First she handed him the clean sheet of paper. He wrote on it a blessing for Carolina and then a wish to heal her. Then he wrapped the paper around the small stone that had always been with Lyuba; her good luck charm. Kneeling by the tree he scattered bread and wine, and, finally, water from the nearby spring.
“Tree mother, I feed you; feed me in return.” He spoke the spell as though he had learned it only yesterday, not all those years ago as a young boy. “Tree mother, I quench your thirst; quench mine in return.” He buried the paper at the base of the tree, saying, finally, “Tree mother, I bring you a gift; bless me in return.” He put both hands on the tree. “Rain falls, wind blows, sun shines, grass grows.” He repeated it three times and then walked away without looking back.
Larry drove Lyuba back to the gypsy camp, and then, exhausted from worry more than anything else, he returned to the hotel. It would soon be daylight. Until then, there was nothing left to do.
Chapter 21
Milosh was worried. He had overheard the young mothers complaining to his father as soon as he returned. Already tired and irritable, the Bandoleer wasn’t in the mood to hear the accusations against his son. His trip had not gone well; he had spent two days negotiating, and still not gotten the van he wanted. It was an old van with many miles; the tribe couldn’t afford anything better. Still, the dealer would not accept what he offered. Disappointed, the trip back to camp had made him especially weary. Once he was rested, however, he would hold a meeting, and anyone who had a grievance could speak at that time.
His father had never listened before, but now he had told them he would hold a meeting. This was not good. He had seen it happen another time to another gypsy who had upset the balance of the tribe. There had been a meeting, and then a kris. The gypsy had been forced out of the tribe, never to return. Milosh was the son of the Bandoleer, however. They wouldn’t be able to do anything to him—his father wouldn’t allow it.
Milosh settled down onto his bed. Behind his head he felt something hard—the jar. He carelessly tossed it to one side. Tomorrow he would get rid of it; it was the only thing that might prove what he had done.
* * *
Larry slept fitfully, then woke just as it was getting light. He quickly showered and dressed and drove out to the Granchelli farm. No one was about, so he waited in the car not wanting to disturb anyone. He wondered if Lyuba had gotten any rest. Just then he saw an older man coming from the barn carrying two buckets of fresh milk. Larry climbed out of the car and walked toward him.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” he offered.
Papa looked at Larry and smiled as though he had been expecting him.
“Sure can,” he said. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Larry Gitani. I am a friend of Carolina’s.”
Papa’s grin got bigger. “I see. You just happen to be in the neighborhood?”
Not realizing Papa was teasing him, he tried to explain. “Actually I arrived from the States a few days ago—on business.” This wasn’t easy. How could he explain he was trying to help Carolina find out about her parents, and now help her gypsy mother break the curse that had been placed on her?
“Relax, son. I know who you are. Carolina has already told us about you.” Papa set down the pales of milk and shook Larry’s hand. “Everyone calls me Papa.”
He handed one of the pales to Larry and walked toward the house. “Carolina gave us quite a scare, but she is doing much better this morning. Her mother is already with her. Come on in and get some breakfast.”
“Did you say Carolina is doing better? And that her mother is with her?” Larry wanted to make sure he understood.
“That’s right. I’m not sure when her mother got here, but it must have been pretty early. She was already here when I went to milk the cows. Carolina’s fever broke sometime during the night. Now she wants some of Mother Granchelli’s cooking. Says she is starved. Nothing makes Mother Granchelli happier than to hear one of her children say they are starved.”
Larry followed Papa into the kitchen where he got introduced to the other half of the Granchellis. “This is so exciting,” said Mother Granchelli as she hustled back and forth between mixing bowls on the counter and frying pans on the stove. “A miracle.” She crossed herself and glanced upward, saying another quick prayer to Mary Magdalen of Pazzi, the patron saint of illness, and to Marie Bagnesi, the patron saint of illness and lost parents.
In the midst of cracking an egg into the hot skillet, she paused just long enough to give Larry the once over. “So, you are Carolina’s young man?”
He honestly didn’t know what to say. He loved Carolina. He wanted to marry her and spend the rest of his life with her. He wasn’t sure she wanted the same thing, though.
“She’s already showered and dressed—been up for hours. Her mother and the girls are with her. Run on up the stairs and see her while I finish up breakfast.”
Larry didn’t have to be told a second time. He took the stairs two at a time, peeked into the first room he came to, a cheerful room wallpapered in large yellow roses. It was empty. Following the sound of voices, he walked down the hall to the next room, and there he found her, sitting up in bed, laughing with three young girls who had to be the FIGs, Lyuba, and another woman whom he guessed was probably Lucia.
“Larry! What are you doing here?” Carolina reached out her arms to hug him.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you come to Italy and have all the fun, did you?” He tried to sound light-hearted. He glanced at Lyuba and silently gave thanks. Only the two of them would ever know how close they came to losing Carolina.
“I’m afraid I got a little sick,” she explained. “But whatever it was, I seem to be all right now.” Then taking Lyuba’s hand, she said, “Larry, I want you to meet my mother.”
He looked into the face of this gentle and wise gypsy woman who had been born with the special gift. Her unspoken message to him was clear. It would serve no useful purpose for Carolina to know what they had done.
“It is my distinct pleasure,” he said. “And I assume these three beautiful young ladies are the infamous FIGs I have heard so much about.”
Jennifer poked Mackenzie who immediately giggled. “Infamous,” she repeated.
“We won’t tell what we have heard about you if you don’t tell about what you have heard about us,” said Dara.
“That’s a deal.”
Lucia stood up from where she had been sitting and offered her hand. “I am Lucia De Rossa.”
“Yes. Carolina’s friend.”
The fact that he referred to her as Carolina’s friend made Lucia feel happy.
From the bottom of the stairs Papa yelled that breakfast was on the table. There were a few moments of confusion as everyone wanted to help Carolina negotiate getting out of bed and then navigate the stairs. Eventually, it was Larry who helped her, but not before giving Lucia a quiet moment alone with Carolina. “Would you mind?” she asked Larry. “This won’t take long.”
“I wanted to tell you before, but there just didn’t seem to be the right time.” She simply couldn’t hold it back any longer. She told Carolina everything she remembered about that horrible day when she was taken from her mother. Lucia mopped her eyes with her handkerchief. “I have carried the guilt all my life.”
Carolina had suspected all along that Lucia knew more about what happened. Now she was admitting that she had been there, in the garden, where she was taken from her mother. Carolina didn’t remember what happened; she only vaguely remembered things about the garden. “There was nothing else you could do, Lucia. It was your job.” Carolina put her arms around her friend. “I don’t hold you responsible, so you mustn’t either. Anyway, look how it has turned out. I have found my mother. Everything has worked out just as it should.”
Larry supported Carolina down the stairs just in case she was still weak and they joined the others in the kitchen. Unlike the day before when the house had been so quiet, now it w
as once again filled with the joyful sounds of friendship and love.
* * *
Gradually, over Mother Granchelli’s enormous breakfast, Carolina and the FIGs told Larry what they had discovered at the villa; that Carolina’s father had actually written a history of the Kaulo Camio gypsy tribe and left it in the Bibliotheca Secreta. “No one even knew it was there.” Carolina reached over and pressed Lyuba’s hand. “He must have been very smart.”
Lyuba had been sitting quietly, only nodding when she was spoken to. She nodded now.
“The interesting part is, what my father wrote was constructed the same way as the Voynich Manuscript, even though his writing was done totally independent of the Voynich. There was no way he could have known about the Voynich or seen it because it had already been sold to Wilfrid M. Voynich. You see the implications. This means that the Voynich Manuscript was more than likely written by a gypsy. Maybe even as early as the eleventh century, back when gypsies were known as land tramps.”
“And your special page, Carolina,” said Dara. “Tell Larry about your special page.”
“Well, Dara was actually able to translate it once we found the other documents my father had written, because it was also written by him. It was a personal letter to me. He must have written it right after I was born.”
Lyuba smiled. So like her Balo to do something like that. He had loved his little daughter very much.
Lyuba watched her daughter sharing her happiness with those around her. Her chaktra was violet, crowning her head, an indication of psychic power, complete understanding, and fulfillment. She had grown into such a beautiful young woman. She had a bright future with this son of the Gypsy King who was also separated from the tribe. They would do well together. Lyuba placed her hand over her heart; she knew she would have to soon leave. It was the only way. Her daughter had another life now, a life that was not part of the gypsy way. She wished her much happiness, but she would not interfere or hold her back.
After breakfast, Lyuba excused herself. “I must return to camp now,” she told the others. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said to Mother Granchelli.
“You are family,” she said hugging the gypsy woman. “You are welcome any time.”
Carolina walked outside with her mother; a stranger, yet someone she had known her entire life. “We will have to return to North Carolina in a few days,” she said. “Would you like to go with us? The FIGs will be graduating, and then I should be able to get some time off.”
The gypsy woman smiled, her heart overflowing with love for her child, and breaking because she knew she must once again say goodbye. She was not part of Carolina’s world. But that wouldn’t sever their bond. Nothing could do that.
“Thank you, but not this time.” She caressed Carolina on her cheek and touched her silky hair. “We will see each other again,” she promised.
The two women embraced each other, neither wanting to say goodbye. Finally, Lyuba turned away and walked toward the gypsy camp, to her people, to where she belonged.
* * *
Later that afternoon Larry drove Carolina and the FIGs to the villa so he could see the documents they had discovered. Carolina also wanted to thank the rector for all he had done for them. “Please tell Rector Fabiani that I apologize for giving him such a fright at lunch the other day.”
“His only regret is that he couldn’t have spent more time with four such beautiful women.” Rector Catoni handed Carolina a package. “He also agreed with me that you should have a copy of your father’s manuscript. You will know the right thing to do with it.” He kissed Carolina’s hand. “Please come back again soon.”
Carolina giggled in spite of herself. If the FIGs had been there at that moment, it would have been embarrassing. Instead, Larry took Carolina by her arm and led her out of the massive office decorated in the purple color of royalty and spirituality, ornately-carved antiques, and extremely high ceilings painted in gold leaf.
While the FIGs went searching for Alfonso, Carolina and Larry strolled through the gardens that had been part of the villa from the beginning. Every so often Carolina would pause, touch a plant or sniff a flower, and tell Larry what its purpose was. Larry watched her, mesmerized. The gift she had inherited from Lyuba was no longer hidden away. Everything that had happened since coming to Frascati had served to unlock her mind once again, allowing the innate knowledge she had been born with to surface.
Carolina sat down on a concrete bench and motioned for Larry to sit next to her. “Now. Tell me why you really came here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you at the university giving exams to your students?”
The time had come for Larry to reveal his own hidden past. He told his story of being the son of the Gypsy King, a boy who lost his mother at a young age, and a young man who made the decision to leave the gypsy ways behind in order to build a future in America. And then he told her how much he loved her and how much he wanted them to share a life together. He told her about all the times he had wanted to tell her, but he knew that until she was able to reach some sort of resolution with her past, it would be impossible for her to love him. He told her he had come to help her confront her past so that he could be with her always.
Afraid to look at Carolina, afraid of what he might see in her eyes, he looked down. A tiny pink flower she had picked and given to him—”it symbolizes love”—dangled from his fingers.
“I love you, Larry Gitani.”
When he heard the words, he thought his chest would explode. Relief, joy, and love flooded his very center of being. “I have always loved you, Carolina. From the first day I saw you when you were lost, running around in circles trying to find out where to register for classes. I will love you until the day I die, and I will even love you after that.”
He would have told her more, but the sound of happy giggles alerted them that the FIGs were heading their way. Alfonso was with them.
Chapter 22
There was still business that needed her attention. Lyuba angrily strolled into camp and went immediately to the Bandoleer’s trailer.
“I wish to see Milosh,” she said loudly after banging on the door. Several other gypsies came out of their huts and tents to see what was happening.
The Bandoleer opened the door. He had been asleep. “What is it, Lyuba? Why do you come banging on my door?”
Without waiting to be invited, she pushed her way past the Bandoleer into the trailer. Inside she found Milosh cowering on his bed, the jar laying haphazardly in full view next to him. “So, little boy, you think you can play with curses?” She reached over him and snatched up the jar. “This is what your son has been playing with.” She held it up for the Bandoleer to see. “It almost cost the life of an innocent one—the life of another gypsy.”
A gasp came from Milosh’s mother. To harm or even try to harm another gypsy was against the gypsy law. Punishment would be severe. “Please, Lyuba. Don’t do this thing.”
“I forgave him once, Djidjo, and I warned him. He chose not to listen. Now I demand the kris.” She looked back at the Bandoleer. “If you are not strong enough to preside, I shall find another, but there will be a kris.”
The choovihni had spoken. Nothing else could be done.
Lyuba left the trailer taking the jar with her. Satisfied, the other gypsies returned to their own homes. Now, at last, something would be done about Milosh.
* * *
Dara stared up at the tall ceiling, the tallest ceiling she had ever seen except for the ones at the Old Villa, unable to go to sleep. This would be their last night at the Granchelli’s. She would miss Mother Granchelli and Papa. She had learned much, but most of all, she had learned what it was like to have a real family. She had never known that, even before her mother left.
She was happy for Carolina—finding her mother. The gypsy woman was so different from Carolina—probably like she and her mother would be if she were to find her. Yet they shared a bond of love that would never be broken. She wondered if her
own mother still loved her or even thought about her. And, like always, she wondered why her mother left her.
She and the FIGs would soon graduate from Wood Rose and then go their separate ways. But they would never lose touch with one another, or with Carolina. No matter what, they were family, too. Just a little different.
Dara sighed deeply and closed her eyes, the memory of croaking tree frogs and cicadas, and ditch water tickling her feet; You wait right here, pretty girl. I’ll be back…
* * *
Mackenzie giggled. She knew Dara and Jennifer weren’t asleep yet; she could tell by the way they were breathing. So she didn’t put the pillow over her face. She just giggled out loud.
Alfonso said he would write to her at MIT in Cambridge once she got settled. She would like that. Of course, she would have to learn Italian, but Dara said she would teach her. And Alfonso knew some English, although he got his personal pronouns and verb tenses mixed up sometimes. But at least they could write to each other.
Mother Granchelli had told her she was an excellent cook. Mackenzie knew she wasn’t excellent, but it was nice of Mother Granchelli to tell her so. She would also write to Mother Granchelli and Papa once she learned Italian. They called her their “child,” and she liked that. No one had ever called her their child before—not ever.
Mackenzi’s giggles quieted. Ever since she could remember, she had wanted a forever family. A family where she would fit in and be loved. Now she had two. There were the FIGs and Carolina, and there was Mother Granchelli and Papa. She was fortunate. It had taken a while, but she had finally found what she had been searching for all her life.
Mackenzie smiled into the darkness and closed her eyes. A forever family…
* * *
The Gypsy Cadence was playing in Jennifer’s mind. It made her happy; it was her greatest work. Jennifer had changed since coming to Italy with Carolina and the FIGs. She knew the heavy rock that had caused her so much pain in the past was now gone for good. She could face whatever her future offered and know that she needn’t be afraid.
The Cadence of Gypsies Page 15
