Gypsy in Black: The Romance of Gypsy Travelers (15 page)

The old man rested in the back of the wago
n until the sun
rose high in the sky.  Sahara g
uessed it was
twelve
o'clock.  Her
back ached and her arms were sore
. 
She felt blisters on her hands and fought back the tears from the pain. 
Although the road had curved
through the patches of trees, the
horses
obediently
followed the
wa
gon ahead, needing little navig
ation from S
ahara.  Once, a
large hill had threatened her lack
of driving knowledge.  But the
team struggled up the hill without her help.  The trees slowly vanished
as the road opened into a wide,
grassy plain.  The sun beat down
on her, causing beads of sweat
to appear on her forehead.  H
olding both rei
ns with her one
hand, she wiped the sweat away an
d lifting her hair off the back
of her neck.  She almost wished sh
e had a bonnet to keep the rays
of sun off her face.  Before long
, she thought, I'll be as brown
as the gypsies.  Her stoma
ch growled.  Tired, hungry, and
irritated, she banged on the
door
with her elbow.  At first,
there was no response.  Angrily,
she banged on
it
again, causing it to fly
open. 

“
My arms are killing me.
”
  She could hear him gr
umbling as
he got out of bed.  Certainly, sh
e thought, it's hotter in there
than out here.  After several lo
ng minutes, the old man emerged
and sat next to her.  Taking the r
ei
ns away, he cast her a dirty
look.  Sahara rubbed her aching arms, glaring back
at him. 
“
Don't complain,
”
she snapped
. 
“
I let you sleep for several
hours!
”

He was ready to snap back
at her.  But no words came from
his throat.  Finally, he smil
ed.  His eyes misted over as he
stared at her, one eye on the road.  A laugh escaped his
wrinkled
throat and he nodded to himself. 
“
Spirited lass, yes?  Gist like
anudder I once know.
”

Ill-
tempered
from sitti
ng for so long, Sahara's temper
flared at his words
.
 
“
What
is that suppose to mean?
”
 

The man kept smiling, staring straight ahead as he drove the
horses
on. 
“
Gist like anudder...
”
  His voice trailed off and he
refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon.

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“You will do as I say,” the man commanded her.  He blocked her exit from the wagon.  She had been sleeping when he barged in, not even bothering to announce himself or give her a moment to awake.  He had made his demand before she had rubbed the sleep from her eyes.  His loud voice had woken the baby who now cried from where she slept on a pile of rough, scratchy blankets.

The girl defied him with her eyes.  “I do not want to take care of those two children!”

The man did not take lightly to being contradicted.  “It is not a question of whether you want to or not but a matter of what you will do.” 

“I do not like those children!” she snapped back.  “They are not mine!”

The man laughed.  His hair was long and dirty, hanging down his shoulders over a stained white shirt.  It had been almost a month since his wife had died and things had not been progressing well for him.  He ignored the two children and his own basic needs.  The children were dirty and hungry.  The older one looked perpetually angry and the younger one increasingly forlorn.  Their father paid no mind to them, dealing with his own sorrow.  But, now that the month of mourning was over, he was looking for solutions.  And he saw one in this girl that he had acquired.  “I did not ask you to like them, girl.  I told you to take care of them.  They need a woman to tend to their needs,” he said.  “There will be no more discussion.  You will begin to pull your share of the workload around here. And that starts today.”

The girl watched as he walked away.  Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and tried to calm her beating heart.  What would she do with those two little boys?  One was almost a young man, the other barely a weanling.  The cries of her own child broke her away from her thoughts.  She clutched the baby to her chest, reassuring the infant that everything was all right, even if she didn’t necessarily believe it.

Late in the afternoon, the c
aravan stopped in the outskirts
of a small town along the
road.  Dozens of gadjo children
curiously followed the wagon tr
ain after it had passed through
the middle of town.
There was a crowd following the caravan
by the time they stopped in a grassy meadow, far enough from the town to not disturb anyone but close enough that they could see the buildings.
The ol
der gypsy men ignored the gadjo
children as they unloaded the t
ents.  Their shirts came off as
stakes were pounded into the gr
ound and the teams of
horses and mules were unhitched from the wagons.
 
The
men’s skin glistened with
a golden brown sheen from the combination of hard work and heat. 
The wom
en were busy
unloading material from
the wagons
, creating order to what would appear chaos to the untrained eye.  They
sent their children
to
gather wood for the
cooking fires, charging them to take the smaller children with them in order to keep them out of the way.
To the women's relief, the
gadjo childre
n followed, eager to befriend
the gypsy children
,
which kept them occupied. 

Sahara descended from th
e wagon, her back stiff and her
stomach tight from hunger.  Sh
e rubbed the tight knots in her
back.  The caravan hadn't sto
pped to eat along the way or to
stretch.  None of the gypsies see
med to mind a day without meals
or water. 
They didn’t seem to care about the welfare of the people or horses, stopping only to give water to the horses whenever they came near a stream or river.  Once the caravan stopped, the men seemed to forget the long day of travel. 
Eagerly, they attacked
the task of setting up another
camp for a day or two.  Some of th
e younger men herded the horses
away from the activity, shooing
away
th
e curious gadjo children
. 
Sahara watched the
disarray
of orga
nization, grateful that she was
not expected to participate in the set up. 
Nicolae
noticed his wife stan
ding alone by the wagon
in which
she had
ridden
.  Her dark eyes flash
ed, watching the gypsies work. 
She dabbed at her neck with the bottom of he
r skirt, lifting it
over her knees.  Quickly, he left
the other men and hurried over
to her side.  He approached her fr
om the side.  Reaching out with
one hand, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed it.  His
tight grasp
forced her to drop her skirt and stare u
p at him, half angry,
half confused.  He spoke hars
hly but quietly so no one could
overhear him reproaching her. 

“
S'
hara, you must never raise your
skirt!  If a man walked in front
of you, he would be mahrimed. 
Never, ever do that again.
”
  He stared at h
er as he dropped her
hand.  Her face was baked golde
n from the sun, glistening with
sweat.  Her long hair clung to
the back of her neck. 
She was hot and tired.  For a moment, she thought she might cry from exhaustion. 
When she
met his gaze, he said sternly,
“
T
here is a small river over that
hill.  You can cool off there.
”

Sahara watched quietly as
Nicolae
returned
to the men.
He dove into the work without complaint, working alongside his kumpania.
His
bare back was a deep brown, shi
ning from working in the heat. 
His hair was bound, tied back in a thick cord.  He was a strong man and taller than many of the other gypsies.  His presence commanded respect.  She saw that immediately.  The men began to set up a tent and Nicolae helped center to tent post, holding it steady by himself as the other men secured it. His muscles rippled and a shiver went down her spine. 

Quickly, Sahara forgot
Nicolae
's sc
olding as she sought the nearby
river, already crowded with you
nger girls collecting water for
their mothers.  Sahara ignored th
em as she thirstily cupped some
water in her hands and drank i
t.  Leaning over the river, she
splashed cool water on her face
and throat.  Her hands, dry and
dirty from holding the reigns,
soaked up the water. 
The blisters had burst earlier and stung. 
Standing,
she wiped them on her skirt as s
he surveyed the area.  The town
was only half a mile down the road.  The camp was on a large
plain, few trees in sight. 
She co
uld barely see the children and
dogs racing around, laughing as
they played while occasionally
picking up sticks.  The older boy
s rode their horses off, Sahara
guessed to steal dry lumber or a m
eal.  Taking a deep breath, she
headed back for the wagons.

In less time than it had tak
en to tear down the tents, they
were erected.  The wagons circled the camp, the tents on t
he
inside with a large opening fo
r fires.  Lazily, Sahara walked
through the wagons.  The women w
ere busy moving mattresses into
their tents.  No one noticed Sahar
a as she watched, studying each
gypsy women's face.  As she walked closer, Sahara saw a small
tan
dog sniffing around a nearby te
nt.  A young woman with a diklo
covering her head opened the fla
p as if to leave.  When she saw
the dog, she began screaming at it.  Kicking the
dog's side, the
woman chased it away. 
The dog ran off, whimpering with its tail
between its legs.  The woman sho
ok her head and watched the dog
disappear.  She started to go
back into the tent when she saw
Sahara.  For a moment, they both s
tared at each other curiously.

The young gypsy woman looked no more than twenty.  Her ha
ir
was hidden beneath the
diklo, which
was tied in a tight knot at
the nape of her neck.  A black an
d gold scarf was wrapped around
the waist of her light blue dress.
  Large black circles under her
eyes stood out on her tanned brown face.  She hesitated bef
ore
motioning to Sahara to come for
ward.  Her hands were calloused
and chapped from a lifetime of hard living.  Sahara walked toward her, curious th
at one of the gypsy women would finally want to
talk with her.

“
You are the gadjo gypsy, yes?
”

Sahara nodded slowly. 
“
I am.
”

The woman stared at her, lo
oking from Sahara's feet to the
top of her head. 
“
You are not wearing your diklo.
”

Sahara frowned for a sec
ond, not understanding what she
meant before remembering that
she was referring to the scarf
which
all married women
wore. 
“
No, I'm not.
”

“
You are married, yes?  But
you do not wear it.
”
  The woman
gave a thoughtful smile.  Her
teeth were slightly crooked but
glea
med white.  Mischievously, sh
e chuckled. 
“
They would expect nothing less from you,
yes?
”

“
What are you talking about?
”

The woman gave a pleasant
laugh, opening the flap of her
tent for Sahara to enter.  Deba
ting for a quick second, Sahara
bent down and entered.  To her sur
prise, the tent was decorated. 
A large pile of pillows laid on the m
attress in the back with
quilts piled high.  Several un
lit white candles hung from the
post in the middle.  Through t
he post, a wooden bar stretched
across the middle of the tent
with at least fifty strings of
colorful beads hanging from eac
h side.  Off to the side of the
tent was a thin table with two
chairs.  Next to that, several
black clay bowls were neatly st
acked in a narrow cupboard, one
bowl set aside from the rest.  Several pieces of leather sewn
together covered the grassy
floor of the tent.  It w
as stretched
so tight that it was almost as h
ard as a real floor.  Squinting
her eyes, Sahara noticed that
the leather was actually hooked
onto the sides of the tent. 

“
You like?
”

Sahara looked at the woman,
nodding her head. 
“
Much nicer
than the tent I've been staying in.
”

The woman scrutinized he
r again. 
“
Nicolae
's tent?  That is
yours now too, yes?
”

Sahara walked over to the str
ings of beads, fingering them. 
They were made from glass. 
“
Where do you find these?
”

“
We trade for them, gadjo gypsy.
”

“
Really?
”
  She looked over h
er shoulder at the woman. 
“
And
the floor covering?
”

The woman smiled again. 
“
My
husband gave me the leather and
I made it.
”

Sahara let the beads slide t
hrough her fingers.  The strand
brushed against the others, tinkling like
small brass bells. 
“
My
name is Sahara.
”

“
I am Bossa.  You like the
gypsy life yet?
”
  The question
almost sounded teasing to Sahara
.  But the smile that broke the
hardness of her face told Sahara otherwise.

“
Should I?
”

Bossa tilted her head. 
“
Why should you not?
”

“
I am a town girl, Bossa.  A gadjo.
”
 

A laugh escaped Bossa's lips as she agreed with Sahara. 
“
In
many ways, you are gadjo, yes.  B
ut tell me, do you not like the
freedom?  The travel?
”
  She
leaned forward a little as she
reached out with her arm and touc
hed Sahara's cheek with a dirty
finger. 
“
The dancing?
”

It took Sahara a minute
to answer.  Bossa had read her
hidden feelings.  With her father
, Sahara had worked all day and
night, slaving for no pay or
reward.  In return for her hard
labor, all she had received was
the
humiliation
of being gambled
away.  But with the gypsies, she h
ad indeed become free.  So far,
her days were lazy, her nights wil
d.  As for the travel, her back
ached and her shoulders were sore but yes, she did like it. 
“
No,
I hate everything about it!
”
Her
eyes were wide as she stared at
this woman.  How had she known,
Sahara thought, when even I did
not?