The Gypsy's Violin

Kelantha

That which had once been my homeland beckoned to me with its scents, fragrance washing over the inner courtyard and up to the window where I stood, my hands against the pale window frames on either side, staring out into the darkness. The moon was rising, full and shimmering over the majesty of Madrid, a glittering jewel in a vast crown that was Europe, the pivot from which all life rotated. I could feel the aliveness of the city, hear its pulsing heartbeat, and sense its perils and lures, from the whores in the gutters to the priests in the monasteries. They were as much a part of me as the breath that had once issued through my lungs, now a dormant whisper in the intricacies of my mind. My senses were heightened, my thoughts scattered with the wind, every movement of my family known to me, from the soft voice of my mother as she quarreled with her husband in their chambers, to the soft singing of the maid in the kitchens.

My hand fell to the ornament around my neck, an insignia of the household to which I had become willingly enslaved; the dragon rippled beneath my fingers as though it had taken wing, merging with my flesh and vanishing beneath the flutter of lace on my collar. It was a dramatic gown. Graciela had been impressed with it, even though she had gazed upon me in contempt. Once we had been the closest of friends, from the dolls we toyed with in the gardens as children to the dreams we shared through maturity. I had left her behind then, and she had never forgiven me for it. No longer was I content to be lovely, but turned upon my beauty in a rage, knowing that it only lured men. For so long I had struggled to remain unseen, but now it was an asset to me. I was more powerful than she could have ever imagined.

The thought of that drawing room and the interminable hour spent in her presence caused what blood remained in my veins to grow cold. I had been sociable, polite, restrained although I dearly desired to turn her out of the house. More murderous thoughts lurked in the dark corridors of my mind, but I had remained coy and then excused her, claiming weariness from our travels. The clock chimed in the hall, and still my husband had not returned. He must have taken to exploring this wonderful new world, to learn its intricacies and histories. It was not beyond him to have found some benevolent fool willing to impart wisdom and history, to play the interested party and then turn on him once the knowledge was gleaned.

There came, upon the wind, the sound of music, of a violin playing somewhere within the city, a lonely, solitary sound that responded to the yearning of my heart. Knowing my rooms would not be disturbed, I left by way of the window, drawing a cloak about me and making use of the tree that had harkened many of my escapes in the past. The branches bore my frame without complaint, leaves rustling beneath my skirts as I dropped to the ground. I was but a shadow passing through the garden, and beyond the courtyard door into the street. The music lured me, as it had on many occasions before, when the gypsies would play into the darkness, heedless of the danger in the wood surrounding them.

Gypsies. They were here, too, a band of contented thieves beyond the arches of the bridge. They gathered by the waterside, dancing around a glimmering campfire, the women awash in brilliant colors, their arms and hands bared to the firelight, churning beneath dark hair and bouncing bangles. I stood and watched them from a distance, and if my somber, ghostly presence was noticed, they paid it no need. Only a child beheld me with interest, knowledge lurking in her murky eyes. She even approached me, her tangled hair masking a face that seemed to be much too old for the body it occupied. She lingered but a moment, and my eyes lifted to behold him. Beyond the dancing flames, he stood much as I, a silent sentential to a familiar tune. His lean hand closed around the fold of his cloak, and he vanished into the darkness.

I turned away from the mesmerizing music, the flames that beckoned as though drawing me into the mouth of hell, and with the gypsy�s violin still ringing in my ears, melted into the moonlight.

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