American Gypsy (38 page)

I remember that on the morning after the concert, the ensemble members gathered in scattered groups in the hotel's crumbling courtyard. The bus that would take us to the nearby village for the day's performance waited at the sidewalk. Its faded yellow paint and wide but uncomfortable seats gave an impression of a public bus well on its way to retirement. No surprise there. Not many Soviet artists traveled in style back then.

As I came out of the hotel lobby and headed for the ancient clunker, I felt a nervous kind of energy among the performers. I should've been used to that, since this group's comings and goings resembled a long-running soap opera. I found my mother smoking Cosmos by a white marble fountain of a sputtering merman. Aunt Laura gave me a tight smile as I joined them.

“Gone? Are you sure?” My mother's face registered worry. She glanced back toward the hotel doors.

“Tosi's drunk. You know that's never a good sign,” Aunt Laura said, leaning closer with a conspiratorial pursing of lips. “Lenka said she saw Rubina and Pavel talking backstage last night.”

“Talking is no crime.”

“But the rumors.”

“Mom, what happened?” I said.

“We're leaving in a few, Oksanochka. You better go find a seat.”

As I started toward the bus, I heard a loud shriek and turned around to see Tosi storming out of the hotel lobby and down its uneven stairs. In one hand he gripped an ax.

Mom pressed me closer to her, hands on my shoulders. “My God, how can this be happening. Who gave him an ax?”

“Probably swiped it from the custodian's closet,” Aunt Laura said.

Four men followed behind Tosi as he made for a lonely cluster of taxis at the far end of the parking lot. Like an ocean tide, the rest of us rushed after.

“They're gonna get arrested,” someone exclaimed.

I fought my way to the front of the crowd gathering around the taxis, just as my grandfather's voice thundered above our heads. “We have a concert tonight. You're not going anywhere.”

Tosi's pupils swayed before settling on my grandfather. “That son of a whore stole my wife.”

“We'll deal with this after the concert.”

“You think I give a fuck about your concerts?” Tosi said, spittle flying from his lips. “What am I supposed to do, wait until all of Russia knows I've been cuckolded?”

Nobody spoke. Confrontations with the leader were a rare occurrence. The fact that Grandpa stood well over six feet intimidated others enough to think before arguing with the man. But Tosi, who in different circumstances never would have crossed his boss, glared at the older man with a stubborn mix of desperation and principle. “Fire me if you want, but I'm going after them.”

My grandfather studied Tosi with a frown that could split an oak.

Ivan, the accordionist, stepped out of the crowd. “Andrei Vasilyevich,” he said respectfully to their leader, “I know where they've gone. Pavel's cousin has a house only two hours from here. Let me go with him. We'll be back in time, I promise.”

My grandfather raised a hand against an onslaught of incoherent protests. “Quiet! This is not a free show for the
gadjen
,” he said. A mute congregation of passersby watched while pretending not to. “All right. You.” Grandpa pointed at Ivan. “Make sure you get back to the theater no later than six, and for God's sake, take that ax away from him.”

“Got it,” Ivan said.

“And don't let him drink any more.”

Ivan shoved Tosi into the taxi, but the man refused to give up his weapon. “He'll sober up on the way. Everything will be fine.”

“Leonid and Stepan will go with you. No fighting. I'm not bailing anyone out of jail.”

Once the taxi disappeared around the corner, everyone piled into the bus. Subdued Roma make for a troubling sight. The theater was about an hour's drive down unpaved roads, and we bounced all the way there. It was a wonder people could actually perform after the miserable experience of that bruising ride, but then again, most of us were used to these conditions. Someone usually found something to complain about, even if only to break the monotony of riding through the bullion-colored fields of wheat stalks shimmying hypnotically in the wind. But not this time.

As was customary, most people were onstage doing one final run-through before the show. Only the kids and a few of those who had finished rehearsing were backstage when the men barged in through the back door.

Tosi dragged his wife by her hair down the dark hallway between the dressing rooms. Shrieking, she fought to steady herself, her fingers clawing at his hand. I was shocked to see that all her beautiful hair was now gone, chopped off into a disheveled mass of uneven clumps. A Romani woman's hair was her pride, her greatest asset. If cut short, it was like the letter “A”: a telltale sign of adultery.

Splatters of blood stained Tosi's white shirt. He still had the ax, and Pavel was nowhere to be seen. The men followed behind with somber expressions.

Fear-stricken, I pressed myself against the wall in order to let the group pass. Given the ragged state they were in, my mind immediately painted a picture with Pavel's decapitated body as its focal point, and I made a quick sign of the cross, forcing the image out.

I was about to take off in search of my parents when Aunt Laura rushed by me. “What did you do?” she asked Tosi. In the gloom of backstage lights, her face lacked its normal healthy glow. “Where's Pavel?
Devlo
. Did you kill him, you idiot?”

Ivan tried to get Tosi to loosen his grip, but failed. “Pavel's fine. A few missing teeth and a face not so pretty anymore. But he's fine.” He tugged on the ax. “All right,
chavo
. That's enough.”

“I'll decide when it's enough.” Tosi jerked and shoved his friend back. “You think I'm drunk?” His lips thinned in a challenge. “I know exactly what I'm doing.”

Down on the floor, Rubina sobbed. Between a wail and a cry, she whispered, “What have I done?”

“Shut up, witch,” he growled, but his voice came in a hush, drained of the rage I had heard earlier that day. “How could you betray me like this? How could you shame me? I'd do anything for you. Am I not enough that you have to fall for that shit-eating skirt chaser?”

“Please, Tosichka. My love. My golden. Please, forgive me.” Rubina's eyes pleaded. She wrapped her arms around her husband's legs. “Let's be happy like we used to be.”

“I should've killed the bastard.” Tosi tossed the ax to Ivan.

Ivan shook his head as he caught it. “Hospital food will finish him for you.”

With the ax gone, Tosi's face softened around the drawn lines of his mouth and eyes. He pulled Rubina to her feet. Tears ran down her flushed face in tracks of black mascara. He wiped at them with the sleeve of his shirt, silent, wide-eyed. He stroked her hair, burying his face in it. By now quite a few people were watching, but the couple might as well have been standing in the cosmos of that wheat field we'd passed on the way. As tension slipped out of the hallway, jokes bounced back and forth.

After the incident, Rubina and Tosi danced with the unbridled fire of newlyweds. After the well-deserved thrashing at Tosi's hand, Pavel never came back. Another dancer took his place. This one was bowlegged and married to a fierce Romani with a gap-toothed smile.

*   *   *

Now a sort of quiet intelligence filled Pavel; a peaceful tranquillity that made people respect him without him uttering a word. There was nothing left of Pavel the dancer, and I fancied I could see a window in his eyes that led straight to Godly wisdom.

He stayed in L.A. for more than a month and tried to convince Dad and Olga to give up the black craft. Not everything, just the heavier stuff. They might not make as much money playing weddings and reading palms, but at least they'd have their sanity.

Dad resisted, but Olga listened to her cousin intently, her chin propped up in her hand. And so did I.

“It's one thing to toss a card spread or to read a cup once in a while,” he said. “But when you engage in demonic communication, you endanger yourself. The control is an illusion.”

“He's right, Dad. Don't you feel it?” I said. “I can't even sleep in this house anymore.”

Dad fixed his eyes on me. “I made a mistake, I admit. I never should've let you sit in on Tanya's purging.”

“You did what?” Pavel crossed himself. “Are you daft, man? She's a child.”

“Well, nothing happened. Oksana wasn't ready. Next time—”

“There's no way I'm going through that again.” I hadn't expected to speak my mind in front of a guest, but his presence solidified my decision. I would not be learning the craft.

After that conversation Pavel woke up before sunrise and spent his mornings in prayer. The first few times I saw him, head bowed over hands, I thought it was part of his job, an early-morning ritual. But once, I heard him whisper Dad's name, all of our names, and I realized: he was praying for us.

 

WHERE I FINALLY SAY IT

Pavel returned at last to Ukraine, and to my astonishment Dad was contemplating the man's advice. He finally admitted that he might've gotten himself involved in things better left alone.

It was 1993, my senior year. Finals hovered. My father's question nagged at me. It was one thing to rebel against my family's ideals, but when it came down to it, what exactly did I plan on doing instead?

Strangely enough, it was Brandon who helped me answer that question.

Annie, Cruz, Alison, and I were shooting pool one evening on the back patio of Annie's house.

Brandon showed up wearing a long black dress with lacy trim at the sleeves and the hem. He carried a thick packet under one arm. “So, I've decided,” he said, flopping noisily into a lawn chair, then sat up and patted its neighbor, waiting for me to sit next to him.

“To join a convent?” Annie said.

“Bitch.” Brandon blew her a kiss and turned back to me. “You, missy, are going to college.” He handed me the packet as I sat down.

Dad once told me that when he tried to get into some big-name Moscow university, an admissions counselor told him that Gypsies were better off sticking to what they did best: making the music that Soviets loved so much. Although the man didn't mean to be insulting, my father never forgot it.

“I don't know,” I said. “Don't you have to pay like a gazillion dollars for college?”

“Not if you qualify for a Pell Grant,” Brandon singsonged.

Alison huffed. “Nice. The foreigners get free school. I was born here and I had to write a fucking essay to get a fucking scholarship.” She'd been sitting on the edge of the pool table, uncrossing her legs every time Cruz walked by.

Annie took a shot at a green ball, then straightened. “Don't listen to her. She's bitter because her parents are sending her to Oklahoma State instead of to her grandmother's in France.” The ball bounced off one side and came to a stop inches in front of the intended pocket. She stuck out her tongue at Cruz after he nudged the ball in.

“Do you have a major in mind?” Annie asked me.

“You.” Brandon snapped his fingers at Annie, shifting his legs under a sea of lacy hem. “Don't pressure her. We still have time.”

“Did you guys take that career assessment yet? I got arts,” Annie said.

“Me, too,” Brandon said. “Way to go, girl. I see a Vegas burlesque in our future.”

Alison began preening as Cruz came around the table corner to take another shot. “I got modeling,” she said.

“You liar. There's no modeling category in those tests.”

“Yes, there is, Brandon. I'll show it to you.”

“What about you, Cruz?” I asked.

“Oh, no. You guys leave me out of this.”

Once he said that, everyone wanted to know.

“Fine, but don't laugh. Biotechnology.”

Brandon pealed with laughter until his eyeliner ran and he started coughing. “Sorry, I'm sorry,” he said when Cruz gave him the finger. “It's just … I can't even pronounce that … without imagining you in one of those cute lab coats and goggles. Okay, okay, I'm stopping.” He cleared his throat and took a long drag from the joint Annie passed him. Exhaling slowly, he said, “Right now,” and then giggled again.

“Guys, I remembered something funny.” Alison jumped down from the table. “When I lived at Grandma's in Paris, we'd go to the local café in the mornings, and every time, a gang of street Gypsies would start begging us for money. Mostly kids. And they'd grope me with their grimy fingers. I'd wonder why their parents didn't make them bathe. But then Grandma told me they stayed dirty on purpose; that way an outsider couldn't identify them if they stole something.”

“Alison,” Cruz barked. He'd stopped playing, and his cheeks had splotches of red. Something akin to that, red and angry, was spreading inside of me, too.

She continued. “Grandma told me the Gypsies would put a curse on us if we didn't give them something. She also taught me a trick to ward off their curses.”

The roof of my mouth grew as ashy as a chimney.

“Every time you walk by a Gyp, you take two fingers and place them here.” She started to rub her fingers inside her inner thigh. “Like this.”

I jumped her, my breath snagging on flames. My fingers ripped at her silky hair, and when I wrapped my legs around her middle, we toppled over. Everything around me blurred. Only her face remained in focus, like a clear bright chip inside a kaleidoscope. I slapped at her, clumps of her hair tangling in my sweaty hands. I was screaming things in Russian, oblivious to everything else. Alison punched me in the mouth. Pain pricked against my skin. The others were shouting for us to stop. But the loudest noise was my own heartbeat, my own blood.

When Cruz tore me away from Alison, it was only a few moments into the fight, but I felt like we'd been at it for hours. His arms steadied me and my rage retreated.