I look over and, yes, there is one short floorboard that seems set apart from the others, lacking dust and dirt in the grooves that surround it. I am amazed.
“But how did you know?”
“With the women, it is always a floorboard.” She chuckles. “And did you see that Magda glance over at the hiding place before they left? Ha! They always do that, stupid things, to see if all is secure, which it never is, but never mind, girl. Time for you to work.”
We go into the bedroom and look about. It has the same heavy open rafter and plaster ceiling as the rest of the house.
“Start at that side,” orders Buba, pointing. “And tell me why I say that.”
I put the chair there and climb up on it and look down. I see nothing but the bed and a chest at the bottom for blankets, sheets, and such. We don’t even bother looking through that, for we would find nothing there. Even a gadzso like me could figure that out. Then I get it. I nod to the bed.
“He slept on this side,” I say. “It is lower there, because of his weight. And he would like to be close to his money.”
“Very good, Ja-elle,” she says. “Now start looking.”
Standing on the chair, I begin running my hands over the top of the wall upon which rests the ends of the rafters. There is a flat area between them, and each of the spaces seems to be full of nothing but dust.
I shake my head at Buba and get down and move the chair and try the next space. Still nothing.
“Let your fingers be nimble, Ja-elle, let them search where you cannot see.”
I move the chair two more times until...
“Buba! I feel something!”
“What is it?”
I feel an edge of something—possibly only a splinter in the wood—but, no... it is a groove.
“Maybe,” I say, digging my fingernails into the slit. When they are deep into it, I give a pull and am rewarded with a small board, which I toss down on the bed.
“Ha!” says Buba, expectant.
Hoping there is no mousetrap nor poisoned barbs set to end my explorations, and possibly my life, I plunge my hand into the open hole and feel something... what?... slippery?
I grasp whatever it is and look upon it. It is an oilskin packet. I shake it and it clinks. It is sealed with red candle wax. I smile and hand it down to the eager Buba Nadya.
She takes it and laughs. “Ha, Ja-elle, perhaps there is some Romani blood in your veins after all!” She goes back into the kitchen. “Replace the hidey-hole board and bring the chair back in here,” she says as she goes.
When I get back in the front room, the package lies upon the table, and Buba stands triumphant next to it.
“You may call them back in,” she says, and waits as I go to do so.
I poke my head out the door and say to the waiting sisters, “Please, Señoras, we have found it.”
The widow and her sister waste no time in getting back into their cottage. Brunilda gasps as she sees the packet on the table.
“Gracias a Dios!” she exults, as she dives for it. In an instant she has torn it open and the golden coins spill out onto the table top. “Dios!”
“It seems your man was a successful farmer,” observes Nadja Vadoma. “I am pleased at your good fortune. Now, if you will give us the quarter share we have earned, we will be on our way.”
The sister Magda looks at the pile with much greed in her eye.
“No!” she shouts. “A quarter share is too much for such as these gitanas asquerosas! We would have found it, anyway. Here! You! Take this and go away!”
She picks up one of the thin silver pieces and thrusts it at Buba.
“Take it!” she snarls. “If you do not go, I will call la policía and say that dirty gypsies came to rob us poor widows of what little we have! Go!”
I look to Buba Nadya with a questioning look in my eye and a gesture toward the shiv up my sleeve, but she shakes her head and instead snatches the meager coin and throws it on the floor.
“We made a bargain,” she whispers. “And you did not keep your word.” With that she makes some strange movements with her hands, hands which end up trembling and pointing at the forehead of Magda.
“Enjoy your riches, gadzso,” she says. “For you will be dead and rotting in your grave within the month. Come, child, let us leave this house of shame.”
Buba leads me back out into the light and we head back to camp. I, for one, am miffed.
“I hope that was a good Romani curse you laid on that crone’s ugly head, Nadya Vadoma!” I say, with a certain amount of heat in my voice.
She sighs.
“Yes, I did, Ja-elle,” says Buba. “Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it does not, but at least that hag will worry about it to the end of her miserable days.”
“Well,” I say. “That is a comfort. But still a waste of your time, Buba.”
“Not so, little one,” she says, reaching into her pocket and hauling out three large gold coins and handing one to me. “You see, we have prospered after all, in spite of their greed.”
I am astounded.
“But I saw the sealed packet. How did you... ?”
“The stove was hot. I took out the coins—our fair share and nothing more—for I knew that they would try to cheat us. And then I just took it to the stove, held the seal against it till it melted again, and then returned it to the table as you came in. See, little Mountain Goat, see?”
I laugh long and loud and hug the old witch to me.
“Go, Ja-elle,” she says. “Find one of our young men to escort you, and go into Valencia and spend your coin, for you have earned it. Go!”
Later, on the arm of the handsome Marko, I go joyously into the city. We marvel at its splendor and poke our heads in shops. I buy some things, and my good Marko puts up with my ramblings and squeals of delight. I purchase watercolors and paper and brushes... and, oh, yes, a new deck of Tarot cards.
When I am done, we go arm in arm to a nice cantina to eat and drink, and we have a marvelous time. We do not draw undue attention, other than being young and beautiful. He is not any more swarthy than many of the Majos in the cafés, and I, wearing my black wig and mantilla, fit right in. Hey, I pass just fine for a fiery Maja. Olé!
A good day, all around, I say, as we wend our way, arm in arm, back to our people.
Chapter 48
Mister Chueng Tong, Envoy
House of Chen
Onboard the Vessel Mary Bissell
Off Cape of Good Hope
South Africa
Jacky Faber
Or Most Recent Alias
Location, I Cannot Even Begin to Guess...
Dear Jacky,
We are off Cape Town, South Africa, and it is Captain van Pelt’s intent to go into that port to take on water and supplies.
I am finding the company of Reverend Lowe and his family very convivial. He is learned and well mannered, his wife is lovely, and his daughters charming. The boy, Jeremiah, has attached himself to me, thinking me to be some sort of impossibly romantic figure. He is young but enthusiastic and full of questions, and I enjoy his company.
One whose company I do not enjoy is that of Mr. Skelton. He is intemperate in his habits, drinks too much, and grows more boisterous by the day. I bear his insults, recalling the teachings of Master Kwai Chang—“They are only words, Chueng Tong, little black birds borne away by the slightest breeze. Pay them no mind.”
Still, I must grit my teeth to keep my temper down.
Today things have come to a head on the Mary Bissell.
As the land of Africa looms on our starboard beam, I stand at the rail looking out with young Jeremiah. The Reverend Lowe is also on deck, with his family, enjoying the beautiful day and the fine breeze. Captain van Pelt is on his quarterdeck looking up at his sails, which are perfectly trimmed, I will give him that, simple merchant sailor though he be.
The joy of the afternoon is destroyed when Mr. Skelton comes on deck, a bit red in the face from what I am sure is what he considers his “noon cup.”
“Well, isn’t this a fine group of Christians... and one heathen,” he says, opening his arms to us. He makes a circle of the deck, humming some sort of off-key tune, and then he goes to the rail between the girls Florence and Abigail. He brings his face very close to that of Abigail and says, “Hello, little church mouse, what say we take a bit of a turn about the deck, and maybe below decks, too. Hmmm?”
“Mr. Skelton!” cries Reverend Lowe. “This is an outrage! She is but a child!”
He goes to get between the man and his Abigail, but Skelton thrusts him aside. “She don’t look like a child to me, Preacher. No, she don’t. A man can’t expect to keep his daughters by him forever, ’specially a man like you.”
With that, he places his hand on the girl’s shoulder. She is ashen.
“So what do you say, my pretty little miss?”
Those are the last words he says to her. He is suddenly startled to find my Bo staff pressed against his neck.
“What! You dare to confront me!”
“Do not touch the girl, Sir,” I say evenly. “Do not touch any of this family ever again. Do you understand?”
“Understand?” he shouts. “Understand this, Chinaman!” and he pulls the sword that habitually hangs by his side.
He gets it halfway out as I turn about and go into the Attack of the Angry Butterfly, whirling my staff before me and finally bringing it down forcefully on the back of his sword hand. He cries out and his weapon falls to the deck.
I glide back into the Waiting Dragon stance and wait, knees bent in lunge position, staff on shoulder. “It is enough, Long Boy,” I hear Kwai Chang say. “Let anger not rule you...”
It is not yet enough, Master, I am sorry.
“Damn you to hell, you heathen bastard! Let’s see how you handle this!” He reaches in his vest and pulls out a small pistol and aims it at my chest.
I glide from the Waiting Dragon and go into the Kick of the Drowsy Lion, whirl, strike, and the pistol hits the deck next to the fallen sword, and then bounces over the side.
Skelton holds his bruised hand and howls.
Jeremiah looks up at me and says, “Wow!”
Reverend Lowe gives me a look of thanks and hustles his female brood below.
Mr. Skelton, though thoroughly humiliated, is not yet done.
“You yella bastard,” he snarls, plainly sinking back into his vernacular. “I challenge you! To a duel! With pistols! Like men! At dawn!”
I bow to him and say, “I believe it is your custom that I, as the challenged one, get to choose the weapons. However, I will agree to your request that it be... what?... pistols? Like that thing that just went over the side? Very well. I will meet you.”
“Ain’t nobody meetin’ nobody tomorrow morning,” says Captain van Pelt from his quarterdeck, having observed all that has happened below him. “You can settle this ’twixt the two of ye after we sail out o’ Cape Town. We’ll be there in the mornin’, and I don’t need no Court o’ Inquiry as to some dead man lying on my ship with a bullet in him. No, sirs! Iffen you want to blow each other’s brains out, you’ll do it when we’re a day outta Cape Town. Then we’ll be able to throw the carcass o’ the dead one over the side, no questions asked. I have spoken!”