days… well… they’ve felt like years. Like we’ve always been together. I don’t know how to explain it.’
‘Because we’ve met before? Is that what you are saying?’
‘Met before? No. I wasn’t…’
‘Alexi has told you I am hexi. This means I know things sometimes. Sense things. That happened with you. I instantly sensed that you meant the right thing by me. That you hadn’t killed Babel. I fought against it, but my instinct told me I was right. Alexi felt it too.’ She cast a surreptitious glance back towards the bed. ‘He’s not hexi, though. He’s just a stupid gypsy.’
Alexi made a rude sign at her but his heart wasn’t in it. He was watching her intently. Listening to her words.
‘We gypsies feel things stronger than payos and gadjes. We listen to the voices inside us. Sometimes it sends us wrong. Like it did with Babel. But most times it’s right.’
‘And where’s it sending you now?’
‘With you.’
‘Yola. This man is evil. Look what he did to you. To Babel. He would have killed Alexi, too, if we’d given him the time.’
‘You were going to leave without us. To sneak out at night. Like a thief. Weren’t you?’
‘Of course I wasn’t.’ Sabir could feel the lie reflected on his face. Even his mouth went loose in the telling of it, muffling his words.
‘Listen to me. You’re Babel’s phral. He exchanged his blood with you. Which means that we are related, all three of us, by blood as well as by law. So we’re going to this wedding. Together. We’re going to be happy and joyful and remind ourselves of what living on this earth really means. Then, when the morning after the wedding comes, you’ll stand in front of us and tell us whether you want us to go with you or not. I owe a duty to you now. You are my brother. The head of my family. If you tell me not to come, I shall obey. But you will scar my heart if you leave me behind. And Alexi loves you like a brother. He will weep and be sad to know you do not trust him.’
Alexi put on a mournful face, only half mitigated by the holes left by his missing teeth.
‘All right, Alexi. You don’t need to lay it on with a trowel.’ Sabir stood up. ‘Now that you’ve decided what it is we need to do, Yola, could you please tell me if there is anywhere to wash and shave around here?’
‘Come outside. I will show you.’
Sabir caught Yola’s warning look just as he was about to include Alexi in his intended exodus. Clutching the blanket about him like a Roman toga, he followed her out of the hut.
She stood, hands on her hips, looking out over the camp. ‘You see that man? The blond one who is watching us from the steps of the new caravan?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wants to kidnap me.’
‘Yola…’
‘His name is Gavril. He hates Alexi because Alexi’s father was a chief and gave a ruling against his family that resulted in an exile.’
‘An exile?’
‘That is when a person is banished from the tribe. Gavril is angry, also, that he is blond and an only child. People say that he was abducted from a gadje woman. That his mother couldn’t have children of her own and so her husband did this terrible thing. So he is doubly angry.’
‘And yet he wants to kidnap you?’
‘He is not really interested in me. He just pesters me to go behind the hedge with him because he knows it angers Alexi. I was hoping he would not be here. But he is. He will be happy that Alexi has been injured. Happy that he has lost some teeth and cannot afford to replace them.’
Sabir could feel the tectonic plates of his former certainties shifting and resettling themselves into a subtly different configuration. He was getting used to the feeling now. Almost liking it. ‘And what do you want me to do about him?’
‘I want you to watch out for Alexi. Stay with him. Don’t let him drink too much. In our weddings, men and women are separated, for the most part and I will not be able to protect him from himself. This man, Gavril, means badly by us. You are Alexi’s cousin. Once you’ve been introduced to the head man here and formally invited to the wedding, people will stop staring at you and you will be able to blend in more. No one will dare to denounce you. Now you stick out like an albino.’
‘Yola. Can I ask you a question?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why does everything have to be so damned complicated around you?’
56
Captain Bartolomeo Villada i Llucanes, of the Policia Local de Catalunya, offered Calque a Turkish cigarette from the amber cigarette box he kept in a specially carved indentation on his desk.
‘Do I look like a smoker?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re right. I am. But my doctor has warned me to give up.’
‘Does your doctor smoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does your undertaker smoke?’
‘Probably.’
‘Well then.’
Calque took the cigarette, lit it and inhaled. ‘Why is it that something which kills you can also make you feel the most alive?’
Villada sighed. ‘It is what is called by the philosophers a paradox. When God made us, he decided that literalism would be the bane of the world. He therefore invented the paradox to counteract it.’
‘But how do we counteract the paradox?’
‘By taking it literally. See. You are smoking. And yet you understand the paradox of your position.’
Calque smiled. ‘Will you do as I ask, then? Will you take this risk with your men? I would fully understand if you decided against it.’
‘You really believe that Sabir will abandon his friends and come alone? And that the man you call the eye-man will follow him?’
‘They both need to know what is on the base of La Morenita. Just as I do. Can you arrange it?’
‘A visit to La Morenita will be arranged. In the interests of cross-border cooperation, needless to say.’ Villada gave an ironical inclination of the head. ‘As for the other thing…’ He tapped his lighter on the desk, swivelling it from back to front between his fingers. ‘I shall stake out the Sanctuary, as you suggest. For three nights only. The Virgen de Montserrat has much significance for Catalunya. My mother would never forgive me if I allowed her to be violated.’
57
Sabir didn’t feel entirely comfortable in his borrowed suit. The lapels were nearly a foot wide and the jacket fitted him like a morning coat – in fact, it made him look like Cab Calloway in Stormy Weather. The shirt, too, left something to be desired; he had never been fond of sunflowers and waterwheels, particularly in terms of creative design. The tie was of the fluorescent kipper variety and clashed abominably with his shirt, which itself clashed with the maroon stripes which some joker of a tailor had allowed to be interleaved throughout the suiting material. At least the shoes were his own.
‘You look fantastic. Like a gypsy. If you didn’t have that payo mug of yours, I’d want you for a brother.’
