“Ah!” the woman exclaims, “ah! You are in someone’s mind, someone’s heart. You are in their dreams. You are needed. You are looking for someone.” She stops abruptly as if stung by a bee. She peers closely at, nearly through, it seems, my palms. She shakes her head from side to side. The woman continues: “I see something…” But then she stops again and removes her eyes from my palms to seek my eyes, into which she stares intently, even angrily. She lets go my hands, sharply. They drop to my sides pathetically. “You cannot see,” she intones. “You do not learn. You only look for the right things.” Then she turns away from me to poke the fire.
Her fierceness is stunning. Though I accept nothing that she has spoken as the truth, for I reject prophecy, and remember all too well how much I myself spoke last night and how much I drank — every Gypsy knew I was looking for Helen and much more — I am rather disconcerted. It is early in the morning to hear such things. Probably it is Helen who dreams of me, who needs me. If I were to believe any of this, and I do not. It is as if I were thrust into that scene in Macbeth when the three witches chant over a steaming caldron. But one sentence particularly provokes me. “You only look for the right things.” It seems a paradox, for how does one know ahead of time what is or will be the right thing to look for?
Pondering a paradox, with a blanket wrapped around me in the midst of an encampment of strangers, I must be a foolish spectacle. Perhaps it is — I am — an amusement to the others who stand nearby. Embarrassed and ultimately annoyed by the old woman’s presumption, I decide to leave that very instant. I return to the tent where I slept to dress and gather my belongings. Then I make my way around the group to offer thanks for their hospitality.
But I am arrested in my departure by the young man, by Roman. He begs me to allow him to accompany me on my journey. Under ordinary circumstances I would have said yes — I had already begun to imagine that I could be this clever young man’s teacher, and he my amanuensis, and that he could benefit from my worldliness and knowledge, and so on. Gently I explain to him that I must be alone on this trip. His disappointment is palpable and I nearly relent. But something holds me to my conviction. Instead I offer him my address. I write it down on a small piece of paper and urge him to visit me soon. He takes the piece of paper and folds it twice and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt — he is dressed, by the way, like any young Greek man; no one would know he is a Gypsy. Then he pats his shirt pocket, which is over his heart. He pats it several times. He stares deeply into my eyes. My heart leaps. I am astonished, even mesmerized by this display of unexpected affection.
We are not alone. All this occurs in the midst of the group, who are no doubt aware of us and this encounter. What do the Gypsies think of me and of this intimate, if not romantic, episode? Suddenly I wonder if they know or suspect that I am a homosexual. Would it matter to them? I cast my eyes about the campsite. Everyone is going about his or her business. Probably they think I am rich. That may be all that matters. I do not know.
Together Roman and I walk to my rusty old car. I note their two new Mercedes parked behind some trees. As I get in, Roman holds the car door and tells me he will visit me, absolutely. And soon. He touches my arm. I am more than touched. “Look for Helen well!” Roman calls out as I drive away. “Make a good journey!”
By offering Roman my address, didn’t I, I think with pride, demonstrate to the fortune-teller that I don’t always look for the right things? Am I not taking a chance with Roman? Is this merely foolish pride?
In the privacy of my car, I repeat his name aloud several times. Roman, Roman, Roman. With a start and a great deal of pleasure, I realize that in French his name is the word for novel. And is it the French who are fascinated by the Gypsies and who, I believe, dominate the field of Gypsiology. I experience a deep satisfaction that bubbles and flows through my languid body like lava down the side of a volcanic mountain.
Chapter 16
It was only later in the day that I was able to record some of the impressions I had gathered. I felt privileged to have been in the Gypsies’ company. Though I had momentary doubts, I was mostly assured that they liked and accepted me. I did not know why. Perhaps I held steadfastly then to what dear Gertrude noted about the writing of The Making of Americans: “Whether they are Chinamen or Americans there are the same kinds in men and women and one can describe all the kinds of them.” I was not afraid that the Gypsies would steal from me or kill me. I didn’t know why, either. The simplest explanation was that I did not want to think these things, things I would ordinarily have thought. It was also true that up until that night I had had no real or intimate experience of the Gypsies and had, prior to Helen’s friendship with one and my reading about them, maintained only predictable and prejudicial notions about them.
I drive all morning, mulling over last night’s events. I let each one sink in thoroughly. Roman is an exquisite, even extravagant event. How is, I ask myself, a character like an event? I stop for souvlaki at a roadside café where I warmly greet the owner, whom I don’t know. I am in exceptionally good spirits. I am not at all hungry and nibble listlessly at the pita bread and meat. As any good Cretan will, the owner returns my solicitude with his own. He offers me a game of tavoli but I explain that I am in a rush. Frankly, I cannot concentrate. I merely glance at the open book before me, Stein’s lectures, and decide to follow the fastest route to the south, so as to arrive at my destination — that dot on the map — before nightfall.
The village that is nearest to the dot on Helen’s map probably does not have a guest house or inn. Often one can rent a room from a Greek family and indeed, when I arrive there, this is what I set about doing. I park the car on a deserted side street; there appear to be hardly any streets at all. I walk to the only store, a general store, that is open and ask for help. The young woman who owns the store has a room to let just below, in the basement, and so I am in luck. There is a restaurant a mere half mile from here and a beautiful beach, she tells me. Her name is Partheny, which means, curiously enough, “little virgin”; her husband is dead and she wears black, in the tradition of the Cretan widow, but I would guess she is only thirty. She also tells me there are many Americans who pass through, but yes, she believes she has recently seen one with a gold ring in her nose.
The village is a crudely built, almost barren place, not likely to be invaded by the hippies from the caves at M´tala, which is considerably south of here. It is such an unprepossessing, scrubby spot, with a few ratty flowers and trees dotting the cement sidewalks, I rue the fact that this is the setting for my rendezvous with Helen.
I move my car to a space in front of the store and carry my suitcase, groceries, liquor, and typewriter downstairs. The room is sparely furnished, but has a sink — the toilet is in the hall. There is just one light hanging from the ceiling but the sheets on the cot are clean enough. There is a table on which I place my typewriter. Quickly I remove it from its case, roll in a piece of paper, eager to bang out as fast as I can — my fingers are stiff — all the strange and marvelous events which have transpired since I left home.
Perhaps I ought this instant to go in search of Helen, but it is nearly dark. Also I am exhausted, having slept so little the last few nights. Might it have been Roman who undressed me and put my pajamas on me? I muse about this possibility — who else could it have been?