Both of the nearby beggars were Romani, zigenare, gypsy immigrants in Sweden. Such people were socially designated as invisible human beings. Look how the stream of busy shoppers reacted now, Nordin thought, skirting Varzha Luna like water flowing around a rock. A stubborn minority of Nordin’s fellow Swedes agreed with that bigoted inner demon of his. They believed such mendicants were bothersome and represented a blot on the city streets. Something really ought to be done about them.
Now I pass from door to door like the son of sinless Mary
Hand outstretched I walk, like he that was born the Christ
One day Nordin would formally reach out to Varzha Luna. He had already spoken to her several times, making up lame excuses for his approach. She would stare at him, silent and cold-eyed. Eventually, he would be able to convince Varzha to leave behind the songs of the Romani and move into something more pop. Nordin himself wrote song lyrics. As the young woman’s manager he would bring the voice of an angel to the Swedish public.
Listening to her now, Nordin closed his eyes, transported.
◆◆◆
Luri Kováč purposefully always tried to post himself near Varzha Luna. There was no real word for “guardian” in Romani, so in his mind he used beskyddare, a word he picked up in Schwedo. That was how Luri saw himself, a watcher, a sentinel, a protector of his people. Recently young Romani women were vanishing, one after another, as if they were lambs in a barnyard set upon by hungry beasts. Luri vowed to act as the barnyard dog, fending off predators.
He recently came to accept that he was hopelessly in love with Varzha Luna. The exquisite young woman turned his blood to wine. He didn’t know if she even knew of his existence.
Two men approached Varzha, one taller and bearded, the other younger and harder looking. They halted in front of her.
Romani? No, they were gadje, non-Roma, gentiles, pale-eyed, and cold.
Something seemed off or wrong about the pair. They were not shoppers, not casual passersby. They had zeroed in on the teenage Varzha as if she were their specific target.
After the girl’s song faded to a close, the taller one extracted a leather wallet from his heavy canvas jacket. He flopped it open in front of the pretty gypsy beggar. Even from a distance, Luri could recognize the common red-bordered police ID.
So, polis. But not in uniform, perhaps undercover, or some plainclothes cowboys from a special unit in the National Operations Department.
Luri didn’t know what to do. He thought of going over to Varzha and her white-faced brother, Vago. In terror of the polis, the boy was now turning in small, weak circles, whimpering. He would tell the brother to shut the hell up, that he, Luri, would help, that he was the beskyddare.
Should he do something? Should he intercede? But the polis would only arrest Luri himself, or anyway bother or harass him. So he decided to remain uninvolved for the moment, but he would continue to watch.
As if the song’s ending had created a bell of silence into which words could flow, Luri now almost made out what one of the cops, the tall bearded one, said to Varzha. Mumble, mumble, mumble, out of which the word “hotel” emerged clearly.
Varzha bent her head and nodded in a sign of submission and acceptance. She turned and expressed a quick command to her wordless brother. Luri heard Vago give a moan of fear.
That did it. No more hesitation. Luri rumbled to his feet and crossed Drottninggatan toward Varzha and the others, concealing his interest, pretending the move was merely to restore circulation in his legs after sitting so long on the frozen sidewalk.
An odd thing happened. His approach earned a quick, knife-sharp glare from Varzha. Afterward, the moment remained etched in Luri’s thoughts. Though they had never exchanged as much as a single word, he fancied that the girl knew him, and understood his role as a protector.
Her stern expression mystified him. Not pleading, not worried, and definitely not the closed Romani glare that is doled out to gadje like a dose of poison. There was mysterious meaning in her eyes, meaning that froze Luri in his tracks. Stay clear.
Stunned, preoccupied by his own emotions, Luri stood paralyzed as the two men stole Varzha away. She seemed to accompany them willingly, throwing a curt word over her shoulder, once more ordering her brother to remain behind. The two males and the Romani girl turned down Klarabergsgatan toward the traffic circle at Sergels Torg. Varzha looked back occasionally to make sure that her brother did not follow.
The idea that Varzha was not being forced disturbed Luri. Why didn’t she struggle, call out? Do sheep go voluntarily to the slaughter?
He followed along. At first he still had eyes on the girl. Then other pedestrians swirled around her. She became blocked from his view, swallowed by the crowd. The white wedding dress disappeared amid the ocean of black and gray on the busy street. Was that to be his last glimpse of her?
The watcher had failed to watch. The guardian had dropped his guard.
He told himself not to be concerned. Varzha had only been removed briefly and would soon return. Perhaps someone from Swedish social services would interview her. He tried to erect a wall of calm within himself, but it was instantly beaten down by a sledgehammer of panic.
Chai nicabada! A young woman has been taken away!
Chai nicabada! A stolen maiden! Please help us!
There had been several teenage girls disappeared in the last year, perhaps a dozen, snatched from the Romani community in Stockholm. The phenomenon had triggered no
