The Cunning Gendarme
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Others might say they did it to themselves, that they chose their wild lifestyle simply to separate themselves from the rest of dull, sober Europe. The Germans could goose-step all they wanted. The Gypsies were earthy and unpretentious, living off their sweat and their wits.
But, perhaps, the music was a symptom of their recklessness. It may also have been the cause of it for all we know. They may have fallen prey to a spell that they had unwittingly cast upon themselves. They would crawl inside the soul of their muse and peer out from her eyes, watching revelers twirl and swoon to their music. They'd watch peasant women become beautiful seductresses as they danced. Ordinary men would leap like gazelles under the Gypsy spell. You could say that the Gypsy was a puppeteer, drunk on his puppetry. He loved playing the crowd by their puppet strings, making them spin and tumble.
When the night was over, the revelers could simply go home. But not the Gypsies. They were the slaves of their muse, hopelessly possessed as if by madness to live eternally in her world.
Of course, they may have just been irresponsible ne’er-do-wells and nothing more.
Occasionally, a Gypsy might pilfer some fruit from a tree or tomatoes from a garden. Other times they might skulk into a chicken coup to snatch some eggs, or the whole hen. But it was risky. Chickens were difficult to snatch. Not only did they run the other way when you came near them, they also didn’t like having intruders in the hen house. And when one chicken squawked, they all squawked. You might as well have been a weasel or a fox. In the terror of the moment, they’d put up a fracas, flapping around the coup, feathers flying everywhere. Then there'd be the humiliation of being chased around the barnyard by a maniacal, shrieking housewife swinging a cast iron skillet.
Milosh didn’t see anything like that tonight. This night, there was no fight. No Gypsy celebration, just the rustling leaves and Milosh's footsteps. He chose a cigarette from his stylish, gold-colored cigarette holder that he kept tucked in his vest pocket. The moon was about three quarters full, illuminating the engraved letter M on his cigarette case. Stars peeked down from behind the clouds that glided across the sky. The moonlight made their edges glow silver. The leaves rustled and crackled underfoot as he walked. "Never was there a better time to be alive," he thought to himself as he tilted his head back and sniffed the air. It was wonderful.
With the fancy store-bought cigarette in one hand, he pulled a pocket knife from his side pocket. He sat down on a bench in front of a great oak tree on the side of the street. Carefully, using the inside of his open cigarette case as a cutting surface, he cut the cigarette in half. He thought it would be healthier to smoke only a half a cigarette at a time. It would save money too.
With all this on his lap, he folded up his knife and slipped it back into his pocket. He was quite proud of his pocket knife. He was able to hone it to such a degree of razor-sharpness that a person could practically shave with it. In fact, he used to cut his nails with it as perfectly as a French manicurist.
He put half of the cigarette under the clasp of the cigarette case, then tucked it into his pocket. Then he pulled out a black cigarette holder and carefully worked the other half cigarette into the end. Then he pulled out his lighter, flipped back the top and lit the cigarette. Just as the first puff of smoke cleared, he saw a movement in the distance.
It soon became obvious that it was a person... a drunk. Every step he took was a near-fall, and every subsequent step was a recovery from that near-fall. It was amazing, Milosh thought, that a person could travel any distance at all with his body continuously tilted at a 45 degree angle. The stranger would tip this way, then that, then suddenly change course and recover just before landing in the dirt.
Milosh felt for his pistol, still in its holster. “Halt!” he ordered, with his cigarette holder poised, palm up, in his left hand. The stranger stood at attention and saluted the aristocratic Milosh while swaying like a tree in gale. Milosh, with his right hand still resting on his pistol stepped closer to the stranger. “A damned Gypsy!” he thought to himself.
“Forgive me Your Honor,” slurred the Gypsy. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“Don’t you know that there’s a curfew?” asked Milosh.
“I am terribly sorry Your Excellency. If you don’t mind I believe I must sit down now.” With that, the Gypsy toppled to the ground with a thud. He managed to sit himself up after a few seconds, taking time to reorient himself there in the dirt. He patted himself on the chest as if to reassure himself that he was there there.
“You know I could arrest you,” Milosh told him. “The curfew was an hour ago.”
A sound came from down the street. They both looked around. Someone else was coming, another stranger. “How can I handle two people at once? This one’s bad enough,” Milosh thought. But being a clever fellow, an idea popped into his head.
He pulled the pistol from its holster and pointed it at the Gypsy. “Lie down in that ditch and don’t move! And if you do, so help me, I'll blow you full of holes.”
Amazingly, the Gypsy, at the sight of a gun, suddenly became surprisingly sober. He scuttled over to the ditch and lay face down, quivering in the wet grass. "Not a peep!" Milosh ordered.
Milosh turned toward the newcomer. "Who goes there?" he bellowed with his cigarette still in hand.
The second stranger froze in his tracks. "Come closer !" commanded Milosh. The stranger cautiously edged forward, close enough for Milosh to look into his terrified eyes. He was also a Gypsy.
"Who are you and why are you out after curfew?" demanded Milosh.
"I... I... I...," stuttered the second Gypsy. Milosh could see that the poor fellow had a loaf of bread in his hand and some potatoes in a sack hanging from his shoulders. "Speak!" demanded Milosh.
"I went to buy some bread for my family in town. My cart broke down. I tried to fix it. Really! It's still back there. My family's waiting. My children haven't eaten all day!" pleaded the Gypsy.
Normally, a Gypsy would tell you anything just to pull something over on you. Who could tell? For all Milosh knew, this guy had just stolen the bread and snatched the storekeeper's pocket watch in the process. He might even be wearing his coat, and there might be a gun in the pocket. read more