28 June, 1:30 PM, near Spisz
The tabor spread out in an empty field, off the beaten track, literally, with all the vehicles forming a circle, like the wagons of the Wild West pioneers drawn together for protection at night. Except that this convoy looked as if some freak time storm has raged and trawled through the centuries and then deposited its detritus on a lonely field somewhere in the central Ruthenia and Galicia. Which might not have been that far off the truth, Jake though. Modern camper vans, mixed with trucks several decades’ old, and wooden wagons and caravans that looked like museum pieces.
A group of children broke away from their play and watched them park just off the road, on the edge of the meadow, and get out of the car. A girl, maybe eight years old, recognised Marina and ran towards them, joyfully screaming her name, other children flocking in, infected with excitement of the new and unexpected.
The girl, who looked like a smaller version of Marina, her long curly hair matted with leaves and blades of grass and skin smeared with brown earth from playing rough in the field, jumped into Marina’s open arms and the two spun around together laughing.
“It’s Nicola,” Marina explained, putting the girl down, “My little niece; my father’s younger sister’s daughter.”
The children surrounded them, whispering and giggling among themselves, fingers pointing, eyes glistening with curiosity, small white teeth bared in wide smiles. Marina started talking to them in a language that in Jake’s expert opinion, acquired over the course of a few days, did not sound like Ruthenian and must have been some local Romani dialect. The children laughed some more and then slowly started making their way back to the camp.
“I told them that you are a powerful wizard from across the ocean, and that they should not try to bother you or play any tricks on you, because otherwise you’ll kidnap them and turn them into flying piglets,” Marina said as they were walking towards the tabor, Jake on her left, Nicola holding her right hand.
“Thanks. I think. That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard a European say about an American in a long time.”
“Oh, c’mon, we love you guys,” she nudged him with her bony shoulder.
“That’s what you all say when you need your ass saved from some dictator or madman,” Jake bounced back into her. “Then we turn up, turn the bad guys into flying piglets, and then you start hating us again.”
“You can’t take a compliment, can you, oh powerful wizard from across the ocean?” she said. Nicola tugged at her arm and started excitedly bubbling about something.
“She’s bringing me up to date with all the family happenings,” Marina explained.
By now some of the adults have appeared, alerted by the children, and were watching them approach. One or two of them seemed to recognise Marina and waved at her.
“I’m using my great wizarding powers of deduction to guess that this is where some of your family live,” Jake said. In all his twenty eight years on this Earth he did not recall ever actually meeting any real Gypsies – until and except for Marina and Michal – and he wasn’t quite sure if the prospect excited or perplexed him somewhat, considering that all he could think of was the usual assortment of clichés and stereotypes about fortune-telling, horse-thieving, wistful flamenco-like music, and whirling flower-printed long skirts.
“Yes, some of my family, on the road,” Marina said. “Like for the past few hundred years. At least some of them. My father’s older brother and his younger sister are here with their families, and some other relatives. But others move away, and no longer travel. My father was like that. And I guess Michal and I are too. No longer on the road.”
As they came closer to the tabor, an older man walked through a gap between a weathered, dirty beige camper van and an exquisitely carved and colourfully painted wooded caravan. For all his years, and he looked like he was in his sixties, he stood broad and straight, and his greying lion’s mane of hair only made him look more distinguished. Jake thought that this is how Michal might look like when he’s old, and if he had gained two inches in height, a few stones in weight, and about forty years’ worth of life experience and gravity.
“Ah, Marina,” the man opened his arms and hugged her. “The prodigal daughter returns. For a quick visit, I understand.” He spoke in English, with an accent, but not one strong enough for Jake to pick where and how he might have learned the language.
“And this must be your American friend, you told me about,” he pulled away from Marina and extended his hand towards Jake. The sleeve of his white shirt was rolled up to an elbow and from below a tattooed horse galloped down his forearm, its outstretched head hidden underneath a bunch of ornate silver bracelets.
“Jake,” Marina said, “this is my uncle Nicu.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Jake said. Uncle Nicu’s handshake was like a vice, as if he were already testing for himself what metal his guest was made of. Jake gave back as good as he got but he was out of practice in the macho stakes.
“Marina told me that you were going to visit Stare Duszki and she would drop in to visit on the way back to show you… where she comes from.”
So, not an entirely spontaneous idea, Jake thought. Some more local colour for the tourist.
“Come on it,” Uncle Nicu said, extending his arm. “Our homes are your home.”
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