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The night air was damp and cool on her bare arms as she approached the flickering light of the bonfire, a distant beacon lighting her way across the field. A gentle breeze was blowing off the waters of the
She was Romani, a gypsy, like her mother, and her mother’s mother before her. Her family wandered the land, living outside of society, on the fringe. Some called them vagabonds and vagrants, others called them thieves and heathens, but they were none of these things. They simply…were. Their way of life was misunderstood, their values misconstrued. The nomadic people were viewed with distrust and distain all across
The noose was tightening around Rom across the
Karina’s family was comprised of Argintari—silversmiths by trade. According to tradition, and law, she was expected to marry Argintari, and raise her children to be the same, if she ever married at all. But Karina’s dream was to be Lăutari. She would wait until mashkari rat, long after her family was asleep, and she would sneak across the camp to where the Lăutari stayed up until the early light of dawn, laughing and playing the lavúta, the flyèta, and the tambal. And then Karina would dance, twirling in frantic circles, skirts flaring, bracelets clinking until she was breathless and giggling.
Karina’s father despised the Lăutari. Music was an important part of Rom life, but he viewed the musicians and dancers as lower-class, without any useful, material skills. They were fanciful, frivolous, and at times downright promiscuous. Tales were reaching
Not so for Karina. Her father called her impractical and foolish, but the Lăutari with whom she spoke in secret called her gifted. She would hum and sing to herself when she was alone, repeating the melodies she’d heard the night before, and would feel her hips start to sway instinctively. It was as if the music overcame her when she danced. She no longer thought, or worried, about anything. She let the song wash over her, closed her eyes, and gave in to the rhythm.
Karina did not have the look of a traditional Roma. Her dark blonde hair and pale skin were evidence that at least one of her ancestors had been gajè, non-Roma. Her sisters used to tell her that her eyes were too close together, her nose too aquiline, and her lips too thin—they said she looked like a hawk that had caught a sick mouse for its meal. Neither her two sisters, nor her brother, all younger than she, shared her gajè characteristics, and they had teased her about it their entire lives. It was a forbidden subject in the presence of her parents, and the one time Karina had broached the topic with her father he’d told her that God had not chosen to be kind to her, in more ways than one. The answer had frightened her so deeply that she’d never asked again.
The music drifted to her across the plain as she drew closer to her destination; the delicate clink of the bells within the tambal, and the deep, sonorous melody of the lavùta. Brishen had the violin tonight, she could tell even from this distance—no one else played quite like him. His flesh seemed to meld with the black, polished fingerboard, to fuse with the catgut strings stretched taut across the bridge. The instrument was an extension of his body—wood of his flesh, of his blood. When he played, he owned the music; he was the music.
The other musicians called him an angel. Karina thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen when he was playing. When he wasn’t, well, that was another matter. Though Karina did not have much interaction with him other than to dance to his music, she’d heard the stories of his arrogance, his insolence, and his frightful temper. He was the epitome of the Lăutari stereotype. In fact, he was precisely the reason her father forbade her from associating with the musicians and dancers of their tribe.
Sometimes, she thought she saw Brishen watching her through slitted eyes as he played. Often, she was certain that she could feel his eyes on her back as she danced or moved about the camp. But each time she turned to face him, his attention was elsewhere.
Finally, she reached the small clearing where a bonfire had been set, the wet grass pressed down by the trample of horses and boots to create a circular stage. Wooden crates had been unloaded from the wagons and placed on the ground as makeshift chairs. Brishen stood atop one of them, violin tucked under his chin, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, body swaying to the rhythm of his song. His shoulder-length hair, rich brown in color, was tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a slip of twine. He had a strong, masculine jaw, angular cheekbones, and a light brown complexion that had been dramatically darkened by the sun’s rays. He was tall and broad-shouldered—larger in stature than most of the other Lăutari men in the tribe—but the violin suited him perfectly, nonetheless.
It was a traditional gypsy dirge that he played, one normally accompanied by a female voice, but no one dared sing. Not when Brishen was playing. The melody began slow, the horse-tail bow drawing across the G and D strings in a leisurely glissando that transitioned into a grating, dissonant chord. He held the notes, drawing them out, tormenting his audience with the unsavory sound before sliding his ring finger up a half-step, reconciling the note with harmony once more. Karina swore she saw him smirk, but his eyes never opened; his expression never changed.
Without warning, the mournful tone disappeared as Brishen’s tempo increased. He played faster with each passing bar until all traces of the mulengi djilia had disappeared, transforming into a fast-paced cante jondo. His fingers danced across the strings, his right arm a blur as he moved the bow in frenzied, staccato strokes. Several members of the informal audience began to clap in time. A few were inspired to stand and dance.
Karina caught sight of her friend, Papusza, on the other side of the clearing, and picked her way through the crowd. Papusza was two years older than Karina, and had been married for nearly ten years before her husband was killed by the Hungarian militia, several months ago. He had resisted them when they’d tried to take away his son. His body had been hung from the gallows in Pressburg as a warning to other Rom, and Papusza’s son was taken anyway.
“Karina, we weren’t certain we’d see you tonight,” Papusza commented, approaching her with a grin. She embraced the younger girl with one arm, and offered up a flask of liquor with the other.
“But we’re glad for it,” one of the older men interjected from his crate, not far away. “Papusza’s dancing isn’t half as entertaining as yers.”
“And your singing, Uncle, is about the worst thing I’ve ever heard!” the tiny woman shot back, but she was still smiling, and so was her tormentor. Her name meant “doll” in Romany, and it suited her perfectly. She had long, raven-colored hair that framed her face in tight corkscrew curls, offsetting full, red lips that reminded Karina of a heart when she pursed them together.
Karina smiled broadly and accepted the proffered flask, taking a tentative swig of the rich, brown liquid before passing it to Papusza’s uncle, Vesh.
“How long have ye been associating with us, shebari, and ye still can’t hold yer liquor?” he grunted, downing a considerable portion.
“If Dat suspects I’ve been to see you, Kako, he’ll have my head,” she explained, shaking her head at his offer of a second draught.
“Li' ha' eer, Karina, we need to find you a husband so that you won’t have to be so frightened of your father anymore!” Papusza exclaimed, earning a sharp glance of reprieval from her uncle. A woman had no place saying such things, certainly not in mixed company.
Karina blushed and dropped her gaze. Papusza was constantly talking about arranging a suitable marriage for her, and the subject was a sore one.
Much to her family’s dismay, Karina was čhaj, unmarried, despite her age. Her younger sisters had married at twelve and thirteen, and her brother took a wife at fifteen. She was now twenty-three, and still under her parents’ care. None of the young Argintari men of her tribe had ever expressed an interest in her hand, and her father had not, to her knowledge, done much in the way of finding her a husband either. Her family blamed her misfortune on prikàza, a form of karmic backlash. Cosmic bad luck. But, in many ways, her unmarried status was fortunate. It kept her safe from the harsh legislation of the Empress.
“Dosta!” Vesh said, raising his hands firmly above his head. “Leave her alone, Papusza, and let her dance. She doesn’t come here for yer scheming.”
The two women smiled at each other, and Karina nodded her head slightly in the direction of the fire, where several women were already dancing, the gold and silver of their jewelry flashing in the reflective light of the flames.
The music’s frenetic pace began to subside; the song winding down, growing softer, fading to a piano, then to a pianissimo, and then…to nothing. Brishen froze, eyes closed, bow poised in midair, fingers curled around the neck of the violin. The crowd paused also, turning to acknowledge him, waiting anxiously for his next song. The performer seemed to savor the temporary silence before lowering the instrument to his side, cradling it under his arm. Then he raised his bow and pointed it directly at Karina, singling her out amongst the dozen or so women that watched him.
“Bring me the rakia!” he bellowed, and his voice was deep and melodious, much like the sound of his violin.
For a moment she simply gaped at him; in part because he’d singled her out, and in part because to give orders to a woman not your daughter or wife was just not permitted.
“Here,” Papusza said, pressing the flask of brandy into her hand and giving her a nudge on the shoulder with the other.
“No, Papusza!” she hissed, digging her heels into the mud.
“Just take him the drink, girl,” an anonymous voice yelled. “Or else we’ll not hear another song tonight!”
Karina bit her lip, drawing blood, and closed her fingers around the neck of the flask, shooting her friend a dismayed look before stepping forward. She kept her gaze lowered, studying the ground, and stopped in front of the crate upon which Brishen stood. She raised the flask above her head, waiting for him to take it from her.
Strong fingers closed over her hand and she looked up, startled at the brazenness. Brishen bent down and brought his face close to hers.
“Chindilan?” he asked softly. Are you weary?
She shook her head slightly and mumbled, “No.”
“Then dance for me.” He winked and raised the flask to his lips. “And I’ll play for you.”
“I’ll dance,” she said curtly, suddenly angered by his arrogance.
“For me?” he pressed.
“No, it won’t be for you.”
“I think it will be,” he replied with a grin, before straightening and tossing the flask of liquor into the crowd.
Svketavista, © 2006, Kayleigh M. Jamison
