There was only one thing about Marco that was neither to his own nor the clan’s benefit.
He hated his existence, and all that he did, to the depths of his being.
And so he lay in his bed listening to the other kids’ breathing, trying to imagine the life he did not have. The life that other children had, the ones he saw outside. Children with mothers and fathers who went to work; children who went to school and perhaps received a hug or a small gift every now and then. Children who were given nice food every single day and who had friends and family who came to see them. Children who didn’t always look afraid.
When he lay with these thoughts in his mind, Marco would curse Zola. Back in Italy they had at least formed a sort of community: play in the afternoons, songs in the evenings; summer nights around the fire, boastful stories of the day’s exploits. The women played up to the men, and the men puffed themselves up, on occasion clashing and exchanging blows, much to everyone’s amusement. That was when they still were Gypsies.
How Zola had managed to declare himself their indisputable guiding light was something Marco had difficulty grasping. Why did the other adults put up with it? The only things he did were to terrorize them, dominate their lives, and relieve them of everything they had struggled to scrape together. And when such thoughts troubled Marco’s mind he felt shame on behalf of the grown-ups, and especially his father.
This evening he raised himself onto his elbows in bed, fully aware he had ventured onto thin ice. Zola had not really done him harm back there in the living room, but his eyes had warned of miseries to come. Of that he was certain.
He knew he must speak to his father about Samuel. He needed to speak to someone, at least. The question was whether it would help. For some time his father had seemed so distant. As though something had happened that had really affected him.
The first time Marco had noticed it was almost two years before, when his father had sat one morning with his brow furrowed in a frown, passively staring at the food put before him. Marco had thought he must be ill, but the following day he was more energetic than he had been for months. Some said he had begun to chew khat like a number of others, but regardless of what he was up to, the furrows in his brow had come to stay. For some time Marco kept his concerns to himself, but eventually he confided in Miryam and asked if she knew anything.
“You’re dreaming, Marco. Your father’s exactly the same as he’s always been,” she said, and tried to smile.
They spoke no more of it, and Marco endeavored to put it from his mind.
But then, six months ago, he had noticed once more the look on his father’s face, though now a slightly different variant. There had been quite a bit of turbulence throughout the night, but after ten the kids were not allowed to leave their rooms, for which reason it couldn’t have been caused by any of them.
Marco had been woken in the middle of a dream by the sound of tumult in the hallway. Judging by the nature of the groans he heard, hard punishment was being meted out. Punishment so harsh that knowledge of what had taken place seemed etched in his father’s face the next morning as though branded there by hot iron. But Marco had no idea who had been on the receiving end, or for what reason. Certainly not a member of the clan, otherwise he would have known.
Since then, his father had slept in Lajla’s room on the other side of the living room.
Now, hungry and unable to sleep, Marco threw off the bed covers and made his way down the hall toward the kitchen. As he passed the living-room door he heard his father’s voice protesting vigorously behind it, then Zola’s calming him down.
“If we don’t put a stop to your son’s rebellion, it will not only mean lost earnings, it will also mean he will be spreading his poison to the other kids. You have to expect he will betray us one day and destroy everything, don’t you realize that?”
He heard his father protest again. This time with more desperation to his voice. It wasn’t normal for him.
“Marco will never go to the police, Zola,” he replied, urgency in his voice. “Once I’ve had a word with him he’ll toe the line. He won’t run away either. That’s just something he says. You know how he is. A bright boy with too many ideas in his head. A little too bright sometimes, but never with the intention of doing us harm. Zola, surely you can see that? Won’t you please leave him alone?”
“No,” Zola replied curtly. It was his call. He had the power.
Marco glanced down the passageway. Any minute now Chris could appear with the absinthe Zola always demanded for his nightcap. And when he did, Marco mustn’t be caught eavesdropping.
“You should know that Samuel has told me he’s seen Marco hesitate when he’s pickpocketing and stealing handbags,” Zola went on. “If it’s true, he can put us all in peril. You know that as well as I do. Those who hesitate will sooner or later be caught. And they’re the kind who can’t keep their mouths shut, either, when it really counts. You can’t bank on him being loyal toward us or the clan when things go wrong. That’s a fact.”
Then Marco put his ear against the door, his breathing as quiet as a mouse so the dog inside would not begin to growl. Was that really how Samuel spoke of him? It wasn’t true at all. When had he ever hesitated in his work? Never!
But Samuel had, on many occasions. And yet they had defended him. The fool.
“Marco’s old enough now for the invalid scam, so there’s no two ways about it. We know how great the benefits are. Look at Miryam.”
“But can’t you see there’s a difference between him and Miryam?” It was his father’s voice, imploring. “Her misfortune was an accident.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” The words were followed by dry laughter. Marco felt a chill. What did he mean? That it wasn’t an accident? Miryam had stumbled while she was running across the road, everyone knew that.
For a moment all was silent inside the room. He could clearly picture the shock on his father’s face. But his father said nothing.
“Listen,” Zola continued. “We must look after the youngsters, make sure they’ve a bright future, yes? That’s why we can’t afford to be soft and make mistakes, do you understand? Soon we’ll have scraped enough money together to settle in the Philippines. I think you’d do well to remember that this has been our dream from the start. There’s a place for Marco in that dream, too.”
A minute passed before Marco’s father replied. It was clear he was already coming to terms with defeat. “And that’s why Marco must be maimed? Is that really what you want, Zola?”
Marco clenched his fists. Hit him, Father. Hit him, he urged in silence. You’re Zola’s elder brother. Tell him to leave me be.
“It’s just a small sacrifice for the benefit of the clan, don’t you agree? We sedate the boy and put his leg out into the traffic. It will be over in an instant. The Danish hospitals are good, they’ll fix him up well enough. And if he won’t go along voluntarily, we’ll have to help him, yes? If you oppose me on this issue, I may select you instead, you realize that, don’t you?”