A Time of Miracles (10 page)

WE
are now in Moldova, in the middle of a totally flat country. Our stomachs have been empty for two days.

We catch sight of a farm. I tiptoe and slip into the henhouse to steal some eggs. I find four of them and get out with my loot.

The farmer appears. He shouts in his language. I run as fast as I can toward the bush where Gloria is waiting for me. My pursuer has long legs and a pitchfork. He catches up with me. I slip. The eggs fall down and break.

The farmer shakes me, pricks me with the fork, but I don’t care. I only see the broken eggs, our poor dinner spread in the grass.

The man threatens to call the police. I don’t need to speak Moldovan to understand that.

I beg. I cry. I struggle as hard as I can.

Gloria comes out of hiding. She looks pale and seems shaky on her thinned legs. She approaches the farmer
and slaps his face in a way that he’ll remember until his dying day.

He is so surprised that he lets go of me.

Gloria shouts that it’s shameful to abuse a child like that, that he’d be better off hanging himself, old geezer!

I laugh when I see the Moldovan’s crestfallen face.

Quickly we leave through the meadows, our stomachs empty, but our dignity and freedom intact. The person who will stop Gloria Bohème, I think, has yet to be born.

WE
stop by the side of a stream and I harvest wild berries that haven’t yet ripened. It’s our only meal.

When night falls, we settle at the foot of a tree and I ask Gloria to tell me my story.

“Again?”

“Yes, again! With all the details!”

I rest my head against her chest. I can feel the bones of her rib cage under my cheek. She folds me into the lambskin blanket and sighs.

“It was the end of summer,” she begins. “I lived with old Vassili, my father, the one who gave me the samovar—”

“The one the Ukrainian thieves stole!” I burst out.

“Let’s forget about that, Koumaïl. At that time Vassili owned the most beautiful orchard in all of the Caucasus. Apple trees, pear trees … acres and acres covered with trees. On one side was a river; on the other, the railroad track.”

I lift my head and ask her if she knows what “Zemzem” means in Arabic. She seems surprised.

“Do you mean that you know?” she asks.

“ ‘Murmur of water,’ ” I say. “Fatima told me. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Gloria doesn’t say anything, and for a long time we listen to the stream that flows in the darkness. Stars appear between the tree branches. I have a bitter taste of wild berries in my mouth, and my thoughts wander.

“In my opinion, Zemzem has become someone very important,” I declare. “That’s why he talked on TV. Only important people are shown on TV, right?”

“I don’t know,” Gloria whispers. “I don’t know.…”

Her voice falters like a candle in a draft. It’s obvious that tonight Gloria doesn’t have the energy to tell me my story. I close my eyes. In order to be less afraid of the darkness and the unknown, I call on my ghosts: Vassili and his huge mustache; Fotia and Oleg, with their athletic shoulders; Anatoly, who squints behind the thickness of his glasses; Iefrem, whose hair is curlier than a lamb’s; Dobromir, with his angelic smile; and Liuba, who sings with feeling. In my dreams they make a radiant family, a protective circle that surrounds me. They will always be with me wherever I go. Zemzem, too, shrouded in mystery and wearing his combat uniform.

I take Gloria’s hand and try to sleep, even though my stomach aches because of the unripe wild berries.

WHEN
we reach Romania, Gloria has totally lost her stoutness. She has coughing fits that scare me stiff. No matter how often she tells me that she is as sturdy as the trees, I don’t believe her. But I don’t know how to say “
Iamsickandineedadoctor
” in Romanian. Besides, we have no money left for medicine.

So while she rests on a bench, I decide to go to work as we did at Kopeckochka. I go to an open market and sit on the ground in the square. I extend my hand.

Even before I get a first coin, a group of children surround me. We don’t speak the same language, but insults need no translation. They tell me to scram, that this isn’t my turf. One of them—the leader of the gang—wears a hoop earring and bracelets. He shoves me. When I straighten up, I think of Emil and Abdelmalik: “If you don’t fight, you’re dead!” Quickly I get to my feet and swing from one foot to the other, fists raised to the level of my face.
Whoosh!
A blow in the air. And
thwack!
A kick! I move and dodge.
And I send an unstoppable uppercut into Hoop Earring’s face.

The circle widens. Hoop Earring is on the ground. His nose is bleeding, and I’m sure that he’s going to make me pay for that. I get ready to take on whatever comes next, but instead of rushing at me, Hoop Earring starts to laugh.

He laughs so hard as he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his sweater that the others start to imitate him. I don’t get it. And then Hoop Earring gives me a thumbs-up—which means “bravo”—and asks me my name.

“Koumaïl,” I say, still wary.

Hoop Earring motions for me to follow him, but I point toward Gloria, who has fallen asleep on the bench.

“Mama?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

I nod.

Hoop Earring pauses, then smiles. With his hands he gestures as if he’s eating and says, “OK!” It seems that I have a new friend, and I rush to wake up Gloria.

This is how we arrive at the Gypsy camp.

THE
Gypsy camp is a large gathering of caravans set in the curve of a river, not far from a concrete factory that reminds me of the one at Souma-Soula. There are dogs, pigs, chickens, dented cars, tangled-up electrical wires, and laundry drying on lines between the trees. Kids are running around, and women are chatting as they braid baskets. It’s clear that people here know how to deal with the hazards of life.

The patriarch of the camp is named Babik. He is a wise man, with a black hat and tattoos on his arms. He has traveled a lot since he was born and speaks every language in the world, better than an encyclopedia.

He invites us into his caravan with Hoop Earring, and we sit on a bench. For a while Babik watches us without saying a word. He screws up his eyes, especially when Gloria coughs, and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Just to do something, I show him our passports. That makes him laugh.

“Passports are good for administrations! Put them away!” he says. “I’m only interested in hearing your soul.”

“Hearing my soul?”

“Precisely.”

“But … how?”

Babik folds his tattooed arms. “Can you sing?” he asks.

Pitifully, I shake my head.

“Can you play music?”

I tell him about Fatima’s violin lessons and my sad
squeak-squeak
that irritates the ears.

“Well …,” Babik sighs. “Can you tell stories?”

I smile. “Yes, that I can do!”

“Fine, I’m listening,” he says.

With a patriarch like Babik, it’s useless to lie. So I tell the truth about me, about Gloria, Jeanne Fortune, and the train accident. I tell him about the militia, the bell under the canopy, Abdelmalik’s death, the war, the poisoned waters of the lake, the glass dust that lines the lungs deep down; I talk about each of the stopping places of our journey, from the Psezkaya River up to the village square where I hit Hoop Earring on the nose, and also about each person that I’ve met, loved, and lost. The list is long, and my story lasts a good while, but Babik doesn’t interrupt me even once.

“Your soul is beautiful, Koumaïl,” he says when I finish. “It is brave and as refreshing as dew. But Gloria’s is fragile and worn out. She needs to rest.”

He turns to Hoop Earring and gives him instructions in Gypsy dialect. Then he looks at me and adds, “You will both sleep in Nouka’s caravan. You’ll remain under my protection for as long as necessary.”

Gloria is too tired even to smile, but I can feel that she is relieved. I thank Babik a million times, and Hoop Earring
takes us to Nouka’s caravan, at the back of the camp, under a weeping willow.

Nouka is a small woman, neither old nor young, with red hair sticking out of a scarf. She installs Gloria on a worn velvet sofa covered with cat hair.

Nouka’s hands are decorated with painted swirls. She speaks Russian as well as Babik does. She was his wife in the past, but not anymore. She is nobody’s wife now because she is free.

Nouka also speaks the language of trees, clouds, insects, and earth. Nothing is foreign to her. Not even the secrets that are haunting our minds. I don’t have to explain anything about Gloria’s soul. She puts her hands on Gloria’s forehead, on her throat, and on her chest.

After a while she tells us, “Get out, children. I must take care of this woman.”

In my life I have been lucky several times. It’s particularly true on that day, in Nouka’s caravan under the willow. Because if I hadn’t learned to box with Abdelmalik, I wouldn’t have punched Hoop Earring’s nose, and we wouldn’t have met Nouka, and I’m certain that Gloria would have died.

And if Gloria had died, the truth is that I would have let myself die by her side.

IN
the Gypsy camp life is a lot like it was in the Complex. There are drafts, we make heat with whatever is at hand, women do the laundry in large vats, we’re wary of the police and of the river cresting. But more than anything, I can play like a child again.

My best friend is Hoop Earring, but there is also Angelo, Titi, Sara, Panch, and Nanosh. Thanks to them, I learn how to fish, to set rabbit traps, to dance, to sing, and to speak Romany. I discover the best places to beg and how to climb the factory wall to lift cement bags, which we give to Babik for the needs of the community.

At night the men make a huge fire. They take their accordions, their guitars, their violins, and they play for hours, like shadows in front of the flames. I listen to them, seated on the ground, as still as a stone. This music makes me wish I could live and die at the same time. Like
the hook of a fishing rod, it pulls my heart out of my chest.

“Are you crying?” Hoop Earring asks me.

“No, of course not!” I say as I wipe my tears.

At night in Nouka’s caravan, everything is quiet. I sleep in a small corner with the old cat, who shares his fleas with me. During that time Gloria lies on the velvet sofa and fights against illness.

Nouka knows remedies for Gloria’s illness. She gathers plants in the woods that she boils in a pot; the smell reminds me of the time when Suki and Maya were taking care of me. If I recovered, Gloria can too, I believe.

“Rest your soul,” I tell her. “Get stronger! Don’t worry about me. I’m happy here. Babik is a good patriarch.”

She smiles with her eyes.

She can hardly talk.

Sometimes she grabs me by the hand and hugs me.

SUMMER
comes. I bathe in the river, and Hoop Earring teaches me to dive. We splash the girls; they scream like a flock of frightened birds. I swim underwater until I grow short of oxygen.

I am not afraid to die.

Sometimes Hoop Earring tells me to shush and we tiptoe up to the reeds, above the flat rocks where the girls lie down to sunbathe. We stay there, hidden, like hunters, and when we are lucky, one of the girls removes the top of her swimsuit.

When we go back to the caravans, I feel strange and Hoop Earring doesn’t say a word.

One day in August a child is born in the community, and it’s a very moving moment for all of us. In total silence Nouka approaches the cradle where the baby is sleeping. She looks at the palm of his minuscule hand. Then, in a strong voice, she makes a prediction.

“The future is beautiful!” she says. “This child will live one hundred years!”

Shouts of joy burst out, and we dance until dawn to celebrate the event.

The next day I ask Nouka to look at Gloria’s palm. Nouka bends down, studies Gloria’s hand, and whispers something in Gloria’s ear.

I stay seated against the sofa, my heart beating madly, waiting for Nouka to leave. I want to know what the future holds.

“So what did Nouka say?”

Gloria strokes my hair. “The future is beautiful, Koumaïl. She says that I’ll live as long as necessary.”

“Until you’re one hundred years old?”

“Until as long as you need me.”

Relieved, I smile. “I’ll always need you!” I say.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria whispers.

She blows me a kiss and tells me to go and play. I run off to meet Hoop Earring at the river. The future really is beautiful! My childish optimism erects a wall between me and any anxiety.

But one day summer comes to an end.

FALL
has arrived. The frost freezes the puddles between the caravans’ wheels, and the laundry is taken inside. Soon snow will come.

Gloria is better, her strength is back, and the dog no longer barks in her chest. Nouka doesn’t need to gather any more plants.

“Gloria’s soul is still weak, but you can keep on going now,” she assures us.

In the camp everyone is getting ready to go. Gypsies never stay too long in one place. They roam the globe, following the sun and their lucky star. It is their destiny.

“Due south!” Hoop Earring says as he puts aside his fishing gear. He sighs.

I sigh too. South means that we have to go our separate ways and that we will have to be strong to overcome the challenges that lie ahead.

Hoop Earring takes me one last time to the fields to gather the rabbit traps. We collect them one by one. We
discover a young weasel that got caught in the last one. She died of exhaustion.

Hoop Earring loosens the trap.

“Be careful, Koumaïl, my brother,” he says. “Over there in the west there are many human traps. If you get caught, they lock you in a cage and you die. Just like this.”

He places the weasel’s body on a bed of grass. We remain silent, standing shoulder to shoulder.

The day we leave, I remove Oleg’s violin from the gear and go to see Babik.