Cut

Gypsy

We're stuck in a tiny village high up in the mountains, with only three houses and two barns, surrounded by large meadows that will be dotted with cows and sheep as soon as spring arrives. The snowstorm was heavy, and it might take a month or two until Runner and I can pass over the mountains again. But for now, after we've rested and replenished our provisions, our path lies in the opposite direction — down and farther down.

This place is very different from my own home. People seem busier and closer to one another. They laugh and chat more, and it's odd to see them embrace Runner and even kiss him on the mouth. I'd believed him to be more of the distant kind. But here, everyone kisses anyone on the mouth to say hello. They hug a lot, too. I did the hugging thing, but turned my head away when the kissing was about to happen. They didn't seem to mind because I'm a stranger.

Now I'm sitting pinched between two sets of shoulders. An entire cow plus a vegetable field is spread on the table. Or so it seems. I've never seen such enormous amounts of food, wine, beer, and people in such a small room. I flick a finger across the kinked tabletop, imagining that the scents and noises can be moved like a cloth.

Outside, snow flutters against the windowpanes, settles, and scoots down with a slug-trail, forming white mounds on the sills. The black night sky has little opportunity to peek through the white onslaught.

And just when I think the room is impossibly overloaded, even more people enter. Two men with beads and coins in their braided beards, a woman with tinkling earrings and strands of silver woven through her raven-black hair, and two girls with colourful dresses and scarves around their heads call a cheerful, 'Hello!' The men shake snow off their long hair. One of them toes the door shut.

Runner turns his head as the word "Gypsies" sounds over the chatter. The woman nods at him, then talks to the two girls. For a moment, it looks as if Runner knows them, but there's no hugging and kissing, so I turn my attention back to my plate. The man next to me eats a hunk of fried udder as if it's the best thing he's ever tasted. Fat dribbles down his chin and hits the potatoes on his plate. I'd rather stick to my ribs. The beer makes me lightheaded and I find myself laughing at jokes I don't even understand.

Rubbing my tongue against my palate, I try to describe the flavour of the room and the people. The hum of conversation tastes of candied apples, and the surroundings are spicy, but I can't tell what spices. Nothing green, that's for sure. Rugs decorate walls and floor. A large fire heats the room, and it's not even used to cook the meat. Where I grew up, this would be considered wasteful. A slight unease trickles down my neck, caused by the loud chatter, the laughing, the large amount of food, the jokes, and colourful clothing. I've never seen anything like it, and I'm almost expecting someone to enter, point at me, and drag me out by my ears to whip me for quietly taking part in this luxury.

I shrug and grab another piece of fried ribs. When I look up from my plate, I see Runner approaching the Gypsies. The woman is introducing the two girls who must be her daughters. One looks like she's my age, the other is probably three years younger and is now taking Runner's hands into hers. They stick their heads together and chat.

There's still space in my stomach for a few string beans, I think. They glisten with butter and slide down easily. Maybe a third serving will fit in, too. When I reach out to the string bean pot again, my hand freezes mid-way.

The girl sits on Runner's lap. Both talk and laugh and hug. I've never seen him so engrossed by anyone. She's whispering in his ear, pressing her face to his neck. His cheeks are shiny, his eyes glistening, and he seems nervous and excited at once.

I make an effort to blink really hard, but there she is, still only a small girl. Her arms are skinny, her chest flat, and her face that of a child. She's barely twelve. My skin crawls. All that hugging and mouth-pecking suddenly makes me sick. I try not to stare, but I keep my eyes on Runner for the rest of the night. All the while, my brain is ringing with what my mother repeated throughout my childhood: "Men always only want one thing, Micka."