Chapter Six
He had
bought a fare card, and Laurie had one too, for the rare occasions
when he had to use public transport. The tickets took them all the
way out on the northwest wing of the Tube network, from the central
zone onto the overground stretch past Finchley Road. Seated beside
Sasha on the rattling, bumping train, Laurie smiled as the tunnel
abruptly disappeared, shooting them out into the light. He’d never
been this far out on the Metropolitan before, and the sight of
unknown streets, long terraces, and allotments flashing past—bare
trackside trees, factories, the occasional glimpse of water—set
inside him a bright sense of freedom. His headache evaporated,
leaving him spaced-out, exhilarated, the press of Sasha’s shoulder
to his own completing the high. Sasha, too, after making his usual
scan of the carriage and platforms, was looking out the window, but
Laurie could feel at least as much of his attention smilingly fixed
on himself, probably in amusement at his town-boy reactions to new
scenes.
Laurie felt an irresistible urge to touch him, to find his
hand in the hidden space between their bodies. When he did, Sasha
turned to him, silently questioning, eyes full of assent. He drew
their joined hands out so both were lying on his lap, and Laurie,
after flinching in shock, gave thought to the public displays of
intimacy he’d seen on buses, tubes, and London’s streets over the
years. Not just boys with girls, either. Late at night, the clubs
emptying, young men too embraced each other. He’d averted his eyes,
telling himself it wasn’t right, in the open like that—wondering at
the same time if the grapes were only sour because
he didn’t have anyone to
kiss half to death on a street corner. He looked at his hand, bony
and pale in Sasha’s. His father, as far as he knew, did not own the
Tube network. The carriage was almost empty at this hour. Only a
couple of old ladies sat with their backs to them down at the other
end. Extracting his hand, Laurie took hold of the seat bar behind
them. He hauled himself up onto one knee against the jolting of the
carriage, leaned over Sasha, and kissed him, feeling his head spin
at the heat of him, the longed-for returning press of his mouth.
Sasha’s hands came up in welcome, steadying him, clasping in his
jacket. Laurie could also feel laughter shaking him and, after a
moment, drew back, smiling too. “What?”
“You. Very bold.”
“Yes, I…suppose so. Do you mind?”
For
answer, Sasha pulled him back down by his lapels.
* *
*
The bus
from East Hill to Birchwood took half an hour. Laurie watched—Sasha
kindly having conceded him the window seat, promising he’d seen the
route often enough—while the last far-flung suburbs of his city
began to thin out into fields and trees. The driver put them down
at an unmarked stop halfway along a stretch of tree-lined road, and
Sasha caught Laurie’s hand, pointing to a stile over a fence into a
sunlit lane. “It’s this way. Not far.”
Laurie
didn’t care. He would have walked with Sasha forever like this.
They were in the wings of London still—a road purred in the
distance, and Heathrow-bound planes glimmered in the sky—but other
than that, the world felt empty and serene. The lane, half grassing
over in some places, reverting to track, stretched out before and
behind them. Dark hollies and gleaming birches where a few
gold-coin leaves still clung gradually transformed into beech
cover, tall graceful shapes receding into churchlike distance,
bronze carpet beginning to crunch underfoot. Laurie said softly,
because it felt like a place between worlds, “Will they mind me
coming here? Your friends?”
“Not if I vouch for you. That’s the arrangement. We all take
complete responsibility for anyone we bring in from outside.
So”—Sasha reached out and drew Laurie to him, encircling arm a
comfort as well as excitement to him now—“so you’ll have to try not
to disgrace me, okay?”
* *
*
The
Birchwood Heath camp was both everything and nothing Laurie might
have expected such a place to be. The cluster of caravans and
trucks was buried deep in the trees, invisible until you came
within a few yards of it, the first signs of its presence a
drifting scent of wood smoke in the air. Dark-eyed faces appeared
at windows as they approached, and a burly, brindled dog shot to
the end of its chain, barking frantically. Sasha went forward to it
fearlessly and knelt down, intercepting its rush. “Quiet, Zaga.
This is a friend. Come here a second, Laurie.”
Apprehensively Laurie obeyed him. He wasn’t sure now what he
would not do at Sasha’s command, even though the bulldog’s rolling
eyes and continued growls were far from inviting. “Here. That’s it.
Let her sniff you. So she’ll know you next time and not make such a
fuss.”
“Hoi, Sasha, mora! Who the hell’s
that?”
Laurie
looked up. A chill touched him. He didn’t think the introductions
were going to be so simple from now on. The clearing around which
the caravans were grouped was suddenly full of silent men and
women, watching, fronted by a huge, shaven-headed blond who would
have looked more at home at a right-wing British National Party
rally than here. “Sash,” Laurie whispered. “I don’t want to make
trouble. Is this a good idea?”
“It will be.” Sasha got to his feet, leaving Laurie to deal
with the dog, who to her credit now seemed more interested in
slobbering on him than pursuing her attack. “What’s the matter,
Gunari? Didn’t I agree to your contract? Aren’t I allowed to have
friends?”
The
crew-cut Gunari surveyed Laurie, who instinctively stood up too. He
wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t like to see Sasha’s impulse to protect
him.
“Friends like this?” Gunari growled. “I’m not sure. Where’d you
pick him up—the back lane outside Harrods?”
“Fuck you, Gunari,” Sasha returned good-naturedly enough. A
ripple of laughter had run through the crowd, making Laurie
fervently wish he’d taken time to put on an older coat before
letting Sasha whisk him off here. “He’s the one I told Mama Luna
about, the one who helped me, so back down, okay? Where is
she?”
“Where she always is,” a hoarse female voice responded. It was
little more than a rasp but carried clearly through the cold air,
and the group in front of Sasha parted slightly, revealing an old
woman sitting by the fire. If the modern silver vans and TV aerials
had jolted Laurie’s expectations, the sight of her conformed
exactly to his gajo vision of the Romani world, the stories he had
read in childhood of painted horse-drawn carts and black-eyed
fortune-tellers crouched in the firelight. He could not judge her
age; her bright, analytical stare contradicted her tiny, hunched-up
frame. She was wrapped from head to foot in scarves and shawls
whose brilliant shades seemed to change as Laurie looked at
her.
She made
a gesture at Gunari so tiny that Laurie barely saw it, but the big
man fell back as if she’d poked him in the chest. “More courtesy to
visitors, my boy, when they come peacefully. Sasha, bring your
friend over here. The rest of you…” Another movement of her skinny
hand, and the small crowd scattered like chickens. “Yes. Mind your
business.”
Sasha
led Laurie to the fireside. “Gunari is Mama Luna’s son, Laurie,” he
said, pitched just loud enough so that Gunari, who was still
lingering, would hear. “It’s useful he looks like a big thick
neo-Nazi. Puts people off the scent.”
Gunari glowered, but the old woman didn’t seem to mind her
unlikely offspring being called names. She rocked herself on her
little stool by the fire, chuckling quietly. “Ah, this Sasha.
Insolent. But works hard, pays his way. Don’t you? You better not
make pain for Sasha, balame.”
“I won’t.” The words startled Laurie, falling from him
half-involuntarily. He felt as if a priest had demanded the
assurance from him at some unimaginable altar. He didn’t mind; it
was what was in his heart. “I promise.”
The
wizened old face became surprised and then approving, though Laurie
could see an ironic glitter there too.
“What’s a balame?”
“Just gajo in Mama’s dialect, I’m afraid,” Sasha said. “She’s
Greek Romani. Sorry, Laurie. There’s so few of us, almost
everyone’s a stranger. Mama Luna, will you let this balame visit?
I’ll answer for his good conduct.”
She
nodded. “Yes, you will. Give me your hand, boy.”
Once
more Laurie responded unquestioningly, reaching down to accept her
grasp. She was extraordinarily warm. Her fingers tangled with his.
The feel of it was pleasant and oddly soothing—the sounds of the
encampment around him seemed to fade out, and the anxieties he
carted helplessly with him—about Sasha, Clara, his father—all
seemed suddenly to lift themselves out from his chest. He took a
deep breath, filling the new space inside himself.
“Ah, yes,” she said at length and turned to Sasha with a
peaceful smile. “This one, Sasha. Mulo.
Dadro shee mulo.”
Sasha
went white. Laurie turned to him curiously. The old woman’s grip on
him was firm, but he could have pulled away if he had wanted. He
felt too serene, as if nothing could hurt him or anyone he loved
anymore. And it was all right here, in this place, to follow up an
impulse. He need not hide here.
He
stretched out his free hand to take Sasha’s gently in his own.
“What is it?” he asked him, then looked back down at Mama Luna. “I
promise,” he repeated. “I won’t hurt him. I love him.”
Sasha’s
grip convulsed around his. A shocked, disbelieving pleasure blended
with the fear in his eyes. “Oh, God. Laurie…”
“What did she say, Sash?”
The old woman was shaking her head, rocking herself slightly.
She released Laurie’s hand and intoned the strange, resonant words
once more, looking straight up at Sasha. “Yes, chiavala. That one. Don’t be afraid.”
Then she straightened up and blinked, as if shaking off cobwebs.
“What are you both standing here for? Yes, your balame may visit.