Cast in Doubt (25 page)

One of the young men is most intrigued by my desire to find Helen and asks many questions about her, some of which I am not able to answer. What is her birth sign? Will she have children? Where was she born? What is her mother’s name? There is a general discussion about which of their younger women could be with her, but none of them think it likely that they know the young woman. The fetching young man—he is hardly more than a boy, I think—has a ready smile, an easy smile. He is winning and charming, with none of Yannis’ surliness. Even so I decline a card game with him; I have never been a great fan of cards, though I bear a poker face. After I disclose that I am a writer, he shows me some papers which have to do with a Gypsy organization and a conference that had been held in 1971, to press the world for Gypsy rights. About this cause he is impassioned, and he speaks a good, grammatical Greek. He has had some formal education, I think. Though I believe that is contrary to Gypsy dictates.

I am most interested in this young man—his name is Roman—and his involvement in his people. It is, in a sense, not unlike my own. Do the Gypsies, I finally ask, now agitate for their own country or state? At this they all laugh, and one says, how gadje that is of me, or something of that kind, but in a friendly manner. Roman explains that some Gypsies want a territory where they would not be forced to be like everyone else and to obey laws and rules that are not their own. They hope to escape harassment and persecution. We are already a nation, he explains for my benefit, and in Romany, I believe it is, and then Greek, exclaims, All Roma are brothers! Immediately an argument ensues among them about the Gypsies’ having conferences at all as well as questions about their submitting to organizations, which also are seen as gadje. This is stated succinctly by the older woman.

But the argument is cut short. Roman takes out his violin—he can play too!—and I am reminded of Gwen’s association with Django Reinhardt’s nephew. A melancholy and haunting melody fills the caravan. Even though it is a cold night, we drift out the door, and one by one everyone dances under the moonlight. First the young woman in the striped bathrobe sways and claps her hands and strikes a tambourine, and even the children, who are still awake, join in. I too dance. It strikes me that I do not know how the night will end and about that I am nearly ecstatic.

Feeling inconceivably like Noel Coward, I whirl about alone, but then dance with the older woman, whose crinkly amber eyes remind me, and this is uncanny, of my mother, who would have been shocked by the comparison. But does anyone know anything other than by comparison?

The next morning I awake, and all about me is commotion and movement. My head pounds ferociously. Immediately I am in a panic, as I am disoriented by my new, strange surroundings. I attempt to calm myself. Sigá, sigá, I intone silently. I lie quietly in the makeshift bed. I think again of Gwen, who can always reassure me in her no-nonsense way. Where is she now? What did she once quote me—something from Mao Tse-tung, about it’s always being darkest before it is black.

My Gwen. She insists that if one remembers one’s dreams one can shake off the night’s bad news and rise up—at least leave one’s bed. I force myself to remember my dream; I often forget. It comes in bits and pieces, one entailing the next. Ah, yes, I see it now. It must have been influenced by the Gypsies. I too am wandering and homeless. Then I am in a room. It is depressing to inhabit, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling over a cotlike bed that is unmade. It is the kind of cheap room one might have found on Forty-second Street during the forties or fifties, or in novels about the people who live in those sordid places. I would never. I leave the room to roam about a large building. I take an elevator, which fits one person only, but I must pull a rope in order to make it move. Come to think of it, it is like the freight elevator in the building where my father had his office for many years. And had his secretary! The elevator door eventually opens—I am afraid that I will never reach the right floor—and I walk into the hallway. I am near the principal’s office. It seems to be a school.

That is all, but there is a good deal of anxious wandering in it. I assume it has to do with looking for Helen. If I were Gwen, I might become the punster and enjoy the movement from roam to Romany to romance. I did think, last night, of Bizet’s Carmen when the Gypsy girl in the striped bathrobe danced. The word “Gypsy” comes from Egyptian—the Europeans thought the Gypsies were Egyptians when first they encountered them, hundreds of years ago. They don’t look Egyptian to me. I would like to jot down all these thoughts right now, but there is too much bustling going on about me. I finally move and arise from bed and stick my head out the tentlike structure I slept in. I am in my pajamas, but how I got into them, I do not know.

By the fire is the elderly Gypsy woman who spots me and, in a loud voice, announces that she will read my fortune. Suddenly I remember that, in my dream, the elevator could not go up; it could only go down. That is most ominous. I want to tell the woman that I abjure any kind of fortune-telling, but feel it would be discourteous to do so. I walk toward the group and the fire, my blanket tied around me. Roman, the winsome lad, hands me a cup of strong coffee and a sweet roll. He also hands me a postcard dated from World War II, a well-known photograph, of some Gypsies being captured by the Nazis. I thank him solemnly.

This morning the old Gypsy woman is draped in many layers of clothing, her body lost under the colorful fabrics and scarves that enshroud her. One scarf, of bright blue and green, is tied rakishly about her forehead and covers her gray hair. I have no idea how old she is. Perhaps my age? Silver bracelets dangle from her plump wrists. She takes my left and right hands in her own and pats each palm, as if the skin could be flattened, stretched and unfurled for better reading.

“Ah!” the woman exclaims, “ah! You are in someone’s mind, someone’s heart. You are in their dreams. You are needed. You are looking for someone.” She stops abruptly as if stung by a bee. She peers closely at, nearly through, it seems, my palms. She shakes her head from side to side. The woman continues: “I see something…” But then she stops again and removes her eyes from my palms to seek my eyes, into which she stares intently, even angrily. She lets go my hands, sharply. They drop to my sides pathetically. “You cannot see,” she intones. “You do not learn. You only look for the right things.” Then she turns away from me to poke the fire.

Her fierceness is stunning. Though I accept nothing that she has spoken as the truth, for I reject prophecy, and remember all too well how much I myself spoke last night and how much I drank—every Gypsy knew I was looking for Helen and much more—I am rather disconcerted. It is early in the morning to hear such things. Probably it is Helen who dreams of me, who needs me. If I were to believe any of this, and I do not. It is as if I were thrust into that scene in
Macbeth
when the three witches chant over a steaming caldron. But one sentence particularly provokes me. “You only look for the right things.” It seems a paradox, for how does one know ahead of time what is or will be the right thing to look for?

Pondering a paradox, with a blanket wrapped around me in the midst of an encampment of strangers, I must be a foolish spectacle. Perhaps it is—I am—an amusement to the others who stand nearby. Embarrassed and ultimately annoyed by the old woman’s presumption, I decide to leave that very instant. I return to the tent where I slept to dress and gather my belongings. Then I make my way around the group to offer thanks for their hospitality.

But I am arrested in my departure by the young man, by Roman. He begs me to allow him to accompany me on my journey. Under ordinary circumstances I would have said yes—I had already begun to imagine that I could be this clever young man’s teacher, and he my amanuensis, and that he could benefit from my worldliness and knowledge, and so on. Gently I explain to him that I must be alone on this trip. His disappointment is palpable and I nearly relent. But something holds me to my conviction. Instead I offer him my address. I write it down on a small piece of paper and urge him to visit me soon. He takes the piece of paper and folds it twice and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt—he is dressed, by the way, like any young Greek man; no one would know he is a Gypsy. Then he pats his shirt pocket, which is over his heart. He pats it several times. He stares deeply into my eyes. My heart leaps. I am astonished, even mesmerized by this display of unexpected affection.

We are not alone. All this occurs in the midst of the group, who are no doubt aware of us and this encounter. What do the Gypsies think of me and of this intimate, if not romantic, episode? Suddenly I wonder if they know or suspect that I am a homosexual. Would it matter to them? I cast my eyes about the campsite. Everyone is going about his or her business. Probably they think I am rich. That may be all that matters. I do not know.

Together Roman and I walk to my rusty old car. I note their two new Mercedes parked behind some trees. As I get in, Roman holds the car door and tells me he will visit me, absolutely. And soon. He touches my arm. I am more than touched. “Look for Helen well!” Roman calls out as I drive away. “Make a good journey!”

By offering Roman my address, didn’t I, I think with pride, demonstrate to the fortune-teller that I don’t always look for the right things? Am I not taking a chance with Roman? Is this merely foolish pride?

In the privacy of my car, I repeat his name aloud several times. Roman, Roman, Roman. With a start and a great deal of pleasure, I realize that in French his name is the word for novel. And is it the French who are fascinated by the Gypsies and who, I believe, dominate the field of Gypsiology. I experience a deep satisfaction that bubbles and flows through my languid body like lava down the side of a volcanic mountain.

It was only later in the day that I was able to record some of the impressions I had gathered. I felt privileged to have been in the Gypsies’ company. Though I had momentary doubts, I was mostly assured that they liked and accepted me. I did not know why. Perhaps I held steadfastly then to what dear Gertrude noted about the writing of
The Making of Americans
: “Whether they are Chinamen or Americans there are the same kinds in men and women and one can describe all the kinds of them.” I was not afraid that the Gypsies would steal from me or kill me. I didn’t know why, either. The simplest explanation was that I did not want to think these things, things I would ordinarily have thought. It was also true that up until that night I had had no real or intimate experience of the Gypsies and had, prior to Helen’s friendship with one and my reading about them, maintained only predictable and prejudicial notions about them.

I drive all morning, mulling over last night’s events. I let each one sink in thoroughly. Roman is an exquisite, even extravagant event. How is, I ask myself, a character like an event? I stop for souvlaki at a roadside café where I warmly greet the owner, whom I don’t know. I am in exceptionally good spirits. I am not at all hungry and nibble listlessly at the pita bread and meat. As any good Cretan will, the owner returns my solicitude with his own. He offers me a game of tavoli but I explain that I am in a rush. Frankly, I cannot concentrate. I merely glance at the open book before me, Stein’s lectures, and decide to follow the fastest route to the south, so as to arrive at my destination—that dot on the map—before nightfall.

The village that is nearest to the dot on Helen’s map probably does not have a guest house or inn. Often one can rent a room from a Greek family and indeed, when I arrive there, this is what I set about doing. I park the car on a deserted side street; there appear to be hardly any streets at all. I walk to the only store, a general store, that is open and ask for help. The young woman who owns the store has a room to let just below, in the basement, and so I am in luck. There is a restaurant a mere half mile from here and a beautiful beach, she tells me. Her name is Partheny, which means, curiously enough, “little virgin”; her husband is dead and she wears black, in the tradition of the Cretan widow, but I would guess she is only thirty. She also tells me there are many Americans who pass through, but yes, she believes she has recently seen one with a gold ring in her nose.

The village is a crudely built, almost barren place, not likely to be invaded by the hippies from the caves at M´tala, which is considerably south of here. It is such an unprepossessing, scrubby spot, with a few ratty flowers and trees dotting the cement sidewalks, I rue the fact that this is the setting for my rendezvous with Helen.

I move my car to a space in front of the store and carry my suitcase, groceries, liquor, and typewriter downstairs. The room is sparely furnished, but has a sink—the toilet is in the hall. There is just one light hanging from the ceiling but the sheets on the cot are clean enough. There is a table on which I place my typewriter. Quickly I remove it from its case, roll in a piece of paper, eager to bang out as fast as I can—my fingers are stiff—all the strange and marvelous events which have transpired since I left home.

Perhaps I ought this instant to go in search of Helen, but it is nearly dark. Also I am exhausted, having slept so little the last few nights. Might it have been Roman who undressed me and put my pajamas on me? I muse about this possibility—who else could it have been?

Overtired and somewhat frantic, I commit the following to paper: The large-screen television is on annoyingly all night. The children occasionally gather around it as if around a hearth. I am surprised that television is so central a part of their lives and I suppose I am even surprised by their having electricity. Roman has watched television all his life; his favorite programs come from America and he talks fluently of them. I admit I never watch it and he—they all—are astounded. At some point the old man calls out that the Gypsies are the smartest people on earth. And then he relates a tale to prove it. I can recall it only generally. Forty not-very-smart Gypsies were sent into a forest to do a job—cut down trees—and instead they bought sheep and used up all their money. Then they fell asleep, but no one Gypsy wanted to sleep on the outside of the circle, so all night they kept changing places, and by morning no one had slept. They lost their rope and axes; thirty-eight of them fell into a ravine and died. The other two—something dreadful happens to both. But the last—this is most amusing—the last dies because he wants to look at his private parts, which he has never seen. By now he is carrying a torch, but he leans so far forward, he falls off a bridge into a river and drowns. The Gypsies who died, says the old man, were the foolish ones, the scatterbrained ones. It is lucky they died, he says, for all the others who remained and didn’t go into the woods, they were the intelligent ones. All the stupid ones were gotten rid of, and that’s why the Gypsies are the smartest people on earth.