gypsytales: book 1

By mirel

Is true love something to be sought, to be gained, or is it something we unknowingly deny ourselves in the mere pursuit of it? If we want to measure what we call love, how do we expect it to last forever?

Katerina Markova, a captivating young woman from a mysterious land full of ancient secrets, has set out to define true love. She embarks on a journey destined to alter the fate of humanity. Through her experiences she redefines beauty, strength, courage. She is not smarter or prettier than any other girl but she proves to be much braver.

A breathtaking experience at a gypsy camp forces her to constantly seek the gypsy passion in life. She dreams of a grand epic love not suspecting that the boy she encounters on the side of a dirt road would lead her there.

Anyone who has been fascinated by our multidimensional existence and the divine mysteries of life would be thrilled to discover a unique view of the true power of the human spirit.

This is part 1 of the novel: gypsytales - published in 3 separate e-books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543972016

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Copyright© 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously or are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781543972016

for the beautiful boy who gave me love and hope

when he knew so little of both

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

BOOK 1

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

…..

If – Rudyard Kipling

CHAPTER 1

Gypsies – my passion, my curse, or my destiny? Swarthy vagabonds forsaken by God to bring balance in a place of chaos. Untamed spirits condemned by the conventional mind unable to hear the brilliant notes of musical virtuosos.

It all started at the end of my twelfth summer, exactly a month before my birthday. The sticky air, impeding further the languorous village I called home, was scented with wild flowers and hay. Several hundred red brick homes, colorfully stuccoed, with low stone walls and tall wooden gates, were scattered around a small marble square. In the center the peasants had erected a tall monument of a dead hero and on each holiday gathered to dance holding hands around the fountain washing his feet.

It was the Saturday before the fair. I had the day off from working the fields, which meant playing Strajari i Apashi (the local version of Cowboys and Indians.) The gypsies were in town for the fair. They went door to door entertaining with dancing bears, mischievous monkeys, and sold handmade copper pots transported in large linen bags on their shoulders. Our grandparents’ warning was always the same: If you don’t behave, the gypsies would stuff you in their bag and take you away. Most of my friends were terrified, I was intrigued.

In a way, my fascination with them was an escape from reality. And the reality was I had a grandfather who was very expressive to my grandmother – verbally and physically. When his expectations were not met his foul temper would get out of control. Nothing was spared.

Each time he blasted the gun, I would cup my ears and hum my favorite song Katerino mome – the song I was named after. And when the physical action began my brother and I would sneak out quietly and cruise the neighborhood. Sometimes I was hoping a gypsy would really take me into her bag because I could not imagine a gypsy reality so full of violence.

My dad was not better verbally but I never saw him hit my mom because he hit me instead. There was always a reason. I was not listening, not obeying, or not answering. And all his reasons led to my head. My favorite place to hide was under my bed where I played with my imaginary friends – Esmeralda was a favorite.

My dad’s strikes became like the ringing of an alarm clock – predictable, distressing and wakeful, challenging my place in the fog, which had no beginning or end. One day I decided to stand up to him and claim back my dignity (I must have been seven or eight.) Hey, don’t hit me on the head, you hear me, it’s meant for academics! His hand froze in mid-air and he burst into laughter. I used that line a few more times but it didn’t always work. Sometimes when he was in a better mood he would rationalize his violent streaks by blaming his dad.

He once told me how my grandfather stripped him butt naked, smeared honey all over his body, and punished him to stay in the sun in the middle of summer, with bees and flies feasting off of his skin – all because he had ditched house chores to play soccer. So, I felt privileged with a few occasional blows to my head, compared to the honey treatment my dad had received.

It’s normal he always said. All parents beat their children if they misbehave. A good beating was the norm for my dad – his father did it, his grandfather did it, why should he be any different. I on the other hand wasn’t a huge fan of fitting the mold of my ancestors. Ever since I was little I knew there was something differently odd about me but I couldn’t quite explain it. The only thing that seemed to help when I questioned things was this book my parents kept in their bedroom: The Wisdom of the Ages. Most quotes seemed too obscure at the time but there was one that always rang through me like the village church bell: Don’t follow into other people’s footsteps because you’ll never leave a mark. Coincidentally or not, each time I snuck the book out of my parents’ bedroom I opened it on that same page.

It was in such a reflective state that I followed into my own footsteps that Saturday, roaming the dirt roads, chasing gypsies.

In the late afternoon, while we were playing outside, a middle-aged gypsy with her daughter came knocking on our front door. Her eyes were wild and smart, her hair jet black covered with a colorful bead-rimmed scarf. She looked like she had mapped the entire neighborhood on the inside of her palm and at the point of target recognition stopped right in front of our house. A single ray of sunlight struck one of the gold coins coiled around her neck like Christmas tree lights and reflected back at me, blinding me for a moment. The little girl, hunched over by the weight of the enormous bag she was obliged to carry, made eye contact with me and while still a little sun-dazed I saw endurance and courage behind her silent plea to be a child at play.

Aishe was a palm reader (I had absolutely no idea what her real name was but Aishe had become synonymous with all gypsy women in Roseland.) My grandfather would chase women like her away or worse – listen to their reading and send them away empty-handed. Convincing a gypsy to leave without a payment was like ungluing an old bumper sticker, but my grandfather always managed. In the village he was known for his two virtues: wit and parsimony.

That day he was not home so my mom let her in. She must have been in the house for a while because we played at least a few rounds of hide-and-seek before I saw her reappear, the girl trailing behind while my mom stuffed lozenges in her deep pockets. Aishe scrutinized my face as if harboring some deep secret that would later be revealed to me and said in a horse voice with a heavy accent: "May God bless you with health and courage. What a great mother you have." Then whispered some dialect to her daughter and I instinctively knew they were going back to camp.

None of us had ever dared approach that area. It was mysterious and forbidden, just like the cherry orchard in front of it. This time the dare was on. Hiding behind walnut and mulberry trees while keeping a huge distance from them we traversed the dried up creek at the base of the green hillside leading up to the orchard and the camp behind. The creek was invigorated with life every spring during the rainy season but in the summer it was as dead as a junk yard, with broken glass, empty jars, tin caps, and rusted bottomless pots covering its bed.

We ducked and stayed into the elderberry shrubs while the gypsies climbed up the hill. It was five of us: three girls and two boys. As soon as we started ascending my girlfriends chickened out and it was just me and the boys for the rest of the ride – my brother Iliya and my neighbor Andrei. I had spent many summers with Andrei, chasing butterflies at daybreak and spotting fireflies at twilight. He would catch them, I would release them.

As we clambered up the steep hill we noticed the two gypsies turning the orchard’s corner and disappearing somewhere into Gypsyland. We jumped over the fence and hid deep into the cherries, finding the two most strategic trees with a clear view of the camp. I had managed to fetch my opera binocular, a gift from my dad’s last business trip, and handed it to Andrei while trying to adjust my position between two sturdy branches facing the camp’s fire pit.

A she-bear in a pleated polka dot mini skirt was daydreaming untied next to an old oak tree. She yawned aimlessly a few times and began gulping down water from an oversized aluminum pan in the dirt. Several large tents and a few folding chairs, weathered and dusty, were scattered around. I couldn’t see where the two gypsies disappeared but I could hear a guitar gently picking up a gypsy love song.

My blood rushed each time I heard gypsy music, and I couldn’t comprehend why a prudent white girl like me would be so enthralled by them and their music.

A beautiful gypsy woman in her twenties emerged from one of the tents. Her gorgeous sinuous body, gracefully floating above the ground, left no doubt in my mind she was the prima ballerina of the traveling troupe.

She ignored the group of swarthy men playing cards outside her tent as if they were not worthy of a minute of her time and crossed the grounds heading straight for the water barrel planted not too far from the fire pit. She threw some water on her face and neck and untied a handkerchief from her waist. Instead of wiping the dripping water with it she swung the gaudy scarf in the air as if charging it with passion and tied it loosely around her thick locks.

The rhythm of the music changed. She jumped on the empty wooden table by the water barrel and started pounding the boards with such vigor and intensity that instantaneously got the attention of the men. I grabbed the binocular from Andrei, anxious to study her every move. Her hair was long flowing mahogany damp from the summer humidity. Her upper body was barely covered with a close-fitting bodice loosened up at the strings, exposing all her flesh. Her ruffled skirt whirled like a pinwheel in the wind. She was hammering that table like a carpenter who carried his tools on his soles.

A young bare-chested gitano, who seemed to have followed her every move, got up from the cards table and slowly approached her, clapping in synchronicity with the graceful syncopation of her feet and piercing her body with fiery eyes.

He reached up and pulled the scarf away from her hair, letting it tease her bare shoulders for a moment, then pinned her feet down to the table and tied it around her ankles. She was still weaving her body, twining her arms, arching her back…

With one arm around her waist he sat her down and threaded himself through the opening of her legs – her upper body still dancing, teasing, inviting, her tender goddesses heaving rhythmically through the strings of her bodice.

His lips chased water drops off her glowing skin before they rested at the hollow of her neck. They paused there for a moment as if he was trying to attune his movement to the rhythm of her pulse.

I was mesmerized by their harmony. Was the music setting them in motion or they were writing their own melody?

He pushed her down onto the table and hiked up her skirt, her legs wrapped around his lower back like the petals of a lotus. They were still dancing, their movements quicker now. I felt tenderness throughout my body and tingling moisture under my summer dress. The feeling terrified me, unfamiliar and overpowering. Instinctively, I climbed down the tree and ran home as fast as I could, away from the forbidden act of passion, leaving my two companions to enjoy the rest of the show.

All night I could not get the images out of my head, consuming and invigorating, arousing questions without answers:

Would I ever find true passion in life? A passion that is creative and not possessive, a passion that frees and does not condemn, a passion that is a total abandon of tradition, a passion that sweeps anything that is false, a passion that is true love?!

CHAPTER 2

Five years had danced away since that unforgettable day in the village. The image of that gypsy woman blossoming on that table like a thousand-petal lotus was still boggling my mind.

I was a dreamer with virgin lips. No one had seduced my soul yet so most of my inspiration came from books. My favorite time alone was The Count of Monte Cristo and Romeo and Juliet and the more I read them the more I thought I understood them. I believed in true everlasting love, convinced that one day that mind-altering THING we have labeled in so many ways would shatter my little world till there’s no tomorrow.

When I wasn’t drooling over books I watched movies but most of them were too bland for my taste and left little to the imagination, which was why I favored books. One day I was pleasantly surprised that a movie actually moved me and I knew I would remember the story forever. It was a foreign movie about a small town boy and his girl who were inseparable - planning to get married one day, but before they did the boy decided to explore the big world. The girl gave him all of her savings and off he went promising to multiply them and come back for her. Years passed, she waited faithfully by the window writing love poetry each day, but he never returned. One day a guy who knew him passed through town and told her that her beloved had played the lottery with her savings and had won. Encouraged by his lumberjack buddies he had pursued and landed the neighborhood beauty, a tall blonde with big rear end and even bigger confidence. The small town girl was crushed, she cried for months and decided to go to the most remote region where a horribly contagious disease was raging and serve there as a nurse till her death, but just as she was about to depart the same messenger passed through town and told her that a work accident had sent her beloved to the hospital in critical condition. The blonde beauty had spent all of his money and had moved onto someone else. The small town girl took all of her savings and went straight to the hospital where he was unconscious. She secretly paid for his surgeries and stayed there by his bedside day and night telling him stories, hoping he would wake up one day. And one beautiful morning his eyes opened and he looked straight into hers with such deep adoration and gratitude that brought tears I am sure to all the little girls like me watching the movie on their black and white small screen TVs. I cried for days not knowing why.

Each summer my brother and I took turns going to a seaside camp and this summer was his turn. I was planning to help my grandparents with some field work and read some more books but life had other plans. My parents loaded me onto a bus en route the Town of the Sun due to my brother jumping off a ten foot landing, instead of using the stairs, and breaking his arm right before camp with me having to take his place.

My most rewarding moments were early in the morning, when a wild bunch of us snuck out of camp despite the camp director’s proscription and went down to the beach to meet the rising sun. It was truly the town of the sun. If there was God, this was perhaps my earliest partaking in its Divine presence.

We would run barefoot right where the water kissed the sand; enter slowly with raised arms, floating towards a golden ring emerging from an endless abyss, grateful and exhilarated by the warm vibrations of the waking sea. It was like Chagall’s painting – surreal and haunting.

It was a hot and humid summer afternoon, reminiscent of the one five years ago. My mouth, salty, sandy and dry was watering for a sweet, juicy slice of watermelon, just purchased from the farmer’s market in town, so instead of the scenic beach path circling around camp, I opted for the ravine which cut across, trotting down the steep dusty path, humming my favorite song Katerino mome.

Halfway down the concave dirt road leading up to camp, with a speckled green ball impatiently protruding from under my armpit, I felt a sudden jolt at my back, like a mysterious force tugging on my heart from behind. I heard a loud whistle and turned quickly to see a shirtless punk on a bicycle charging towards me with his hands in the air yelling Move! But I couldn’t. I froze. He tried to push me out of his way and I tumbled down into the ditch below. A half-naked slippery body rolled on top of me seconds later.

Don’t you look where you are going, babe? he crouched right next to me shaking the dust off his hands.

First, I am not your babe and you should not be riding downhill hands-free, stud.

My left leg was covered in blood – there was a small but very sharp piece of gravel lodged in the skin below the knee cap. I was trying to conceal the pain behind one of those fake smiles, but he knew better.

He was without a scratch!

He ran his fingers up and down my left arm as if readjusting it from the fall, wrapped it around his damp neck, against my will, and tried to lift me up.

What exactly do you think you are doing young man?

I am taking you to that tree in the shade, so I can attend to whatever I’ve injured.

You need to ask my permission first.

Oh, common, babe, don’t be such a prude, I am just trying to unfuck the situation I got you in.

Watch your language. I am a lady.

Oh, is that so, Milady? Your wish is my command. Where would you like to be transported? he bowed and curtseyed.