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

When he caught sight of Janfri, he started across the road. Janfri sat down on the dewy grass, with his
back to the approaching man, and laid his violin case down beside him. He placed his shoes on the case
and waited patiently. He would not speak first, nor welcome his friend who was as close to him as a
brother. Not when he was marhime.

The big man made his way slowly across the park. He had an unruly thatch of black hair and a well-
groomed walrus mustache that neatly cut his face into two disproportionate halves. Below the mustache,
his lips were thick, his jaw square. Above it was a large nose and a pair of warm brown eyes
overshadowed by black bushy eyebrows that joined across the top of his nose. His complexion was dark,
though not as dark as Janfri’s who could pass as a mulatto. His name was Yojo la Kore. He and Janfri
had both married into the Pataloeshti kumpania whose rom baro was Big George Luluvo. Yojo’s wife
Sizma was still alive and they had seven children.

Yojo said nothing as he sat down beside Janfri. He took the makings for a cigarette from his pocket and
rolled himself one with quick deft movements of his big fingers. Sticking it in his mouth, he flicked the
tip of a wooden match. The flame flared and he lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. Not until he’d replaced
the tobacco in his pocket did he greet Janfri.

“Sarishan, prala.” How do you do, brother?

Janfri gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was not surprised that Yojo had found him. The bond
between them ran too strongly for either of them to be long from the other, or for one not to know where
the other was. That Yojo had sought him out meant he knew of Janfri’s problem, but Janfri still felt
obliged to spell it out.

“I am marhime now,” he said flatly.

Yojo smoked in silence for a long moment. The morning light was growing steadily stronger about
them. The dawn bird chorus was in full swing. Janfri waited. Yojo had something to say, but he would
only say it in his own time, so Janfri looked to the river. He let the flow of the water and the growing
warmth of the morning fill him. Slowly the tension eased in his shoulders.

“The son of Big George’s cousin Punka died last night,” Yojo said finally.

Janfri looked at him, surprised. “Romano?”

Yojo nodded. “It was a prikaza killing, Janfri—very bad luck. There was a patrin found on or near his
body—I’m not sure which. But someone thought he was marhime, too.”

Patrin were a part of the patteran, the information that the Rom left for any of their companions who
might follow the same route that they had taken. There was a circular patrin that meant friend and was
carved on the wooden door of a house where Gypsies might find a welcome. Janfri had had one on his

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door. There were others that told of unclean water at a stream or well, of Rom that were marhime that
were traveling nearby, of good campsites with grazing for the horses. Some even told of the mood of the
countryside—whether the constabulary was friendly, whether a village should be avoided.