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And suddenly she stopped. Everyone stopped, including the percussionists. Her eyes were still closed, but tears were now rolling down her cheeks. She raised her arms in the air and cried, "When I die, bury me standing, because I've spent all my life on my knees!"
No one said anything. She opened her eyes, as if waking from a deep sleep, and walked back to the table as if nothing had happened. The band started up again, and couples took to the floor in an attempt to enjoy themselves, but the atmosphere in the place had changed completely. People soon paid their bills and started to leave the restaurant.
"Is everything all right?" I asked when I saw that she'd recovered from the physical effort of dancing.
&n
bsp; "I feel afraid. I discovered how to reach a place I don't want to go to."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
She shook her head.
In the days that followed, I completed my research for the documentary, sent my interpreter back to Bucharest with the hired car, and then stayed on in Sibiu simply because I wanted to meet her again. All my life I've always been guided by logic and I know that love is something that can be built rather than simply discovered, but I sensed that if I never saw her again, I would be leaving a very important part of my life in Transylvania, even though I might only realize this later on. I fought against the monotony of those endless hours; more than once, I went to the bus station to find out the times of buses to Bucharest; I spent more than my tiny budget as an independent filmmaker allowed on phone calls to the BBC and to my girlfriend. I explained that I didn't yet have all the material I needed, that there were still a few things lacking, that I might need another day or possibly a week; I said that the Romanians were being very difficult and got upset if anyone associated their beautiful Transylvania with the hideous story of Dracula. I finally managed to convince the producers, and they let me stay on longer than I really needed to.
We were staying in the only hotel in the city, and one day she saw me in the foyer and seemed suddenly to remember our first encounter. This time, she invited me out, and I tried to contain my joy. Perhaps I was important in her life.
Later on, I learned that the words she had spoken at the end of her dance were an ancient gypsy saying.
LILIANA, SEAMSTRESS, AGE AND SURNAME UNKNOWN
I speak in the present tense because for us time does not exist, only space. And because it seems like only yesterday.
The one tribal custom I did not follow was that of having my man by my side when Athena was born. The midwives came to me even though they knew I had slept with a gadje, a foreigner. They loosened my hair, cut the umbilical cord, tied various knots, and handed it to me. At that point, tradition demands that the child be wrapped in some item of the father's clothing; he had left a scarf, which reminded me of his smell and which I sometimes pressed to my nose so as to feel him close to me, but now that perfume would vanish forever.
I wrapped the baby in the scarf and placed her on the floor so that she would receive energy from the earth. I stayed there with her, not knowing what to feel or think; my decision had been made.
The midwives told me to choose a name and not to tell anyone what it was--it could only be pronounced once the child was baptized. They gave me the consecrated oil and the amulets I must hang around her neck for the two weeks following her birth. One of them told me not to worry, the whole tribe was responsible for my child, and although I would be the butt of much criticism, this would soon pass. They also advised me not to go out between dusk and dawn because the tsinvari [Editor's note: evil spirits] might attack us and take possession of us, and from then on our lives would be a tragedy.
A week later, as soon as the sun rose, I went to an adoption center in Sibiu and placed her on the doorstep, hoping that some charitable person would take her in. As I was doing so, a nurse caught me and dragged me inside. She insulted me in every way she could and said that they were used to such behavior, but that there was always someone watching and I couldn't escape so easily from the responsibility of bringing a child into the world.
"Although, of course, what else would one expect from a gypsy! Abandoning your own child like that!"
I was forced to fill in a form with all my details, and since I didn't know how to write, she said again, more than once: "Yes, well, what can you expect from a gypsy. And don't try to trick us by giving false information. If you do, it could land you in jail." Out of pure fear, I told them the truth.
I looked at my child one last time, and all I could think was: Child without a name, may you find love, much love in your life.
Afterward, I walked in the forest for hours. I remembered many nights during my pregnancy when I had both loved and hated the child herself and the man who had put her inside me.
Like all women, I'd dreamed of one day meeting an enchanted prince, who would marry me, give me lots of children, and shower attentions on my family. Like many women, I fell in love with a man who could give me none of those things, but with whom I shared some unforgettable moments, moments my child would never understand, for she would always be stigmatized in our tribe as a gadje and a fatherless child. I could bear that, but I didn't want her to suffer as I had suffered ever since I first realized I was pregnant. I wept and tore at my own skin, thinking that the pain of the scratches would perhaps stop me thinking about a return to ordinary life, to face the shame I had brought on the tribe. Someone would take care of the child, and I would always cherish the hope of seeing her again one day, when she had grown up.
Unable to stop crying, I sat down on the ground and put my arms around the trunk of a tree. However, as soon as my tears and the blood from my wounds touched the trunk of the tree, a strange calm took hold of me. I seemed to hear a voice telling me not to worry, saying that my blood and my tears had purified the path of the child and lessened my suffering. Ever since then, whenever I despair, I remember that voice and feel calm again.
That's why I wasn't surprised when I saw her arrive with our tribe's Rom Baro, who asked me for a coffee and a drink, then smiled slyly and left. The voice told me that she would come back, and now here she is, in front of me. She's pretty. She looks like her father. I don't know what feelings she has for me; perhaps she hates me because I abandoned her. I don't need to explain why I did what I did; no one would ever understand.
We sit for an age without saying anything to each other, just looking--not smiling, not crying, nothing. A surge of love rises up from the depths of my soul, but I don't know if she's interested in what I feel.
"Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"
Instinct. Instinct above all else. She nods. We go into the small room in which I live, and which is living room, bedroom, kitchen, and sewing workshop. She looks around, shocked, but I pretend not to notice. I go over to the stove and return with two bowls of thick meat and vegetable broth. I've prepared some strong coffee too, and just as I'm about to add sugar, she speaks for the first time.
"No sugar for me, thank you. I didn't know you spoke English."
I almost say that I learned it from her father, but I bite my tongue. We eat in silence, and as time passes, everything starts to feel familiar to me: here I am with my daughter; she went off into the world and now she's back; she followed paths different from mine and has come home. I know this is an illusion, but life has given me so many moments of harsh reality that it does no harm to dream a little.
"Who's that saint?" she asks, pointing to a painting on the wall.
"St. Sarah, the patron saint of gypsies. I've always wanted to visit her church in France, but I can't leave the country. I'd never get a passport or permission..."
