Disharmony

Esmeralda Florica Anghelescu, daughter of Djordji Boiko Gabor. I met you once before, twelve years ago or more at a festival in Craiova.’

The king made a noise deep in his throat. ‘You must forgive me, Esmeralda Florica Anghelescu, daughter of Djordji Boiko Gabor, that I do not recall our meeting,’ he said, gold teeth flashing. ‘However, I find that I recall very little, if anything, of that place. In fact, I remember nothing of my life before I came to Pantelimon.’

The cowboy driver spat in the dirt.

Samantha watched Tamas clench his fists at his sides.

‘Of course we forgive our gypsy king,’ said Lala, limping forward. ‘I am, however, afraid that I must lay claim to the poorest memory of the land. It is my age, you see.’ She smiled widely. ‘But you must be hot and thirsty, your Grace, and we have prepared something modest, if unfit, for our king. Would you please do us the honour of lunching with us?’

At the table under the trees, ashamed that she cared, Samantha felt suddenly conscious of every chip and scratch in their crockery and glasses. Still, for a midweek lunch, with less than half the camp present, it was a lavish banquet. Esmeralda’s chicken rice was to die for, as always, and she’d also prepared a sweet, garlicky, tomato-based stew with the last of their lamb. A giant glass bowl brimming with dressed salad leaves, young cucumber, cubed avocado and marinated olives sat in the centre of the table. Next to it was a plate of plump chicken livers seared with garlic and onions and served drizzled in olive oil. With the warm freshly cooked loaves of bread, hot buttered potatoes in their jackets, ears of corn, and a week’s worth of cheese surrounded by fat black cherries on a platter, Samantha could think of no table more deserving of the title: fit for a king.

Unfortunately, their guests did not seem to agree. Lala made certain their goblets were brimming with wine, and that their wide-bottomed water glasses were always topped up with whisky, but, with the exception of alcohol, the king accepted only a plate of salad and some cheese. And the driver merely moved food around on his plate with a fork.

Well, a low-carb diet might help each of them a smidge, thought Samantha, scooping up lamb stew with bread and shovelling it in. But did these two have to poke the food around quite so gingerly, as though they’d never before seen anything like it?

‘So,’ said the gypsy king, taking a sip from his glass, ‘this is the camp of the famous stolen Gaje princess?’

Lala laughed falsely. Next to Samantha, Mirela choked on an olive. Tamas sat bolt upright in his chair and Esmeralda gripped her fork tighter. Sam felt everyone at the table shift slightly. For the first time, she wished the menfolk were here.

‘Ha ha,’ said Lala. ‘Yes, yes. Step right up! See the Gaje princess stolen by gypsies! I apologise, your Highness, that we have stooped as low as to have adopted the ultimate Gaje stereotype: that the Roma steal innocent babies. But can you blame us? The world wants the fantasy! They want to believe that gypsies really do steal children from their beds in the middle of the night. As if we do not have enough difficulty fending for our own.’

Esmeralda coughed and Lala quickly changed tack.

‘Oh, but not that we Roma are not prospering in our own right, just as we desire,’ she said, smiling, her favourite orange lipstick smearing her front teeth. ‘It’s just that fifteen years ago we were left with a sick and suffering Gaje baby. A little girl. She was just dumped with us, with no one to defend her. Please, your Grace, you would surely understand – to take this baby to the Romanian police – how could we explain how she came to be with us, and who would care about our story anyway? The baby girl would have gone straight to a Romanian orphanage, and whoever had carried her to the police would have gone directly to jail.’ Lala took a quick sip from her ruby goblet and continued. ‘But our camp kept the orphaned baby and we have saved everyone the trouble. She is now a much-loved member of our family.’

‘And well you did too,’ said the king, raising his glass. ‘And this is why I am proud to be the king of the Roma. To the Roma!’

Everybody raised their glass in toast and drank.

And then waited.

‘And this brings me to why I have come to visit you all today,’ said the king. Beads of sweat pimpled the top of his bald head, and the neckline of his robes shone wetly. ‘Many have told me what wonderful people you are here.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Esmeralda.

‘And several people have mentioned that your witch is very skilled indeed.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Lala.

The king turned to face Lala. ‘And lately there has been talk that your understudy, the Gaje Princess, may also have some potential.’

Samantha felt someone kick her under the table and from the corner of her eye she saw Mirela sitting with a studiously innocent expression.

‘She’s but a child,’ said Lala. ‘However, she is doing her best to learn the basics. Maybe in years to come she will prove to have some talent.’

Hey, thought Samantha, thanks a lot.

‘Yes, well.’ The king daintily lifted a lettuce leaf to his mouth. Samantha was betting he’d have his cowboy drive him directly to McDonald’s when they left. ‘I am prepared to visit with her today to see how she is progressing,’ he said.

‘You are too kind, your Grace,’ said Lala. ‘It is good of you to try to encourage the youth in this way. However, I must insist that we offer you the very best of our hospitality. I regret that my son, Milosh, is not here to welcome you properly. But when it comes to offering you luck and blessings, as the senior witch I would be delighted to provide you with my service. After lunch, we will go to my caravan to discuss your needs.’

The king took another sip of whisky. ‘Thank you, no,’ he said. ‘The girl will be fine.’

Samantha was having a hard time sensing the mood of the king. From the driver she felt disdain, mild revulsion. She found it difficult to even look at him. But the king seemed to have no very strong emotions at all – his urbane speech did not seem to mask anything sinister. Perhaps he was just curious about her. Well, she didn’t have a problem with giving him a blessing or a good-luck charm. She just couldn’t understand why the rest of her family seemed so uptight about it.

Wait till I tell Birthday Jones about this, thought Sam. He’ll never believe me, of course, but when he hears it from everyone he’ll have to.

She went back for seconds of the chicken rice.

***

It was immediately obvious that the king was too huge to sit opposite Sam in the client’s chair. For a few tense moments, she’d been worried about him being able to make it into the caravan at all. The front step had been the first problem, but when he’d heaved his way up that with his driver pushing him from behind, there’d been the issue of the narrow front door. While she and Lala pretended not to look, the king turned sideways and scraped his way in. When the driver followed, the king turned towards him, his head stooped a little under the low ceiling.

‘We’ll be fine, thank you, Boldo,’ he said.

Boldo scowled, but turned around to leave. Tamas stood in the doorway.

‘What do you want?’ said Boldo.

‘I’m coming in,’ said Tamas.

‘The hell you are,’ said Boldo, hand on his holster.

Blazing emotions suddenly ricocheted around the small space, absorbing all the air. The room grew darker. Sam gasped.

‘Tamas, my child,’ said Lala from somewhere behind the king’s vast body. ‘Would you please be a good boy and bring cold juice for all of us? Or would you prefer something else to drink, your Grace?’

‘Coca-Cola,’ said the king.

‘Three cans of Coke, Tamas, please. In the fridge by the truck. It is very warm in here, so hurry along.’

Tamas stood still, eyes locked on the bodyguard’s.

Go, please, Tamas, thought Samantha. Don’t start something with a man with a gun!

She felt the heat in the van fall when Tamas spoke. He continued to stare at the driver as he answered Lala.