"Charles de Lint - Mulengro" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

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 MULENGRO

And yet… and yet…

With the burning of his home, Janfri felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He
had thought it important to rise in the world, the Gaje world, to take their money and smile behind his
hand with the knowledge of his secret that they gave it to a Gypsy. He hid his heritage, not through
shame—for were the Rom not expected to be musicians and great lovers as well as thieves?—but
because he would not have them trade on that heritage to make a profit. They did not, could not
understand what it was to be a Rom. Only a Gypsy could. And perhaps… just perhaps he had forgotten a
little himself. But not in such a way that deserved a notice of marhime.

Janfri sighed. For every good luck, o Beng the devil handed out an equal share of prikaza. He had been
too clever by far and now he reaped the bad luck that o Beng would charge was his due. It would have
been different if Pesha was still alive, but her muli had long since fled this world into the land of
shadows. She was dead and he was too clever by far.

And so, he thought. What now? Bi kashtesko merel i yag, his Uncle Nonka would have said. Without
wood the fire would die. Dwelling on sorrow and prikaza merely made them grow. But there was no
return for him to the charred ruin of his home and the Gaje with their hands held out, filled with money,
waiting for him to play. Not until he dealt with this matter of marhime. But who could he return to?
Would Big George even speak to him when he was marhime? When merely to speak to Janfri meant
risking the stigma of being outcast himself? And if Big George, who was the leader of his kumpania, its
rom baro, if he would not, then who would?

Janfri imagined trying to explain this concept to a Gajo like Tom Shaw. It was so simple, a keystone to
the Romany way of life, yet at the same time it was so complex. He had tried to explain it to other Gaje
with predictable results. They either responded with disbelief, or that certain look that meant they were
assimilating it as a curious anthropological quirk—the same way they responded to the customs of
Native Americans or African tribesmen, with the superior air of an adult listening to a child describing
the fairies that lived at the bottom of the garden. Che chorobia. What vagaries. How odd.

And yet, Janfri realized, the Gaje were not so different themselves. They had only one crime amongst
them and that was theft. Theft of goods. Murder, which was the theft of life. Rape, which was the theft
of a woman’s privacy and dignity. All they cared about was their possessions. All their laws were
devoted to protecting their property. It was as simple and complex as marhime and, from an outsider’s
point of view looking in, just as bewildering. Che chorobia, indeed.

The woods gave way to a small subdivision that Janfri skirted by hugging the riverbank, then opened up
into Parc Moussette. He could see the filtration plant just beyond the park in the growing light. The
traffic was sporadic on Tach9 Boulevard which had swept in closer to the river at this point so that he
heard the sound of a familiar engine long before he saw it. He paused in the middle of the park and
turned towards the road to watch the beat-up black Lincoln pull up on the shoulder. The engine of the
touring car died with a rumbling cough and a tall heavy-set man disembarked from the driver’s side.


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 MULENGRO