Fires in the Dark Read online

  Tódor jumped to his feet and turned back to his tent. ‘Zága!’ He shouted merrily to his wife. ‘Tip the soup into the horse trough! We have a celebration tonight! Kill the goat!’ Zága stuck her head out of the tent, acknowledged the command without expression, then disappeared.

  Josef was brushing himself down.

  ‘My favourite goat! Tonight he will turn on a spit – we won’t eat him he’s as tough as old boots. We will fill ourselves with all manner of meat!’ Tódor raised a finger. ‘But on your son’s wedding day, we will kill one hundred kid-goats. Every Kalderash in Europe will come. My cousins will return from Montevideo. I make you that promise, Jóno my brother.’

  Josef regarded the sleeves of his best green coat, now peppered with leaves and dead grass. Anna would be furious. It was interesting how Tódor always became his brother when there was good news in the air. He couldn’t recall Tódor being quite so brotherly four years ago when he had wanted to borrow his shovel and tongs to take on a job over at Krakovec.

  Josef saw that the boy who had greeted him was standing nearby. He had donned knee-length trousers and was holding a stool. Tódor saw him too, and beckoned him forward, allowing him to place the stool before waving him away and gesturing for Josef to sit. Other men had begun to gather at a distance, to pay their respects, but they would not approach until Tódor indicated that he and Josef had finished the private part of their conversation.

  One of the women came forward with a silver samovar and English china on an elaborated Japanned tray with small gilt legs. Tódor acknowledged her by nodding at Josef. ‘Our new bori. Take a good look. What nationality to do you think?’

  Josef observed the girl while she set the tray down upon its legs and poured the tea, a gold cloth wrapped carefully around the samovar’s handle. She was wearing Kalderash dress; the loose red blouse and skirt with petticoats, and had a money belt and apron. Her hair was dark and braided but her face was round and freckled, her nose small and snubbed.

  ‘English Kalderash!’ said Tódor to Josef’s silence. ‘Did you realise there was such a thing? We met this one’s family in Cambridgeshire. I bought her for my youngest, Andréas, that imp who welcomed you. They made me pay through the nose and my wife had to show her how to butter her hair, but she’s a good girl so we have already honoured her with the tea-making duties for our guests.’ The girl was backing away. Tódor waved at her with circular motions of his large hand. She came and stood close to him and he delved the hand into the small golden purse on side of her money belt.

  ‘Have you seen one of these?’ He held the coin out to Josef. It was large and thin, and had a small hoop at the edge for threading a ribbon. ‘It’s a British Gold Medal. We bought it in a pawn shop. This one is for something they call Long Jumping. The shopkeeper explained it to me. Grown men run up to a pit of sand and jump in it. Then they give each other medals. Next, they stand very still on boxes, wearing the medals round their necks.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve started a collection but I can’t permit the women to wear them until we have twelve for all of them, you know what women are like.’ He spat on the coin and shouted at it. ‘Your mother! Your father! Come here!’ Then he slipped it back into the girl’s purse.

  As the girl backed away, not turning until she was a respectful distance from them, Josef noticed the approving look that Tódor gave her and guessed that there might be more than one reason why he had been prepared to pay through the nose. A less attractive new bori would not be on public display, however ‘good’ she might be.

  ‘Where were you camped this time?’ Josef asked, sipping his tea noisily to show his appreciation. The delicate china cup was awkward for him to hold and the liquid scalding hot.

  Tódor’s cup looked ridiculous in his large hand. He reached forward with the other and scooped up a handful of sugar cubes from a china bowl, tossing them into his mouth before raising his cup and throwing its steaming contents over the cubes. He crunched once, then swallowed deeply.

  ‘Liverpool,’ he said, and belched.

  Josef raised his eyebrows. ‘Not London?’

  Tódor shook his head. ‘We went down there later but we had to go up to Liverpool to escort my cousins on to the boat. Do you know they are going all the way across the Atlantic? Crazy. Do not leave the high road for the lane, I told them. Montevideo. God go with them but it’s madness. They won’t find a living there, I can tell you. In South America, the gadje are black like us, and so poor, you can’t make a penny out of them. I like my gadje fat and white. The English are slugs. All you have to do is squeeze.’

  Josef now felt able to ask the question that any Kalderash wanted to ask when they met another.

  ‘Was there any copper?’

  It was the one topic about which Tódor would not boast He rolled down his lower lip, pulled at his beard and shook his head gloomily. ‘Even less than last time. We did the chocolate factories, and the hotels, of course, but even most of them have enamelled iron these days …’

  Tódor fell darkly silent, by which Josef judged that the slug-like English were no longer as fat and juicy as Tódor had found them in the past. There was a pause. Behind Tódor and the tents, through the trees, Josef could see a furious-faced Zága dragging a stubborn, complaining goat. It reminded him of the business in hand.

  He put down his cup, but Tódor was clearly not inclined to let him go just yet. He leaned forward.

  ‘Tell me Jóno, this Law 117 that everyone is talking about. Is it true? Is it as serious as it sounds?’

  Josef nodded. ‘I think so, yes. We were forced to register on the way here. They can find us whenever they want to now. In Slovakia they called us cannibals and threw mud at the wagons as we passed. If a policeman wants me now, all he has to do is check with the central office in Prague and everything will be there written down, where I am, what I’m doing, the colour of the lining of my waistcoat.’

  Tódor stroked his beard and sighed, murmuring to himself. ‘Perhaps we should have gone to Montevideo after all …’ He lifted his chin and fiddled with his red neckerchief. ‘And will you bring business to the kris?’

  Josef shook his head. Law 117 would be the main topic of conversation at the kris. Personal matters would have to take their turn.

  Tódor rose to indicate that the conversation was closing. ‘I hope we will not have time wasted with trivial matters, this year. Those Lowari from Ruthenia have come all this way, again. Last year they spent three days discussing whether a man could have sausage in his soup before St George’s Day.’

  And you would have rather spent three days discussing whether a man apprenticed less than seven years should call himself a metalsmith or a metalworker … thought Josef, without rancour. He loved Tódor, but he could understand why the others became so irritated with him at times.

  As the rest of Tódor’s kumpánia approached, Tódor grasped Josef in another hug and whispered to him joyously, ‘A son, phrála, a son …’ then turned to his fellow Kalderash with his arms spread wide.

  *

  This is what other Roma say about the Kalderash.

  The Kalderash. If you’re going to hold a kris with the Kalderash, then make sure you do it in their tent. They’re the only ones who have tents big enough and they have eiderdowns to fall asleep on. You will certainly want to fall asleep, because nobody can talk longer than a Kalderash. When a Kalderash stands up to demand retribution because his brother-in-law told him there was copperwork in one town knowing full well it was in the next, then he begins by saying that his sister married when there was frost on the grass. He will then describe the frost.

  Do not expect jokes from a Kalderash. The Kalderash take themselves extremely seriously, especially their appearance. They are famously vain. This is because it takes them so much time to polish their buttons and stitch ribbons on to their coats. A Kalderash likes to pretend he can drink and sing like any other brother but underneath his brash exterior is a Wallach as gloomy as a cow. A Kalderash always believes t
he worst.

  Do not ask a Kalderash to lend you money. If he does, you will be bound to him forever and spend your whole life making rivets. When the Kalderash have a vessel to work, they do not stop, even to eat. They carry on working even when it gets dark. They make their women stand over them holding paraffin lanterns. Fortunately, their women are tall. Unfortunately, this allows their men to hammer and beat and hammer, right through the night, when the rest of us have to be up before dawn to pick cherries with nothing but a cup of chicory coffee inside us. They do their work outside their tents so that everyone can see how hard they work. They are immensely strong.

  Do not marry your daughter to a Kalderash. By the following summer, she will despise you. Do not bother trying to open negotiations for one of their women on behalf of your son. A Kalderash would sooner see his daughter married to a bear.

  *

  This is what the Kalderash say about other Roma.

  They are all right, probably. But they are not Kalderash!

  *

  Josef opened the door to his wagon slowly, to admit the light gently upon his wife and son. As he stepped in, he glimpsed them curled together on the lit at the far end of the wagon, both asleep. He pulled the door to behind him, re-establishing the gloom, put down his stick and made his way slowly towards them, moving with care so as not to bump into anything. What a privilege, to catch them both asleep for a few minutes. He kneeled by the side of the bed, and gave infinite thanks to God.

  He was about to rise, when Anna’s eyes opened. She glanced first at her child, curled against her chest, and then her eyes focused and she saw Josef. She smiled.

  ‘He has not woken yet this morning?’ Josef asked softly.

  Anna shook her head once. ‘No. The longest yet. He will be hungry when he wakes.’

  Josef moved to sit beside them, to savour these few moments.

  How wonderful it had been to wake in the night and hear the snuffling of the child feeding, to creep out before dawn and leave Anna and Emil warm together.

  He and Anna stared at their baby for several long, tender moments, then glanced at each other and exchanged a disbelieving look, then returned their gazes to their child.

  ‘His skin is too big for him …’ said Josef. ‘His hands …’

  ‘He will fill it soon enough,’ Anna replied. ‘I have enough milk to feed every child at the harvest.’

  ‘Good, a good sign. Baxt.’ Good fortune – more than luck, blessing.

  They were silent again, awhile.

  ‘I paid a visit to Tódor Maximoff,’ Josef said eventually, his gaze still fixed on Emil.

  Anna yawned hugely. ‘How are our Tent-Dwelling cousins …?’

  ‘As ever. They have a new bori, from England. They are collecting gold coins as big as dinner plates. He wants to provide the meat for the mulatšago.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Anna’s tone was suddenly sharp.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Josef replied sheepishly. He had been anticipating her displeasure. Tódor was showing off, delighted at an opportunity to show how quickly and fulsomely he could provide. But Anna would rise to the occasion. She always did. He could not have objected to Tódor’s generosity, after all.

  *

  Anna closed her eyes and groaned. She would have to get up, find Tekla, then go over to the Tent-Dwellers’ encampment and talk to sour-faced Zága about what was needed – right now, if everything was to be ready by this evening. A competition, just what she needed! She had stopped bleeding but it still hurt to walk. Were there enough spices for maize cakes? She would have to beg cumin from Božena. Božena was never without cumin. She began to calculate. Eva and Ludmila would have to help as well. Taking them from the harvest work would mean lost income for the kumpánia but it would be shameful to be outdone by the Tent-Dwellers. Zdenka could fry the cumin and coriander seeds while Ludmila and Eva pounded the maize. Golden God take the Tent-Dwellers! She had hoped for at least one quiet day with her son. It was too hot for a woman with a baby strapped to her back to be frying and beating. Men! Let’s have a mulatšago, they say to each other. Where did they imagine the food was going to come from? Out of thin air? They didn’t have a clue.

  ‘Ctibor Michálek wanted me to dine with him and his wife tonight,’ Josef continued. ‘He will want to talk politics as usual.’

  Anna saw a glimmer of hope. ‘Tell Tódor Maximoff you have to dine with the Big Gadjo. He will understand. They all like you to stay close to the fire.’ If you want to stay warm, stay close to the fire – the Magyar proverb had been a favourite of Josef’s father. He had mumbled it on his deathbed, continuously, as if he had invented the phrase.

  Josef shook his head. ‘They have already drained the blood from the goat. Zága will have teams of her daughters plucking chickens. I will go and see Ctibor. I can invite him. It will please him to be the guest of honour and the others will think I am doing my job.’

  Anna sighed, resigned. There were disadvantages in being married to a mild man. She raised herself on one elbow and kissed Josef lightly on the mouth. At her movement, Emil rose swiftly through his layers of slumber and began to screw up his face. She smiled down at him and parted her blouse to extract a heavy breast, already leaking sweet, cloudy milk.

  Josef sat watching them as Emil began to turn his head restlessly, gaping his mouth.

  ‘Shall we get a priest for him?’ he asked.

  Anna winced as Emil latched on and began to suckle. Black Birds her family had called priests. They thought it an ill-omen to have a gadjo in a dress come and lay hands on your child. Her father used to touch his privates if a priest passed by, to restore his manhood.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said, knowing that Josef would like one. His mother had had so many icons and crucifixes in their wagon you could hardly get in the door.

  ‘I will find one of the girls and tell them to go and find Tekla for you,’ Josef said.

  Anna frowned. Tekla had been behaving so oddly the last few days. ‘Zdenka and Pavla are weaving baskets at the shed,’ she said, ‘but Eva is around somewhere. She was standing in the door earlier and begging to see Emil. You can tell her if she gets Tekla quickly then I will let her hold him when they get back.’

  *

  When Ctibor heard that his invitation had been reversed, he demanded that Josef come and eat lunch with him immediately. Josef agreed on the condition that Ctibor be not offended if he left the table sooner than usual. There were arrangements to be made. What arrangements? Ctibor demanded to know – and sent one of the farm boys to fetch a priest and another to count the wine bottles in his cellar. Ctibor was the only gadjo in the whole world as generous as a Rom, Josef thought, and like a Rom had little sense for when his generosity would be more welcome if less immediate.

  ‘Sit! Sit!’ Ctibor cried expansively, ushering Josef into his kitchen, where his wife Sarah had dumplings boiling and a goulash simmering on the stove, filling the kitchen with steam and the heavy aroma of meat. Josef preferred to eat lightly on a hot day, but Ctibor could not be refused without offence.

  ‘Sarah, you too, come, my friend and wife at the same table. Make me happy.’

  Sarah turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron, and acknowledged them with a nod. Josef glanced at her and they exchanged a look of mutual forbearance as she sat down. It was clear she no more enjoyed sitting at table with a Gypsy than he did with an Unclean white woman, but they both cared for Ctibor and for him, they would do it.

  ‘I hear the Sinti are worried these days,’ Ctibor said as Josef sat.

  Josef shrugged. ‘There will be a meeting on Sunday. I will get the news then.’

  Ctibor shook his head. ‘They’re having a hard time of it. I had five families last week, never seen them before, queuing at my door. You’ve heard about the riots in Vienna? Those bastards got away with it! But I don’t see it’s going to affect us. The Germans living in this district are realists.’

  Sarah rose from the table, muttering about the goulash.

/>   Ctibor winced and leaned forward. ‘I shouldn’t really discuss politics in front of Sarah. It makes her angry, and sad,’ he said quietly to Josef. ‘You know, Prague is filling up with Viennese Jews who can’t stand it any more, and of course the Czechs aren’t exactly pleased either. Bloody German refugees, they say. I keep telling her, she mustn’t worry. As you know I had my doubts about the wisdom of leaving the Empire, economically I mean, but look at us now. Do you know, you can buy a thing in Prague that sends blue electricity through your fingers and cures melancholia?’ He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘Actually, Josef, you’ll forgive my demanding your time, but I wanted to talk to you of Prague. It’s a matter of some urgency. I have a scheme going. I’ve bought a place there, in the Old Town, an office with apartments above. I’m thinking of supplying the stores directly. Things are so good at the moment, business is booming and I’ve got to use my capital. I’m desperate for good men, Josef.’

  Sarah returned to the table with beer. She stared at her husband and Ctibor sat back in his chair. ‘Politics and business!’ he declared, lifting his hands. ‘Both are banned at my table. But I can’t help myself, you understand me, Josef. We’ll go through the details after we’ve eaten.’

  Poor Ctibor, Josef thought, as they raised their glasses to each other. He should have had sons, a whole houseful of them, great strapping boys who would eat all the time and argue with him and run his orchards and his businesses – and maybe a small, quiet daughter for Sarah, so she wouldn’t feel lonely. Truly, childlessness was a curse. Why else would Ctibor be so keen to adopt the Roma? He would never see it that way, of course. He was too big-hearted, with his large belly and red face and fluffy hair.

  ‘Now is the time,’ Ctibor declared as he set down his glass mug with a flourish. ‘Look around you, Josef. Have you ever seen my fields so well tended? This winter I had to hire factory workers to dig my irrigation ditches. A man has flown across the Atlantic all on his own, like a stork. The Spirit of St Louis has come to Europe! Now is the best of times, for your people too, you’ll see.’