Gypsy Blood (3 page)

He looked like someone she could trust.

“Sometimes I try too hard to be funny,” he apologized.

He sat at a card table. A deck of cards were fanned on the table in front of him. Tarot cards, she presumed. She’d seen them in the movies and in that strange little mysterious downtown boutique bookstore where the women wore dresses that looked like fancy nightgowns.

“Come in,” he repeated.

She stepped closer. Her hands were shaking.

He flashed another smile.

“Don’t be scared,” he said. “I make it a point never to terrify anyone on their first date.”

He gestured for her to sit in a large green lawn chair. It was big and heavy and plastic.

“Sit down. I just got the chair. Do you like it? Green is very soothing to your chakra.”

He extended a hand. She stared at it, like it was a snake. He gently took her hand and shook it.

“Not trying to pump money out of you,” he said, grinning. “Not yet, anyway.”

Feeling flustered, she sat down. “I’m sorry. I forget my manners. You meet so few people who shake your hand these days.”

“I’m my own one-man time warp. You’ll get used to it. Call me Carnival.”

She told him her name. And then she finally had to ask.

“So what’s a chakra?”

“An energy source. The body has them all over it. Here,” he touched his belly. “And here and here.”

He touched his head and he almost touched his heart.
Doris
would have sworn that he flinched just before his knuckles touched his chest. Another smile fluttered upon his lips. He looked a little nervous like he’d just accidentally broke wind.

“Are you a real gypsy?” she asked.

“As real as truth.”

“Is Carnival your real name?”

He smiled at that. She could see the laughter hiding behind his eyes. It was a good laugh, not at her but with her. The laughter and something else moved behind his eyes like a dancing shadow.

“You can call me Val if Carnival has too many syllables to chew over. It doesn’t pay to give out real names in some of the circles I travel in,” he answered.

Doris
wondered what sort of circles he might mean but she was too polite to ask.

“So what can I do for you, Doris?”

She felt the blood rush to her face. She knew she was blushing.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before. Read me the future, I guess.”

He gave her another smile. He had lots of smiles to go around.

“I don’t read futures. That’s for little old ladies in spotted kerchiefs.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I
dukker
. That’s Rom for telling fortunes.”

“Rom?”

“Rom’s Gypsy talk. It’s our language. It’s supposed to be secret. We don’t even write it down. It’s passed on, tongue to ear. I’m not even supposed to say this much.”

She grinned.

“Will you get in trouble for telling me?”

He shrugged. “It’s worse than sharing a Masonic handshake. They only kill you for that.”

“So you are a gypsy.”

“Yes. I am
Rom.
You call us Gypsies. We call you
Gaijo
.”

He looked her in the eye. He had dark eyes like mirrors in shadow. Nice. If she was younger, she might have wanted to meet him over coffee.

“So tell me why you have come?”

She stood up, flustered, not knowing to do with herself.

“It’s my son. I have a problem with him.”

He looked at her.

“Sit down.”

She sat back down. He shuffled the cards.

“Don’t tell me anymore. I like to look at the cards first, without knowing what I’m looking for. It’s too easy to cheat if you already know the question.”

He laid out the first card. She saw the picture, a woman sitting on some sort of a chair. Was that her? The chair in the picture looked like a lawn chair to
Doris
.

“This is you,” Carnival said. “You have a problem. Someone expects something from you.”

She nodded, just slightly, trying too late to check herself. She didn’t want to telegraph her situation to this man but she had the feeling he already knew what her problem was.

He laid another card, a dark haired figure sitting atop a large black horse, staring hard at a star in a circle in his hand. The card was upside down.

“The Knight of Pentacles, reversed. Someone promises action, but so far he’s nothing but talk. Sound like your son?”

She couldn’t help but nod.

He laid a third card down. Three long swords piercing a heart. The sky behind the heart appeared to be raining.

“Three of hearts. A hard decision. Tears falling upon the ground. You have to cut some one away.”

Carnival looked in her eyes. She felt his eyes, analyzing her. Reading her like a hand running over a well thumbed book.

“With respect, you could throw a rock at sixty years, couldn’t you?” he asked.

It took
Doris
a moment to realize he was talking about her age. She nearly blushed. Stupid, that a woman of her age should worry but she did. Some things never changed.

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“I look here.” he touched the corner of his eye. “Where the crows dance. They never lie.” he looked at her again like he could see straight through her - like Superman in the comic books. She remembered a movie about a man with X-ray eyes.

It hadn’t ended happily.

“You need to throw him out,
Doris
. He’s too old to be living with you. I don’t think he’s bad, I just think he’s lazy.”

Doris
’s eyes began to tear up. He handed her a box of tissue. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. ”It’s just that…”

She wept for a while. There wasn’t much else to do. He sat and watched her, trying not to stare. She appreciated that. The way he didn’t quite watch her and yet she knew he had his eyes upon her.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t mean to come in here and break down.”

“It’s why I keep the tissue. It comes with the job.”

“You must hear a lot of problems.”

“My share and everybody else’s. I’m cheaper than a psychiatrist, and easier on your liver than a bartender.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. It felt good to laugh. It took her mind off of her trouble. Was that why he told so many jokes?

“It’s just so hard. Jimmy’s been through a rough time. A divorce and then his ex-wife ran up a credit card bill. I’ve been taking care of my mother. She’s in her nineties. I ought not to leave her alone. It’s just…”

She squeezed the tissue in her fist, holding the tears at bay.

“How old is Jimmy?” he asked.

“Thirty seven.”

He arranged his features before he spoke. She knew he was trying not to laugh at her foolishness. She appreciated his diplomacy.

“Thirty seven is old enough to sink or swim. How long has he stayed with you?”

“A year, no, maybe a year and a half.”

He smiled. “Then you’ve been more than kind, and he’s going to have to understand.”

“I know. I’ve always known. I knew it before I even came in here.”

“That’s all the cards tell you. What you already know. They’re more of a looking glass. You look in, to look out.”

She nodded. He was making small talk. The reading was over. She looked up at him.

“It’s just hard, is all.”

He pointed at the Three of Swords. “A hard decision. Tears falling down like rain. Who holds the knife?”

She smiled again. She knew what Carnival meant. She had to accept her responsibility and cut Jimmy loose. The boy was dragging her down.

“It’s just hard is all,”
Doris
said. “Letting go of someone you love. Cutting them away.”

Doris felt that word a whisper inside of her, in a space somewhere far behind her conscious thinking – cut – and she heard the sound of her mother slicing roast beef and her son cutting paper with scissors and a dog gnawing patiently on a bone. The Gypsy touched his chest softly, like there was a landmine buried deep inside the cage of his ribs.

“I know,” he said.

And the reading was over. She paid him what he asked for. He held the door for her and then he let it close. As she stepped out into the night she heard his voice behind the door, talking to someone. She crossed the street, instinctively crossing herself as she did so, feeling eyes burning upon her from the darkness.

She walked a little faster.

From out of the shadows of a nearby alley the vampire watched the woman walk away, a casket of old thin blood wrapped in a sack of sad and lonely skin.

Then the vampire turned her hard yellow gaze back towards the blind mirror of the window of Carnival’s fortune telling shop.

It was time to begin.

An Evening Caller

C
arnival watched
Doris
walk away. He smiled at her back. He’d helped her. It was a good feeling.

You helped nothing.

“Shut up, Poppa.”

She’s scared. Can’t you feel how scared she is?

“She’s fine, Poppa.”

Poshrat. She feels the eyes of the night watching her.

 
“The night is fine Poppa. There’s nothing out there.”

What kind of Gypsy are you? The night is full of darkness and blinding stars and shapes that crawl darkly between the stars. The night is full of hunger, the night is full of lies, and the biggest liar is standing around me.

“Such fine lines, Poppa. You ought to be a lounge singer in
Las Vegas
.”

I’m too good for
Las Vegas
. Too pure. I would have to sell my soul, like
Newton
or Boone.

“Wayne Newton sold his soul?”

And Pat Boone. The two of them. Contracts signed in blood and treble clefs.
Las Vegas
is like that. Glitter, tinsel and plastic lies. A neon candelabra burning brightly on old Nick’s scratchiest player piano.

“If you say so, Poppa.”

I say so. And I say you lied. Chakra, my ass. Do you know what chakra is? It’s an old word that means wheel. It goes round in circles, like your talk.

“I told her what I saw. I helped her.”

You helped nothing. You told her lies. Lies help no one.

“I told her what I could. I did what I was able. I told her truth.”

You told her lies. You are nothing but a professional liar.

“I told her the truth.”

Truth? The truth doesn’t live in such a mouth. You are slicker than the soapmaker’s asshole. You could talk the ticks from a hound dog’s ears. You should be in politics, your tongue twists like a corkscrew.

Carnival opened his mouth and closed it. Was it true? Had he lied?

You told her what she wanted to hear.

Carnival considered that. Reading cards was like looking in a mirror. Whatever your client was thinking was what the cards saw. Whatever they already knew, laid out before them. It wasn’t lies. It was reflection.

Who are you trying to fool?

No. Poppa was lying again. It had been a good reading. Straight and clean like the scar upon his cheek. He touched the scar. He felt the whisper of the knife opening his skin, his flesh, touching him where he ought to be safe. It never changed. A long scar sliced down his right cheek like a long red scarf. A sign of manhood or so he’d been told.

Thanks Poppa.

You asked for it. Fuck with me and you fuck with my knife. I’d give you another, if I could.

“But you can’t, can you Poppa. You can’t touch me anymore.”

Don’t be too sure. I’ll sharpen your toes and screw you into the ground.

 
“Nice Poppa. Nothing like those old fashioned familial ties.”

Ties are ropes. Ropes are leashes and leashes are for dogs. The dog is smarter than the man. After a time the bitch forgets her whelp.

Carnival thought of his Momma.

You told that woman a lie. You aren’t Rom. Poshrat. Halfblood. Maybe Gypsy, yes, maybe that. But not Rom.

“You are Rom, Poppa.”

The bloodline goes through the mother. How many times must I tell you? The bloodline goes straight through the mother. How else can you be sure?

“Are you sure, Poppa?”

Poppa shut up. There was nothing like truth to set things right. There was so much truth waiting to be uncovered, hidden between father and son. A thousand decks of Tarot couldn’t begin to unravel so tangled a weave.