Amanda's Guide to Love (6 page)

Kes nodded. “It gets hot enough in
there as it is with all the worshippers and their candles.”

“Exactly.” Django bent to plant a
kiss on his mother’s forehead and sat down next to her. “Go greet everyone else
and then stay with Uncle Gino and help him with the last preparations.”

“Yes, Tata.”

Kes kissed his grandmother’s hand
and sauntered out.

OK. He’d better get started. There
were so many people to pay his respects to that he’d compiled a list on his
phone and ticked the names off as he advanced from one caravan to the next. He
was lucky the families tended to stick together, or else he’d need a GPS to
locate his relations in the huge parking area.

Kes visited his clan every month
,
and yet the first day was always a challenge. In
the gadje world, he was an adult who made his own decisions, took full
responsibility for them, and answered to no one. But here, he was expected to
obey his elders and execute their orders without discussion. He resented it
with all his heart, even if he sometimes missed it out there in the gadje
world—a world where he was alone with no one to celebrate with when he
succeeded and no shoulder to cry on when he failed.

But tomorrow’s assignment wasn’t
the usual
,
petty kind. Tomorrow, he’d be in
charge of people’s safety, no less.

He prayed he wouldn’t
screw up.

* * *

The next day, Kes stood guard by
the entrance of the town’s medieval church as a group of men on white stallions
carried Sara la Kali’s doll-like statue out and raised her high above their
heads. His father was among them. Like the rest of the horsemen, he wore a
black hat and carried a lance.

Saint Sara was dressed in so many
layers of colorful robes that she almost disappeared under them. Only the top
of her dark-skinned face peeked through her frilly collars.

Kes couldn’t help but smile.
Staturewise, Sara la Kali was the opposite of Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the
Redeemer, in both literal and figurative senses.
The
Vatican
tolerated but didn’t officially recognize the Gypsies’ Black Madonna. Not that
anyone in Kes’s fervently Catholic community gave a hoot.

She was their patron saint, their
mother, and their protector. They flocked to this sleepy town in Camargue—a marshland
south of Arles known for its pink flamingos—for the privilege of seeing and
touching Sara la Kali.

The crowd chanted,
“
Vive Sainte Sara
!
”
as they followed the statue down to the sea.

Kes and his fellow “shepherds”
stayed on the fringes of the procession. They guided the masses, rounding up
those who went astray and watching the teens whose eyes were on the tourists’
backpacks instead of Saint Sara.

As the horsemen reached the beach,
they rode into the Mediterranean waters
,
holding the statue high. The crowd followed. Soon, the shallow coastal strip
and the beach were black with ecstatic worshippers. Most of them asked Saint
Sara for forgiveness or for help. Many thanked her for her kindness, and all
found comfort in their communion with her.

As a child, Kes
,
too
,
had prayed
and chanted all the way from the church to the sea. Then at sixteen, he stopped
voicing his feelings for Saint Sara. It was the age when he began cultivating
his devil-may-care persona who didn’t let anything too close to his heart. He
shocked his family by declaring that treating an inanimate object as if it had
a mind and godlike powers was irrational.

He never took those words back, no
matter how many head slaps his irreverence earned him.

And yet, every year on May 24, the urge
to talk to the Black Madonna overwhelmed him. Watching the little effigy float
into the sea compelled him to tell her his secrets and ask for advice.

Should I seek the gadji out
,
or should I try harder to forget her?

As if it
were
easy to forget that particular gadji.

It had been three weeks since the
memorable weekend with Amanda in Deauville. Having gone through her purse while
she showered, he knew her real name and her address. What he also knew—right
from the horse’s mouth—was that she didn’t wish to go out with him. And yet,
when he recalled how she looked at him, when he remembered the passion with
which she kissed him, he knew she wanted him.

He’d also gathered enough from her
social media accounts to know she wasn’t married or in a serious relationship.
What if her rejection boiled down to dumb prejudice? If he could break through
it, they’d have great fun together before he went off to Las Vegas in July.

He needed a sign, and Saint Sara
was famous for providing those.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

He stared at the statue then at the
sky. When he looked at Sara la Kali again, she didn’t move or even blink.

What did you expect, idiot?

An hour later, Saint Sara safely
reentered the church’s crypt, and the crowd broke into small groups that played
music and danced on every corner of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

Gitan men played their fiery
guitars, and women danced
flamenco puro
. Hungarian Roma fiddled
soul-wrenching tunes. But it was the crazy energy of the Balkan Gypsy brass
bands that drew the biggest audiences.

Kes was listening to trumpeters from
Serbia when a familiar female voice asked, “Hungry?”

He turned to face his elder sister.
“Starving.”

“Follow me.”

Rosanna led him to the improvised
table that was nothing more than boards and packing cases. On the table,
yummy-smelling pots and a delicious-looking assortment of Spanish sausages and
French cheeses were laid out.

Rosanna motioned to a folding
chair. “Sit.”

“Where are the others?” Kes asked.

“Some are cleaning up the church
;
others
,
talking
to the mayor. But I figured you’d faint if you went without food for another
hour.”

He laughed. “I can handle myself.
But since you’re offering so kindly . . .”

She put a paper plate and plastic
tableware in front of him.

He picked up the plate and gave her
a quizzical look.

Rosanna’s face contorted into a
grimace that was half pity and half apology. “The elders have decided you’re
too polluted to eat from the ceramic plates that the rest of the family uses.
I’m sorry, Kes, but you’re to eat from disposables.”

“What the hell?”

“You’ve lived among the gadje for
too long. You can’t be considered clean anymore.”

“Is that the real reason the others
aren’t here to eat with me?”

“No! Really—no.”

His stomach clenched. “So the
elders think I’m soiled. And I may be contagious, right?”

She smiled weakly.

“Do
you
think I’m
contagious?” he asked.

“No. Well . . . I
don’t know. The gadje don’t observe strict cleanliness rules, and you . . .
you spend too much time with them.”

“Rosanna.” He paused, frustration
pooling into a tight ball in his chest. “You’re thirty-five and the mother of
three. You went to school for ten years—on and off
,
but
still. You can’t seriously believe in this stuff.”

“She doesn’t,” a tattooed young man
said, sitting down next to him.

Marco, thank God.

Kes smiled, relieved to see his
first cousin, partner in childhood pranks
,
and
best friend. Marco was the only person in the clan who got him. Even though his
cousin’s own choices had always been more conformist than Kes’s—except maybe
the tattoos—Marco always took his side and defended him tooth and nail.

“You may not believe it”—Marco gave
him a wink—“but Rosanna’s recently made a gadji friend.”

Kes looked at his sister. “Is it
true?”

She shrugged. “Well, yes. But it’s
different. She’s a specialized nurse. She’s been coming over daily to help us
heal the baby, and we sort of . . . became chummy.”

Kes tilted his head to the side.
“And the Furies are OK with it?”

Rosanna looked around. “Please
don’t call the
Puri
Council that. They might overhear, and then we’ll
all be in trouble.”

“OK, OK.” Kes chuckled. “Let me
rephrase my question: Is the Senior Gossip Squad fine with you having a gadji
friend?”

“She’s very polite. She admires our
music and our culture.” Rosanna placed a ceramic plate and silverware in front
of Marco. “And she helped us make the baby stronger.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“He can hold his head
up
now, and his colic is gone. The Puri know it’s
thanks to Charlotte.” Rosanna smiled. “We’ll baptize him in a few weeks, and you’ll
finally be able to see your new nephew.”

“Good.” Kes winked at her. “I was
beginning to wonder if he was real.”

“It’s to protect him from evil
spirits, you idiot!” Rosanna’s heavy hand connected with the back of his head.

“Ouch. I hope you go easier on your
kids, woman.” Kes rubbed his nape and smiled. “I was just kidding with you.
Anyway, back to your
chum
. I can’t believe the Puri approve of your
friendship.”

“They’re totally OK with it.”

“They’re more than OK,” Marco said.
“They’re close to adopting her into the clan. I’ve heard them talk about
proclaiming her some sort of honorary
Gitane
.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Rosanna sat
down next to Kes and grabbed his hand. “Joseph will be back next week. You
should stay for his homecoming party.”

Her eyes were bright with the joy
of her husband’s imminent return from a seasonal job in neighboring Spain.

“He was gone for less than two
months,” Kes said. “What’s the big deal?”

“It’s the first time we’ve been
apart in fourteen years,” Rosanna said. “It’s been super hard for both of us
and the kids. So the next time those Spanish farmers want his help, it’s either
the whole family—or even better, the whole clan—or nada.”

Kes shook his head in wonder. “You
guys are still as taken with each other as when you eloped all those years
ago.”

“I guess.” Rosanna grinned. “I went
with my gut feeling at the time, even if Tata and Mama thought I deserved
‘better’ than Joseph.”

“Do you think I should do the
same?” Kes surprised himself
by
asking. “Go
with my gut feeling?”

“Is this about a girl?”

He nodded.

She grinned. “Absolutely, little
bro.”

Well, if Rosanna’s words weren’t a
sign from Saint Sara that he should pursue Amanda, then he didn’t know what
was. If this entire conversation wasn’t a message from the Black Madonna, then
she was no more than an oversize doll, and he
,
a
superstitious halfwit.

Which he was not.

Therefore, it was a
sign.

* * *

The woman
on
the other end of the phone interrupted Amanda’s well-practiced pitch. “Yes,
your CV is very impressive. We’ve studied it carefully.
”

“Then you must have noticed how I
rose through the ranks thanks to my hard work and skills.”

“We have, indeed.” She cleared her
throat. “The problem is you’re overqualified for this job.”

Of course she was. But she needed
to work—and good positions were too few and far between. “Isn’t it a good
bargain for you?”

“No.” The woman’s voice was firm
now. “You’re ambitious and competent. You’ll expect to grow quickly, and when
it doesn’t happen fast enough for your liking, you’ll get frustrated.”

“I can handle my frustrations.”

“Amanda—if I may—this is a junior
position. You’re young, but you’ve already held managerial positions at ENS.
This job is wrong for you . . . and you’re wrong for this job.”

Amanda bit her
tongue
to hold back the insult she would regret
later and hung up.
Imbeciles
! They didn’t realize what an exceptional
favor she was doing their shitty little firm by applying for that lowly analyst
job. She was a top-level professional with a sterling record as regional
project manager in Thailand, then regional sustainability manager for Asia
,
and then overall sustainability manager slated for
policy and development manager.

An employer would have to be crazy to
pass up someone like her for a job below her previous pay grade.

That a-hole Julien must have called
everyone in the industry to blacklist her. She could find no other explanation
for her failure to land a job—even a lower-grade one—for an entire month. With
a CV like hers, she should have been snatched up within a week. And it wasn’t
just
her
opinion. Every headhunter she’d talked to had said the same
thing. A month ago, they all assured her she’d be back on track in no time.