La Gitana Page 4

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  This was a blessing and a curse. What if they wanted me to live among them? I would have to give up my gypsy heart and live as the gadge live. Even to eat off a gadje plate or drink from a gadje goblet is mahrime, To wear clothes sewn from gadge hands is mahrime, The queen, what did she really want of me? No gypsy would ever permit me to consort with him if what I was thinking was true. I had read gadje books where woman lay with women. It was a sin in the gadje world as well. They say we gypsy are heathen yet they continually break the holy law of their God. Gadje are swine living off the fat of the land. Had I my wish I would wash my face in the blood of the gadje or busne as they are also called. To follow their law is slavery: to defy it is death.

  Fortunately, Spanish hidalgos are corrupt and can be bought off.

  I have still not heard from the Spanish queen yet I know one day she will summon me. I must impress on her that I am not to live in her castle. Who would take care of my family? Surely not Rupa. I can be merciful. Can I blame God for making her more beautiful? Yet, I do blame him in my heart. If I were as beautiful as she, I would rule the world. I will not torture her anymore: I will keep my word. The kinder I am, the better I feel and to know I have knowledge of her man is sweet. Evil makes one perish a little each time a deed is done.

  Today was our wash day at the river. Rupa hates it because it makes her hands rough. On the other hand, Rupa does not like any form of labor. When she marries Julio will most likely have to hire a criada (maid). Rupa complained to the heavens and I dreamed of leaves blowing against the turquoise sky.

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  “Isn’t it awful we have to toil? Gadje women do not toil. They have servants,” she said.

  I repied, “Sleep with their men and find it toil enough, Rupa.” Rupa laughed and tossed her black hair about in that way she has to prove she is pretty.

  I like the laundry for its clean smell like air and light and for the reason of doing a task well. I think of snatches from books, and poems and favorite quotes as I busy my hands and the bliss it is to be a gypsy living free on the land. I like to do things and all the while my mind is free. Mama says when I marry it will no longer be free. But I am a bruja (witch) and know I will always be free. I hope they don’t marry me to some vile old man stinking of urine, or to a useless vain man who cannot blacksmith, cast silver or trade a horse. I want a proud man, an able man, one who can appreciate me. As for my marriage sheet I will say I had a horse back riding accident. When la vieja (the old one) comes to puncture my maidenhead with a sharp stick, I will bribe her with the queen’s money and a vial of chicken blood. Yes, I will, and as the queen’s advisor, I will be quite rich. At any rate, why must I always think of marriage: am I some silly girl?

  The washing place was five miles down stream and as usual we loaded Sandro, the mule with our baskets. Right away Rupa grabbed the light, soft things and sat under the shade tree leaving the rougher dirtier task for me. She is as fair as a cut daisy and I, myself, and nut brown with wild hair black as the devil’s heart. As we worked, Rupa mentioned she heard mama and papa talking about a mate for me. It was Paolo, a rich and dirty old man who stinks of the grave. I said I would run away and she said I would always do what papa commanded.

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  “You will do it Tekla. You are always the obedient daughter. Besides it’s me he really loves not you. Even mama knows it’s true.”

  It was so true and so cruel to come from those beautiful lips. I slapped her hard, and she cursed me saying, “puta” (whore) and threw a handful of river mud into my clean wash. Then she ran as I would have most surely have hurt her if I could outrun her.

  Mercifully, she did not take Sandro, the mule, and was quickly out of sight, leaving me with all the laundry to do myself.

  I tied my hair back and began to sweat. The slanting sun beat down brutally on my head and shoulders and I cursed Rupa for her beauty and her cruelty. Then I thought you are so much more cruel than she. It was a matter of a kitten to a she lion, and I laughed. A weak vine perishes in the light of the sun. I was in this life for better or worse, sweet to bitter to the death and no, I would not do what papa said. I spent some time thinking on my revenge, cutting up her favorite dress, or perhaps pouring honey on her head while she slept. In the end I gave up the acts of revenge for I had the ultimate revenge, Julio. Weak people cannot stand too much pain. After I finished with the wash I decided to take a cool soak in the river and take the sting from my over worked hands.

  The gadje say we gypsy are unclean yet it is they who go for months, unbathed and slathered with power. It was the then that my life changed forever.

  At first I did not see them but I heard the pounding of horses hooves and before I could escape the fat one, the leader, reined in Sancho who was no match for fine gadje horses. I could see they were the type of Spaniards seen in jails, of no remorse who would value no one least of all a gypsy. One leg was shorter than the other and his breath 41

  smelled of garlic and alcohol. He un-holstered his gun and placed it at my temple,

  “Intiendes lo que quiero, gitana?” (Do you know what I want gypsy?) I replied that I did but let the tears flow. He dismounted, put his gun back in the holster and tore open my blouse. “Que pechas grandes.” (What large breasts). Then he lifted one by one with his knife, and said, “Muy sabroso, senorita.” (Very delicious, miss). His voice was low like a lovers. Then he pulled down my skirt and made me lie on the ground making a slit in my pantalones. I tried to keep my legs together and he slapped me hard causing my head to snap back. I tasted blood forming at the edges of my mouth. I will never forget his yellow, glistening eyes like two hard pieces of topaz.

  His smell was like that of pig’s blood at the slaughterhouse. His fat belly pressed against me like the underbelly of a lizard as he took me and I felt nothing but a cold rage, like me floating above my body seeing it all like an onlooker. When he was done, he ran his hand tenderly over my lips and said, “Muchisimas gracias, senorita.” (Thanks a lot miss).

  A bright screen of red descended before my eyes and I bit his hand drawing blood, and I said, “Voy a matarte.” (I am going to kill you). He drew back and punched me hard in the face, and the world shimmered like a mirage and went black as I heard his laugh. I think the others took me while I was out as well.

  I awoke some hours later and the sun dropped from the sky. Blood had dried on my face, and my nose was broken, and my mouth was swollen shut. By my side they had left ten pesetas and a torn section of the Bible, the Whore of Babylon. I wanted to get to the river and wash off my sin, but was too sore to walk. Then I thought, “Lo que es. Soy gitana.” (That’s how it goes. I’m a gypsy). Then I envisioned my little gypsy knife cutting off their man’s parts, and I laughed but it hurt my poor bruised ribs where they 42

  had carved the word, “puta” with a knife. Even the wolves would refuse such a feast as me.

  I lay for some hours feeling cold and dead and even Sancho had wandered off. St.

  Sara had finally punished me for breaking gypsy law. My punishment was complete. I must have passed from consciousness for some hours later I felt gentle hands covering my wounded body with a blanket and lifting me onto a horse. I opened my eyes and screamed and screamed. Then I knew it was Julio as he wiped the blood from my face and my shame was intense for him to see my naked body in such disarray. I could find no words to utter. He explained he had been looking for me since Sancho had wandered back to camp and he knew what had happened without me saying.

  “Tomorrow, we will hunt them down and kill them, querida (dear). I will bring you their balls.”

  My voice came out in a whisper and I thought it really wasn’t even me. “No, Julio, say only they beat me and left me for dead. Don’t tell the rest. I’ll be marime and have to live as an outcast. You must not tell, Julio. Give me clothes to cover my nakedness.”

  “Tekla, I know I never tell you this, but you are my woman and I must avenge you. Do not think I ate o
f your fruit and never gave you my love.” Those were the most bitter words I have ever heard. To know one is loved and may never be wife. The words came too late to my starving heart.

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  I spoke strong and loud. “What have I need of your love now, Julio, when I have begged for it so long? I am truly ruined now and you’re the only one who knows. I was ruined the day I took you as my man and broke our law. This is my punishment.”

  “Tekla, you are out of your mind with pain and rage. Let me avenge you!”

  “And who avenges me from you, Julio? You who stole my marriage bed and my place in the Rom? It is a bitter, evil thing you say to me now. Must I die before you can love me?”

  “All right, Tekla, we won’t tell. If you get with child, we’ll run away and take up as man and wife. No one has to know.”

  “Do you still love Rupa?” There was a long silence and no words.

  “You see you are not honest with yourself, Julio. If I take your offer, in time you will hate me, and think I stole your dream.”

  “Tekla, now you are my dream.”

  “People always love her more. Julio, I am used to it. You will even come to blame me for this rape. You will say I bewitched them as papa would.”

  “No, Tekla, you must believe me. Let me help you, now.

  “I have no need for love given out of pity. Go help the cripple and blind of Granada. They need pity: I do not.”

  “It is you who are blind, Tekla. I love Rupa but I love you more. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to get a man to see what he really feels.”

  “Julio, I am in too much pain to hear your confession. Go fuck your child bride.”

  “I will kill them, my love.”

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  “No, I will find them one day and cut their cojones (balls) off and eat them on a bed of river greens and rice.”

  “Tekla, you are talking crazy. Gypsy women do not murder.”

  “Oh, no. What about the death curse and shiving draw (poisoning)?”

  “You do not murder as a man does. Woman are too soft and weak for that.”

  “Then if that is so, I will marry a fool and have foolish children. From this day forth we are through. I cannot talk more. The blood rises in my throat, and my ribs are injured. Just take me home, Julio.”

  * * *

  On the way home he held me in his arms letting me rest against his chest. My love for him will never die. St. Sara had fully punished me for my transgression. I left my girlhood behind that day and became a woman hard as anthracite.

  I had no tears for I could not afford them. Tears are for the weak. I saw vengeance and a river of blood. An ocean of blood.

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  CHAPTER SIX

  “Say only that thieves came to rob me and finding I had nothing took their vengeance.” And this was the story we told. When we got back as the moon went behind the mountains, papa, mama, and Rupa were sitting by the fire drinking vino rojo (red wine) and coffee negro (black). The tears made little rivulets on the dust on Rupa’s face and mama was in tears as well. Only Papa looked stern as though he was intent on murder. The cause was he didn’t want to lose the abilities of his prime earner for days at a time, or this is what I thought. The whites of Rupa’s eyes glowed like mother of pearl in the moonlight and mother’s chest was wracked with sobs.

  Papa was always just someone who ate at our table in silence never taking an interest in our lives save for Rupa who was his pride and joy. For mother and I, he had only a small awareness and a modicum of respect. But it was mama who truly loved me, and she flew into my arms and then backed off when she felt my pain. She saw my broken nose and the bruise marks on my ribs. The side where they had carved “puta” I kept well covered in my shawl. I told them the bites marks on my neck and shoulders were knife cuts. Papa remarked that they did not look like knife cuts. Mama snapped bright like a fire, fixing him with a harsh gaze from her black eyes, saying, “Moishe, you do not dare to doubt my child. Do you think she has been to a party? Do not question my sweet girl. Rupa get the rags and ointment and brew my special tea. We’ll put her in your wagon, Rupa, and you will watch her this night. Moieshe, do you have anything to say to your daughter?”

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  Papa merely ducked his head and patted me lightly on the arm not meeting my gaze. Then with the tip of one finger he gently touched my cheek. He inquired of his wife whether they should risk contamination and take me to a gadje doctor. Mama replied that they would get la vieja, (the old one). “She is a bruja (witch) and good with potions and she will know how to mend my daughter’s broken heart.” Then they put me in Rupa’s wagon and she cried and cried.

  It was naturally the most beautiful wagon with its red velvet and brocade bed spread, sumptuous pillows, and pictures of the saints and flickering red candles. It was like being in the belly of a very soft animal. Rupa stayed awake all night applying presses to my wounds and dabbing my cracked lips with a water cloth. I suspect she saw the carving in my side but said nothing such was her sorrow and self blame. She gently braided my hair to keep it from getting in my face. I awoke and her eyes had the aspect of a shady pond. And her ivory skin filled the wagon with a powerful white light. I saw her simple goodness and knew she loved me. Her love is pink and mine is crimson, the color of a cut heart.

  That morning papa was going to Granada to sell his horses and silver jewelry and perhaps ply his trade as blacksmith. I could see he was angry I could not work the boojoo with Rupa. Her gadje name, Clementina, is excellent for her. But I am much more a thief and a liar than she. I can read the gadje and see what lies in their hearts.

  My specialty is widowed women and old men, foolish about life. The young believe they can control their futures like a fisherman throwing his net. The old are more fearful: they feel the Reaper’s hand on their hearts. Who better than a sturdy gypsy girl to set fate 47

  right? I have to laugh at this. So much do I hate them, or sometimes I just grow weary of them. They have so much and always want more. They are gluttons.

  As the months go by, I feel a hardness growing in my belly, and I sorrow for I know I will be cast out. It could be Julio’s child but could St. Sara be that merciful? I take to wearing large shawls and oversize blouses. Mother sees, and wonders, and waits for me to tell. She takes me in her arms saying, “Mi hija (my daughter) is your blood thin theses days? You are so wan and pale. Are you ill?”

  I tell her I am troubled because papa fails to love me.

  “Mi hija, lo que es. (My daughter, that’s just how it is). He doesn’t love me either since the flower of my youth has fled me.”

  I ask how she can still lie with him then.

  She replied, “A woman’s job is to love no matter what. A man’s job is to conquer, mi hija (my daughter). Get used to it, Tekla. Love is like a flower in a vase destined to wilt and die on the vine. That’s life.”

  And I thought, “No, mama, that will not be my life.”

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mercifully, papa was called away to Barcelona on horse business and would be away for six months: I could hide my condition from him and mama and Rupa knew yet said nothing. They hid me from the other gypsies saying I had a wasting illness. I think they planned to send the baby away. But we didn’t worry about the town folk: it was business as usual.

  On this particular day we drove into town to do the boojoo. The Spanish queen had yet to summon me. I tell fortunes to the old gadjes with their broken hearts and ragged dreams. Sometimes I wonder if I am old will I be thin, and tough like mama or fat and weak and tentative like these old gadges. I hope I am tall, and rough as an old redwood tree. Life is great if you don’t weaken. I wonder will my fingers be twisted like the roots of a tree or will my eyes film over into unseeingness like day old buttermilk?

  These old gadges are to be pitied. Only the doctor and the undertaker care for them.

  They come to me because no one listens and they must pay and pay for the privilege.

  We have a st
ore front with red velvet curtains and gold tassels and a fancy rug from Persia and these old walnut tables with claws like they have in their big houses. We make it a home with a plush red chair to ease the words from their lips, more to loosen the purse strings as comfort does. We have tarot, bones, and a crystal ball for the really gullible. On the outside it says, “Madame Clementina’s Palace of the Heart.” Rupa being the prettiest is Madame Clementina and I go by the name of Carmen.

  Then the bell rang and the most enormous gadge women waddled in with her fat son. She was very red in hair and skin and gave off kind of a pink light. Her hair was what the gadge call auburn and she had many orange brown freckles on her skin. Her 49

  son, was the same, a boy of nine or ten dressed in a sailor suit. She sat down taking off her straw hat of many flowers and the chair creaked under her weight. The boy remained standing and kicked the edge of the Persian rug with his pointed little black boots.

  Sit down, Giles, you get on my last nerve,” she said.

  “Milady is perhaps, English,” I said.

  “English, yes, and Spain is just a beastly country. The heat. The flies. The unpaved roads. The people. Oh, why go on.”

  “Carmen understands perfectly, Milady,” I said.

  “I’ll have you to tell my fortune. I don’t trust the pretty one.”

  “I am Carmen as I have said. The pretty one is not to be trusted. She is duplicitous.”

  “You know English words. My! My!”

  “I read books, Madam, that I might understand the world. Do you prefer palms, tea leaves, the tarot or the ball?”

  “Which is best?

  Looking at the large yellow diamond on her hand, I said, “Palmistry.” I will have this diamond off before the end of the afternoon, I said to myself.

  Pointing her fat finger at Rupa, she said, “That one is just like the low bitch who stole my Willie from me. Pretty, cheap, of no substance.” She gives her hand to me. It is like cool clay and each nail is painted a perfect pink. I smell her perfume, vanilla, like a freshly baked cookie. The fat bunches up under her gold bracelets and I stifle a smile. I take her hand feeling its reptilian coolness and 50