Chapter Forty-two

 

 

The Storm

 

 

On the night the Romani left Marseilles, Mala had returned to camp in the midst of the storm. Despite the raging wind and rain, she rousted all those from the shelter of their wagons. “Harness the horses!” she cried to the men in a furor. “Fernando, we’re leaving Marseilles immediately!”

The others thought it a ruse of some kind at first. Noticing the fire in Mala’s eyes, they quickly began preparations to depart despite their hesitancy to take on the storm. Fernando, immediately guessed that Tristan was the root of the issue. Earlier, when Mala had insisted on remaining in town while sending the others to batten down the camp, he had suspected that Mala was planning to rendezvous with Tristan. Something went afoul, he now thought. They must have fought.

Consequently, Fernando was more than pleased to be leaving Marseilles, even in the midst of a storm. While Duxia was scurrying about with Mala hitching the horses to her wagon, he pulled her aside. “Something’s happened between Mala and that Tristan character,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Yes, I’ve seen her angry before,” Fernando said, “although never quite like this. Not sure what happened in town, but it’s got something to do with him. Perhaps he’s jealous of me and said something that made her angry.”

Duxia’s first inclination was to laugh. Instead she replied, “Ah, probably so, Fernando. She holds you close to her heart you know, of all you do for her, and no suitor will long tolerate a competitor! I’ll ride with her tonight, Fernando, and learn what’s happened.” Then she crawled up onto the seat of Mala’s wagon, impatient to discover the cause of Mala’s rash behavior. Due to the ferocity of the storm, it was not until hours later when they were well away from Marseilles that she was able to utter the first word to Mala, whose entire attention was focused on the struggle to see ahead through the blackness of night and pelting rain while trying to keep the horses on the road.

“Something has come between you and the Saint-Germain boy?” Duxia said finally.

Her eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, Mala shivered a moment. Tightening her shawl about her shoulders, she said nothing.

“Ay, Dear, though you may not wish to talk,” Duxia continued, “this old woman beside you understands. I have felt such disappointment… and it’s a crushing thing, heartbreak.” Of course, Duxia had no idea what had happened in town, but Mala’s quiet nod told Duxia that she had, indeed, fallen onto fertile ground. “And I won’t lie to you, Dear, time will do little to make you forget such a deep wound. Nature leaves a scar so you’ll always remember the hurt. Whatever you do, Mala, don’t follow my path.”

At this, Mala slowly shrugged, and muttered, “And what path is that, Duxia?”

“The path of self-destruction that hope brings, Girl. Hope parts the briars ahead and lures you forward onto its primrose trail, then closes all about you, trapping you in a thorny thicket of loneliness and rejection. No, the only cure for such a situation as yours is to abandon hope and make a new beginning. And that’s what I failed to do with Guntar the Mace. I hoped, I wept, I prayed to no avail. Then one day I woke up old and ugly and bitter, all because I clung to hope rather than make a new beginning. I therefore pray that you don’t make my mistake.”

Wiping rain from her brow, Mala nodded again. “A new beginning?” she said, ready to talk. “Yes, Tristan holds no future for me, and never did, actually. I see that now. Might it have been possible to keep him? No, because of God. Tristan is, after all, a Benedictine reform monk.” The immediate image of Tristan’s face arose in her mind, causing her to bite her lip as the heaviness lumping in her throat then forced from her a mournful laugh. “Ha! It was a girlish fantasy.” Then she fell silent again. Her voice had arrived at that stage when one ceases speaking for fear of weeping.

Mala’s relentless drive forward did not end until dawn as sporadic gusts of wind continued to batter the treetops. The rain had ceased, and as Mala pulled her wagon off the road into a small clearing, the others wagons followed.

“We’ll sleep here,” she said to Fernando, her voice lacking all trace of emotion.

“Could you at least tell us where we’re headed?” asked Fernando.

“No,” said Mala.

“Well then, is there any sort of plan I can share with the others?”

“No.”

Accepting his questions were useless, he said, “Very well, Mala, whatever you decide, I’ll stand by you.”

“Thank you, Fernando,” Mala replied, studying his expression a moment with vacant eyes. Then she disappeared into the back of her wagon, fell asleep, and did not stir until late that night. Crawling from her wagon, she found all the Romani seated about a blazing fire, in discussion.

“What’s going on here?” she said, yawning, still half asleep.

“They’re trying to figure out your intentions,” said Fernando. “As I said before, I will stand by whatever you decide, but some of the others are less certain. It would help, of course, if you could give them some specifics.”

She looked at the fire a moment, then her eyes shifted from one member of the camp to another. “Have I not always provided for each of you?” she said, her displeasure evident. “And I will continue to do so.”

“We were doing so well in Marseilles,” said one of the other men. “The money was coming in nicely there, better than anywhere we’ve ever been. Leaving doesn’t make any sense, Mala, and...”

“Who leads this troupe?” Mala interrupted, crossing her arms.

“You do,” the man said, looking to the others for support, but he found none.

“Very well then, you can either trust in my leadership, or strike out on your own,” Mala said matter-of-factly. Then she turned and quietly disappeared into her wagon.

The others looked at each other, several shaking their heads. “Well then,” said Fernando as others grumbled, “there it is, simply put. You either stay or go. As for me, I stay.”

“Yes, me also,” said Duxia who was seated next to Fernando. “I’ve not been with you long, but long enough to see that it’s Mala who draws the crowd and brings in the money. Yes, your music’s fine, but it’s her dancing and beauty that lures the crowd.”

Knowing that Duxia was right, the grumbling ceased. The mood was such that most left the fire and retired to their wagons. “I’ll stay a while longer,” mumbled one of the men as he left, “but another crazy thing like leaving in the midst of a storm at midnight, and I’m gone.” The woman next to him nodded, as did several others.

That next morning Mala assembled the Romani, and acting as though nothing had happened in Marseilles, said, “We are moving to Lyons.”

“Lyons?” said Fernando.

“Yes, it’s a large city, and being to the north and not far from the mountains, the people there have never heard music such as ours and have never encountered Romani. Their curiosity will earn us a decent living, as good as Marseilles I venture to say.”

Though several of the musicians had hoped somehow that Mala might soften her stance about returning to the profitable harbor of Marseilles, Mala’s reasoning seemed to placate most of the others.

“Very well, Mala,” said Fernando. Then he signaled to the others and said, “break camp, we leave immediately.”

It was a different Mala that left camp that morning, as the other Romani were soon to discover. The generosity and kind consideration for others that was so attractive about her and characteristic of her nature seemed to melt away by degrees. And though she returned to her dancing with a newfound fervor, she did not display the playfully flirtatious mannerisms that attracted women and men alike. Rather, her dancing became more sullen and promiscuous, aimed strictly at separating men from their purses. It also became evident that she was becoming distrustful of men, despising them unless they gave her money. And as they worked the streets of Lyons, the money fell easily precisely as Mala had promised. The foreign complexion, lively music, and colorful clothing of the Romani were novel there. Above all, the dark, exotic beauty and lithe movements of their dancing queen became the sensation of men seeking entertainment throughout the city.

The musicians were, of course, pleased at this unexpected reversal of fortune. Whereas Mala had always generated a decent living for them, their earnings now doubled, as did the size of the crowds which were completely comprised of men. These all male crowds were more boisterous than the previously mixed crowds, and were often filled with drunks uttering profanity and inappropriate comments. Their lewd behavior only seemed to fuel Mala’s dancing, which in turn generated even more coin.

“Ah, we’ve never done better!” the musicians commented among themselves, though they increasingly found themselves in the midst of altercations between overzealous spectators filled with drink and lechery. These altercations then slowly escalated into involving the Romani themselves as they began to find it necessary to intercede as men began grabbing at Mala and trying to touch her. Fernando actually handled the bulk of such muscle work, but increasingly found himself calling for assistance from the others.

Duxia, took due note of Mala’s transformation and became increasingly concerned, despite being jubilant that Mala appeared to have set Tristan aside completely. Though she was elated, it appeared that Mala had set Tristan aside completely. She also could see that Mala’s recent behavior was an unwelcome descent of sorts. And despite the old woman’s bitterness about life, Duxia had actually come to care for Mala. For Duxia, Mala had at first been a generous hand that helped her one day along the side of the road. Her generosity quickly reeled Duxia in upon inviting her to join the Romani caravan despite the fact the old woman had nothing to contribute in exchange for food and shelter.

Then Mala had insisted that Duxia ride with her as they traveled, and as the days and weeks passed, Duxia found herself being inextricably drawn to her. This in turn reminded her of those happy early years with Asta in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and Duxia felt the tug of affection pulling her whenever she looked at Mala. Then the two began sharing secrets and intimate conversation, which cemented an unspoken bond that both valued.

This bond developed naturally, then, because the human heart when it’s lost something of significance, seeks to replace it. Duxia, finally accepting that she had been preyed upon by Guntar the Mace, had then lost the thing she treasured above all else: Asta. And now, it was almost as though God had miraculously recreated the beautiful Asta in another form. And for Mala who had lost her mother years before to Spain, Duxia fell easily into her shadow. She, like Mala’s mother, had experienced a difficult life and reached the point of near helplessness. In a way then, though Mala could no longer do anything for her mother, she could now at least help another who reminded her of her mother.

The truth was, then, that Duxia’s horror when she found out about Mala’s relationship with Tristan was not so much an issue of jealousy, but an issue of profound personal concern for Mala’s future. When a caring elder watches a younger loved one blindly and happily rushing over a ledge, that elder will do anything possible to avert what is perceived as inevitable disaster. And to Duxia, Tristan spelled imminent disaster for Mala, exactly as Guntar had for herself. With Mala’s changed persona, Duxia sensed trouble of a different thread weaving itself before her very eyes, and felt chilled by it.

Mala sensed no such thing. What she felt was an iron resolve to strengthen herself and her position in life. Because of Tristan, she now felt preyed upon in Marseilles, and something of the wild beast developed in her as a result. And though she had felt the ground giving out beneath her feet at first as a new loneliness invaded her life, worse than the one she had imagined before, she felt it necessary to bury the memory of Tristan and let it lay dead forever. So her old dreams fell aside like wounded sparrows in the mud, and new ones took their place, the primary of which was to somehow acquire wealth at the expense of men.

“I have a short time to fill the treasury,” she said coldly to Duxia one day. “I shall not remain young forever.”

“Oh, Dear,” Duxia warned, “the wealthy are victims of misery also. Money, though nice, does not buy happiness.”

“Oh, listen to you now, Duxia,” Mala remarked with raillery. “Was it not you who warned me of waking up one day only to discover old age and helplessness?”

“Yes, I also said you should make a new beginning, and the purpose of such a thing is to seek happiness, which I never did. You should find a man who treats you well and cares about you… such as Fernando.”

“Fernando?” Mala said, surprised. “Ha! He has little to offer, Duxia!”

“No, I don’t mean take up with Fernando, I mean find a man who treats you like Fernando, with adoration. Forego promiscuity and insist on marriage. With your looks, Dear, it would not be difficult, I assure you.”

“Marry for money?” Mala laughed. “Why not take men’s money, then be free of them altogether?”

“My Dear,” said Duxia, studying Mala a moment with shrewd eyes, “marriage to the right man brings legitimacy and stability, especially to foreign women such as you and me. Yes, if you snared a nobleman.” she said, pausing. “An older one,” she then added.

Mala scoffed at the idea. “We are doing quite alright at the moment,” she replied. “If we continue as we are, perhaps we could settle here in Lyons, open a little shop of some sort.” Then she pursed her lips into that little circle that occurs when dreamers envision themselves attaining their goal. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Duxia? Just you and me. No more wagons, no more uncertainty.”

Duxia nodded though Mala’s words spawned in her a sudden current of dread. Old Duxia was not accustomed to things working in her favor, and Mala’s idea sounded far too simple. Thinking on the proposition a moment, Duxia closed her eyes to imagine such a tranquil, rooted existence in Lyons, but then her eyelids fluttered rapidly, as if enmeshed in the countless threads of a bad dream, as that elusive feeling of something bad forming itself in the future seized her.

“Oh!” she cried, her eyes popping open.

“Duxia, what is it?” said Mala, noticing the old woman’s alarm.

“Nothing, Dear.” Duxia replied, her temples reddening. “Nothing at all.”

 

***

 

Mala’s erotic dancing and the Romani music continued to draw heavy crowds of men at night, and Mala continued to hoard gold coins for two months in her wagon, intent on opening a small shop down in the market district of Lyons. One evening in early September as she was in the midst of an especially physical dance, she swooned, nearly collapsing to the ground. She stumbled about awkwardly for several seconds, then continued dancing, but a short while later she felt dizzy and again nearly collapsed.

“Here, here,” said Duxia, running to her side and steadying her. “You’re exhausted, Dear, you’ve been working too hard. Come sit down.” Then Duxia gestured to Fernando with a chop to her neck. “We’re done for the night!” she said.

That night in camp Duxia tended carefully to Mala in her wagon, but by morning Mala only felt worse. “I feel ill,” she said, grasping her throat. Then she leaned over and retched. “Arhg!” she stammered. Then, blinking several times in succession, she set her head back down on her blanket and closed her eyes. “T-tell Fernando… I won’t be… working tonight, Duxia. I don’t feel well.”

Duxia had turned cold and white as a stone. Sitting there watching Mala, she had been struck by a frightening reality, and was chasing it wildly about in her head. “Yes, Dear,” she whispered, then quickly crawling out of the wagon, she stood and cast her eyes skyward. She stood there staring at the clouds, studying their formation and following their movement. Then, after a long while, she nodded to herself and scowled knowingly, as though the clouds had confirmed what she had already begun to suspect in the wagon.

“What’re you doing?” said Fernando who was watching from a distance. “Another storm coming?”

“No,” said Duxia, gesturing for him to approach. “Something else, Fernando, something much worse, a baby is on the way.”