hurried over the crossing when the signal again turned to green. To anyone else, this would have seemed easy enough, yet for Marco these were the longest twenty-five meters of his life.
The woman was already rummaging through her bag in a panic by the time he reached the glass door. The assistant behind the counter was trying to appear patient, but it was obvious he felt she was wasting her time.
Marco took a deep breath, hardly aware of what he was doing as the door slid open and he went inside.
“Excuse me,” he said, reaching the wallet toward her. “Were you the one who dropped this outside?”
The woman stiffened, her facial expression blurring like a strip of film caught in the projector, melting. Worry turned to dark suspicion, then to the kind of relief a person might feel when an object hurtling toward them misses by a centimeter. It was strange, watching her reactions. Marco braced himself, unsure what to expect.
If her movements were too fast he would drop the wallet and leg it. He had no desire to feel the tight grip of her hand on his wrist.
Marco watched her intently as she finally thanked him and reached to take the wallet.
He bowed almost imperceptibly and turned quickly toward the door, already on his way.
“Stop!” The woman’s voice cut through the air. It seemed obvious to Marco that her life had been defined by issuing commands.
He glanced warily over his shoulder as the doorway was blocked by two incoming customers. Why did he have to go and hand back the wallet? They had seen through him, of course they had. Anyone could tell what sort of an urchin he was.
“Here, take this,” the woman said. Her voice was so soft now that everyone heard it. “Not many people would be as honest as you.”
He turned slowly to face her, staring at the hand extended in front of him. In it was a one-hundred-kroner note.
Marco reached out and accepted it.
Half an hour later he tried the trick with the wallet again, this time without success, as the woman he had picked out became so upset by her carelessness and loss that she clutched at her breast, unable to staunch the shock wave of sobbing that Marco had precipitated.
So he withdrew without his reward, but with the resolve that this had been the very last time.
The hundred kroner would simply have to last.
6
Early 2007 to late 2010
Marco received the shock of his life the day Zola gathered the flock and without warning revealed that from now on they would no longer live as Gypsies and had never belonged to that tribe, anyway.
It was the day Marco reached the age of eleven, and at that moment his respect for Zola ceased.
He expected his uncle to explain what he meant, but Zola merely gave a wry smile when he saw how the children reacted. Then he told them of the nights he had lain with a raging fever, his mind suddenly becoming clear, his thoughts collecting to focus on whole new pathways in life.
Marco turned and stared at the grown-ups who stood in a ring behind the children. They looked so odd with sheepish smiles creasing their otherwise stern faces, as though at once both glad and apprehensive. It was obvious something momentous was in the offing.
“I have awoken from my delusions,” Zola went on, this being the way he spoke to them when they were gathered. They were used to it.
“As from today, you are blessed with a spiritual leader, a man who not only serves to unite the family in common endeavors, but who will also steer you on toward new and greater goals. Do you know what I mean, children?”
Most shook their heads, but Marco sat quite still, absorbed by the intensity of the man’s piercing gaze.
“No, I am sure you do not. But though we have lived as Gypsies for many years, Roma we are not. Now you know.” His words were as simple as that.
Marco frowned as his window on the world disintegrated. It was as though all life had suddenly been sucked out of him.
“And even though we feel tied together by the flesh as a family,
The woman was already rummaging through her bag in a panic by the time he reached the glass door. The assistant behind the counter was trying to appear patient, but it was obvious he felt she was wasting her time.
Marco took a deep breath, hardly aware of what he was doing as the door slid open and he went inside.
“Excuse me,” he said, reaching the wallet toward her. “Were you the one who dropped this outside?”
The woman stiffened, her facial expression blurring like a strip of film caught in the projector, melting. Worry turned to dark suspicion, then to the kind of relief a person might feel when an object hurtling toward them misses by a centimeter. It was strange, watching her reactions. Marco braced himself, unsure what to expect.
If her movements were too fast he would drop the wallet and leg it. He had no desire to feel the tight grip of her hand on his wrist.
Marco watched her intently as she finally thanked him and reached to take the wallet.
He bowed almost imperceptibly and turned quickly toward the door, already on his way.
“Stop!” The woman’s voice cut through the air. It seemed obvious to Marco that her life had been defined by issuing commands.
He glanced warily over his shoulder as the doorway was blocked by two incoming customers. Why did he have to go and hand back the wallet? They had seen through him, of course they had. Anyone could tell what sort of an urchin he was.
“Here, take this,” the woman said. Her voice was so soft now that everyone heard it. “Not many people would be as honest as you.”
He turned slowly to face her, staring at the hand extended in front of him. In it was a one-hundred-kroner note.
Marco reached out and accepted it.
Half an hour later he tried the trick with the wallet again, this time without success, as the woman he had picked out became so upset by her carelessness and loss that she clutched at her breast, unable to staunch the shock wave of sobbing that Marco had precipitated.
So he withdrew without his reward, but with the resolve that this had been the very last time.
The hundred kroner would simply have to last.
6
Early 2007 to late 2010
Marco received the shock of his life the day Zola gathered the flock and without warning revealed that from now on they would no longer live as Gypsies and had never belonged to that tribe, anyway.
It was the day Marco reached the age of eleven, and at that moment his respect for Zola ceased.
He expected his uncle to explain what he meant, but Zola merely gave a wry smile when he saw how the children reacted. Then he told them of the nights he had lain with a raging fever, his mind suddenly becoming clear, his thoughts collecting to focus on whole new pathways in life.
Marco turned and stared at the grown-ups who stood in a ring behind the children. They looked so odd with sheepish smiles creasing their otherwise stern faces, as though at once both glad and apprehensive. It was obvious something momentous was in the offing.
“I have awoken from my delusions,” Zola went on, this being the way he spoke to them when they were gathered. They were used to it.
“As from today, you are blessed with a spiritual leader, a man who not only serves to unite the family in common endeavors, but who will also steer you on toward new and greater goals. Do you know what I mean, children?”
Most shook their heads, but Marco sat quite still, absorbed by the intensity of the man’s piercing gaze.
“No, I am sure you do not. But though we have lived as Gypsies for many years, Roma we are not. Now you know.” His words were as simple as that.
Marco frowned as his window on the world disintegrated. It was as though all life had suddenly been sucked out of him.
“And even though we feel tied together by the flesh as a family,
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