American Gypsy (34 page)

“Bless you, Natasha,” Alla said. “But you don't think she's too dark? You know how even some of our Roma boys prefer a porcelain doll.”

“
Devlo
(Goodness), Alla. It's common knowledge that dark-skinned
tziganochky
(Gypsy girls) are better in bed,” Natasha said, her massive bosom shaking with laughter.

This was welcome news to me. Cousin Zhanna had pale skin, hair the color of melted caramel, and eyes like two ambers, and even when she was little, she was considered a jewel among the Roma. Next to her I blended into the background like a muddy snow mound in the banks of a city road. Maybe I had attractions I didn't realize. And yet, surveying the room, I noticed several women who could've passed for Zhanna's sister. The younger men, all suited up and shiny-tied, had gathered close to them, their bodies taut with unspoken rivalry. In a crowd, no one would think these girls to be Romani, but such is the diversity of our folk.

My neighbor at the table was a tawny young girl of around twelve; everything she said was harnessed to a wide grin. Lila was already engaged to a boy who kept waving at her from the other side of the room.

Marriage deals can take place when the kids are young, but they don't normally get married until years later. Many parents choose to do this to secure a prosperous future for their children. “After all,” many a proud mother would argue, “who better to decide the person you'd be spending the rest of your life with than your own mama, right?” Divorce is a black dress of shame, and to a man a sign of failure. Also, having a fiancé keeps many teenagers from fooling around (even with the fiancé) and ruining their reputation. If rumors of indecent behavior reach either party's family, the engagement can be withdrawn, and nobody wants that kind of shame attached to their name.

It took hours for the toasts to make their way around the tables. But even as people raised glasses in blessings, the music continued. I loved the songs, even if I couldn't understand all the lyrics anymore. With time and little use, I was slowly forgetting my Rromanes—and it hurt my heart a little. This, I would learn, is similar to the experience of many Americans born into a multilingual family: even if they're taught the language of their parents, sooner or later English becomes their language of choice.

Lila's enthusiasm about the wedding, the food, the way the old people danced with their hands high up and rusty hips swaying drew tendrils of joy from inside me. In that moment, I was a Roma girl, no matter what I or others thought. The music especially invoked that ancient feeling of belonging that makes us reach out for our mothers before we can see. The lilting melodies made me cry; they still do, as if the music reconnects a loose wire between my heart and my heritage. Next thing I knew, I was dancing.

And the dancing never stopped; not for hours. At some point, a wiry woman bumped into me. “You know, the Crimean Romani are the best dancers in the world!” she bragged, and danced a
Chechotka
, a fast-paced tap dance, so fast I couldn't see her feet move. Entire families came out on the dance floor, babies bopping up and down in their parents' arms, men clapping their hands and women shaking their shoulders. We followed the current and the music carried us out to sea.

At around one in the morning the groom's father finally took mercy and shouted for the musicians to take a break, and everyone, breathless and sweating, found their places. That was when the grandmother announced it was time for the groom and bride to follow her out.

“What's going on?” I asked Lila.

“They have to pass the trial of the first matrimonial night. After that they'll officially be husband and wife.”

“But I thought they were married at the church.”

“Yeah, but they're still called bride and groom until they complete the trial.”

I looked at the bride, whose face had lost some of its shine. “I don't think she likes that idea, whatever it is.”

Lila giggled. “Yanko is going to stick his pole inside Madlena. I heard it's like being bitten by a swarm of bees.”

“They have to do that now, in the middle of the party?”

“Oh yes, to prove the bride's innocence. You know. That she didn't let other boys do stuff to her. Then she'll turn into a true wife.”

“Don't tell me someone's going to stand there and wait for her to turn,” I said.

“You're funny,” she said, and covered her mouth, but not enough to conceal the grin. “Grandma Polyakov will bring out the sheet, so we can all see the proof.”

With the progression of the old woman's speech, the groom flushed like an overcooked beet. When he stood, she proceeded toward the door, expecting the newlyweds to follow.

Only they didn't.

“We've decided to skip that part,” Yanko said. His fingers dug into the snow-white tablecloth. “It's our private business. No one else's.”

Relatives and guests froze in their merriment. Both fathers scowled, something dangerous simmering beneath their furrowed brows. Mothers bit their lips and chewed their fingernails. “It's a tradition,” one of them said. “I knew it,” the other said. “Pass the vodka,” someone else said.

The bride stood next, wrapping a hand around her husband's arm. To me, as she lifted her head up above the sea of disorderly Romani, she was the most beautiful girl in the room. “Please respect our decision,” she said. The words could cut steel.

The house exploded with voices: arguments, jokes, threats. Yanko and his mother were trying to calm down his father. But the man bellowed, hands flying in gestures of stubbornness. The girl's father and mother elbowed their way in, and the parents began to thrust their faces at one another, their fingers jabbing like spears. Their rigid bodies left little space between them: mothers with hands on hips; fathers thin-lipped and ready to brawl.

Confusion reigned. I felt anxious as well, but I admired Yanko and Madlena so much that on the inside I was grinning. It took real courage to stand up to centuries of tradition. How did they do it, and in front of two hundred crazed Romani? I wasn't even brave enough to be honest with my own father, and there was only one of him.

When the newlyweds' brand-new Firebird—a gift from an overzealous uncle—screeched out of the driveway, the merriment fizzled out. The young couple made off with two suitcases and their dignity intact, while the guests continued to quarrel over the lost chance to witness a bloodstained sheet. Did that mean they would forever remain bride and groom, or were they truly married now?

*   *   *

From the car window Los Angeles flickered by in a post-midnight hush. I listened to Olga and Dad blame the parents for their offspring's disgraceful behavior, and listened to condemnation delivered through curses more appropriate for wartime deserters. This is what you leave behind when you dare to go forward, I thought: your name, in contempt for eternity. And on that night, I became aware of something I'd never given much thought before: oppression can come from within as easily as from without.

I thought about young Mr. and Mrs. Polyakov. Had they realized that their actions might have severed them from the rest of their family? I wanted to ask what they felt the moment they stood up and spoke their convictions.

What would it take to be as brave?

 

STEVART HOPELAND

The day of the talent show rushed at me with the speed of a comet, and all I could do was to hold myself back from telling Cruz that he'd won our bet. He had claimed we could never be just friends, and I was trying to prove him wrong, but to no avail. None of the excuses I'd made up to stop pining for him worked anymore because my heart yearned for his affections. Against all logic, I loved him.

I'd just finished playing my composition in the practice room. It was an instrumental piece steeped in months of writing love poetry. When Annie heard it later, she said, “It sounds like something from
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
.” This was a great compliment. When Aunt Siranoosh first took me to see the French musical, I was eleven. The heartbreaking love between Geneviève and Guy had such an impact on me that I planned to one day run away to Normandy and find employment at the umbrella boutique Geneviève ran with her mother. Aunt Siranoosh knew the songs by heart:

If it takes forever I will wait for you

For a thousand summers I will wait for you

The movie burst with colors, and the music, like first love, was effortless. Annie's comparison inspired me to be a film composer and write sweeping scores that made people weep.

Cruz sat cross-legged on the floor.

“I want to kiss you,” he said when I finished.

My head swam. “Did you like it? I wrote it for you.”

“Can I?”

I closed the lid and sat down next to him, reached out, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

He froze as if expecting me to realize what I was doing and draw back. Then his fingers curled in my hair and the ground took off from under me.

“Does this mean you lost?” he said against my lips.

“Maybe. But I don't want to have to sneak around. Sometimes I can't even remember which lie I'm supposed to tell on what day, and I don't want to have to lie about us.”

“I never asked you to.”

“Do you know nothing about my culture?”

“I'm not a coward.”

He got to his feet, pulling me after him. He wrapped his arms around me and playfully rubbed his face in my hair. The heat of him filled my senses, lulling me into contentment, and I felt his heartbeat, quick and reassuring beneath my cheek. “I'll wait,” he said.

*   *   *

Somehow tireless Mr. North had met Stewart Copeland, the ex-drummer for the Police, who had become a music producer, and convinced him to speak to the school band. There he was, with his signature spiky blond hair and the cool suit: the man who'd spent years making music history with one of the greatest bands in rock, only a few feet away from me.

At the end of the class Mr. North asked me to stay behind.

“Stewart, I'd like you to meet one of my most talented students,” he said.

Copeland shook my hand. “Great. Can't wait to hear your music.” I was too terrified to remember anything more except the astonishing end to our one-sided conversation, when he handed me his business card and said, “When you graduate, give me a call. Perhaps we can set up an internship.”

Mr. North let me use his office phone to call Mom in Vegas, and I described to her how good Stewart Copeland smelled and how white his smile was. I also shared with her my plan to dazzle Dad by telling him about Copeland's offer.

After a moment of hesitation she said, “Why do you have this need to please him?”

“What are you talking about? This is a great thing, meeting Stewart Copeland.”

“At your age I was already on the train out of Armenia. I was independent and strong, a free spirit. Do you think I gave a damn about what my family or the neighbors thought?”

“You made Grandma Rose cry,” I said.

“That's what she told you? She was happy to be rid of the disobedient daughter. Aunt Siranoosh was her angel.”

I wanted desperately to say that when she left for Vegas, I, too, cried.

“Mom—”

“I'm only telling you this because you can learn from my experience. Who cares what your father thinks? The only person he's ever been satisfied with is himself.”

But I didn't understand. It had been months since I started the magnet program, and Dad still thought I was an ESL student. In my mind, the appearance of Stewart Copeland gave the program real legitimacy. It was a sign to tell my father the truth and make him see the potential in what I was doing. He'd forget his silly notions about it being an equivalent of the structured Soviet-era arts unions where creativity was restricted and indoctrinated by a select group of “experts.” And that's when I'd mention Cruz, in passing, and everything would fall into place. Dad would be so happy and so proud of my mingling with Hollywood stars, he wouldn't mind a boyfriend (who was
also
a magnet student). Silly, but at the time this line of thinking made complete sense to me.

I came into the kitchen with a purpose in my heart. No fear.

Dad was talking on the phone long-distance with Olga's distant cousin Pavel, who planned to visit from Russia. When he hung up, he chuckled and said something about how he couldn't believe the guy had become a priest after chasing skirts half his life.

“Dad,” I said in Russian, “do you remember the Police?”

“Police? Why, what happened? Where's your stepmother?”

“No, Dad. The band. Remember? With Sting?”

“Oh.” He looked relieved. “Yeah, yeah. Good stuff.”

“I met Stewart Copeland today.”

“Who the hell is Stevart Hopeland?”

“It's Stewart Copeland, Dad. The drummer from the Police.”

“Oh. Skinny guy with horse face?”

“He came to school today.” I pulled out my treasure. “I have his business card.”

Dad took it. He couldn't read English well, but his eyes narrowed as if the card held a secret for him to crack. He gave it back, unimpressed. “So plain. You sure it's the same guy? With the porcupine haircut?”

“He's a famous music producer now.”

“Really?” That got his attention. “You met him, you say?”

“He came to school today, to talk about the industry,” I said.

“A music producer with so much free time on his hands? I don't believe it.”

“That's the thing. People like him make time to come to the magnet school. It's one of the perks of being in the program.”

Dad poured himself a cup of tea. “And how did you get to meet this Hopeland, the big-shot music producer?”

I hesitated. He wasn't reacting yet, but the explosion couldn't be that far off. Here goes. “I was accepted into the magnet school at the beginning of the school year.”