerfulness was something Mrs. Ball was struggling with since it was so uncharacteristic of the headmaster. It was taking a little getting used to. She gritted her teeth, set her jaw, and responded in what she hoped was an equally cheerful mood. “Good morning, Dr. Harcourt.” Then, just in case all of that cheerfulness had clouded his eyesight, she added, “Your mail is on your desk.”

  Dr. Harcourt smiled. “Another beautiful day,” and he disappeared into his office. Once there, he immediately went to the large, multi-paned window flanked by dark green draperies from where he could examine any possible signs of new growth on his prize Photinia frasen. There had been a nice soaking rain during the night, and with the extra warm day-time temperatures, plus a healthy dose of fertilizer that had been spread by the grounds crew, he expected to see nubs, if not actual leaves, any day now. There was nothing. But that didn’t alter the sheer joy he felt on this third day without the FIGS at Wood Rose.

  He noticed the stack of mail. He also noticed the small envelopes neatly piled on top—there appeared to be three of them. The handwriting on the envelope most visible was large, bold, and in all capitals. His new-found feeling of euphoria started to crinkle slightly around the edges. Out of habit more than anything else, he rubbed the side of his head. He hesitated for only a moment, then, determined not to let anything spoil this beautiful morning, he grabbed the odious envelope and slit it open with a gift from a previous graduating class of seniors—the sterling silver opener that had been recently encased in aluminum foil.

  He read through the note several times, managing to pick out and translate only a few of the words that had been written in a language with which he was unfamiliar. Apologia was one of the words he managed to translate; a picture of what appeared to be hieroglyphs of an eyeball with a single tear for another. It was signed DARA ROUX.

  The next envelope, addressed to him in a neat, slanted cursive, proved to be a bit of a puzzle as well. Mathematical formula written inside an elongated cube made absolutely no sense at all. However, there was included a key on the bottom of the note which he didn’t totally understand, but he was at least able to decipher two words: I apologize. It was signed Mackenzie Yarborough.

  Feeling a little less anxious, he picked up the third envelope. Even if he hadn’t already guessed who it was from, he would have known from the large, loopy lettering that slanted backwards. He slit open the envelope and pulled out the small note paper on which was painted in pastels a picture of his Photinia frasen—before it had been whacked. She had even managed to capture the true shade of blush on the tips of its many leaves. It was signed Jennifer Torres, with curvilinear vowels and a small circle placed over the “i”. The headmaster sighed. They had apologized—in their own way—but apologized nonetheless. At least that’s what he thought the notes were. Then, for the second time in just a matter of days, he broke out in song. This time Mrs. Ball didn’t call security.

  Chapter 12

  “Why do you have to pick herbs so early in the morning?” grumbled Milosh. Without answering, Lyuba walked determinedly on a dirt path bordered by overgrown weeds that were once part of a magnificent garden on the grounds of the Old Villa. She was looking for something special this morning, and she knew where to find it.

  Milosh stomped along behind Lyuba, taking no care of flora that might serve some beneficial purpose later. “How much farther do we have to go?” It had angered him when his mother woke him so early. Just when he was having that dream that proved he was a man. He wondered if Lyuba even knew what she was doing. She was getting old. She needed to be replaced as the choovihni—something he had mentioned to his father. Someone younger who would respect him as the son of the Bandoleer. He had not mentioned that. He smirked as he thought about the herbs he had stolen from her hut. And the hair. She had better treat him better or he would show her a thing or two.

  Lyuba stopped at the ancient live oak growing near the stream. A clump of Monkshood grew near an exposed root. Careful not to disturb the plant, she sat down and waited for Milosh to catch up.

  “Sit here beside me, Milosh,” she told him.

  He glanced around warily. What was the old woman doing now?

  “I have told you many times that everything has a soul. Rocks, plants, even the far-away stars and planets. Do you believe that?”

  “I guess.” Not giving it much thought, he scratched at his arm, wishing it was a little lighter so he could see her face. He thought he had been careful inside her hut—putting everything back the way he had found it. If she knew, though, she would have already confronted his father. No. He had gotten away with it. Going into the place where another gypsy slept without bei
ng invited was taboo. To steal from another gypsy was even worse. He had done both. And gotten away with it. He felt an excitement build within the pit of his stomach.

  “I have also told you that everything is inherently good and, therefore, should be respected. It is only when things are not used for a good purpose that bad things happen.” She waited for him to stop fidgeting. The sky was turning a light gray; the sun would reveal itself soon. “Take this little plant here.” She pointed to the small plant with sparse blue flowers.

  “What about it?” The ground where he sat was damp and had soaked through his trousers. His mother had told him Lyuba would teach him all of her ancient magic. Instead, she was yakking about some stupid plant.

  Lyuba reached out and held her hand over one of the delicate flowers, careful not to touch it. “This tiny plant can make men strong and virile, and it can make women beautiful and desirable.”

  Finally. She was telling him something he needed to know. Milosh yanked off a couple of the flowers and sniffed them, then tasted them, just as Lyuba knew he would.

  Quietly she waited. The first gentle rays of the sun appeared over the horizon. “It is called Monkshood or Friar’s Cap,” she explained, watching his face. “If not used properly, it can be deadly.”

  Milosh jumped up. “I just tasted it. What do you mean it can be deadly?” He rubbed his head. “I don’t feel too good. My lips are burning.” His words were becoming slurred. “Can’t talk right.”