In matters of ritual, nobody was more exacting than Lulu. It was she who had organized the pomana. But Staley wanted to use the occasion for his own purposes after his conference with Willem. What he planned was for the good of the kumpania; but like any monarch, he knew that his subjects needn’t always know everything he was doing on their behalf. This was the ideal time to unveil the plan. The most influential members of the tribe were here.
Yana was a major if covert topic of gossip among the Romni preparing the traditional meal.
In the modern appliance-filled kitchen a willowy teenage girl named Pearsa Demetro began to lay out the Tarot cards, softly chanting an old Gypsy incantation from Tuscany in a clear high voice:
Lulu shushed her, and to the accompanying giggles of the other teenagers added sternly, “Yana’s husband is dead, so a song about cursing your husband is close to marime.”
But as soon as Lulu turned away to tend the stove, Pearsa laid out another card, studied it, then started another stanza.
“No more!” exclaimed Lulu, really angry this time. “You don’t know how powerful that is!”
“But Mami ” — she used the honorary term for grandmother — “I don’t have a husband. I’m just practicing.”
Like Yana, Pearsa had been born with a caul over her head, which gave her many powers — the second sight among them. So Lulu could not bring herself to object when the girl chanted the final stanza.
Eleven
After the ritual fruits and grains, the pomana grew boisterous, as wine loosened tongues and limbs and sharpened memories of the deceased. The zengin saz played, weaving a long road of melody back to a time and place only the oldest of them remembered, but where they, and Ephrem Poteet, had nevertheless been together. The men danced their souls, heavily, but with grace. Women set down their dishes and reached for their daires and tambourines. Staley, sensitive to the moment, signaled the musicians, who called to the dancers with a Bibke bibke bibke romke udt!, bringing them together to the strains of naçti uçava. He cannot get up. Ephrem had fallen on the Longo Drom, but they were people of the road. If they listened, they could hear his darbuka made of clay playing now.
Staley, Baro Rom of the Muchwaya, nodded the band to silence, and began to speak a ritual opening in Romani.
“By your leave, Romale, assembled men of consequence, heed my words. A journey lies before us. In my hand I hold an invitation from the Holy Father himself. This year marks the two thousandth birthday of Holy Mother Church. We were in Rome before the Church was born. We were among those who built it. And now our tabor shall be there for the canonization of one of our own, Ceferino Jiminez Malla!”
He had used the word tabor — a large group of related Gypsies traveling together in horse-drawn wagons — deliberately, and was gratified that many responded to the dream. There was a buzz of astonishment in the room. Few of them knew the saint-to-be, but none would admit it. The first ghost of a challenge was raised by Josef Adamo, who scammed the gadje as a paving contractor. He had an important stomach and greying ringlets and black eyes that missed nothing.
“We should have been planning this a year ago. Nearly five months of Millennium year have passed. We should be there now.”
Sly Lulu had asked him to raise the question to forestall other challengers. By arrangement, Rudolph Marino answered for Staley. Being the heir apparent, he was listened to as closely as the King himself.
“We will be there next month, believe me. With six months to carry out our plans. There is the promise of a very quick and very large score.”
“Promised by who?” Adamo asked bluntly.
Staley smote himself on the chest with a clenched fist.
“By your King.”
There was a smattering of appreciative laughter. Nobody was better than Staley at finding ways for the Muchwaya to score.
“I am satisfied,” Adamo said formally, and sat down.
But then Wasso Tomeshti said, “We must go in style as befits American Gypsies returning to the homeland.”
When not working, he was the most traditional-looking of Gypsies: a day’s beard, twirling mustachios, a red bandanna around his thick neck. When working, he shaved and wore suits and bought electronic appliances with checks that bounced, then sold them with phony service warranties at cutthroat prices out of storefronts rented by the week in big-city low-income areas. The government never saw the sales taxes he collected.
“To this end, I can offer all of my brothers the very best deals on cell phones, beepers, pocket calculators, travel clocks, earphone radios...”
Staley waited for someone to question him about the myriad details attendant upon such a move, details he might have forgotten himself, which was not so uncommon these days. Again it was Adamo who obliged him.
“How do we finance such a journey?”
Before anyone else could speak, a female voice asked, “And what will we do once we are there?”
At this last, silence fell over them. Pearsa Demetro, who had sung the incantation over Lulu’s objections, had so far forgotten herself as to speak out in a formal kris.
“GO!” Staley roared at her. “Go, wash the dishes!” He waved a peremptory arm. “All of you cshays, go!”
The four teenage girls fled into the kitchen in frightened silence. Staley turned back to the adults.
“The voyage will pay for itself once we are there. But... to get there...” He paused dramatically. “I have a plan. It is based on the trust the Muchwaya have for their King.”
“I will hear my King!” declared Nanoosh Tsatshimo.
His specialty was bogus electroplating. He operated in Jewish neighborhoods and indeed, looked more Semitic than Rom. It was he, backed by Sonia Lovari, whose scam was as a Native American, who first called for a formal kris to declare Yana Poteet marime. His reasons, unlike Sonia’s, were traditional.
Staley let his eyes flash with delight, patted his paunch.
“Good! Then I will tell you what will be necessary if we are to succeed. Each Muchwaya clan — Johns, Millers, Costellos, Ristiks, and Steves — must contribute one-third of all the money they make to our common travel fund for the next month.”
“How can we do that?” Voso Makri asked softly. He was a startlingly handsome blue-eyed Greek Gypsy with a great shock of golden hair, recently arrived from Thessaloniki. Not yet well known in the kumpania, he was said to have computer skills equal to those of Rudolph himself. “The Bay Area is Kalderasha territory. We can barely eke out a living here, let alone contribute a third of our meager gleanings to the tabor.”