He cannot speak, but his eyes are open and they fix on me.
“Goodbye, Joachim,” I whisper, holding his hand to my chest, as tears stream down my face. “I will wait for the dove of your soul to beat at my window. I will, Joachim, and I will throw up the sash and let you in, I promise. Now go with God, mi querido.”
And, with a soft, shuddering sigh, he goes off.
I place his hands on his chest and reach up and close his eyes. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo . . .
Then I stand, wipe my eyes, and look about me. I see with dismay that there are three more still forms lying dead in a row. It is Anselmo, and Fernando, and the boy Eladio.
Good Lord, what a waste of young lives . . .
“We will blow the bridge now,” I hear Montoya say. “Prepare the pig.”
What?
I turn to see that the horror is not yet over. The band has a prisoner, and they mean to exact some terrible revenge.
He is a young French lieutenant, Infantry by his uniform, a uniform now stained with his own blood—he has received a grievous wound in his right side. He is tied to a tree and he is hurt, but not so bad that he cannot see what is in store for him. Racks of dry wood and tinder are being stacked around his feet.
They mean to burn him alive.
I rush to stand in front of the prisoner. “Pablo! You cannot do this!”
He does not reply, but Pilar does. “Shut up, girl! We have four dead lying there because of him! He shall pay for it with his death by fire!”
“Mademoiselle,” I hear spoken behind me. I turn and look into the eyes of the prisoner who has spoken. Plainly, he senses in me someone of sympathy. “Aidez moi, s’il vous plait . . . Donnez moi la mort d’un soldat.”
“What does he say?” asks Montoya.
“He asks for a soldier’s death. It is his right, Pablo.”
“He shall not have it. He leads a cowardly ambush and four of ours lie dead!” snarls Pilar. “No! When the bridge goes, so goes he. Rafael! Go light the fuse! Andres! When you hear the blast, you will light his funeral pyre.”
Rafael takes a burning stick from the fire and runs off. Andres, numb with grief over the death of his brother, takes up another ember and goes to stand in front of the prisoner.
The French lieutenant is in pain from his wound, but that pain will be nothing compared to the slow agony of the flames. He looks at me with terror in his eyes, pleading...
I set my jaw. No! I will not witness this.
There is a tremendous blast from the direction of the bridge.
I have two pistols in my belt, one of which is still loaded. I pull it out and aim the barrel at the young soldier’s heart. My finger tightens on the trigger... and I give him the release he seeks...
I give him the gift of death.
The pistol bucks in my hand, the bullet goes into his heart, and his body slumps in his bonds.
“There,” I say, sticking the spent pistol back in my belt and mounting my horse. “You may burn him now.”
“You should not have done that,” growls Pilar, and Montoya looms large and scowling behind her.
“I know that, Pilar,” I say, gathering up the reins. “But I did. I disobeyed your order and I know I must go. The ‘little wars’ of the guerrillas are too cruel for me. I lack your strength of purpose, I lack your resolve. Adiós.”
With that, I turn the horse’s head, put heels to her flanks, and pound out of the camp. I put my fist to my mouth and let the tears flow.
Four lie dead on the ground... five, now, with the French lieutenant.
What did it serve?
Nada.
What will be remembered?
Nada.
What does it all mean?
Nada.
PART IV
Chapter 43
I have been riding for five days now. I push westward toward the sea, but I’m growing weary. I must stick to the shadows because I have no protection other than my two pistols, and they will not provide much in that way should I be jumped by... whom? Anybody, that’s who. Anyone who takes a notion to do so. I have my resources, yes, but still I am a young girl alone. The sea is far away and I have very little money. There are great mountain ranges between me and the ocean, and then there are the mighty armies whose lines I must cross.
I am tired... and I am very, very hungry.
I mount a ridge and slide out of the saddle to give poor Gabriella a bit of a rest. I lean against her flanks as she munches on the sparse grasses that grow about—poor girl, I should be able to provide better for you, but I cannot, not now, anyway, but be strong, something will turn up—and I look down into the valley. As I gaze about, a yellow wagon pulls into my view, far below... then another one, painted red with gold trim... and yet another brightly adorned in blues and... finally, a long line of them. They seem to be pulling into a circle.
Gypsies!
I drag my seabag from Gabriella’s back—off with my pants and on with my black embroidered skirt. I already have on my white shirt and toreador jacket; that should serve. I cram my dark wig on my head and drape the black mantilla over that. Back on Gabby’s back, I give a gentle nudge with my heels and we head down to the gypsy camp.
As I approach, two men come out to meet me. They are young and darkly handsome and they are dressed very Majo—or very much like it—maybe even a little bit more in the way of sashes and headscarves.
“Pardon, Señorita, but we are not yet open to visitors,” announces the man to the left. The other one does not say anything but merely crosses his arms and looks sullen. “What do you want?”
“Well, Señor, what I want is to get to the sea, and perhaps you will take me there,” I say, flashing my brightest smile. “But right now I’ll settle for something to eat.”
“We are not open to outsiders,” answers the sullen one. “We do not provide transportation, and we are—”
“What you are is Roma,” I say, reaching into my shirtfront and pulling out the token Django had given me so I can dangle it in front of his face. “Perhaps this means something to you. At the very least, it should get me something to eat.”
They exchange glances. The surly one spins on his heel and walks off.
“Follow me,” says the other man.
“I will, if you tell me your name,” I say, standing my ground.
“My name is Jan. Come.”
I follow him through a space between two wagons and find a hive of activity. Food is being cooked over open fires, and tables are unfolded and set up, and merchandise—pots and pans, baskets, woven goods—are set upon them. The food smells very good, and my belly gives a low growl.
“Sit there,” says this Jan, pointing to an empty table. “Medca, bring her something to eat. I shall get Zoltan.”
He leaves as I sit down to wait. I am beginning to attract some attention. A group of small dark-eyed children gathers about me.
“Buenos días, muchachos,” I say, brightly. “Qué tal?”
They say nothing.
Hmmm . . . tough crowd, I see.
I reach in my pocket and pull out the three walnut shells and one bean that I always carry with me, and think of my great friend and teacher Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, who taught me the old shell game back on the Mississippi. “Sometimes the simplest games are the best, Miss Faber,” he would say. “Especially when dealing with simple people.”
“Come, niños,” I say, placing the half shells face-down on the table. “Play a game with me.” I hold up the bean and then place it under one of the shells.
After moving the shells quickly about in a circular fashion for a few moments, I challenge one of the kids. “Where is the bean, Señorita?”
The girl points at one of the shells. I lift it up. “Alas, no. It is over here,” I say, lifting another. She looks at the bean in wonder. “Try again.”
We do it again, and again she fails to find the bean. I nod to an older boy. “You try it now, muchacho.”
Again the shells whirl and then stop. The boy points at one of the shells with confidence.
I lift it up. He gasps in disbelief.
I am spinning the shells again when Jan returns with an older man who possesses the hugest pair of mustaschios I have ever seen. He is obviously Zoltan, the boss man.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he growls.
“My name is Jacquelina Bouvier, and I want to go to Lisbon.”
“We are not going to Lisbon. We are going to Granada, and we will not take you. You are not Roma.”
“No,” I say. “But I can be valuable to you. I can sing, I can dance the flamenco, play the guitar and fiddle... and do other things, as well. Do you see the bean?”
Startled, he looks down at the table. I turn over all the shells and place the bean under one of them and begin to make them dance. Then I stop.
“Pick the one with the bean, and I will go away. If you fail, you must take me with you.”
“It is under there. Now be off with—” He reaches out and turns over the middle shell to find nothing under it.
“It is here, Señor,” I say, turning over the right-hand shell to show the elusive bean. “Now, perhaps something to eat?”
He barks out a short laugh.
“So how is old Django?”
Chapter 44
And so I slip into the life of a gypsy, and I find it a style of living that is very appealing to my nature. We roll from village to village, sending out criers before us, calling out, Tinkers! Tinkers! Weavers and Tinkers! Bring us your broken pots and we will fix them! Come see our fine wares, our delicate fabrics, and spices we bring from the Orient! Come! Come! Music tonight! Magic shows! Jugglers! Come to the merry dance! Come have your fortune told! Come!
And come they do. Oh, yes, they do, although they hide their children from us as the wagons roll along. They shield the little ones’ eyes, thinking we might snatch them up and make them Romani, and then the little tykes would never return to the settled lives they once knew. Babies are hidden, thinking we might sneak up in the dark of night to spirit them away. We don’t do that sort of thing, of course. We’ve got kids enough of our own, for God’s sake—the little buggers are all over the place—but that is how legends grow.
I had met the girl Medca on my first day with the Roma—it was she who had first brought me food on Jan’s order. As I wolfed it down, I reflected that it did not take too much of my female intuition to sense that something was going on between Medca and Jan—hot glances, secret smiles, and all that.
Hmmm . . . let’s see how that plays out.
Soon after, Zoltan decreed that I should stay until such time that I be delivered to the sea, and it was decided that I should bunk with Medca and her three younger sisters in the wagon that followed Zoltan—they being his daughters and all.
I was not immediately tossed in there, oh, no. First I had to be checked out by the matriarch of the clan, Buba Nadya Vadoma, a wizened old woman, seemingly made of nothing but leather, bone, and piercing eyes. She came on me like a winged bat, full of suspicion. First she grasps my right hand and peers at the palm. “Hmmm . . . It appears you have already experienced many things in your life. How many seasons have you seen?”