“Magnificent,” he pronounced, examining her outfit. He gave a practiced kiss on both cheeks.
“I feel pampered by you,” Brand said.
“Sit, sit! I will pamper you still. I’ve ordered coffee and pastries.” His enthusiasm felt designed to be contagious, but Brand was immune to the man’s charms. She didn’t feel she could cozy up to him. The civilized, well-dressed gent beside her was also the brutal strongman who engineered the violence that went down on the banks of the Hede River. And the Manor House, and the blizzard attack at Västvall. She felt like seizing his hands and examining them, see if they still had blood on them.
The server arrived, a young woman carrying a pair of porcelain cups steaming with coffee so black it looked like tar.
“Doppio espresso, fair-trade, shade-grown, French roast,” Moro said in a sardonic tone.
“Yes, that’s right,” the server said. “So, who called this meeting?” she added, chirping out a riffy question from a popular television show.
“I did,” Brand and Moro both answered simultaneously, dutifully completing the joke. But Brand got the idea that although she was familiar with the pop-culture reference, Moro might have taken the line seriously. At least, he didn’t laugh along with them. She saw his eyes narrow and once again caught a glimpse of the sinister Moro, but just for a moment, before being replaced by the benign Moro. It was enough to scare the server into a quick retreat.
“Despite the rumors, I am not the King of the Roma,” Moro said mournfully.
“And yet here you sit with a gentile in a Swedish café.”
“Far away from the blue skies of the land where I was born.” Moro drained his double-shot espresso in the European way, with one throat-searing gulp.
His whole mien was sorrowful, which was puzzling in a person about to preside over a happy occasion like a marriage engagement. Then again, Brand thought, what would be the appearance of someone who had recently set about committing a series of ruthless murders, as vicious as any she had seen?
“I honor you,” Moro said, “in recognition of your efforts on the part of my people.”
“Thank you, although I fear I’ve caused you more trouble than I’m worth,” Brand said. She sat back to display the gold necklace that Varzha had given her. “Do I make for a convincing gypsy?”
“No,” Moro said. “You could maybe fool the gadje, but never the Romani. You are only guilty of the serious crime of cultural appropriation.”
Brand laughed. “Do we go now?” she asked. “Your man Sandri told me the cathedral will be busy today. Lots of different services.”
“Not quite yet. I too have a gift for you. But first I must tell you a story.”
Ah, yes, Brand thought. With Moro, there will always be a story.
“I wonder if you know that Gustav Dalgren was a hero among the Roma. From your puzzled look I see that you do not. But in the years before the fascists targeted our people he acted as a great supporter. He idolized Ivar Lo Johansson’s novel on the Roma, Zigenare, and set out to follow the author’s footsteps. Gustav spent ‘a summer on the homeless people’s hiking trails.’ I never met the man myself, but his name is still pronounced among Romani. He foresaw the genocide, the slaughter of the pharrajimos, what you in the West label the Holokosto.”
Brand had a vague awareness that during WWII a half million Roma perished in Nazi death camps. But she wondered where Moro was going with all this. Gustav a gypsy hero? Really? Part of her was becoming weary of the past. Events of more than a half century ago kept erupting into the present. At the moment the whole business struck her as tiresome and annoying.
“The Romani still maintain the legend of Gustav Dalgren. I will tell you a story of your grandparents during those years, Gustav and Klara, a terrible story that has come down to me.”
Brand almost interrupted Moro with a “please don’t.” The man bulled forward.
“A gentleman named Loke Voss led the brownshirts in Härjedalen. They loved to smash Romani skulls. The only one who stood up for us was Gustav Dalgren. He would not back down. He spoke out all the time, for Roma, for the workers, for the poor and powerless. His newspaper Nordic Light was like a poke in Hitler’s eye. Everyone knew Gustav walked around with a big fat target on his back. Voss and his troops were out to execute him.”
“I know all this,” Brand said. “I mean, I know about the newspaper arson.”
“You know, but you do not know,” Moro responded.
“I have come to suspect that I am somehow here in Sweden to confront Loke Voss,” Brand said, her tone a little snappish.
“Confront. What does that mean?”
“I will expose him as the one who lit the match.”
“Yes, yes, a worthy pursuit. But I wonder if all this confronting and exposing goes far enough. I was in the middle of telling you a story.”
“Yes, forgive me,” Brand said sarcastically. “I must have been distracted by the enthralling nature of the tale. Please continue.”
Moro nodded, taking her words at face value. “In the spring of 1940, two women climb a hillside above Västvall village. The first of May. Snow still lies on the ground. As they hike they dream back over their childhoods, warmer days and better times. The village children all played up here together, racing through the forests and fields, at times lying lazily atop the cows chewing cud, the hot animal scent filling their nostrils.”
How could Moro possibly know all this? Brand wondered. Snow still lies thick on the ground? It was all pure fantasy and embellishment.
“The day I speak about, the women are older and they have put aside their childish things. Two sisters on the threshold of adulthood, one 21, on 19. They go in secret, telling no one, especially not Gustav Dalgren.”
“Wait,” Brand said. Two sisters? This was a story of
