Gypsy Masala

‘Just breathe, breathe very deeply.’ The old man inhaled slowly through his nose.

And so I did, trying to calm myself, allowing my breath to flow in unison with the waves and allowing the sea air to empty my head of all thoughts.

‘Good. Do you feel better now?’

I nodded. ‘Please can you help me? I don’t know how I came to be here; I came in search of an African dancer.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Many come in search of him.’

‘So he’s real and you know what I’m talking about.’

The old man laughed. ‘Suspend your disbelief, Evita.’

How did he know that I had decided to call myself Evita?

‘How do you know that I call myself Evita?’

‘I know many things about you – I know that in the mornings you like two sugars in your coffee, that you stir the spoon endlessly, dreaming about ways of escaping the confines of your reality.’

I looked at him with disbelief.

He continued, ‘I know that at the end of the day you write down three things that you are grateful for, and you do this to remind yourself how lucky you are – even on the days you don’t feel lucky.’

And as he spoke, giving me the intimate details about myself that nobody could have known about, a horn sounded, piercing the calmness with its odd tune. An engine roared and a taxi pulled up beside us.

‘Good,’ the old man said, ‘José is here. He will look after you from here on – anything you need, you ask him.’

‘You can’t leave me. I have so many questions for you.’

‘Save them. Be patient, Evita. Time is your friend and you will find the answers to all of your questions. Trust in the adventure.’

With that, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ I shouted.

He continued walking.

A thin man got out of the taxi and approached me. He was wearing a white shirt which was obviously too tight for him; the buttons looked constipated and miserable and the trousers were supposed to match but made him look like a straw. A bushy moustache rested upon his lip and looked as if it had been stuck on.

‘Allow me to present myself, Miss Evita – my name is José Del Rey, King of the Taxi Drivers,’ he said proudly. ‘I am your host and at your complete disposal.’

This was getting stranger but I felt reassured because his taxi reminded me of my grandfather’s old car and also because there was a picture of Jesus and a wooden crucifix dangling from the rear-view mirror. As I climbed in the back, I noticed that the seats were done up in what appeared to be leopard-skin upholstery.

‘Good fashion, no?’ José Del Rey asked as he spotted me eyeing it.

‘Doesn’t it get a bit hot and sweaty?’

‘I have air-conditioning for you,’ he replied. At which point he blasted it on full fan.

‘You couldn’t turn it down just a bit? It’s only because I suffer from sore throats.’

‘Here you won’t suffer from anything. The air will cure everything. Where you want to go?’ he asked.

‘Up into the mountain, I think.’

‘This is a good idea, this is where I was going to take you. You’re here for nine days I’m told.’

Was I? Was it some package tour?

‘It is enough to experience it all,’ he added.

For the first time, I began to feel slightly excited. It didn’t matter how I had got there. The fact was I was there, and would endeavour to make the most of it.

The significance of the crucifix came to light as José Del Rey attacked the emerging hairpin bends with the vigour and ferocity that belonged only to someone who did not fear death. The crucifix swayed from side to side as he accelerated round the corners.

‘You all right back there, Miss Evita?’ he asked.

‘Clutch control,’ I shouted.

‘What?’

‘You couldn’t slow down just a bit? I don’t think I am in any hurry.’

He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and patted his moustache. ‘You are safe with me, miss. This is why they call me King of the Taxi Drivers. I know these roads like I know my own mother.’

Perhaps it was a phrase that didn’t translate well into English. I lingered on the thought of how well he could know his own mother. If she was anything like my Auntie Sheila, who had no-entry signs bobbing up all over the place, then we were in grave danger.

José Del Rey appeared to slow down as we got higher into the mountain. The air felt lighter, the greenery was dense; it was cooler and fresher. As I rolled down the window I could hear a faint drumbeat. I watched women with huge urns move as if they carried the rhythm within them, and children were dancing barefoot on the road. José Del Rey sounded his horn as we passed them, at which point they began running after us.

As we approached a plateau, the drumbeats grew louder and louder.

‘Two minutes,’ José Del Rey indicated with his fingers. There were houses painted in pastel colours dotted about. I could see a village square – it wasn’t a defined square with a focal point such as a church surrounded with benches or anything like that, just a simple open space where people congregated.

Both young and old were listening to the musicians who had brought out their drums and most people were dancing to the rhythm. As the taxi pulled up, a few people stared and smiled – welcoming smiles. Some of the boys who had followed us asked José if they could sit in his taxi. He shook his head defiantly.

I got out of the car feeling very self-conscious in my suit.

‘My wife is somewhere here, but if you want to go to the house first, I take you there.’

‘Is that where I’m staying?’

‘Yes, in our humble abode. Unless you want me to take you somewhere else?’

‘No, thank you. I’m very grateful.’

He patted his moustache and held out his elbow as a gesture for me to take it.

I marvelled at the people dancing so freely. They carried a different rhythm in them, one that was so passionate and carefree. It could not have been more different to the sounds of North London – the drone of the traffic; people locked away in their houses.

José introduced me to his wife, Delores, who was holding her son’s hand. She looked about the same age as I was and her son José could not have been more than seven or eight.

‘Welcome,’ Delores said. ‘José, welcome our guest.’

The little boy pulled a face and I pulled one back at which point he laughed.

‘You must be tired. Come, have something to eat.’

As I sat down in the square, plates of food were thrust forward from nowhere, and because I was so hungry I did not sit and savour the flavours, colours and aromas, eating so fast, like I had never been fed.

The night owl called bedtime like last orders, but people took no notice of the fact that night beckoned. Fires were built in a bid to keep it at bay. People stopped dancing and sat in a circle to talk and eat.

There on the mountain, mouths filled with food and conversation. Hot chillies gave fire to the blood and propelled words out with vivacity. Elders told stories whilst youngsters sat in their laps. It took me back to my early childhood when my grandfather would tell me stories in an attempt to put me to sleep.

Little José’s grandfather was recounting the tale about how the rains came. José went to sit next to him.

‘So the old lady, Emelda, who was against the union, shouted, “If you marry my son” (for he was her only son), “nobody here will ever dance.”’

Although it appeared as if the little boy had heard the story a thousand times, he sat even closer to his grandfather and urged him to continue.

‘So the spell was cast as the couple married. The old woman did not realise that she was part of the land that grew arid. She became cynical and twisted until death took her. There in the skies, she wandered aimlessly, lost because there was no one to love her or to shout up silent prayers that they missed her. The burden showed markedly in her posture, her stomach folded and her footsteps became heavy. Totally alone, she could bear it no longer and she cried and cried, begging forgiveness as she did so. The tears, sour at first, lost their bitterness as they touched the ground, bringing new life to all. Those tears were the rain that provided fertile lands on which the people celebrated and danced. From that, the rain came every year.’

Little José battled unsuccessfully with nightfall. He fell asleep on his grandfather’s lap, and I, also exhausted, took a stick and under the night stars wrote the words ‘thank you’ into the ground. I was truly thankful to be here, wherever here was, feeling for the first time in a long time completely free and myself amongst the company of generous strangers who did not make me miss home, understanding that home could be anywhere you wanted it to be.

The next morning Delores stormed out of the house. She was going to find her husband, José Del Rey, King of the Taxi Drivers. When she eventually tracked him down, she would rip off his moustache, the fake symbol of his manhood, and then toss it into the river. Mother Earth would surely know it was his and would then castigate him in some way for having polluted her in such a distasteful manner.

It was alleged late last night that José Del Rey had been giving lifts freely to women of a more rounded figure. Delores slept on what she had heard, trying not to give it importance. During the course of the night, the anger simmered inside her until she could take it no more.

They had been married ten years. José Del Rey had been sent to her in his crisp white shirt just eight days before she was due to marry someone else. He came from nowhere and she knew instinctively that he was the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

I’ve always believed this kind of scenario to be made up, having talked to my Auntie Sheila and Uncle Bali about it and having never really experienced it myself. But I believed Delores Del Rey when she told me that it was possible to love someone in the moment of meeting them.

Taken aback by his charm, his vision and his passion, Delores left her fiancé in a storm of scandal which she never quite managed to live down. At times like this, she regretted having made such a decision. Life was not easy with José Del Rey, but it was different. And despite the drama, anyone could see that they loved each other, from the glances they shared to the way he called her name and touched her fingertips when he thought no one was looking.

Delores returned later that morning with a look of relief. Reports that afternoon suggested that José Del Rey’s moustache had been seen floating along the river, face down.

It was really quite unfortunate that Encarna had not heard the news. Encarna was one of those women with a more rounded body who had accepted a free ride or two from the King of the Taxi Drivers; in fact, rumour had it that she was the one who had enticed him into giving her rides.

Whilst Encarna was collecting water from the river, the moustache had somehow managed to crawl its way into her urn. She placed the urn into her stone-cladded bathroom, undressed and then proceeded to soap herself. Whilst rinsing away the soap with the water from the urn, at the most inappropriate moment the moustache pounced out at her. She hollered in fright at the thought of the rat-infested waters. In so doing, she slipped and crashed to the ground.

That afternoon’s event resulted in a broken ankle. The moustache was laid to rest. Encarna sat by the river that whole evening, bathing her leg in the hope that the magical waters would restore it to its former beauty.

As the main aorta, the River Aynia ran from the top of the mountain into the sea. There were several tributaries, some of which had dried up. Aynia brought life to people, she ran through them; and in return, people brought life to her. Generations bathed, drank, washed their clothes and urinated in the same well. Then, as a customary parting gift, their ashes were sprinkled into her.

I was informed by Delores Del Rey that if I followed Aynia for exactly four kilometres I would come to an enormous bougainvillea tree, and on turning left and following this path it would lead me to the Gypsy. Delores said the Gypsy could answer all my questions for she knew everything. She could tell what the significance of the left eye twitching frantically was; she could cure ailments and see the past, present and future.

Delores asked me to make my way to the Gypsy’s cabin before José got back from his call-out or he would insist on taking me there, which was pointless because the walk down was equally important as it would give me the clarity to formulate the right questions.

‘Remember, Evita, it’s not necessarily the answers that are the most important—it’s the questions,’ she said as I left.

After walking steadily down the mountain, following the path alongside the river, I heard the horn of José’s taxi making its way up and dived behind some bushes in case he caught a glimpse of me. After the car roared past me I continued walking and finally came across the tree. It had a magenta blossom and a truly regal presence. Bearing left, I found the wooden cabin and, nervously, I knocked faintly on the door and entered.

Inside, the cabin appeared much bigger than on the outside and resembled a doctor’s surgery. There was a waiting room holding an array of people with a multitude of problems—broken bones, twitching eyes, burning ears, and also problems that were not visible to the eye. As the morning came and went, the waiting room emptied.

Encarna was the last one before me to see the Gypsy. I glanced at her leg propped up against the chair.

‘Slight misfortune,’ she gestured.

‘Next,’ someone shouted from behind the door.

Encarna hobbled to the consultation room and came out walking perfectly ten minutes later.

‘It was not what everyone was thinking,’ she said, looking at me. ‘There was a therrible, therrible mistake and the Gypsy understood this.’ Feeling incredibly anxious and not finding it to be the appropriate time to delve further into the ‘therrible mistake’ as I would have wanted to, I nodded.

‘She’s waiting for you,’ Encarna shouted as she left.

‘Welcome, Evita,’ the Gypsy said, turning around to greet me.

I gasped, completely taken aback.

‘I’ve been expecting you. In fact, I thought you’d come sooner,’ she said, coming towards me.

‘It’s…it’s you,’ I mumbled incredulously. It was the woman dressed in magenta with chipped nail-varnish. I went over to touch her to see if she was real. Her hands were soft and elasticy like my grandmother’s. I gripped them tightly.

‘Would you like some coffee? Two sugars, endlessly stirred?’ She smiled.

All the questions that I had silently formulated with poised composure on my way down were forgotten and something completely different came blurting out. ‘How did I get here? Where am I? What’s happening to me?’

‘One at a time, my dear. This is the land of possibility where intentions are set and dreams manifest into reality,’ she replied, putting her hand over mine.

‘Where’s that then?’

She laughed. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘So how did I get here?’

‘By leaving all that you know to be true behind—the safety of your home, your family, your routine—you took a leap of faith.’

‘It was only because I knew I saw him. I’ve never seen something like that with such clarity. I’ve come in search of him you know.’

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘Do you know where he is and how I can find him?’

‘He’s not as far as people think but few really find him. Some make it their life’s work, some come so close but then for reasons that appear mysterious only to others decide to turn back. There are even many who know his exact whereabouts but decide to leave him be, because they know that life can never be the same once they are touched by him. You do know that, don’t you? When you follow your dream, your fears will follow you.’

Life would never be the same after this whole episode, regardless. My fears were the least I had to worry about.

‘Is he near here somewhere? Am I on the right track?’

‘Have patience and all will be revealed to you when you are ready. Focus hard on your intention and then let go. If you do this, he will surrender himself effortlessly.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Just one more thing. Do not stand in your own way by having a fixed set of outcomes, for there is beauty in the adventure of not knowing—of not being certain.’ With both hands, the Gypsy clasped my hand so tightly that I wanted to cry. I knew that grip well; my grandmother had done that same thing to me before she sent me off, and I never saw her again.

At that moment I was desperately trying to think of the last thing my grandmother said to me. Many times I have tried to remember.

‘When you are unsure of what to do, just be still and listen in here,’ the Gypsy whispered, tapping against her chest.

Tears rolled down my face.

‘And if you are still unable to hear, just breathe.’

As I walked back to the village I focussed hard on my intention to see the African dancer in whatever shape or form he decided to present himself, and then I attempted to let go by surrendering my desire, thinking that if it didn’t work out, another fate, perhaps a better one, would be presented to me.

The boys were all playing in the square as I made my way to the Del Reys’ house. A little figure was puffing his way towards them in an attempt to be fully incorporated into the action, if not to become the centre of it. It was little José. The schoolmaster had kept him behind at school for his impertinence.

‘Will José be late again in the morning?’ inquired the maths teacher.

‘Will the maths teacher draw water from the well for his mother every morning?’ retorted little José.

It was something I would have said as a child, not fearing the consequences, but as I grew older I understood the complex web of emotions that makes us a prisoner of our own fear.

Little José ran towards the boys, unable to contain the many rumours he had heard that afternoon. There existed something called a Super Information Highway. Yes, that was right, it was called something like that. It was also suggested that the Gypsy was in possession of a modem.

‘A modem,’ gasped all the boys.

‘That was what gave the Gypsy her powers,’ continued little José proudly.

He revelled in this piece of information that made the older boys gather around him. Making up whatever he could, he had them all in the palm of his little hand.

It was getting late and Delores left the house to call her son. I watched the look of a mother’s angst as she went to go and get him; it was only then I understood the significance of that same face my Auntie Sheila had had when she came to get me.

Little José was also blissfully unaware. He had aspirations ten times higher than himself. They made him grow. All four foot of him just believed. Living in the land of tooth fairies, pixies and magic Kings was effortless. Delores, his mother, was afraid. In just a few years her warrior would be entering adolescence. The world inhabited by eight billion would soon become a battlefield for just one. All alone he would have to confront the battles between dreams and practicalities; the possible and the impossible; the mundane and the extraordinary; the insignificance of the individual placed amongst the significance of the masses. The list went on—and of course, the final conflict, never quite resolved, would be carried through into adulthood. If only I had understood this sooner then things might have turned out differently.

Delores wished that her son would come out unscathed.. She hoped that he would retain his vision, his humility and compassion, and would emerge a proud but not arrogant man with the humour and the smile that would continue to melt a thousand hearts, and that the right heart would find him.

But deep down she feared adolescence would take her little boy. Things that she had said or hadn’t said; things that she had done or hadn’t done. Blaming the inadequacies of his mother would be a way of comprehending the imperfections of adulthood. But Delores continued to hope. The anxiety left her as she laughed at the thoughts that entered and played inside a mother’s head.

She took her little boy’s hand. Embarrassed that his friends could have witnessed such an act, he let go and walked behind her.

Staying with the Del Reys gave me an insight into the ups and downs of a truly passionate relationship. Since the Encarna incident, José Del Rey knew that he was skating on thin ice. He put a cigarette to his mouth and was about to light it when Delores pulled it out and trod on it. There was no moustache to hide behind and the frustration was evident. My Uncle Bali would probably not have even dared to light up a cigarette in front of my Auntie Sheila in the first place. Not wanting to aggravate her in any way, he skirted around her, making his presence barely felt.

Days passed, and as I really got to know the Del Reys all thoughts of finding the African dancer seemed secondary. If I returned home with just the experience of being with them, it would be enough. However, as I woke up one morning my instinct was telling me to climb to the top of the mountain and complete my journey.

José Del Rey argued with me, saying he wanted to accompany me, and added that very few who didn’t know the terrain made it safely to the top. Having been cushioned and cosseted for most of my life, I knew it was a journey I had to make on my own. Knowing all the consequences of making this trip alone, I set off early, laden with all the necessities José had put together for me. I did not even bother to ask where he had found a miner’s helmet complete with built-in light, but he smiled as he put it on my head and patted it.

It was a long, hard walk as the track was undefined. My little toes rubbed against the sides of the boots; pain invaded my feet and exhaustion saturated my body as the pack felt heavier and heavier. The trees grew even denser and brambles cut my hands. As night began to fall my heart leaped with the slightest noise and I feared what bugs would be landing on me. When I felt I couldn’t go on and wanted to turn back, I stood still and just breathed and breathed. As I did this, I knew it was up to me to complete what I had begun, and in order to distract my mind I began formulating various questions.

It began to rain. The ground turned slippery, making me feel even more unsure as to whether this was what I was supposed to be doing. But I imagined reaching the top and focussed on my questions as, wearily, I carried on. It was pitch black and freezing when I finally reached the summit. Exhausted, too tired to be frightened by the dark and all the unfamiliar sounds, I stumbled to the ground. With the helmet’s light still on, I fell asleep.

When I awoke, the sun shone brightly, turning the mountain-top into a shimmering gold. It was the most breathtaking view that I think I will ever see in my life; an expansive blue sea surrounded by dense green forests with the beginning of the River Aynia glistening against the sun. My body ached all over and I lay there with the sun beaming against my face. After a while I got up, and waited and waited, not quite sure who or what I was waiting for but knowing that I could not leave. And as I closed my eyes, half-dazed, I saw some of the things that I had chosen to forget in my life: the death of my parents, my Uncle Bali taking me from my grandmother, the journey to my Auntie Sheila’s house. I understood how everything pieced together and had led to this moment—sitting there, alone on the mountain-top.

As these images passed in front of me, I let them go one by one. I sat with my head resting between my knees and I just cried and cried, a limitless fountain of tears, and then I felt a deep sense of release.

Later that evening, when the mountain-top drew breath, birds and other little animals joined me. They brought with them their anticipation and leaned forward in the hope that they could release it into the air and that life would take care of the details, throwing up some crazy concoction.