The Cadence of Gypsies

by Barbara Casey

  When the tea was ready, the gypsy served them. “I am Lyuba Lovel,” she said. “Tell me what is wrong.”

  Mackenzie and Jennifer looked at Dara. She would explain it to this gypsy—the mother of Carolina. And she did. She told her how they had come to Frascati to find out about Carolina’s parents and her adoption. “And to discover the meaning of a special page she was given by her birth parents,” added Mackenzie, “or to be more exact, her father.” Then Dara told her how Carolina had suddenly gotten sick, and the doctor couldn’t find out what was wrong. And now she had a high fever and they were using ice and a fan but she wouldn’t wake up, and she might have to go to the hospital, and everything was terrible, and—just then Dara started to cry. It came from somewhere so deep and dark, and so hidden away, that not even she knew it was there. Never in her life had she cried, not even when as a small child the many times she had gone hungry. Not even when her mother left her at the store and never came back. Not even all those times at the orphanage when she felt so alone and afraid. Not even then did she cry.

  It frightened Jennifer and Mackenzie to see their friend in so much distress and they moved closer to her. “It will be all right,” said Jennifer, the sensitive one. She put her arm around Dara. “We will take her to a doctor in Rome if we have to,” said Mackenzie, trying to come up with a solution. “They will have better doctors there.”

  Lyuba watched and listened, then quickly gathered several bags of herbs and bottles of extracts. “Take me to her,” she told them. Milosh and several other Kaulo Camioes watched Lyuba hastily depart the camp, not knowing that the three young settlers with her were females of intellectual genius.

  * * *

  The crows gave warning first, then the starlings. The dogs were the last to give notice to the travelers that a stranger was approaching. By the time Larry arrived at the camp, everyone knew he was coming. And because there is a protocol, even among the travelers, the Gypsy King waited until permission was sought before greeting his son.

  A tall man, at least for a gypsy, straight and muscular in build, his gray hair pulled straight back and secured at the nape of his neck with a scrap of red ribbon, the Gypsy King moved out into the open and embraced his only son. He openly wept, for it had been too long, and he felt no shame in showing his love for this one who had followed his own conscience. Many observed the reunion, but no one spoke. That would come later, in the evening, with food, dance, and song.

  The Gypsy King led his son into his home—a trailer slightly newer than the others, a little larger, but not much—where he lived alone as a widower. The two men had so much to talk about, yet at that moment, neither could speak. They would take their time, let the subjects present themselves, until whatever distance had developed between them during the separation was no longer present.

  Larry’s purpose in coming was to show respect and love for his father, and to ask for his father’s help. He would have known Carolina’s parents; as the Gypsy King, he knew all the gypsies of the various tribes in the region. He would also know if Carolina’s father had been a thief.

  For now, however, it was the love and respect for his father that was foremost in Larry’s mind. The questions would come later.

  Chapter 19

  Milosh strutted around camp, making threatening gestures toward the young children playing, laughing at their obvious fear of him. His mother had gone on the truck into the village, and his father hadn’t returned yet from his trip. The son of the Bandoleer was on his own. He could do anything he pleased, and no one was around to stop him.

  What had those three girls wanted with Lyuba? And what was Lyuba doing helping settlers? He would have to discuss this with his father when he returned.

  Bored, with nothing to do, he went inside the trailer and found the jar. The last time he had shaken it, he felt the electric tingling in his torso as well as his arms. This time he shook it extra hard and then tossed it under his bed. The shock took his breath as it coursed through his entire body and he had to sit down. He wondered if the three girls had anything to do with that photograph in Lyuba’s hut. Maybe that was why they had come searching for her.

  * * *

  Lucia hadn’t slept well for several nights now and she knew why. Until she confessed to Carolina her role in Carolina’s abduction, for that is what it was, and then the adoption, she would never feel at peace again. Today she would find the right moment to talk to Carolina in private. She still was uncertain whether she should tell her that she had seen her mother only recently. Considering it, she decided she would just wait and see how things went.

  After leaving word at her office that she wouldn’t be in, she put on her favorite dress to build her confidence, the one with red and yellow flowers and tiny buttons down the front. More than likely Carolina and the FIGs were already at the villa working in the Bibliotheca Secreta, but Mother Granchelli had invited her to have lunch with them. She would go to the farmhouse and help Mother Granchelli prepare the meal and wait for Carolina and the FIGs to return.

  She picked up her purse and car keys, then, as a final thought, she went back into her bedroom. There on top of her dresser was the parik-til Carolina’s mother had given her. She pressed it to her lips, smelling its sweet scent, and then pushed it into her bra. It would bring her good luck.

  Since she had plenty of time, she would stop at the bakery. Before leaving early that morning, her husband had told her he was baking some granciambellone sweet bread. She would take a fresh loaf to Mother Granchelli. Maybe some nice zeppole as well. Carolina and the FIGs would like that for their dessert.

  By late morning, Lucia had a bag of zeppole, the granciambellone, and several other loaves of assorted Italian breads, telling herself that Mother Granchelli could always use them if Carolina and the FIGs didn’t like them. She left downtown Frascati and headed into the country toward the farm. It was such a beautiful day. Too beautiful for Carolina and the FIGs to be closed up in that musty old library, she thought.

  She turned onto the driveway leading to the farmhouse, and in a few minutes wheeled into the gravel parking area where she proceeded to unload her packages. Just as she closed the trunk to her car, she saw the three FIGs hurrying across the field toward her. The gypsy woman—Carolina’s mother—was with them. The gypsy woman saw her but said nothing. Automatically, Lucia reached for her parik-til.

  Jennifer ran ahead to tell Lucia what had happened while Dara and Mackenzie took Lyuba into the house and up the stairs. What had started out to be such a glorious day suddenly turned dark and ugly. Lucia carried her bakery goods into the kitchen where she found Mother Granchelli sitting at the kitchen table staring into a cup of black coffee. When she saw Lucia, she stood up and embraced her first or second cousin, whichever it was. Unable to do anything else, the two women waited together in the kitchen, praying over their rosaries; praying to the patron saint of illness, Mary Magdalen of Pazzi; and praying to Marie Bagnesi, the patron saint of illness and lost parents just for good measure.

  * * *

  After spending the night, Larry left in the darkness of pre-dawn. He and the Gypsy King had talked deep into the night. Now it was again time for him to leave. He had accomplished what he wanted. The bond between him and his father had once again been renewed and strengthened, and, he had learned about Carolina’s mother and father.

  Lighthearted and filled with joy, he drove along the highway toward Frascati. Now he could let Carolina know he was in Frascati. He could also give her the information she needed concerning her parents. And he could tell her about himself. He had kept it from her for too long. Now, with his father’s blessing, there was nothing to keep him from telling her the truth.

  Streaks of pink and gray light splashed across the eastern sky as the sun began its slow ascent. Larry allowed his thoughts to meander—the deep love he had for Carolina, and the bright future they would have together. Impatiently, he urged the car to go faster. Now that he knew, he wanted to tell Carolina as soon as possi
ble.

  Chapter 20

  “Amari Develeskeridaj, Our Mother of God,” said Lyuba when she saw her daughter. “What has he done to you?” Dara, and Mackenzie sat on the floor against the wall, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to be near. Jennifer sat on the floor as well, her foot touching Mackenzie’s. The stone in her chest had gotten large again, and the cadence was dissonant and loud—fortissimo—even clashing, suggesting a child’s terror. She didn’t need to write down the notes; she knew them by heart now—each note, each phrase, and each movement. She folded her arms tight against her, trying to ease the pain.

  Lyuba pulled out several bags of dried herbs and began mixing them into the oils she had brought with her. “Bring me a small spoon,” she said. Mackenzie ran down to the kitchen and quickly returned. It took all four of them, Lyuba and the FIGs, but eventually they were able to get some of the concoction into Carolina’s mouth. And then they waited. After a while, Lyuba prepared tea extracts from the asparagus and olive leaves she had brought with her. Once again the four of them administered the thick liquid, and they waited.

  Later, when there still was no change, Lyuba asked for a bowl of egg whites and a clean handkerchief. She soaked the handkerchief in the egg whites and wrapped it around Carolina’s feet, but even with this, Carolina’s fever didn’t break. At some point Mother Granchelli insisted that they come downstairs and eat something. Only the gypsy woman stayed behind, not wanting to leave her precious daughter alone.

  When nightfall approached, and no change in Carolina’s condition, the gypsy woman packed up her herbs to leave. She saw the panic in the faces of the three young girls, and felt their love for her daughter. “I will return,” she said. And she disappeared into the darkness.

  Lyuba didn’t return to camp. Instead she walked toward Frascati. Larry had told her where he was staying. She needed to find him, the man who loved her daughter. He would be able to help.

  There was no doubt in her mind who had done this evil thing against her daughter. The missing herbs, the hair taken from the lock she had kept with the photograph; somehow he had learned the curse. And now her daughter might die because of his wicked ways. Well, he would soon learn that he and he alone would be held responsible for his actions. He would pay a heavy price for what he had done.

  Even in the darkness, Lyuba was familiar with the streets of Frascati; she had walked them many times. The small hotel where Larry was staying was located on the north side of the village. She went to the front desk and asked that they call his room to let him know she was there. At first the clerk didn’t want to disturb his guest, especially at such a late hour. But she was insistent. She would wait until he did. Finally, he called, and after several rings and no answer, she left.

  He had gone somewhere, but he was still registered. She would wait for him to return. She found a place where she could see anyone leaving or entering the hotel. Then she sat to wait.

  * * *

  By the time Lucia left to go home, the doctor had not called back, probably an indication that he had learned nothing else from the lab results. Lucia hugged her cousin and told her she would come back early the next morning to see if there was anything she could do to help.

  After spending all day working in the vineyard with his sons, Papa returned to a quiet house and ate a bowl of leftover zuppa di primavera and several chunks of Italian bread his wife put in front of him. He hadn’t seen her this upset in many years, not since one of their sons got hurt on the tracter and almost lost an arm. When he finished eating, Mother Granchelli began cooking more soup, this time a pot of jota, a bean soup with her special ingredient—pickled turnips. Papa hugged her tightly and stroked her hair. Then he left her to her cooking, knowing that was what she did whenever there was something wrong with one of her children. Nothing else would help.

  * * *

  Without saying anything, Dara gathered her pillow and one of the soft comforters from her bed and carried it into Carolina’s room. Mackenzie and Jennifer followed her. They would sleep in her room that night, keeping the ice packs around her, adjusting the fan. One by one they fixed their make-shift beds on the floor, close to each other, and close to Carolina.

  Dara had gotten over her crying outburst, but now she was filling up with anger. She stared up at the tall ceiling, no longer noticing that it was the tallest ceiling she had ever seen except for the ceilings at the Villa Mondragone. Now that didn’t seem important.

  How could this have happened? She just didn’t understand. They had been inseparable—Carolina and the FIGs. If Carolina caught something—some sort of disease—then all of them should have caught it. And what had Mrs. Lovel meant when she said, “What has he done to you?” Who was she talking about? Was she talking about some sort of curse? She thought of all the remedies she had tried, using herbs and oils and egg whites. Then she thought of the gypsy camp and that hateful gypsy kid trying to act tough. Could he have done something? Were there more kids like him—ill-tempered and mean?

  Maybe she was responsible. After all, she was the one who always came up with the ideas of what the FIGs should do—like foiling Dr. Harcourt’s office, and pruning his bush. There was also that time they spread bird poop on the handle of his car door. And, of course, those porno magazines they ordered. Maybe Carolina was sick because of the FIGs’ silly pranks.

  She turned over on her side. Carolina was the closest thing she had to family, besides Mackenzie and Jennifer. She was one of them. If anything happened to her…

  More tears started to fall, this time silently.

  * * *

  Mackenzie stared up at the ceiling, visualizing a probability equation in one quadrant. Using the Law of Sufficient Reason, all of the statistics just didn’t add up. There was nothing, at least nothing they knew about, that could have caused Carolina to suddenly get so sick. It had to be an unknown factor, and she had a feeling Mrs. Lovel knew what that factor was. She only hoped she would also know how to solve it. After all, she was a choovihni. Maybe she had even run into this type of thing before. She certainly knew a lot about natural medicines. None of them seemed to be working though. She said she would come back. Maybe she had to get more medicines. If Carolina didn’t get better by the next day, though, the doctor was right. She would have to be taken to a hospital in Rome.

  But what if the doctors in Rome couldn’t find out what was wrong with her? What if she stayed sick? What if…

  Mackenzie reached out and felt for Dara’s hand. Finding it, she held on to it, afraid to let it go.

  * * *

  Jennifer turned her back to Mackenzie and Dara, and squeezed her arms tighter around her pillow. Lying down helped to ease the pain a little; the stone was getting smaller again.

  Jennifer now understood the meaning of the cadence: the black and white drawing, the watercolor painting, and the notes. The cadence had at last developed into a concerto for violin, the instrument of gypsies, with a prevailing rhapsodic leitmotif. The final movement had revealed itself when they were at the gypsy camp. And now it was complete.

  It was a concerto in four movements. The first movement, the allegro maestoso, had started when Carolina began teaching them at Wood Rose. The second, quietly flowing movement, in ruhig fliessender bewegung, developed with their arrival at the Granchelli farm. The andante moderato was the third movement. It was Carolina’s special page, the loving letter written to her from her father. Now they were in the final movement—in tempo des scherzos. Fast, loud—even cacophonous, shadowed in the key of E flat minor until reaching a resounding resolution and ending in the major key of C, eighth and sixteenth notes—sounds of joy and triumph.

  Jennifer played the violin of each section in her mind; she listened to each note and noted each rest. Then she played the violin with the full orchestra, with all of the sections blended, each instrument complimenting the other. The result was a musical creation more beautiful than anything Jennifer had ever written. It was the cadence of gypsies; it was t
he heartbeat of Carolina and the FIGs.

  Carolina would be all right—she knew that now. The symphony was finally written, and it was never wrong. Jennifer relaxed her arms, testing to see if the stone was still there. It was gone. Quietly she turned over to face her two friends. “Carolina is going to be all right,” she whispered, and, trusting her, they smiled.

  * * *

  Larry turned into the parking lot reserved for hotel guests. It was late, and more than likely Carolina and the FIGs were already in bed. He would get a good night’s sleep, and contact Carolina first thing in the morning. He smiled when he thought about how surprised she would be to see him—there in Frascati.

  As soon as he stepped out of the car, she was there. He had no idea where she had come from.

  “Mrs. Lovel, what’s wrong?”

  “You must come now. Carolina needs you.”

  Larry drove Lyuba to the gypsy camp and waited for her to gather what she needed from her hut. On the way there, she explained what had taken place. When he was growing up, he had also known a gypsy boy with the darkness—a brown chakra—around his heart. Like Milosh, he hurt other gypsies. Because of his transgressions, the kris had ruled that he be banned from his tribe. Like that boy, Milosh would have to pay the same price for his evil actions. There were no other options.

  Once Lyuba had everything she needed, the two of them walked through the brush until they reached the ancient live oak next to the stream. Larry knew what was expected of him. After all, he was the son of the Gypsy King. As a young boy, he had been taught by a choovihni. He watched Lyuba make her preparations. Near by, an owl hooted—a good omen.