The Gypsy King (24 page)

She was gone.

On the table next to her goblet was a pair of cream-colored slippers. Beside the slippers was 244

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nestled his thick gold ring, its luster and sheen glimmering in the mixed light of fading moon and rising sun. Raklo closed his eyes and felt the burning sting of hot tears singe his wise,

weathered face. He let them run for a few minutes then, as easily as wiping his face with the cuff of his muslin shirt, he dismissed any sadness he may have allowed himself for Veronique Champnaey.

He looked out through the clear windows in his wagon and watched night and day embrace. He smiled as the tops of the trees turned from black, to dark green, to pale lime, warmed by the sun. In his mind’s eye, he saw her smiling face as she spread her arms wide and embraced her first true love again. It didn’t bother him that she went back to her home in Lourmarin to be with Ahndray. He had met the man and knew they were perfect

together. Watching their lives play out will be very exciting, he told himself. He closed his eyes and sat for hours in his wagon, seeing Veronique and Ahndray travel, exploring each other and watching them grow old and have children and share their love together.

He took one last sip from her goblet and ran his fingers lovingly over her slippers, then over her thick, gold ring. He was already looking forward to when he would see her again.

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eaching inward and finding an inner-strength Rshe had not realized she possessed,

Veronique put her emotions in check and decided against quietly waking her closest friends—Diego, Isabella and the sensuous Nanosh. Visions of a tearful, heartfelt goodbye flashed through her mind. Sure, slipping into the wagons would be easy enough, many gypsies neglected to lock their doors in fear that a family member may be in trouble and need to surreptitiously find shelter from an angry land owner, horseman or even an irascible and dangerous, jealous husband.

Her friends would understand and welcome

being awakened with gentle, then perhaps more passionate, kisses before she lighted off back to her home. But she was anxious now, jittery and nervous knowing her life was changing again, another adventure was unfolding before her and she was having a difficult time thinking about anything other than getting back home—back

home to Ahndray.

Her friends would understand her leaving in 246

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the cover of early morning darkness, but the children would worry and wonder about her

absence from the
kumpania
. As she lit a candle and surveyed her stark, but unusually comfortable wagon, images of the children she had come to love felt like weights trying to sink her buoyant heart. Never in her life had she given much thought to having children of her own, but the tender pull of cherubic hands on her skirts and taking care of at least a dozen young, carefree urchins had a calming effect on her.

Countless nights were spent happily beside

smoky campfires, holding one or two and even three in and around her lap as she lulled them to sleep with the same musical rhymes her own

mother sang to her as a child. Many stayed awake until almost midnight and it amazed her at their animal-like energy. She was certainly never allowed to go to bed as late as these gypsy kids, but in that respect they were already more mature for their age than
gaje
children. They were years older than typical children because they were forced to grow up so quickly.

“No sense waking the children up either,” she told herself sullenly. Tears rolled down her ruddy cheeks while she hurriedly packed what few

things she valued into an old, purloined knapsack, gently closed the door to her wagon and slipped quietly out of the encampment under the fading cover of pale, milky moonlight.

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She knew instinctively which path to take and it was habit now to ignore the dirt and grass that stuck to her feet while she walked. The cool dew-damp field could not be ignored, its sharp chill was sending shivers through her feet and legs and, within minutes, she was trembling and taking short, quick breaths as she walked.

Her mind wandered back to the encampment

and she found herself floating carelessly around the campfires and the brightly painted wagons, then to the deliciously secret buffets of sexual adventures she had been exposed to with her
kumpania
. Raklo would surely explain what happened and why she left. She knew she would soon be a memory as wispy and faint as the blue-grey smoke of the nightly campfires. It was soothing to know that her gypsy family, her
kumpania
, would probably be leaving this area and moving on shortly anyway. She pulled her

headband tighter, cinched her knapsack closer to her hip and ambled further into the woods, then braced herself for a hot day of walking.

Within a few short hours, Veronique felt like her surroundings were becoming familiar, but it wasn’t until late morning when she felt sure she recognized an especially large, verdant green hill and several house-sized boulders strewn among rich clusters of pine and oak saplings. With her proper direction confirmed, it was only an hour until she found herself standing with her toes in 248

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the sand at the edge of the Chamois.

The footbridge hung dark and menacing, like the curved blade of a scythe. Even against the backdrop of a robin’s egg blue sky, seeing the bridge made her clench her entire body and her ankle began throbbing for the first time in weeks.

Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to start at the top of the bridge, then drop her gaze, slowly, down past the horizon of river and forest, down, through the canopy of trees and branches, until finally her gaze stopped at the sparkling river ambling its way through the countryside.

Her gaze darted back up to the bridge. She

imagined her body falling down through that gap and a wave of nausea rolled through her, making her physically shake and jerk. “Tears of pity are now replaced with tears of gratefulness and remorse,” she smiled.

Although she wanted, and needed, to climb

that treacherous path one more time and look down over the river and reaffirm how far she had come in the last few months, she was too tired and took solace instead by standing quietly, letting her toes sink into the grey and brown sand at the river’s edge. She squatted into a deep sitting position that was now comfortable and relaxing, and drank from the river. Being so close to home now it was hard to completely relax, but she took a few minutes to enjoy a quick gypsy bath, then she rested against a large cork oak, its branches 249

The Gypsy King

overrun with ashen-grey Spanish moss. Sleep came.

After several hours she awoke, frightened and disoriented, but quickly smiled as she

remembered where she was going and where she had been. An especially active woodpecker rattled the treetops. Warm afternoon winds blew over the Chamois, making it ripple and dance. Refreshed and confident, she picked herself up, looked up one last time at the bridge that now was bright and almost inviting in the midday sun, and made her way along the winding path back toward

home.

She walked with more urgency and was

becoming giddy with anticipation. As the daylight faded and the countryside began to darken, her knapsack slapped her hip softly and her feet padded the uneven ground as surely as a

mountain goat walks a familiar trail. The soles of her feet were calloused and rough now, one of the reasons she left her shoes with the Gypsy King.

She didn’t even like shoes anymore, they were too constricting.

There were other changes, too, and as she

walked, she hummed to herself an old lullaby her Mother used to sing to her and her sister. Every few minutes she stopped and picked a particularly beautiful wild flower or pinched off a nice sized nettle and chewed it eagerly, but with learned caution.

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She tore off a long shred of the smoked

hedgehog she had squandered and mixed it with the nettle, their sharp flavors taking her mind off the distance she still had to cover this afternoon.

The combination was salty and sinewy, and she could not wait to replace it with roast pork, duck and beef! Her mouth watered as she pictured mashed potatoes, wine and candles and wondered how she was going to explain herself to her family, her friends and Ahndray.
Ahndray
.

She reached up unconsciously and ran her

fingertip along the ragged thread of scar that ran from her ear to the bottom of her soft chin. “What is he going to think of me now?” She took an assessment of her condition and appearance, and her gaze dropped to the forest floor at the thought of his reaction. She stomped the ground forcefully and tried not to curse herself too strongly as she rifled through her imperfections.

“There is no way he is going to want me now,”

she said ruefully. “Let’s see. I have the feet of a troll, tough and calloused. What’s left of this…this dress…could be called a dishcloth. My hair is six inches shorter and it feels like waxed wheat.” She fingered her hair and momentarily and regretted having to cut it off.

“I have two gold pieces in my ears for earrings and I haven’t brushed my teeth with anything besides salt in months. I smoke cheroots and I can outride most men on a horse, saddle or no

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saddle.” Her mind wandered to more personal changes and a rush of excitement coursed through her body. “But I do have some new places that love to be touched, and I get turned on whenever a hair brush is in my hand!”

She giggled thinking about how she would tell Ahndray about her new experiences, and how she couldn’t wait to show him what she had learned about herself and her body. She stopped walking, put her hands on her hips and stared straight ahead.
I wonder how much Ahndray has changed. Is
he healthy again?

In her visions with the Gypsy King, all she saw was Dr. Atherton saving his life. What if there were other complications she did not or could not see? What if he was paralyzed, what if he found someone else, a nurse maybe, someone who was there to take care of him through the pain?
What if
he forgot about me? He thinks I’m dead. Everybody
thinks I’m dead.

She looked up at the sky, cinched her knapsack tighter to her body and pushed her headband farther back on her head. She rubbed the back of her hand haphazardly across the length of her scar, leaned forward and hurried her pace.

Finally, another hour and then two passed and she crested the last hill less than a mile from the main street in Lourmarin. Her eyes lit up with excitement as bright red, yellow and gold

explosions erupted above the town sky. Explosion 252

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after explosion lit up the night sky leaving trails of red, blue and bright white stars spitting, sizzling and bathing the town below in sharp, colorful light. The town looked more inviting than she remembered as the ridges of rooftops stood

silhouetted against the evening sky. Veronique squinted her eyes and concentrated hard, but could only guess at the month, much less the day.

It felt right though.

“Bastille Day!” She yelled. “It must be! Perfect!”

She couldn’t think of a better time to try to slip back into town and find out how much trouble she was in before surprising everybody she knew with the news that not only was she still alive, she had been living with gypsies for the last three months.

The words rang out in her head.
Gypsies
. But, like magic, memories of her entire experience with her
kumpania
flashed through her mind until the days blurred together, then more special moments crowded her thoughts and she smiled and

grinned. She learned more about herself in the last few months than in the last several years

combined! But how was she going to explain how she got there and why she stayed? Would they understand how scared she had been?

The thought of enduring her family’s questions made her head swim in confusion, but she steeled herself. Her need for Ahndray was overwhelming.

She was proud of the choices she had made and could apologize for her mistakes now.

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Her plan was simple. Find Ahndray, and they would both explain to the police what happened.

The annual celebration meant fireworks,

extravagant parties and overzealous nationality, which, especially in France, meant an unbelievable amount of drinking. She giggled at her good fortune. “What better time to come back unnoticed than the biggest night of the year?”

She thought back to the last several years and knew the Rodell’s would be in the town square generously pouring wine and champagne for

friends and neighbors and just about anybody who shopped at their store throughout the year.

Her family would be there, too, along with

neighbors on her street and hundreds of other townspeople she didn’t know—each celebrating freedom from tyranny. Everybody in Lourmarin would be out tonight and in the streets, drinking, singing and celebrating the storming of the Bastille prison.

“Our celebration of liberty and our fight against oppression for all French citizens!” She raised her fist and laughed at how she could still recall memorized lessons on the French Revolution.

“Viva le France!” She pumped a fist into the air and, by the time she got within shouting distance of the throngs of people partying in the streets, she was confident she could find Ahndray without anybody recognizing her.

Nobody noticed her ragged appearance, and

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the few policemen she saw seemed to be drinking and more careless than many of the people

dancing and celebrating in the streets. She kept her head down and walked with purpose until she finally stood across the street from the Rodell wine shop. The store was enjoying one of its busiest nights of the year as jubilant customers shuffled in, then bounded out proudly clutching bags of bread, cheese, bottles of wine, flowers, cigarettes, even candy.