HERITAGE
Mr. Heufel guides them in from the valet station in front of the hotel in town. It’s only a hundred yards from there to here, but I never see them until they can see the camp, tucked in behind a grove of trees. Americans: give them a fair price for a cab ride, and they’ll argue with you for an hour. But send them a midget, and they’ll follow him anywhere.
It seems to help somewhat that he doesn’t speak. I don’t think he’s actually mute. I just think he doesn’t like talking to people.
The concierge sends out their names each morning before they arrive. We make up notes saying that we have been awaiting them, to re-connect them with a part of their precious heritage. Out of a hundred or two, at least a half dozen fall for the line. Some weeks more. This time I count sixteen heads as Mr. Heufel leads them around the edge of the grove. Sixteen! It’s a fat week ahead for us!
I flounce towards them, my vintage skirt flapping up to show my legs, blouse flowing out from the laced-up, bodice-like vest which pushes my breasts up out of it like toothpaste out of a tube. Never fails. Men and women alike gawk at me. For whatever reason, the whole world associates sex with gypsies. If they’d ever seen real gypsies, they’d know better.
I’m no gypsy. My childhood ballet lessons are serving me well. Three years of intensive language study lets me mix an accent so that no linguist in the world could pin it down—and so that no one can try to hide suspicious talk by speaking another language. (And when Americans learn foreign tongues, they only learn as much as any five year old would know. That makes it easier.) My parents thought I would be going into international relations, or perhaps banking. This is much more fun.
Mr. Heufel gestures them into the park. None of the equipment works, but that doesn’t matter. Before the day is out, these dumb tourists will think they are in a magical land of faeries and gypsies, and they will pay lavishly to pretend they belong to it. Most of them will think better of it tomorrow, but by then we will be gone. Poof! Spreading—as far as they know—the American wealth, in return for which they will be sent detailed information as to their place in the clan, and to whom they might be related in America!
Joseph strikes up a gypsy tune on the fiddle. Fionka hoists the awning on the beaten up old caravan, and the smell of rich, warm goulash fills the air. Let the show begin!
God, but I hate that fiddle!
It seems to help somewhat that he doesn’t speak. I don’t think he’s actually mute. I just think he doesn’t like talking to people.
The concierge sends out their names each morning before they arrive. We make up notes saying that we have been awaiting them, to re-connect them with a part of their precious heritage. Out of a hundred or two, at least a half dozen fall for the line. Some weeks more. This time I count sixteen heads as Mr. Heufel leads them around the edge of the grove. Sixteen! It’s a fat week ahead for us!
I flounce towards them, my vintage skirt flapping up to show my legs, blouse flowing out from the laced-up, bodice-like vest which pushes my breasts up out of it like toothpaste out of a tube. Never fails. Men and women alike gawk at me. For whatever reason, the whole world associates sex with gypsies. If they’d ever seen real gypsies, they’d know better.
I’m no gypsy. My childhood ballet lessons are serving me well. Three years of intensive language study lets me mix an accent so that no linguist in the world could pin it down—and so that no one can try to hide suspicious talk by speaking another language. (And when Americans learn foreign tongues, they only learn as much as any five year old would know. That makes it easier.) My parents thought I would be going into international relations, or perhaps banking. This is much more fun.
Mr. Heufel gestures them into the park. None of the equipment works, but that doesn’t matter. Before the day is out, these dumb tourists will think they are in a magical land of faeries and gypsies, and they will pay lavishly to pretend they belong to it. Most of them will think better of it tomorrow, but by then we will be gone. Poof! Spreading—as far as they know—the American wealth, in return for which they will be sent detailed information as to their place in the clan, and to whom they might be related in America!
Joseph strikes up a gypsy tune on the fiddle. Fionka hoists the awning on the beaten up old caravan, and the smell of rich, warm goulash fills the air. Let the show begin!
God, but I hate that fiddle!
posted by Bobo the Wandering Pallbearer at 5:50 AM
3 Comments:
I love the ambiance you create in this story. And I guess the gypsy is actually selling ambiance to the tourists.
"...bodice-like vest which pushes my breasts up out of it like toothpaste out of a tube."
This sentence is classic. Very very memorable imagery.
Silly Americans -
"send them a midget and they'll follow him anywhere." - Beautiful!
I agree, very vivid imagery. Nice tale.
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