The people in the square were left with a profound feeling of loss when the Gypsy and the bear walked away. That feeling of emptiness would follow them around and haunt them, and as there would be no way to ever hear that tune again, they would always feel incomplete. Some stopped to stare in the window of the prosthetic store, to see if their missing part was there.
The Gypsy, in turn, was left with the feeling that he was better than everyone in this town. He had a huge talent, after all. It belonged to him and it was the only thing that he cared for, the rest of the world be damned. All that he wanted from them was money. He had looked at the faces in the crowd, and his only relationship with them was how he could manipulate and get precisely what he needed from them.
He liked being cold, he thought, as he and the bear walked along the narrow streets looking for lodgings. He didn’t see a single reason in the world why a person shouldn’t be hardhearted. You got sad and depressed when you started worrying about what the fuck other people were thinking and whether they liked you or not.
“Wasn’t it amazing?” the bear said.
“Yes, we were fantastic,” the Gypsy agreed.
“All the marvellous looks on the faces of the children,” the bear said. “They were enraptured. It made me feel good to bring a little bit of wonder to everyone’s life like that. Doesn’t it make it all worthwhile?”
“What on earth are you talking about? We do it for the money and that’s the only reason.”
“Oh, I thought the audience members were so lovely.”
“Your persecutors! Who would put you in a cage?! You’re terrified that they’re going to put a bullet through your brain one moment and then you’re calling them lovely the next. We’ll see how lovely they are when we’re trying to get a room in any of their one-star hotels.”
“They don’t know. It’s not their fault. What are they supposed to do when they’ve been told their whole lives not to believe in fairy tales?”
They ended up renting a room on the top floor of a brothel, it being the only establishment that would let to a strange good-looking man and a bear. It was a small, dingy room with a window so high up, you would have to climb on a chair to look out of it. All that the Gypsy could see was the big fat moon, which looked like the bald head on a gentleman who sat in front of you at the movie theatre, blocking your view.
The bear plopped himself down on the double bed, filling it up completely. There wasn’t room for the Gypsy to squeeze in anywhere. But he didn’t mind, because the boy had created him to be a romantic. The Gypsy wanted to go out into the town and win over the heart of a schoolgirl.
But the bear told the Gypsy that if he tried to leave the brothel, he would find him and he would kill him. He would chase him right onto the street and murder him with everyone watching. He then hooked his jacket neatly onto the bedpost, getting comfortable.
The Gypsy looked at the bear, surprised. He and the bear had made pretty good money. They had a solid act together for now. Why would he leave the bear now that there was clearly a benefit for him in it?
“You know,” said the Gypsy, “if I have to continue living cooped up with you, I might consider the possibility of blowing my own head off.”
“You’re being insensitive,” answered the bear.
The bear propped himself up on some pillows and began reading a copy of Anna Karenina as the Gypsy slammed the door.
The Gypsy had wanted to seduce a virgin and instead he was stuck in the whorehouse. This wasn’t a challenge whatsoever, as anybody with a wallet could win the heart of one of these girls for the evening.
He walked down the hallway and toward the stairs. There was a carpet of roses running along the stairs that had been stepped on so much that the floral patterns in the middle had worn right off. Many men had been on this path before. He was a Gypsy. If there was one thing that he was supposed to do, it was to take the road less travelled.
And these girls had all been through a war. The servicemen had been lined up around the block. Their pretty little toes had probably all been broken from having to dance with men in army boots. He was probably going to get a vicious strain of Canadian clap that no doctor would be able to cure. His lover-boy days would be over before they had even begun.
The madam was sitting on a purple couch with thin legs that seemed as though it was about to give out from beneath her any minute. She was wearing a low-cut dress that exposed her unbelievably enormous cleavage. The boy, you see, had quite a vivacious grandmother. She leaned forward and pinched the Gypsy’s cheeks.
Seeing that this did not change the boy’s dissatisfied expression, the madam promised the Gypsy a very special lady.
“She’s an orphan. Both parents are dead. I can show you the death certificates. I’m not going to sell you some phony goods. Oh, you should try her. All the men come in here looking for orphans. They have great pillow talk. For an extra dollar they will tell you their tale of woe.”
Ah, of course there was an orphan in this story, because the boy had read so many stories about them. The Gypsy walked down the narrow corridor, with rooms on either side of it, with trepidation. When he opened door number 5, the Orphan was lying on the bed. She was wearing such giant bifocals that he couldn’t even see half her face. But since her nightgown was very pretty and she was slim, he settled on staring at her.
“Are you the one with a bear in your room?” she asked.
“I am.”
“You are really handsome. Are you really a Gypsy?”
“I have no idea how to begin to answer that question.”
“Do Gypsies make love in a certain way?”
“No.” He paused. “Look, I paid for a tale of woe.”
“Do you want it before the sex or afterwards?”
“I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“If you want to hear it before, it’s usually so that you can feel as if you’ve come to my rescue. If you want to hear it afterwards, it’s because you want to feel sad and lonesome. Some men like to feel sad and weep after sex, and to feel intimate and tender and like they too are a lost little kid.”
“Which do you recommend?”
“Afterwards, definitely.”
The Gypsy had never had sex before. He hoped that it was something that the little boy had imagined that he was skilled at, the way that he had made the bear so wonderful at tricks. It was probably too much to ask, since the boy had already thought to make him a musical virtuoso. And the boy was still so young. He didn’t know anything at all about being good in bed or performance anxiety.
He stood in front of the bed for a moment, not even knowing what to do with himself. The Orphan took off her enormous glasses and put them on the little table next to the bed. And for a second he was the one who felt that he wasn’t seeing straight. Or at least it was safe to say that he couldn’t believe his eyes.
She had round cheeks and pouty lips. Her bangs hung down almost to her small, upturned nose. Her eyes were blue. And they were the most innocent eyes that he had ever seen. He didn’t care how many men had made love to her before. He didn’t care if an entire regiment of Canadian soldiers had made love to her in one afternoon. She was so brand new — looking that he couldn’t imagine that anyone had ever touched her before.
She curled her body and sat up on her knees, and she looked like the white flower that had suddenly bloomed. She was wearing sheer pink stockings that went up to her knees. Her tiny white nightie covered her private parts, but if she were to do something like reach up to a top shelf, everything would be revealed.