The Locket

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The Locket

          We are the Gitanos*, the Gypsies. We travel no more. Most of us live in mobile homes near the city. We work like you and your cousins, in jobs that bring us money, but unlike you, we still know the secret language, and we see things you do not see. Such was the night I strolled in Gaylor Street with my violin and bow, singing to the stars, my violin case open for the dollars that streamed from willing hands and hearts.

         Lovers walk the sidewalks of Gaylor Street -- arm in arm, and those who would like to taste the pleasantness of love between the city lights, they stroll, also, casting searching glances to the sides, watching lovers with jealous eyes -- wishing, waiting, hoping.

         Such has it always been on Gaylor Street until that night.

         The peace was shattered with her scream. I stopped without thinking in the middle of my Gypsy song. No dollars flung themselves against the interior of the velvet sides where it collected during my songs. All eyes had turned to eye the young beautiful hermosita*.

         A policeman came, at once, striding towards the scene. He took in my presence in one glance. My heart sank. The Gypsies know the thoughts of officials of the beat. They always suspect the Gypsy.

         Of course, I felt the residual fear, and my first inclination was to flee. We Gypsies are good at slipping into a crowd and disappearing without a sound, but I had taken too long to make good my escape. The policeman’s eyes had found me.

         He marched directly toward me. His stern eye pinned me to my spot. Tenderly I put down my violin and waited for his arrival. The girl had lost her solid gold locket, I soon came to know. I was searched, my violin roughly assaulted. With that I raged and, of course, was taken off for the usual mandatory police visit. What else would a Gypsy expect?

         But at the station, I followed the girl's case with an eager ear and eye. The girl wept. She stormed at her loss. Her long dead lover had given her the necklace.

         At that I smiled. She was an enchanting young thing, this Gypsy maiden, her hair streaming with wet. Her lips were touched by cherry wine, her eyes like the mists over a cold, dark lake. Ah, to be young again, and cater to the whims of such a fair señorita. I would show her how a Gypsy could play more than the strings of a violin . .

         But what was her play? Why would she string along these policemen on this cold and rainy night?

         For the first time I was not eager to leave a police station. I watched, admiring her style. She wheedled and cajoled. She wrapped those men about her dainty, little fingers.

         She caught my smile, and nodded her head. She knew I wouldn’t interfere. She tossed back her raven black hair and twirled one curl about her finger. Her lashes fluttered down, coyish as a vixen. Even though I was an old street musician, my heart fluttered with more than admiration. I sighed and picked up my violin case. And with one fleeting look back at the girl, I left.

         It was weeks later, I learned her score; she was looking for a respectable husband to settle down with. She captured her policeman at the station.

         Ah, the Gypsy way is a beautiful life, but I understood her heart. She had tired of the life and wanted a different way. We lose many young ones in that manner. But change always flows with the winds.

         I returned to my place on the sidewalks of Gaylor Street. My heart continues still to play each song as I string my serenades. And as always, I watch your eyes, for I am Gitano, a Gypsy, and, thus, I read into your soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Gitana is the Spanish word for Gypsy.

* hermosita means a young beautiful girl/woman in Spanish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~