Well in Time (18 page)

He did not stop but slowed his step, and I hurried to catch up to him. Without turning to me, he continued on and I followed as we entered the encampment. He knew his way through clusters of wagons and past campfires that looked all the same to me. Music was coming from all sides, children were running and playing hide-and-seek among the carts, and the whole was lit by both blue moonlight and the flickering red light of the fires, lending the scene a wild and unearthly appearance.

Suddenly, he darted to the right between two wagons. I squeezed myself through this space behind him and found myself within a circle of carts whose center was a blazing fire. Around it, men were dancing with their hands on one another’s shoulders, while the musicians sat back in the shadows on rough stools. Women were in the process of laying out food on plank tables, as mobs of children ran squalling and shrieking and jumping, round and round.

It was a scene not unlike many in which I had partaken myself, when I had a family. Often I would go out on hunting expeditions with my court, with children, wives, and servants in tow, and we would camp in the hills with just this sort of exuberance.

In the moment that I stopped to take in the scene, my guide had disappeared. So I simply found a place on the ground, leaning against the wheel of one of the wagons, and settled myself to watch.

To my right, old women were tending cooking fires over which, on iron cranes, big pots bubbled with marvelous smells. Beyond them, a knot of young men was gathered and I assumed that the bridegroom must be among them, for they were drinking and there were shouts of hilarity and good natured jostling among them. To my left were the musicians and, beyond them, a bevy of young women turned in to face one another, like mares in a defensive circle. They were giggling, and occasionally one would look over her shoulder toward the young men’s group and then turn back with excited whispers.

How it made my heart ache! Many times I had witnessed similar things in my own country. It proves, I suppose, that we truly are all the children of one God, for no matter what our country or our race, so many of our behaviors are the same.

§

People began to collect at the tables now, for the smell of hot food was compelling. I had been invited to the feast, but my guide was nowhere in sight. I felt awkward intruding on this family’s party, but one of the old women found me in the shadows, thrust a wooden bowl in my hands without a word and threw out her hand toward the tables, commanding me silently to take my place.

Room was made for me on a bench without surprise or comment. Soon steaming kettles were ladled out into my dish. When everyone was served, there was a clapping of hands and all fell silent, turning to the head of the table where, to my surprise, I now beheld my guide, but much transformed.

He had changed his clothes and now wore a soft white shirt with full sleeves, under a vest embroidered in green and red. Loose black pants were tucked into boots of red leather. For all his wild hair and ugly scar, he looked lordly, and I knew he must be the head of his clan.

He spoke a blessing over the food in a language I did not understand and took to be the Romany of his race. Then the feasting commenced and, along with the eating, there was much laughter and joking and wine was passed, again and again.

When finally all the food was eaten and we all were a little tipsy from the wine, the musicians again took their stools and began to play. Now, my host revealed himself to be a singer, and he began the wailing chant of his people, that some say is an amalgam of the cry of the Muslim muezzin and the mournful song of the Jewish cantor, compounded during the gypsies’ wanderings in Spain.

Whatever their origins, the songs were deeply moving, and the crowd began to shout its enthusiastic response to the singer as he sang. Women began to dance, especially the old women, who moved into the circle with their bent shoulders suddenly straightened, and their stiff, padded hips swaying like those of young girls.

Again, I settled myself against a wagon wheel, content to be even an observer of this family festival. But soon I felt a movement to my right, and a woman stood there who quickly took her seat beside me.

“Welcome to our camp,” she said quietly. “My name is Allia.”

I nodded to her and then half turned away, for I did not know the ways of her people, and if she were being forward, I did not want to cause an incident. She seemed content simply to sit beside me without conversing, and as the evening progressed, clapped her hands to the music, and several times got up to dance. But always, she returned to my side.

While she was dancing, I watched her closely. She was an attractive woman, I saw, but not beautiful. She was neither young nor old and had the long nose and flashing eyes of her race. Of medium height and frame, she was somewhat on the thin side. In all, she seemed completely unexceptional except for two things. One was her expression that was both sad and dignified and seemed to have deep thoughts and feelings dreaming beneath the surface, like schools of fish beneath dark water. The other was that she had chosen, when others had not, to sit by me.

§

Gradually, the pace of the evening began to slow, as mothers gathered their children and took them off to bed, and old women cleared the debris of the feast and then stumped off to their wagons on swollen ankles. The bride and her groom departed to the shouted jokes and well wishes of the crowd, and in the shadows of the wagons, a few of the young men and women met in shy flirtations.

At last, only a single instrument still strummed, sending its haunting melodies and cadences over a camp half sleeping. I rose, and nodding good night to the woman who still sat beside me, I turned to depart.

I had not gone ten paces beyond the circled wagons, however, when a gruff voice stopped me. “You are leaving,” it said, and I knew by the declarative tone that it was my guide and host. I turned and bowed low to him, replying that I was, and I thanked him heartily for his generosity and hospitality.

“You are not going to stay with Allia?” This was a question, and the note of surprise, if not alarm, in his voice was new.

I drew closer to him, much disconcerted. “Forgive me, sir,” I said, “because I do not know your customs. I had the understanding that the men of the Rom are very protective of their women.”

“This is true”—he replied, coming closer still to me—“but Allia is a special case, you know.”

“How would I know the smallest thing about Allia?” I asked in dismay. For now I was beginning to perceive that in trying not to give offense, I had given offense. “Out of respect for you, I have ignored the woman, all evening!” I said in frustration.

With this, he threw back his head and laughed. He was more than a little drunk and very much on fire from the passion of the singing and dancing. His face flushed and his shirt untucked on one side, he reached his right hand to my shoulder and pulled me in conspiratorially.

“Allia is a special case,” he whispered again, his breath rich with alcohol and garlic. “Allia has the second sight, you know. She has refused marriage since she was a child, when her mother first tried to arrange it. She announced then, when she was five, that she would have no children but would have many men.

“Of course, we all thought she was having a girl’s delusions and was playing out her fantasies, heh? But no, in the next breath, she turns to our uncle and says, ‘If you do not give back the bracelet, you will die within a week!’ And then she flounces off into the night.

“Well, a week later, our uncle dies—and in his bedroll is found a precious bracelet that had been stolen from our mother. From that day onward, we have listened with respect to all that Allia says.” He pushed his weight into my shoulder, rocking me gently, as if to awaken some sleeping faculty of reason in me.

“You…you are related to her?” I stammered.

He looked at me wild-eyed in surprise, his eyebrows almost buried in his mane. “Did I not tell you? Ha!” He threw his head back and uttered this cry of self-deprecation at the top of his voice. “Of course I am related to her—is she not my sister?”

The situation had become most peculiar. “Is Allia, then, accustomed to saying with whom she will spend the night?” I asked, to mark time and get my wits about me.

“She does not decide it, sir, she foresees it. It was she who sent me looking for you today. ‘Go and find a huge black man with the sign of the Christ on his forehead,’ she told me, ‘and bring him here to our camp. He is a king, but lonely, and in need of our aid.’ So I went and there you were and here we are and now, sir, I am going to bed before I fall down. Allia’s wagon is that one there, with the yellow wheels. Good night to you!” And with a stagger to the right, he wheeled about and made off into the shadows.

I looked toward where he had pointed and there was the wagon with the yellow wheels, and on its steps, Allia was sitting. Her petticoats were pulled up to her knees, and her bare legs and feet glowed like old ivory in the moonlight. I approached her cautiously, for I had no attraction to this woman and no intention of being her lover for the night.

When I was within range of her voice, she looked up at me and said softly, “Come,” and patted the step beside her. I took a few more steps and stopped again, hesitating. “I won’t bite you,” she said, with a sly smile.

Two more paces and I stood at the foot of the three little steps that were the entrance to her cart. The door behind her was ajar, and the glow of a candle lantern lit a tableau of hanging copper pots, above a wall covered in religious icons.

She reached out her hand to me. “Come closer,” she said, “and I will read your palm again.”

“Again?” I said, as if in a trance.

“Yes, as I did that day in the village on the Rhone,” she answered, taking my right hand in hers and running her left hand, cool and smooth, over my fevered wrist, to my elbow, and back.

“That is impossible,” I said, confused. “That woman was old. Ancient.”

“I know. She is my grandmother. But I was the one who sent her to meet you. And I who told her what to say. You are a man of destiny, King of Nubia. Even at a great distance you cannot be ignored, for the Power has news for you.”

She turned my hand between her two hands and a warmth stirred in my palm. She ran her fingernails from the tips of my fingers down my palm to the heel of my hand, then back again. I was powerless to withdraw it from her.

She lowered her head, and I felt her tongue softly brush the cup of my hand. She raised her head and, looking me full in the eyes, said, “I taste loneliness here. It tastes like brass.” And she commenced stroking my hand with her fingernails, again.

Who knows how long we might have stayed thus? If the decision were mine, we might be there yet, for my brain had turned to porridge.

Gently, she tugged me closer and then, leaning her weight on my shoulder, pushed herself up from the step. She pulled the little door open and put one bare foot inside the wagon. “Come,” she said softly. “Come inside and you will not regret it.”

I protested meekly, “But I am a pilgrim,” meaning I had been chaste.

Allia only laughed softly, saying, “Then, pilgrim, you have reached your mecca!”

§

The night had grown cold. The camp, after so much revelry, had collapsed into exhausted slumber. Even the horses slept, white breath rising from their nostrils as from a den of dragons. I, too, was weary. My head ached for a bed; my body, to be horizontal.

Yet even more, my heart longed for the comfort of a woman’s presence, to be pillowed against her bosom, to be held and kissed and murmured to. My quest had been arduous and my will adamantine. Now, in the presence of Allia, it all fell away. There was nothing for me to do but to surrender.

As Allia opened the door to her wagon, a rich and complex scent rolled out toward me as I stood behind her, her petticoats in my face, waiting like a child my turn to mount the three small steps. The smell was compounded of dried herbs, beeswax candles, patchouli, and that sweetest of perfumes, the bodily oils of the woman herself, steeped into clothing, cushions, and implements. This essence was much like sandalwood, a perfume dear to me, as it was a favorite of my departed wife.

The wagon, which was gaily painted on the exterior, with yellow wheels and a red body banded by intricate designs and flowers, was equally lavish and colorful within. The walls were of polished wood and were hung with many small, but very finely painted icons in the Byzantine fashion. A tiny stove occupied one corner. Across the back was a bunk with a thick mattress, layered in rich blankets and colorful shawls and heaped with cushions in fine brocades. Underneath were cupboards, two on a side, their fronts painted with flowers and birds.

To the right, a narrow table attached to the wall, supported by two carved legs at the front, with two stools beneath. On the left wall were hooks holding her possessions—dresses, shawls, baskets with jewelry and shoes. It was altogether a jewel box of a place, rich in reds, yellow ochres and deep blues, and twined with lovely designs.

I took it all in for a moment and breathed deeply the smell of a woman—a scent that I had so long denied myself as to believe I was immune to it. But now I understood I was immune only because I had not exposed myself. Or perhaps because I had not yet met Allia. She was a woman, while not beautiful in the classical sense, whose own feminine essence was so complete that no man, once invited into its aura, would be able to resist.

I closed the door behind me, half stooping, for the room was not high, although I soon realized I could stand erect without hitting my head. She stood with her back to me, allowing me, I imagined, a moment to look around and collect myself. But this I could not do, for the opulence of the perfumed air and sudden warmth after a night of chill, and the closeness of this mysterious woman, overwhelmed me. All my strength and high station left me and I stood, arms slack, mouth agape, like a bumpkin.

Allia moved languidly to the stove, where a kettle of water was steaming. Taking up a copper basin, she poured hot water into it and finally turned toward me, her hair shining in the candlelight like a black wave of the night sea.