Free Gypsy in Black: The Romance of Gypsy Travelers by Sarah Price Page B

feel safe , who even talks to me .   I am so lost. ”  
    “ S'hara, you are not lost but found , ” he whispered .  
    “ Found, ” she repeated as if tasting the word on her lips. 
    “ And now, you are just tired , yes?  Exhausted from drinking so much rak iya and dancing so fierce last n ight. ”   He wiped away the tears.  “ Perhaps you ought to get some food then nap, yes?  Would that make you feel better? ”  
    Nicolae lead her to where the Rom Baro 's wife stood near a large cauldron.  Ignoring the w oman's shocked look at Sahara's uncovered head, Nicolae ordered the woman to bring Sahara some bean soup.  Obediently , the old woma n sought a clay bowl similar to the one Sahara had used the nig ht before.  The woman filled it with the thick, brown soup.   Steam rose from it, the smell filling Sahara's stomach without even tasting it.  Nicolae took the coarse bowl and handed it to Sahara.  “ Fa us i, my bori. ”
    Not understanding what he ha d said, Sahara took the word to be a blessing over her food.  “ Fa u s i to you too, Nicolae . ”
    Nicolae looked at her, puzzled for only a brief moment.  As he realized what she had meant, he laughed.  He reached out an d tugged playfully at her hair.  “ Fa us i is bean soup. ”
    Sahara smiled innocent ly, holding back her own amused laughter to avoid drawing more atten tion.  She didn’t l ike how the people avoided her.  No one spoke to her but they were constantly staring at her all the time , watching and talking to each other in low tones with that foreign tongue . Sahara glanced at her companion. “ Perhaps you will teach me the gypsy language? ”
    “ It is no different than yours. ”
    Sahara lifted the bowl to her lips, tilting it only slightly to drink the juice.  “ Your kumpania speaks English? ”
    Nicolae nodded, his eyes observi ng a small group of younger men seated in the shadow of a wagon, polishing their black, leather boots.  “ We are in America, yes?  Then we speak the English language. ”
    “ So what are these fore ign words?  I've never heard of `kumpania' and `fa u s i' or ` Rom Baro '.  And everyone has an a ccent... ”
    Smiling as he explain ed to her, Nicolae spoke solemnly.  “ S'hara, the Machwaiya kumpa nia is a mixture of Serbian and English gypsies.  We are from E urope, yes.  But my grandfather le d his kumpania out of the Old World and brought us here.  You must understand one thing, my bo ri.  No one likes the gypsies.  So we move from place to pl ace, never settling down, never adjusting to life in America.  Only transporting our European culture to a new land, yes?  And t hese words...they are a mixture of many cultures.  But they ar e our culture.  It is easier to speak English in America but a mong us , some words have remained.  It is not our language.  We a re not worthy of a language to call our own, just as we are not worthy of a land to claim.  Does that make sense to you, S'hara? ”
    A silence fell over them.  Sahara looked a round curiously, her eyes resting on a group of the younger men.  Already they drank the rakiya, even though most of them had just awoken.  A couple of the men walked around the corner of a wagon, leading several horses into the clearing.  A large black st allion with a half white mane bucked and kick ed as a rowdy man tried to jump upon its back.  The other men laughed as he fell off, rolling quickly away from the furious s tallion's feet.  Nicolae glanced at Sahara, surprised to see her eyes wide and curious.  “ That horse interests you, yes? ”
    Sahara tore her attent ion away from the horse.  “ He's magnificent! ”
    Nicolae nodded his head once.   “ That he is.  But he is wild, yes? ”
    Sahara looked back at the gal loping horse.  Several men were holding onto the rope that was tied around its neck.  A tall, lanky man with a bare ches t and leather strand around his forehead grabbed a stick that lay nearby.  Raising it above