The Nostradamus Prophecies (16 page)

‘Because we’ve met before? Is that what you are saying?’

‘Met before? No. I wasn’t…’

‘Alexi has told you I am hexi. This means I know things sometimes. Sense things. That happened with you. I instantly sensed that you meant the right thing by me. That you hadn’t killed Babel. I fought against it, but my instinct told me I was right. Alexi felt it too.’ She cast a surreptitious glance back towards the bed. ‘He’s not hexi, though. He’s just a stupid gypsy.’

Alexi made a rude sign at her but his heart wasn’t in it. He was watching her intently. Listening to her words.

‘We gypsies feel things stronger than payos and gadjes. We listen to the voices inside us. Sometimes it sends us wrong. Like it did with Babel. But most times it’s right.’

‘And where’s it sending you now?’

‘With you.’

‘Yola. This man is evil. Look what he did to you. To Babel. He would have killed Alexi, too, if we’d given him the time.’

‘You were going to leave without us. To sneak out at night. Like a thief. Weren’t you?’

‘Of course I wasn’t.’ Sabir could feel the lie reflected on his face. Even his mouth went loose in the telling of it, muffling his words.

‘Listen to me. You’re Babel’s phral. He exchanged his blood with you. Which means that we are related, all three of us, by blood as well as by law. So we’re going to this wedding. Together. We’re going to be happy and joyful and remind ourselves of what living on this earth really means. Then, when the morning after the wedding comes, you’ll stand in front of us and tell us whether you want us to go with you or not. I owe a duty to you now. You are my brother. The head of my family. If you tell me not to come, I shall obey. But you will scar my heart if you leave me behind. And Alexi loves you like a brother. He will weep and be sad to know you do not trust him.’

Alexi put on a mournful face, only half mitigated by the holes left by his missing teeth.

‘All right, Alexi. You don’t need to lay it on with a trowel.’ Sabir stood up. ‘Now that you’ve decided what it is we need to do, Yola, could you please tell me if there is anywhere to wash and shave around here?’

‘Come outside. I will show you.’

Sabir caught Yola’s warning look just as he was about to include Alexi in his intended exodus. Clutching the blanket about him like a Roman toga, he followed her out of the hut.

She stood, hands on her hips, looking out over the camp. ‘You see that man? The blond one who is watching us from the steps of the new caravan?’

‘Yes.’

‘He wants to kidnap me.’

‘Yola…’

‘His name is Gavril. He hates Alexi because Alexi’s father was a chief and gave a ruling against his family that resulted in an exile.’

‘An exile?’

‘That is when a person is banished from the tribe. Gavril is angry, also, that he is blond and an only child. People say that he was abducted from a gadje woman. That his mother couldn’t have children of her own and so her husband did this terrible thing. So he is doubly angry.’

‘And yet he wants to kidnap you?’

‘He is not really interested in me. He just pesters me to go behind the hedge with him because he knows it angers Alexi. I was hoping he would not be here. But he is. He will be happy that Alexi has been injured. Happy that he has lost some teeth and cannot afford to replace them.’

Sabir could feel the tectonic plates of his former certainties shifting and resettling themselves into a subtly different configuration. He was getting used to the feeling now. Almost liking it. ‘And what do you want me to do about him?’

‘I want you to watch out for Alexi. Stay with him. Don’t let him drink too much. In our weddings, men and women are separated, for the most part and I will not be able to protect him from himself. This man, Gavril, means badly by us. You are Alexi’s cousin. Once you’ve been introduced to the head man here and formally invited to the wedding, people will stop staring at you and you will be able to blend in more. No one will dare to denounce you. Now you stick out like an albino.’

‘Yola. Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why does everything have to be so damned complicated around you?’

Captain Bartolomeo Villada i Llucanes, of the Policia Local de Catalunya, offered Calque a Turkish cigarette from the amber cigarette box he kept in a specially carved indentation on his desk.

‘Do I look like a smoker?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re right. I am. But my doctor has warned me to give up.’

‘Does your doctor smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does your undertaker smoke?’

‘Probably.’

‘Well then.’

Calque took the cigarette, lit it and inhaled. ‘Why is it that something which kills you can also make you feel the most alive?’

Villada sighed. ‘It is what is called by the philosophers a paradox. When God made us, he decided that literalism would be the bane of the world. He therefore invented the paradox to counteract it.’

‘But how do we counteract the paradox?’

‘By taking it literally. See. You are smoking. And yet you understand the paradox of your position.’

Calque smiled. ‘Will you do as I ask, then? Will you take this risk with your men? I would fully understand if you decided against it.’

‘You really believe that Sabir will abandon his friends and come alone? And that the man you call the eye-man will follow him?’

‘They both need to know what is on the base of La Morenita. Just as I do. Can you arrange it?’

‘A visit to La Morenita will be arranged. In the interests of cross-border cooperation, needless to say.’ Villada gave an ironical inclination of the head. ‘As for the other thing…’ He tapped his lighter on the desk, swivelling it from back to front between his fingers. ‘I shall stake out the Sanctuary, as you suggest. For three nights only. The Virgen de Montserrat has much significance for Catalunya. My mother would never forgive me if I allowed her to be violated.’

Sabir didn’t feel entirely comfortable in his borrowed suit. The lapels were nearly a foot wide and the jacket fitted him like a morning coat – in fact, it made him look like Cab Calloway in Stormy Weather. The shirt, too, left something to be desired; he had never been fond of sunflowers and waterwheels, particularly in terms of creative design. The tie was of the fluorescent kipper variety and clashed abominably with his shirt, which itself clashed with the maroon stripes which some joker of a tailor had allowed to be interleaved throughout the suiting material. At least the shoes were his own.

‘You look fantastic. Like a gypsy. If you didn’t have that payo mug of yours, I’d want you for a brother.’

‘How do you keep a straight face when you say things like that, Alexi?’

‘My jaw is broken. That is how.’

Despite all Yola’s protestations to the contrary, Sabir still felt that he stuck out like an albino. Everyone was watching him. Wherever he went, whatever he did, gazes slid off him and then back on again as soon as his attention was diverted towards somewhere else. ‘Are you sure they’re not going to turn me in? I’m probably still appearing nightly on TV. There’s probably a reward.’

‘Everybody here knows of the Kriss. They know you are Yola’s phral. That the Bulibasha at Samois is your kirvo. If anyone denounced you, they would have to answer to him. They would be exiled. Like that arsehole Gavril’s uncle.’

Gavril was watching them from the periphery of the camp. When he saw that Alexi had noticed him, he raised one finger and plunged it inside a ring made out of the thumb and index finger of his other hand. Then he stuck it in his mouth and rolled his eyes.

‘A friend of yours?’

‘He’s after Yola. He wants to kill me.’

‘The two things don’t necessarily tally.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I mean if he kills you, Yola won’t marry him.’

‘Oh yes. She probably would. Women forget. After a while he’d convince her that he was in the right. She’d get hot in her stomach and let him kidnap her. She’s already old not to be married. What’s happening tonight is bad. She will see this wedding and start thinking even more unwell of me. Then Gavril will look better to her.’

‘She’s old not to be married because she’s keeping herself for you, Alexi. Or hadn’t you noticed that? Why the Hell don’t you just kidnap her and have done with it?’

‘Would you let me?’

Sabir aimed a playful slap at Alexi’s head. ‘Of course I’d let you. She’s obviously in love with you. Just as you are with her. That’s why you argue all the time.’

‘We argue because she wants to dominate me. She wants to wear the trousers. I don’t want a woman who nags me. Whenever I go away, she’ll get angry. And then she’ll punish me. Yola is hexi. She’ll put spells on me. This way, I’m free. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I can fuck payo women, just like she said.’

‘But what if someone else took her? Someone like Gavril?’

‘I’d kill him.’

Sabir groaned and turned his attention back to the bridal party, which was fast approaching the centre of the camp. ‘You’d better tell me what’s happening.’

‘But it’s just like any other wedding.’

‘I don’t think so, somehow.’

‘Well. Okay then. You see those two over there? That’s the father of the bride and the father of the groom. They will have to convince the Bulibasha that they have agreed on a bride-price. Then the gold must be handed over and counted. Then the Bulibasha will offer the couple bread and salt. He’ll tell them, “When the bread and salt no longer taste good to you, then you will no longer be husband and wife.’’ ’

‘What’s the old woman doing, waving the handkerchief?’

‘She is trying to convince the father of the groom that the bride is still a virgin.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Would I kid you, Adam? Virginity is very important here. Why do you think Yola is always going on about being a virgin? That makes her more valuable. You could sell her for a lot of gold if you could find a man willing to take her on.’

‘Like Gavril?’

‘His cellar is empty.’

Sabir realised that he would get no further along that route. ‘So why the handkerchief?’

‘It’s called a mocador. A panuelo, sometimes. That old woman you see holding it – well, she’s checked with her finger that the bride is really a virgin. Then she stains the mocador in three places with blood from the girl. After that has been done, the Bulibasha pours rakia on the handkerchief. This will move the blood into the shape of a flower. Only virgin’s blood will do this thing – pig’s blood wouldn’t behave in that way. Now look. She’s tying the handkerchief on a stick. This means that the father of the groom has accepted that the girl is a virgin. Now the old woman will carry the stick around the camp so that everyone else can see that Lemma has not had her eyes closed by another man.’

‘What’s the bridegroom called?’

‘Radu. He’s my cousin.’

‘Who isn’t?’

Sabir caught sight of Yola on the other side of the square. He waved a hand at her, but she lowered her head and ignored him. He idly wondered what new faux pas he’d just committed.

Over by the wedding party, the Bulibasha raised a vase and brought it down with all his force on the bridegroom’s head. The vase splintered into a thousand pieces. There was a communal gasp from the assembled crowd.

‘What the Hell was all that about?’

‘The more pieces the vase breaks into, the happier the couple will be. This couple will be very happy.’

‘Are they married now?’

‘Not yet. First the bride has to eat something made with herbs taken from above a grave. Then she must have her hands painted with henna – the longer the henna stays on, the longer her husband will love her. Then she must carry a child over the threshold of her caravan, for if she doesn’t produce a child within a year, Radu can throw her out.’

‘Oh, that’s great. That’s very enlightened.’

‘It doesn’t often happen, Adam. Only when the couple fight. Then it is a good excuse for both parties to end an unhappy state.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘No. In a few minutes, we will carry the bride and groom around the camp on our shoulders. The women will sing the traditional yeli yeli wedding song. Then the bride will go and change into her other costume. Then we will all dance.’

‘You can dance with Yola, then.’

‘Oh no. Men dance with men and women with women. There’s no mixing.’

‘You don’t say. You know something, Alexi? Nothing about you people surprises me anymore. I just figure out what I expect to happen, turn it around on its head and then I know I’ve got it right.’

It had taken Achor Bale three hours to foot-slog his way over the hills behind the Montserrat Sanctuary and he was starting to wonder whether he wasn’t taking caution to ridiculous extremes.

Nobody knew his car. Nobody was following him. Nobody was waiting for him. The chances of a French policeman making a connection between the Rocamadour murder and the death of the gypsy in Paris were thin in the extreme. And then to extrapolate from there to Montserrat? Still, something was niggling at him.

He had turned on the tracker twenty miles from Manresa, but he had known that the chances of picking up Sabir were pretty slim. Frankly, he didn’t much care if he never encountered the man again. Bale was not one to harbour grudges. If he made an error, he rectified it – it was as simple as that. Back at Rocamadour he had made an error in not giving the Sanctuary the once over. He had underestimated Sabir and the gypsy and he had paid the price – or rather the new watchman had paid the price.

This time he would not be so cavalier. Barring the train, which was too limiting, there was only one effective way into Montserrat, which was by road. Having left his car suitably concealed on the far side of the ridge, therefore, he would come in over the mountains, on the understanding that if the police had, by some miracle, been forewarned of his arrival, they would be monitoring the two obvious incoming routes and not those people exiting in the opposite direction by train, or hijacked vehicle, early in the morning.