The Star of Kazan

19 Gypsies

Annika was just dropping off to sleep that night when she heard the creak of her bedroom door being opened. Then footsteps — but she had no time to feel frightened before she heard Zed’s voice.

‘Get up and get dressed. Put on warm things and come downstairs. Don’t let anyone see you.’

She fumbled her way into her clothes and found Zed in the hall, waiting.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘The gypsies are here. They’re camped on the other side of Felsen Woods. I said I’d take you.’

She followed him out of the house and into the courtyard. It was a clear, cold night, and in the lane she could make out Rocco, packed up and waiting.

‘Are we riding?’

‘You are. It isn’t far. I’ll lead you.’

Annika followed him, her eyes gradually getting used to the darkness. ‘But you can’t walk all that way.’

Zed ignored this. He helped her to mount and adjusted the stirrups.

‘Just grip hard with your knees.’

It was like being in a dream, except colder and more uncomfortable. The stirrup leathers pinched her legs.

‘Won’t they mind me?’

‘No. You’re my friend.’

‘Do you know them then? The ones that are camped here?’

Zed shrugged. ‘They’re from Hungary and on the way to the Horse Fair at Stettin. They may have known my mother, she came from there. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll welcome us.’

They met no one on the dark road.

‘Are you all right?’ Annika asked after an hour.

‘Don’t fuss.’

They had come to the part of the wood where they had hidden from the bailiffs. Now Rocco’s ears went forward. He whinnied excitedly and answering whinnies came from behind the trees. They skirted a coppice and came out at a patch of waste ground.

It was like coming suddenly to a lighted stage. Fires burned and crackled, lanterns hung between the trees. There were wagons and tethered horses — and everywhere movement and bustle and life.

Annika had thought she knew what gypsies were like. They lived in brightly painted caravans, they cooked hedgehogs in clay pots, the girls wore flounced petticoats and golden earrings. They made clothes pegs and told fortunes… they stole babies.

But these gypsies were not like that. Some of the wagons were brightly painted but some were ordinary wooden wagons of the kind used by tradesmen. The young girls who were busy with the cooking wore gold loops in their ears, and bangles, but most of the women looked like the village people Annika had met everywhere, with thick shawls and woollen skirts.

And they didn’t look at all like people who stole babies; they looked, after days of travelling, too tired for anything like that.

Now an elderly man came forward. He wore a baggy suit and a woollen cap; his black eyes were bright and eager, and his enormous moustache curved round his face like a scimitar.

‘Izidor,’ he said, introducing himself, and it was clear from the way the others hung back and let him speak that he was the ‘father’ of the group; the man who gave the orders.

Zed bowed his head. ‘Zedekiah Malakov,’ he replied, giving his full name.

There was a murmur from the onlookers. Old Izidor pulled Zed closer to the light of the fire and studied his face. Then he nodded.

‘You have her eyes,’ he said in his own language. ‘We remember her.’

Annika had dismounted and was holding Rocco, standing outside the circle of light. Now Zed turned and took the bridle and led him forward.

‘Rocco,’ he said, presenting his horse.

Izidor had been pleased to see Zed, but the sight of Rocco overwhelmed him. He whistled through his teeth, he passed his hands over Rocco’s flank… Carefully he removed Rocco’s saddle and handed it to a man standing by so that he could run his fingers over the horse’s back.

‘Zverno?’ he asked, recognizing the stud, and Zed nodded.

Two trusty youths were summoned and allowed to lead Rocco to the patch of grass where the other horses were tethered. Water was brought for him, and handfuls of hay… More and more admirers came to stroke him; girls as much as men.

After that it was Annika’s turn. As Zed took her to old Izidor she was very nervous. She knew that gypsies did not approve of outsiders, of gadjos, and she knew that compared to a finely bred horse she did not count for much — but she gave her hand to Izidor and then, remembering her manners, she curtsied.

Then came the meal. They sat round the largest of the fires and ate some delicious meat roasted with herbs and the fiery paprika they had brought with them from the south. A girl of about Annika’s own age came and sat beside her. She was cradling a small grey kitten, which she put in Annika’s hand.

‘Rosina,’ she said, but it was not clear if she was naming the kitten or herself.

But Zed did not forget his promise. In halting Romany, mixed with Hungarian, he explained that Annika had never heard proper gypsy music.

The men were sleepy now, some had gone back into the caravans, but Annika had left her mark: not many little gadjo girls had curtsied to old Izidor. He clapped his hands and demanded music — and when Izidor demanded something, he got it.

Annika had seen gypsy musicians in their colourful romantic costumes in the cafes in Vienna. They had beribboned guitars and celestas and cymbalines and exotic-looking instruments of which she did not know the names.

The men who came out of the caravans were not like that. Yawning, rubbing their eyes, they came out of their wagons carrying battered fiddles, ancient cellos, accordions with worn-looking keys.

And then they started to play.

At first Annika did not like the sound they made; it was so different from the lilting Viennese waltzes she was used to. This music attacked you; it was fierce and angry… at least it was at first; she listened to it with clenched hands. Then suddenly one of the fiddlers stepped forward and played a melody that soared and wreathed and fastened itself round the heart — a sad tune that sounded as if it was gathering up all the unhappiness in the world — and then the other musicians joined in again and it was as though the sadness had been set free. The music was no longer about life being sad and lonely. It was about life being difficult, but also exciting and surprising and sublime.

When the players stopped, Annika shook her head, bewildered to find herself still on solid ground. She had hardly returned to the real world when something happened that frightened her badly.

Izidor was speaking to Zed and what he said was important because the others fell silent. If she did not understand all the words, Annika understood the gestures that went with them perfectly.

Izidor was asking Zed if he would go along with them. He pointed to his caravan and to the old woman who stood on the steps, nodding, agreeing with what he said. He pointed to Rocco, grazing peacefully under the trees.

Then he repeated his offer. Zed was one of them, he said. He belonged and so did his horse.

Annika held her breath.

But Zed had shaken his head. He pointed to Annika, and back in the direction of Spittal.

‘Not yet,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Not now.’

Izidor drove her back in a small cart to which he had hitched one of his horses, while Zed rode Rocco beside them. The little girl with the kitten came too and as they stopped at the turning to Spittal, she put the kitten firmly into Annika’s lap. It was a present.

Annika’s hand closed round the soft warm fur and she realized how badly she wanted something living of her own. But Zed leaned down and said something to the girl in her own language, and she looked troubled and bewildered. Then she gave a sad shake of her head and took the kitten back again.

‘What did you tell her?’ asked Annika after the cart had turned back.

‘I told her that Spittal was not a good house for animals.’

Zed took her to the door and she got back safely to her room, but it would be a long time before she forgot the evening. Would Zed really be able to resist what his people offered: the warmth, the firelight, the freedom — and the care they would give his horse?

He had refused to go with them. ‘Not now,’ he had said. ‘Not yet.’ But ‘Not ever’? She did not think he had said that.