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Linda admired the way her new-found friend bargained for everything, usually winning, too. It was fascinating to watch.
The only other place she’d ever seen like it had been a market she’d found in Marrakech when she’d visited Morocco with Tony. Just like here, the vendors had seemed offended if one simply accepted the first price and didn’t attempt to bargain. That was as much part of the sale as was the profit.
As people sometimes do, she and Mariana developed a language of their own. A few English words here, a few French ones there, a smattering of Romanian expressions, a lot of hand gestures, and plenty of giggles. Since both of them were laden with bags, this method of communication might not be the easiest, but it created a lot of amusement and cemented a bond between them. Now and again, they would simply stop in the middle of the crowd, and dissolve into giggles, each one trying to make the other understand.
They bought more than they’d intended, and Linda lost the fight when she offered to pay, or at least contribute to the purchases. Mariana was firm on that point. She took pleasure in watching Linda taste fresh cheese from the peasants, or strawberries so ripe they melted in her mouth. They’d purchased two divine-smelling cantaloupes and a bunch of overpriced parsley which Mariana planned to use in a potato salad. Although she was still full from breakfast, Linda’s mouth watered at the prospect. It was for the best that they would be leaving tomorrow. If she stayed here any longer, she would have no clothes to wear home thanks to Mariana’s delicious cooking.
Linda’s arms were sore by the time they decided to head back home. They’d almost left the market area when the feeling that someone was watching her made Linda’s flesh crawl. Her skin prickled, and despite the scorching sun, the sweat trickling down her back turned to ice. She lifted her gaze, squinting against the brightness. A woman stood a few feet in front of her, not buying or selling, just staring at her.
Linda shook her head. Romani or Roma were the bane of all European cities. Originally from Northern India, the people better known as gypsies had migrated to Europe more than a thousand years ago. They maintained their own distinct culture and language, one that often clashed with that of whatever country they inhabited.
The woman, old and yet ageless, wore traditional gypsy attire, the clothes her people had worn for centuries. Her hair was braided, the gray strands intertwined with red ribbons falling over each shoulder. Her black blouse and flounced skirt were cinched at the waist by a patterned red and black fringed scarf, wide across one hip, narrow at the other. A string of gold coins adorned her neck, which she held high despite its wrinkles. The red kerchief she wore contrasted nicely with her large, golden, hoop earrings. She looked exactly the way Linda would imagine a gypsy fortune teller would.
Linda was so caught up in her examination of the woman that she jumped when a claw-like hand grasped her wrist with surprising force. Mariana tensed and took a step forward, but the old gypsy stopped her with a single look. Then she turned her black-eyed gaze on Linda. She shuddered.
“I know you,” the woman said in heavily accented English, her voice was raspy but clear. “You are light. You are hope. But you must hurry. He’s coming for you.”
“Who?” Linda’s pulse throbbed under the woman’s icy fingers. She couldn’t move, her gaze trapped by the dark one.
“The evil one, the one you must destroy. You will have one chance. Do not hesitate, or all is lost.”
What the hell? Why was she talking in riddles? Linda felt as though thick fog had covered her brain.
Before she could say anything else or make sense of the old woman’s words, Mariana reached out and yanked her hand away from the woman, holding it firmly in her own.
“You go!” she shouted. “No fortune telling. Go.”
Mariana dragged Linda away, her footsteps as hurried as if the devil himself were after them.
Linda glanced back over her shoulder, but the crowd had swallowed the old woman.
“What the hell was that?” she asked, breathless, her wrist burning.
Mariana shrugged. Despite her careless gesture, Linda sensed her uneasiness.
“Just a gypsy trying to make money. They tell fortune, all lies.” Mariana said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “We don’t believe this… How do you call it? Scam.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, they’re all over. We have them in Italy as well as in England.”
“Most foreigners think all Romanian are gypsies, but that is wrong. Some Romani are Romanian citizens, just like others are British, Italian, French, even Greek. People don’t understand this. They mix up the words. Very bad for Romanians.”
Rumor had it that gypsies were part of organized crime, linked to everything from petty theft to human trafficking. They were everywhere and yet managed to vanish when necessary.
Linda frowned. She didn’t believe in scams or fortune telling. But the woman hadn’t asked for money. Instead, she’d issued a warning—in English no less. It was probably all nonsense, but Linda shivered, cold despite the sun. What the hell had she meant? Who was the evil one she must destroy? She had better things to do than let some old con artist upset her, and yet, the strange feeling just wouldn’t go away.
Sighing, she shook her head and hurried to keep up with Mariana. This was probably all part of Romania’s supernatural allure—dark gypsies with scary predictions, vampire stories from Transylvania. It was all part the woo-woo thing meant to entertain the tourists and that woman had been a pro. Someone had told her Linda was an English tourist and she’d played her part to perfection.
But in the back of her mind, the words echoed“You will have one chance. Do not hesitate.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was late-afternoon when Linda heard the front door open. She and Mariana were sitting on the couch watching an American movie. Coco, the Battistes’ calico cat, rested on Linda’s lap, purring for all she was worth. Whenever she stopped stroking her, the cat would rub her head against Linda’s palm, urging her to continue.
Coco had gone missing for two days, and Mariana figured the feline had returned pregnant—something she’d done in the past. They couldn’t bring themselves to neuter her, and since there was always someone who wanted one of the kittens, it wasn’t really a problem. The ones from the last litter who’d failed to find a home spent their time at the clinic. Jean-Paul had found the animals were a great comfort to his patients, so he made sure the natural antidepressants were always around. What were a few extra euros in cat food when they brought such joy?
Gerard and Jean-Paul entered the house, removing their shoes and leaving them by the door, as was the custom in most Romanian homes. It explained why the floors were so clean.
“You finish medical business?” Mariana asked, standing.
