Ascension (12 page)

“Night fell and again she rose to life, and again she begged him to return her. He heard her brothers’ horses, and he fled with his beloved. Just as dawn broke the brothers caught them, but again he was saved by the rising sun. So this went on for weeks.

“Gradually, though, the woman began to fall in love with this Rom who would give up so much to be with her. Finally, she could deny him no longer, and she told him how to stop her brothers. ‘You must wait until the day breaks, and then you must bury their bodies properly in the ground under a cross. You must bury me likewise, else a curse will befall us.’

“The Rom did not like the sound of this. ‘What will happen to you? When will I see you again?’ The woman hid her face in her hands. ‘One night a year, I will come to you. Beyond that, I will be with you in the next life.’

“The Rom did not like these terms, but seeing no other way, he agreed. When the day came, he took the bodies of the dead Roma and he buried them in consecrated earth and marked their graves with a cross. He put the woman in her grave, but he saw her lovely face before he covered her over, and he could not bring
himself to do it. He removed her from her tomb and waited for night to fall.

“Darkness came and the woman rose to life. ‘What have you done?’ she cried. The Rom told her he was sorry, that he couldn’t bury her, that he loved her too much. ‘We can be together now,’ he said. He moved to touch her—such was his folly—but the moment his skin met hers he turned to dust, and the woman was forced to wander the earth, untouchable, to pay for his sin. So may she still wander.”

All was quiet around the fire as the sombre story was reflected upon. Vedel slowly stuffed his pipe with cheap tobacco. After a short time someone took out a fiddle and the mood lightened, and soon people were dancing and singing. No one saw Etel shrink under her blanket. She lay as still as she could, trying not to shiver. She did not want to dance. I am dead, she thought. I have been dead for my whole life and no one knows. And though she did not entirely formulate the thought, she began to understand that the dead must not be loved.

It was dark in the beer hall. Salvo had to squint his burning eyes through smoke and flickering light to see his way across the room. It smelled of beer, sweat, meat and the pungent decay of every other tavern in the wide world.

Salvo had been making his living amidst smells like these for the three years since Esa Nagy had ordered him to leave the apartment on Viola Street and never return. She had told him this calmly and without malice, but there was no hesitation in her voice or manner.

When László Nagy had seen his soldier shattered on the floor, he had died a succession of tiny deaths. He died to think that his
beautiful, wondrous creation was destroyed; he died to think of the money he would not be paid for the obliterated soldier; he died to think of the money he would have to return to the collector to repay his deposit, money he no longer possessed; and he died to think of the likelihood of debtor’s prison, or worse. He crashed to the floor, where he lay with his mouth and eyes wide, making no sound, refusing to be roused, refusing to respond to Esa or Leo or Salvo. After Salvo left, Esa picked him up, moving his limp form to a chair. He didn’t speak a word.

A part of Salvo wished László had reacted differently. He was ashamed of what he had done, how he had brought this ruin upon them, his family. They had taken him in, and he in turn had destroyed their lives. He would have accepted any punishment to undo the damage. He did not think he would ever forget the way Leo had looked at him as he backed out the door of the apartment. It was as pure a look of hatred as he had ever seen.

Although Salvo was now eighteen, more than old enough to be on his own, he had no trade, no skills, no friends and was barely literate. Salvo Ursari was still a Rom, and no one wanted to hire a Rom. So he made a living in the taverns, performing handstands on the backs of chairs for whatever money the drunk and delirious saw fit to give him.

His situation was, Salvo believed, exactly what he deserved. Though he spent many hours trying to figure out why he had destroyed the soldier, and with it his aunt’s family, he was unable to arrive at any firm conclusion. Not for the first time in his life, Salvo wished he were someone else.

It was a poor way to live. He was perpetually hungry and in constant danger of being robbed, beaten up or otherwise injured. At least once a week some souse would attempt to replicate his feats of balancing, and—upon failing, which they always did—turn
violent. Or even worse, not turn violent. Instead, they would hold their grudges tightly to their chests like a child’s toy, and then the next week or month Salvo would feel a kick at the leg of his chair, which he sometimes recovered from and sometimes didn’t.

There was also the police. It wasn’t illegal for Salvo to balance for tips, but it was required that he purchase a licence, which cost far more than Salvo could ever hope to pay. Therefore, he had to be forever on the lookout for police, from whom he faced a combination of jail, beating, fines and robbery if caught.

This night in this tavern started out the same as any other. He moved from place to place, and this was his fourth stop that night. It was a place he usually skipped; it was favoured by a clientele that had little money to spare and plenty of ill will. On this occasion it seemed marginally cheerier than usual, and it had been a slow night for Salvo, so he went in.

He worked his way to the back, where the bar was, and after receiving a permissive nod from the man in charge, selected an empty chair in what was roughly the centre of the room. Round tables were scattered randomly throughout the bar, and while some people sat at these, others preferred to sit with their chairs against the wall or huddled in tight groups.

Salvo wiped the sweat from his hands and brow, adding to a darkened smear on the front of his shirt. After scanning the faces of those in his immediate vicinity and recognizing no one whom he knew to be a threat, he gripped the back of the chair and, with a grace that was startling to see in such a gaunt, dirty young man, neatly inverted himself. A few people directed their attention towards him, half-heartedly observing his efforts. Salvo shifted his hands towards each other until they were touching squarely underneath his head, then removed one of them from the chair. He released his grip and balanced with only one palm on the
chair. A few more people took notice of Salvo, turning to watch. Salvo extended his free arm until it was perpendicular to his body and then jerked it towards his torso. His body spun a full 360 degrees around, so quickly that some of the drunker members of his growing audience missed it. He switched hands on the chair and spun in the other direction, and no one missed it this time. Nearly everyone in the room was watching him now, even those who had seen his act before. Salvo felt the blood pound in his head, felt his muscles strain. But he was only getting started.

He crept his hand to the edge of the chair’s back and, with a deft shift of his weight, its front two legs lifted off the ground. He spun around to the left and to the right, and was rewarded with a few scattered cheers and approving laughs. He wrapped his fingers around the back and again shifted his weight. Salvo balanced upside down, with only one of the chair’s legs touching the ground. There were more cheers and laughs, and some patrons clinked their glasses in appreciation.

Abruptly, as if from nowhere, a face appeared in front of his. It appeared upside down to Salvo, the sly smile a pouting frown, the wide nostrils tunnelling deep towards brain. A slight kick rattled his chair, but Salvo recovered. Then came a harder kick and a more tenuous recovery. Deciding that the person was not going to go away, Salvo flipped off the chair, landing on his feet. Before him stood a fair-headed man with twinkling eyes and what appeared to be a trustworthy smile.

“That was some good balancing,” the man said, tossing him a coin. Salvo caught it without averting his eyes from the man’s gaze.

“I don’t like people kicking my chair,” he said, trying to sound threatening.

The man laughed. “You should probably get out of here quickly, boy.”

Salvo was about to argue with the man when he saw the policeman advancing towards him. He had not seen what the man had seen: two uniformed policemen entering the tavern, one pointing Salvo out to the other, then moving to the rear of the room, where they exchanged words with the owner. One of them stood behind Salvo now, the other between him and the door.

Salvo turned away from the policeman advancing towards him, only to see the other coming up behind him. He turned back towards the door. He was trapped.

The policeman between Salvo and the door moved in, a step ahead of his companion. The man who had kicked Salvo’s chair stumbled, sending a chair into the legs of the policeman. Salvo leapt over him as he fell and bolted for the door. He felt a hand grasp his arm but pulled free, and seconds later he emerged from the dankness of the beer hall into the sharp chill of the night air, followed closely by the two officers. One of them gave up the chase almost immediately, but the other persisted until it became obvious that Salvo could easily outrun him. Salvo left him wheezing in the street, his breath billowing out like smoke from a fat, angry dragon.

There would be no more work for Salvo that night. With the money the man had given him, he rented a piece of floor in a dingy room and slept a fitful sleep, waking up every half-hour, terrified that the police were at the door, even though he knew they weren’t. He awoke in the early morning tired, hungry and broke.

A
LTHOUGH HE DID NOT DARE RETURN
to the scene of his near capture, it was not very long until Salvo walked into another tavern and saw the man who had kicked his chair. He hesitated, not knowing what the man’s intentions had been or what would have happened if the police hadn’t interrupted. He remembered
the man’s gold coin, though, and with this in mind he approached him.

The man saw him coming. “Well,” he said, his face flashing what could have been either a smile or a sneer, “if it isn’t the balancing boy.”

Salvo’s eyes were drawn to the table, where a plate of the kind of sausages Salvo had grown especially fond of while living with his aunt and uncle lay half eaten.

“You hungry, balancing boy?”

Salvo nodded, not yet able to bring himself to speak. The bravado he had possessed on their last meeting had abandoned him.

The man picked up a sausage and held it out to Salvo. When Salvo reached for it, however, the sausage was pulled out of his reach.

“How about a handstand?” The man smiled, which did little to reassure him.

Warily, Salvo placed his hands on the filthy floor and swung his feet into the air. The man remained motionless for several seconds, observing him, then placed a hand on Salvo’s foot and, very lightly, began to push him to one side. At first it didn’t noticeably affect his balance; it was more of an annoyance than anything else. But as the steady sideways pressure persisted and Salvo’s legs grew more and more skewed, it became harder and harder to maintain the handstand. When his legs were very nearly at a right angle to his body, Salvo could no longer hold the floor and was forced to put his feet down and abandon the handstand.

“Very impressive,” the man said. “Very impressive, balancing boy.”

He thrust the sausage in Salvo’s direction and this time did not pull it back. Salvo greedily engulfed the sausage and ate it so fast he could hardly be seen to have chewed.

“Slow down, slow down. You’ll hurt yourself, eating like that,” the man said, handing Salvo another sausage that he tried to eat more slowly, with limited success.

“Thank you.”

“Let me ask you a question, balancing boy. Are you afraid of heights?”

“No,” Salvo said.

The man paused, thinking, before reaching into his pocket for a piece of paper. “Can you read?”

Salvo nodded. “A bit.”

“Can you read this?” He handed the paper to Salvo. It was an address, the street in a rough part of Pest that Salvo knew well.

“Yes.”

“Good. Come by tomorrow around noon, and we’ll see if you can do more than handstands.”

Salvo’s heart skipped. “A job?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I work hard,” Salvo said.

“You will indeed. What’s your name, then, balancing boy?”

“Salvo.”

“Salvo,” the man repeated. “My name is Tomas Skosa. Tomorrow, then.”

S
OMEONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR
. Tomas Skosa rolled over in bed, head pounding, and tried to shake out his cobwebs. He was momentarily startled when something shifted beside him, then he remembered the girl. Her breathing suggested she was sleeping. He was surprised she was still there. She probably had pegged him as a meal ticket. He’d have to see about that. It had taken him a pretty penny to get her stumbling the night before, and when they got back to his room she’d protested nicely at first,
all whimper and howl, but she’d settled down relatively quickly. Too quickly for Tomas’s liking, in fact, and if things hadn’t been so far gone, he likely would have lost interest. He’d have to see how things went. Tomas was easily bored, and a girl like this often brought risks that gave him pause.