Chapter Four : "On a Gypsy Caravan"
Part 1: The Gadjo
| Oct 16: Off the Train to Budapest 1:30pm: Jurgen Sees Stars Pain, only pain. Overwhelming, nauseating pain. Jurgen, reluctantly, with difficulty, opened his eyes. It took an eternity to focus. When he finally did, he saw an ancient, incredibly wrinkled woman's face staring at him. He blinked. The effort made his head throb. His mind was fuzzy, his mouth felt like caterpillars. Stars spun in orbit inside his head. In the background, he made out some garbled talk. He tried to focus on the sound. Roma. That's what it was. For a second he thought it might be Russian or Ukrainian, but no, it was Roma, the language of the gypsies. The woman was saying something to him that he didn’t understand… ”Gadjo …boxtalo…” Jurgen didn’t know Roma. “Damn, the Hungarians would speak Russian. Don’t know if the Roma do,” he managed to sort out through his pain. Someone else’s voice? A mustached face replaced the old woman's. This face was younger, but showed the lines of a hard life. "Sprechen sie Deutsch? Are you English? Russki?" asked the man in a thick Romani accent. His brain still thick, Jurgen tried to decide what cover story to use. Russian may not be the best choice, he realized through his haze. The Roma probably had little use for the Russians, even in this post-Soviet era. For that matter, neither did the Hungarians. He answered haltingly in English, “American. I’m American.” Jurgen tried to raise his head. "No, no, lay down. You have nasty bump on head," said the mustached man. Jurgen defiantly raised himself on his elbows in spite of his vertigo. A line of old Winnebago trailers, campers, vans and assorted other automotive relics came into hazy view. Jurgen smiled at this unexpected tableau. The caravan was stopped along the old highway that ran parallel to the train tracks. Several men were outside, yelling and gesticulating. On the side of one of the Winnebagos, a bumper sticker painted in bold red and gold letters proclaimed : http://wwwromanygypsy.com. One of the men was trying to make a cell phone call. A gypsy caravan, 21st Century style. The old woman pushed him gently back to a horizontal position and applied a compress to Jurgen’s head. An angel touching his forehead could not have felt better. She said something soothing but unintelligible in Roma. He rested for a few moments while his head came out of orbit and landed back on Earth. The old woman lifted his head and gave him a few drops of water from a plastic canteen. “Pani,” she said, pointing to the canteen. The word must mean “water,” he thought. "I need to get to Budapest,” said Jurgen when he could get his mouth to move again. A flicker of interest from the mustached face examining him. "I got myself into a little trouble with the authorities back in Vienna and they contacted the train I was on. Had to make a bit of a hasty departure.” Jurgen attempted what he hoped was a rakish smile. This ploy seemed to work. A grin appeared on the mustached man's face, and he called out in Romani. Two men came over and stood looking at Jurgen. A few murmured words passed between the three. A slightly smaller, thinner, mustached man then stepped forward and spoke up. "Well, comrade, you are in luck. We are headed for Budapest ourselves. Big concert coming up." Like so many Europeans, his English, though thickly accented, was quite good. Jurgen breathed a sign of relief. Apparently being on the shady side of the law was the right ticket. The Roma, he recalled, have no love for authority other than their own, and feel a kinship with others who are “outsiders,” even if they are "gadjie” or non-Roma. Or maybe it was suddenly speaking perfect English with a New Jersey accent. He didn't care which. The first man pointed to one of the Winnebagos. Jurgen smiled. The men put Jurgen on a makeshift litter and carried him into the Winnebago. He collapsed gratefully onto the couch, his head throbbing again. "You rest now. My mother give you something to eat later," said the first Rom. As the Rom turned to leave, he stopped and asked "What you name?" Deciding to be cautious, Jurgen answered "John." "No more. You Nicky." The Rom do not like giving out their names to the "Gadjie," so they just use whatever name strikes their fancy for the occasion and country. Names like "Ivan" and "Nicky" work throughout most Slavic or Baltic countries. “I am Ivan,” the Rom said with a wink. “Maybe being a Gypsy for a while is a good gambit,” Jurgen mused. "Guess I’m temporarily one of them. I hope they don’t expect me to sing.” The effort of concentrating and speaking exhausted him. He closed his eyes and fell into a troubled asleep. 4:40pm: Chicken Soup for the Soul The aroma of chicken soup and freshly baked bread woke Jurgen. His head throbbed a bit, but not as badly as before. When he opened his eyes, the old woman’s face was looking at him sternly. “Eat!” she motioned in the universal language of gestures. This time Jurgen had more strength to pull himself into an upright position. He glanced out the window of the Winnebago. The caravan was no longer parked along the highway. They were in what looked like a highway rest turnout. There were trees and grass, and the highway noise was muffled. The old woman put a bowl of the soup in front of him. Large dumplings floated in the soup, surrounded by pieces of chicken, scallions and dill. She also produced a small bowl of sour cream. How many cultures rely on chicken soup for their ills? thought Jurgen, Seems almost a universal antidote for what ails you. The bread was a hearty dark rye, still warm and pungent. He broke off a piece and bit in. Throwing some heaping spoonfuls of sour cream into the soup, he began to eat with gusto. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was till he consumed the entire bowl and most of the bread in what seemed like a second. Another bowl appeared. He consumed that too and more bread, but a bit more slowly. As he ate, Jurgen looked out the window again. He could see children playing a game of tag in the field. A scraggly dog relieved itself on a camper’s tire and was chased off by one of the men. Fleetingly, he could see women peek out of their trailer windows in his direction. The only woman he had seen up close so far was the old woman who fed him. Romani women are forbidden to socialize with "Gadjie" men. The only interaction they are allowed to have with outside males is through their "businesses" of fortune telling and palmistry. They are not left alone with outsiders if they are young and pretty. Though it sometimes does happen… When Jurgen had finished his meal and rested for a while, Ivan came in. “Join us in a smoke,” he said, gesturing to the outside. He helped Jurgen climb down the Winnebago steps and sit down on an old aluminum chair outside. The other two men who had helped get Jurgen into the Winnebago joined them. A pipe was lit and passed around. The ancient ritual was soothing. Jurgen relaxed; he was beginning to feel a bit better. A group of three young women eyed Jurgen from a safe distance. “Oooh, look at the gadjo,” murmured one of the women. “So handsome, so blond.” In a society of dark-haired people, blond is exotic. “Be careful, Sveira, do not let your father hear you or he will be very angry,” one of the other women cautioned. The third one giggled. “But he is handsome, Vadoma. You cannot deny it.” The cautious one slowly nodded her head. “Yes, it is true, I admit. But it is not for us to act on. It is best for us to stay far away from him. You know that.” Sveira sighed. “Sometimes I hate the Romani ways. Why are we not allowed to speak to strangers? What harm? I only want to ask him where he comes from.” She looked Jurgen’s way again, taking in his manly profile, evident even from this distance. “Maybe I can read his palm,” she thought to herself. She smiled secretively. Part 2: Second Sight
6:30pm: Sveira Schemes The old woman, Lyuba, prepared for her trip to the town nearby. Knowing that the gadjo guest was still weak, she decided to ask her niece to feed him the evening meal while she was gone. It’s true that Sveira was young and pretty but she was a responsible girl, widowed for a year now, so it was not so improper. A little headstrong at times but basically a fine young woman. She summoned Sveira. “I must go to my fortune telling appointment in town. The gadjo there pays very well and I cannot miss it. You must feed our guest here. He is still weak. There is chicken paprikash and some rye bread already prepared. But mind you, do not bother him with your chatter. You mind your business and just feed him and then leave him alone, do you understand?” Lyuba frowned sternly, more strongly than she felt, but it was her job to be stern with such matters. Sveira nodded meekly. “Yes, Auntie, I will do as you ask. I make sure he gets fed properly and I won’t chatter, I promise.” After Lyuba left, Sveira beamed. She almost let out a whoop but knew that would not be a good idea. No one must know my thoughts, she reminded herself. With a twinkle in her eye, she headed for Lyuba’s Winnebago.
* * * 7pm: Two for Tea Jurgen looked up as the door opened. To his surprise, it was not the old woman who entered but a young and attractive woman. Flowing dark hair, large round dark eyes, full lips. Definitely a looker, thought Jurgen. “I am Sveira,” she
said. “My Aunt ask me to give you dinner. She go to town.” As she began to make preparations in the
kitchen, Sveira kept sneaking looks at Jurgen. Finally, as she was setting the table, she spoke up.
“You
are American,” she said, smiling too brightly. “Where are you from in Jurgen responded in a carefully measured tone. “ “If you want more food, I give you more,” she murmured. “Where are you going? Is it far?” She poured him a cup of tea from an old and battered kettle, gazing at him steadily as she sat the cup down on the table. “ “Do you travel many times?”
Sveira was clearly grasping for the right English words.
“I want to
travel new places. Clearly a girl eager to break out of the restrictions of Roma life, Jurgen thought to himself. Aloud he said, “Well, it depends. When you are there on business, it’s not so exciting. But yes, it can be fun if you’re on vacation.” He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with her wide-eyed gaze and the direction he feared the conversation might be heading. Fulfilling his very fears, Sveira spoke up. “I have
cousin
in Oh, great, exactly what I was afraid of. What do I
say now?
he thought morosely. Jurgen scrambled for just the right polite but
distancing
phrase. “I’m sorry but I’ll only be in Before Sveira could fire off the next volley, the door flew open and Lyuba stomped in. Jurgen breathed a sigh of relief. Saved by the Wise Old Crone and not a moment too soon. Lyuba fiercely muttered some phrases in Roma, gesticulating menacingly. “Her customer not show up,” Sveira translated. “She is not happy. Bad manners to miss appointment with Roma.” Sveira’s sly smile had turned to a frown. She was clearly disappointed at her Aunt’s untimely return. The old woman muttered a few more phrases that Sveira didn’t bother to translate. Finally Lyuba calmed down a bit and turned her attention to Jurgen. Her piercing stare made him uncomfortable for very different reasons than Sveira’s gaze. Almost as if she were lookimg into his soul. “I see now. The fates are giving me message,” Sveira translated when Lyuba finally spoke again. “It is you who must have fortune read, not man in town. It is you who needs wise advice tonight.” Lyuba continued her intense scrutiny of Jurgen’s face while gesturing for Sveira to clean the table off. Lyuba silently picked up Jurgen’s tea cup. She placed it carefully on the table on a piece of tattered but still plush purple velvet that she pulled from her pocket. She peered intently into the cup. “It will be powerful message tonight,” Sveira continued to translate. “There is full eclipse of the moon tonight. Very powerful.” Lyuba began to chant softly in Roma. Sveira didn’t translate but simply gaped in awe at her Auntie. Lyuba, it had become clear to Jurgen, was held in very high regard in this community. Suddenly Lyuba stopped her chanting, opening her eyes wide and looking intently at Jurgen. She peered into the tea cup for a minute or so and then back to Jurgen. “You are a man who lives a life of danger.” Considering the situation in which the Roma had found Jurgen, this seemed like a safe conclusion. Jurgen was not impressed. “To everyone you meet, you stay a stranger.” She spoke softly, almost in a whisper. Since Jurgen hadn’t exactly been loose-lipped after his arrival in the gypsy camp, he still wasn’t too impressed. Besides, big deal, how far did this not so amazing observation get him? He waited. “You will be in great danger if those you fear find out about you,” Sveira translated wide-eyed. Well, OK, a little bit more interesting but really only a good guess, Jurgen reflected. “The one you love grieves for you.” Lyuba stared at him, unblinking. How many romances did that cover? A lot, thought Jurgen. He remained impassive. “The one who wanted to destroy you will be your best friend. The one who wants to be your best friend will try to destroy you.” Sounded like a cross between Zen, fortune cookies, and mumbo-jumbo, thought Jurgen. Still the first part had some plausibility because…Before Jurgen could finish forming the thought, Lyuba grabbed him by the arm, pressing so hard that he winced involuntarily. “You will not be safe in She really believes this stuff, Jurgen reflected, a
little
perturbed by her intensity and the chilling message in spite of his
skepticism.
He had mentioned Lyuba uttered a low moan. Her eyes rolled, beads of sweat appeared on her face. She grabbed Jurgen’s arm again, pressing it even harder this time. “You must believe what I say,” Sveira translated in a strangled voice. “Danger awaits you In Athens. Those who thought you dead look for you. If they find you…” Lyuba’s voice trailed off into a whisper. Sveira turned ashen. Jurgen blanched. Now,
she was getting too close for comfort, he thought. Where did that come
from? He
peered intently at Lyuba as if staring at her would reveal how she
managed to
come so close to the truth. Did
she really have the "second sight" of clairvoyance or
precognition? “What do you
mean?” he found himself saying. “Beware the man with the mark of the devil. He wants your blood. I can say no more.” Lyuba slumped into her chair, eyes closed, her breathing ragged. Sveira got up and brought her a glass of wine. It seemed to help. But clearly the bizarre session, whatever it meant, was over. Jurgen’s headache was returning. The strange chain
of events
in the Winnebago had exhausted him both physically and emotionally so
he nodded
politely and went over to the couch. He fell into a troubled slumber,
dreaming
about vampires in a side show set up at the dock in
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