chapter twenty-nine
THE Gypsy camp is a large gathering of caravans set in the curve of a river, not far from a concrete factory that reminds me of the one at Souma-Soula. There are dogs, pigs, chickens, dented cars, tangled-up electrical wires, and laundry drying on lines between the trees. Kids are running around, and women are chatting as they braid baskets. It’s clear that people here know how to deal with the hazards of life.
The patriarch of the camp is named Babik. He is a wise man, with a black hat and tattoos on his arms. He has traveled a lot since he was born and speaks every language in the world, better than an encyclopedia.
He invites us into his caravan with Hoop Earring, and we sit on a bench. For a while Babik watches us without saying a word. He screws up his eyes, especially when Gloria coughs, and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Just to do something, I show him our passports. That makes him laugh.
“Passports are good for administrations! Put them away!” he says. “I’m only interested in hearing your soul.”
“Precisely.”
“But … how?”
Babik folds his tattooed arms. “Can you sing?” he asks.
Pitifully, I shake my head.
“Can you play music?”
I tell him about Fatima’s violin lessons and my sad squeak-squeak that irritates the ears.
“Well …,” Babik sighs. “Can you tell stories?”
I smile. “Yes, that I can do!”
“Fine, I’m listening,” he says.
With a patriarch like Babik, it’s useless to lie. So I tell the truth about me, about Gloria, Jeanne Fortune, and the train accident. I tell him about the militia, the bell under the canopy, Abdelmalik’s death, the war, the poisoned waters of the lake, the glass dust that lines the lungs deep down; I talk about each of the stopping places of our journey, from the Psezkaya River up to the village square where I hit Hoop Earring on the nose, and also about each person that I’ve met, loved, and lost. The list is long, and my story lasts a good while, but Babik doesn’t interrupt me even once.
“Your soul is beautiful, Koumaïl,” he says when I finish. “It is brave and as refreshing as dew. But Gloria’s is fragile and worn out. She needs to rest.”
He turns to Hoop Earring and gives him instructions in Gypsy dialect. Then he looks at me and adds, “You will both sleep in Nouka’s caravan. You’ll remain under my protection for as long as necessary.”
Gloria is too tired even to smile, but I can feel that she is relieved. I thank Babik a million times, and Hoop Earring takes us to Nouka’s caravan, at the back of the camp, under a weeping willow.
Nouka is a small woman, neither old nor young, with red hair sticking out of a scarf. She installs Gloria on a worn velvet sofa covered with cat hair.
Nouka’s hands are decorated with painted swirls. She speaks Russian as well as Babik does. She was his wife in the past, but not anymore. She is nobody’s wife now because she is free.
Nouka also speaks the language of trees, clouds, insects, and earth. Nothing is foreign to her. Not even the secrets that are haunting our minds. I don’t have to explain anything about Gloria’s soul. She puts her hands on Gloria’s forehead, on her throat, and on her chest.
After a while she tells us, “Get out, children. I must take care of this woman.”
In my life I have been lucky several times. It’s particularly true on that day, in Nouka’s caravan under the willow. Because if I hadn’t learned to box with Abdelmalik, I wouldn’t have punched Hoop Earring’s nose, and we wouldn’t have met Nouka, and I’m certain that Gloria would have died.
And if Gloria had died, the truth is that I would have let myself die by her side.