Ascension by Steven Galloway Page B

sleep in a fox’s den. But tonight was different. Salvo didn’t know if it would last or if it was an eclipse of normal circumstances, but on this night Salvo did not fear or hate his uncle. Nearly the opposite, Salvo sat in the chair and held a measure of admiration in his heart for László Nagy, forgiving him his harsh manner and his attitudes towards Roma and the way he scorned his crippled son.
    His eyes settled on the crate in the far corner of the room. He knew that he should leave it be, that no good could come from tampering with it, that it was not his business, and he continued to tell himself as much even as he rose from the chair and walked across the dimly lit room and opened the lid. The rags and paper inside parted readily before his eager fingers, and as he lifted the soldier out of the box, he was surprised by how heavy it was. He set it down on the floor in front of him and stepped back.
    In the flickering light the soldier almost looked alive. It seemed to smile at him, a sly, knowing smile, as if it knew what hewas thinking, what he had ever thought and what he had ever seen. Salvo’s breath quickened, and he looked deeply into the soldier. He looked into the soldier like a man who sees a miracle and isn’t sure why he has been chosen to bear witness but nonetheless has, in spite of himself, found religion.
    Even as a part of him continued to scream against it, Salvo pulled the cuffs of his shirt over his hands and picked the soldier up. He did not want to leave finger smudges on the glass. He raised the soldier high above his head, remembering both his father and himself on the steeple of the church, remembering how they stood high above the ground and did not fall. Below them, that was where the trouble had happened. That was where things had gone bad. With the soldier above him, it was as if he was back up on that steeple, with his father this time, and they rose higher and higher, far away from the
gadje
and Transylvania and Budapest.
    Then Salvo felt the soldier slip from his hands. He didn’t know for certain whether it was an accident or not, but he did know that he could catch the soldier as it fell, or at least he could try, but he didn’t. Instead he watched as the soldier fell to the ground, spinning head over heels over head, hitting the hard wood of the floor and shattering into oblivion. Even as he heard the broken glass skitter across the room he remained calm and still. Although he knew that a terrible thing had just happened, a truly horrible thing, he was peaceful, at complete ease, like in that perfect, abeyant moment before falling asleep.
    Salvo got a broom from the kitchen and swept the scattered remnants of the soldier into a pile in the centre of the room, lay down on the floor, and waited.

    The Mór Roma spent the majority of their days on the road. They were true Roma and their feet got itchy quickly. These travels were long and hard, everyone happiest after they had made camp for the night, eager for a warm fire and a good meal. After they had eaten, the music began and, with it, the stories.
    There was an old man named Vedel Mór who told the best stories of the group. He chose his moments, however, and would not tell a story every night, or even every second night. When he did, it was a special occasion, and everyone listened that much harder. People knew that Vedel would not live forever, that there would come a time when his untold stories would disappear with him. When he told a story he would often choose one person and speak as if only to them, or at least they would feel it was so. He began his stories the same way always.
    “If it is not true, then it is a lie. Little Etel, and larger András, we have taken you in, and we would do so again, because we Roma are scattered throughout the earth, and we have been for a long time. But it was not always so.
    “Once a Rom and his family were all together in their wagon. Their horse was a nag, not worth his weight in