by G S Eli
“No,” Mila said. “I’m in a rush. I need my motorcycle manual. Have you seen it?”
Nasta ignored his question. She headed to the kitchen and lit a few of the candles, placing them around a makeshift table. She dipped a large spoon into a stew of lumpy white gravy with a bit of meat, ladled it into a bowl, then placed the dish on the table next to the newly-lit candles.
“Come, Mila. Come sit down and have some himoco stew,” Nasta said.
Mila ignored her request and continued his hunt for the lost manual, now in the dark.
“The stew is getting cold! What are you looking for anyway?” she asked again.
“I told you! I need my motorcycle manual!” he yelled with frustration.
“Mila,” Nasta said with a subtle tone of accusation in her voice.
Mila immediately felt ashamed for yelling at the old woman. After all, she had been looking after him since he was an infant. He was an orphan, and Nasta was the only mother figure he had ever known. Don’t be a jerk, Mila chided himself.
“OK,” he said with a guilty sigh, “I’m coming.”
Taking a seat at the family table, Mila stirred his stew with a spoon. It had the appearance of white glue, but the rich, savory vapors filled his nostrils and made his stomach growl.
Nasta moved to sit next to her great-nephew, smiling broadly again. She noticed how handsome he was getting. He looked older now, more serious than his seventeen years. The gentle flame from candles enhanced his olive complexion, thick sheen black hair, and sharp jawline. She could see the flames dancing in his dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“You have become so handsome, Mila,” she said with pride.
Mila ignored the compliment and took a bite out of the traditional stew, which turned out to be pretty good, despite its appearance.
The old woman’s smile faded as she turned to a more serious subject. “You had another dream,” she said.
Mila had almost forgotten. But now, the terror of his recurring nightmare returned in full force. He’d had it again the night before.
“Mila, we must do a tarot reading to find out what is going on,” Nasta warned.
No way, was his first thought. I’m not getting pulled into that nonsense again. It was fine when I was a kid. But now I just want to fix my bike and get the hell out of here!
Mila was starting to believe that there was no future for him in Buildings A and B. It was becoming more obvious to him that he was different. He just did not fit in. At the same time, he didn’t think he would do much better in gadjo school, either. Anyway, I just need to find that damn manual and I’m out of here! Mila told himself, though he hadn’t yet given much thought as to where he would go.
“Maybe another time,” he said sternly.
“Mila, listen to me. I told you that if you had another dream, then that would make three of the same dream in nine days. It’s no coincidence that the evil painting was put up in the train station the same day you had the first dream and—”
“Jesus! It’s just a painting!” he abruptly interrupted. Everyone in the camp knew the painting’s history. It had been the main topic of conversation for weeks. But Nasta insisted it actually possessed evil powers. No way! he thought. Save your spooky fairy tales for the twins!
For a moment, neither of them said a word.
“May I finish my sentence, please?” Nasta asked, breaking the silence. Mila motioned her to continue. “As I was saying, if you had the same dream on the very same day the painting was put up in the station, then that is the first omen… And if the dream was repeated on the third day, that is the second ome—”
“I know,” Mila said, interrupting again. “And if the third dream comes on the ninth day, then it must mean something. Yeah, I got it.”
“That’s correct!” Nasta said with a gleam in her eyes. “You’re not like the rest of us in the buildings, Mila,” she reminded him.
“That’s for sure,” he replied, ironically.
“You are special, Mila,” she said.
“If I’m so special, and being a Rom is so great, then how come we gotta live in Building A and Building B like rats? Not to mention stealing power from the factory,” he said in frustration.
“Mila, you offend me,” she answered. “You think to be a Rom is a curse? It’s a gift! We carry the purpose of God in our blood!” she proclaimed.
“It doesn’t feel like a gift,” he whispered underneath his breath.
Nasta sighed and gazed at Mila softly. “Tell me what you saw in your dream,” she pressed.
“Later. I have to find my manual. I’m not spending the rest of my day wasting time with superstition,” he said, rising from the table.
Suddenly, with surprising force, Nasta gripped his shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat. Her shocking strength paralyzed him.
A gust of air seemed to come out of nowhere. It blew out the candles.
“There was a woman in a black-hooded cloak. She held a large book,” Nasta said, her voice deepening.
Shaken, the bewildered boy simply nodded.
“She directed you. She told you to go up, up to the roof of the building?”
Mila watched as Nasta’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, as if she were connecting with the place she called the Medi: the mystical realm between heaven and earth, a place one could visit in dreams or in deep meditation, where the ancient mystics could commune with the angels, speak to long-departed loved ones, and conjure powerful magic.
She went on: “The woman, she faded away. Her dust spun into a flock of white birds.” Mila nodded once more. “You arrived at the top. There were dark clouds that seemed angry. Did you see an Anubis?”
Mila shrugged, but Nasta didn’t see it. She was still gazing up. “I saw a man,” he said, “maybe a soldier, only with the head of a dog, like something out of ancient Egypt.”
“Yes,” Nasta replied. “Yes, the Anubis, he was there. He was leading the family into a church. Only there was water coming out of the church, like it was flooding from the inside.” Nasta paused. “Then what?”
Mila just sat in silence, still reluctant. This is just going to get worse. I need to go!
Nasta got up and grabbed her deck of tarot cards from the desk. “There is evil coming. Rain is bad in a dream.”
“Water is bad?” Mila knew he shouldn’t have asked. It would only encourage her and prolong things. But, despite himself, he was curious, and a little spooked. How could she know what I saw in my dream? And what was that with the candles? The wind, perhaps? “I read that water meant purity,” he said.
“Purity? Where did you read that?” Nasta asked while rifling through her cards.
“I don’t know. One of my comics, I think.”
“Trust me, Mila. Water is negative, evil even. You’re reading the wrong books. Try the Bible and see what water did to Noah.” She slammed the tarot deck down next to Mila. “Clear the table! We must make room for the reading of the cards!”
Nasta stood up and walked over to the stove. She lit a piece of paper with the flame of the burner and used it to relight the candles. She then pointed at the tarot deck. “Shuffle them well,” she said, wiping the table clean.
Nasta sat back down in silence. Mila shuffled the cards and placed the stack back on the table. She picked them up and cut the deck.
“Choose one,” she said, placing the two stacks next to each other.
Mila hesitated a moment, then pointed to the right. Nasta took the right-hand cards and laid them out side by side. The star card came up first.
“Darkness is all around you. It is in your near future,” she said with certainty.
The Emperor card came next. “Power?” she said, sounding confused. Then came The Lovers. “A union,” she went on, with more confidence this time.
And finally came a card that had no words, no nam
e, just a depiction of a woman wrapped in a shawl, sitting in a small boat. A man stood behind her, pushing the boat on its way with a long staff. “A journey of purpose,” Nasta said.
Mila sat still, staring at the cards in silence.
“This is the final omen, Mila. You must not ignore this omen,” Nasta warned.
Mila sensed the truth of his dear aunt’s words. He felt danger creeping in around him.
This is crazy! I need to get out of here!
Mila tried to stand, but Nasta again caught his arm in her vice-like grip.
How can such a frail old woman be so strong? He wondered, amazed.
Nasta’s superhuman strength only added to Mila’s sense of confusion and dread. He couldn’t deny what was happening, yet he would not allow himself to believe. There must be a rational explanation, he thought, trying to get a hold of himself. A storm is coming tonight, and the wind must have blown the cords we use to steal electricity from the factory. That’s why the lights went out. As for the candles … this old drafty building is practically a wind tunnel!
He tried to pull away, to rise from the table. But Nasta wouldn’t let go. She pulled Mila close, reached into her pocket, and produced a little piece of foil. She took Mila’s hand and gently placed the little package in his palm.
“Take this,” she said. “It is chukrayi.”
“Eww,” said Mila, remembering that chukrayi was tree sap mixed with bird dung, a powerful potion in Romani tradition, which required a timely ritual.
“You must take this,” Nasta instructed. “Find a strong, tall tree, one that looks full of life. Then, write down this dream in detail. Burn the paper while mixing the potion with the ash, and bury the ash at the base of the tree. You must do this to ward off the dream.”
“Come on, Aunt Nasta! That seems like a lot to do!” Mila said, now burdened with a superstitious task.
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Mila, my precious boy, you must take this seriously and do it soon, or the omens will start to come true.” Her face was somber, almost mournful. “Do not ignore this omen. If you do, it will cease to be a mere omen. It will become a prophecy. Do you understand?”
Nasta’s grip was still like a vice, crushing Mila’s hand. “Ow! That hurts!” he said. But the old woman only gazed deeper into his eyes, searching, imploring. “OK, Auntie. I won’t ignore it. I’ll ward off the dream. I promise.” Only then did she finally let go.
Mila stared at her a minute, searching her eyes as she had searched his. He could see her age, her wisdom—and her sorrows.
Mila felt cold fingers twisting his guts. He hadn’t told Nasta everything about his dream. There was something more. Something that chilled him to the bone. He was afraid to tell her. Yet he was also afraid not to tell her. Anyway, this is all complete nonsense, he told himself. I should just leave.
“There was one more thing in the dream,” Mila said after a long pause.
Nasta moved closer, listening carefully.
“When I looked down from the roof of Building A and saw that man with the head of a dog, guiding the family into the flooding church, I turned around because I heard a girl crying.”
“A girl? Did you recognize her?” Nasta asked.
“No, she was very pretty, but she was a gadje girl. She was with a young boy, and there was a dead man lying on the ground next to them. The girl was wearing a string of gold coins, like you wore on your wedding day in the photo you showed me,” Mila said. He remembered the photo well. There were so many coins on his aunt’s traditional wedding necklace that the long strand of gold nearly touched the floor.
Nasta sat as still as a stone. Her eyes seemed to be looking at something or someplace far away again.
“Ah … you think this girl was a bride?” she asked. “When one sees gold in a dream, it often means the guarding of something evil. This is why brides wear gold on their wedding day. Gold wards off evil, or it can be used to seal evil.”
“OK, if she was not a bride, who was she?”
“There were two, correct? They will take you on a journey of purpose or darkness and power, as the cards read. The star is darkness, or evil, and the emperor is power. The dead man was …”
Nasta paused, then turned over another card. It showed a tall man in red princely robes. With his right hand, he lifted a scepter up to the sky. His left hand pointed down while he made a strange symbol with his fingers. The bottom of the card read, The Magician.
“The dead man is a Rom. A special one,” Nasta said. Her ancient eyes stared into Mila’s, her expression severe.
Mila was amazed. According to the reading, the dead man was a Rom?
This has gone too far, he thought. He didn’t want to scare himself anymore. He knew he couldn’t tell Nasta the most terrifying part of the dream: the beautiful girl was holding some sort of weapon, a crude-looking object made of decaying wood, dripping with blood. It was not clear if she was the murderer of the dead man. When Mila moved closer, he realized that the dead man was he himself.
The horrifying image flashed in Mila’s mind: his own body lying lifeless on the ground.
Again, the candles blew out.
Nasta started relighting them, using another piece of torn paper that she lit from the stove. This time, Mila noticed a picture of a BMW logo on the edge of the burning paper.
“My manual!”
II
The Pickpocket
“Prikaza!” Mila shouted. I must be cursed! he thought. There was no other explanation. He had spent two hours meticulously going over every plug, wire, and fuse that the slightly burned manual directed him to, but he had no luck starting the classic ride. The sun was already starting to set, and the winds were picking up as the storm clouds moved in.
Defeated, Mila tossed his manual into his toolbox and sat next to his lifeless motorcycle. He gazed at the beautiful machine. It’s never going to run. Who was I kidding, spending all that time learning how to read this gadjo manual, he asked himself, desperately trying to accept reality. Fighting his deep passion, he slammed the toolbox shut.
Just then, Mila’s cousins Petre and Kore marched up, pulling a rusty wagon full of junk, no doubt from the garbage dumps near the factory. The boys were identical twins, and it was always a challenge to know who was who, especially since they dressed alike. The mischievous twins looked so similar that even their parents could not always tell them apart. Mila often wondered why Uncle Lolo and Aunt Margaret put so much effort into dressing them the same, which was definitely a challenge, since all of their clothes came out of the Holy Cross Church donation box.
“Hey, Mila, why are you so sad?” Petre asked.
“Yeah, don’t worry. We’ll have the lights back on before the storm,” Kore said.
“I’m still upset with you guys. How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my stuff?” Mila said, scolding the boys.
“We didn’t take your comics,” Korey insisted.
“Is that right?” Mila asked. “Well then how do you know I’m talking about comics?”
“Well … well, we … Petre made me, Mila!” Kore said, pointing at his brother. The twins began to bicker, yelling at one another at the tops of their little lungs. Mila just smiled at the boys. He loved them dearly and was enjoying teasing them. Mila grabbed Petre in a playful headlock and began punishing him.
“It was you! You took it!” Mila said as his scolding turned to merciless tickling.
Petre pulled away from Mila’s feeble attempt at torture. “What did you guys get from the dump?” Mila asked.
“We didn’t go to the dump. We got some more wire cords from the toolshed,” Petre said. Mila observed the wagon. Sure enough, there were wire cables, some masking tape, and a small, bright-red petrol tank. Something about the red tank grabbed Mila’s attention. He gazed at it, then looked at his bike.
“No, it can
’t be,” he said.
“What?” the boys asked.
“It can’t be that simple,” he repeated.
“What can’t?” Kore asked again.
“Hey, is there any petrol in that tank?” Mila asked.
“No, but there’s a little left in the barrel in the toolshed,” Kore said. “Why?”
Mila knocked on the bike’s fuel tank. Sure enough, the damn thing was empty. “I’m such an idiot!” he shouted with glee. “Let me borrow this tank.” Mila grabbed the tank and gave each of the boys a quick kiss on the cheek. He popped the kickstand and started lugging the heavy bike through the mucky grass, toward the only space between Buildings A and B that wasn’t crowded with tents, shacks, and broken-down trailers—a muddy football field. He looked back at the twins and saw them pointing to their heads and twirling their fingers, motioning to each other that he had lost his mind. Mila pushed on, hoping there would be enough petrol in the barrel to get to the station up the road.
It was getting dark, yet Rom both young and old lined either side of the well-trodden open field, cheering for their side in a football match between Buildings A and B. The biggest crowds were to Mila’s left, so he skirted the field and crossed over behind the goal posts on the right. As he did, an errant football rolled toward him. With expert skill, he hooked his foot around the ball and intercepted it. It bounced a bit, so Mila stomped down on it, all the while never letting go of the bike. With the ball at a dead stop, he looked up to locate its owner. Jogging toward him was his cousin and best friend, Stephan, a gangly boy with bushy eyebrows that came dangerously close to joining. He had a long, protruding nose and a pockmarked face that was always shadowed by a ratty old New York Yankees cap.
“Hey, Mila, come play! We’re a man short,” Stephan called.
“Um, I can’t. I gotta get to the shed,” Mila said.
Stephan rolled his eyes at the hasty excuse. “Yeah, maybe you don’t play so good anymore,” he mocked, hoping to goad Mila into joining.
“I told you, I can’t!” Mila teased back. “I’ve got grown-up things to do! By the way, shouldn’t you be preparing for your wedding ceremony next week instead of playing games?”
