This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.
http://www.olympiapress.com
The car door slammed with a sharp click. The well-groomed young man peered over the door of the elegant sports car. Gizelle tossed her long curling mane of red hair and stared at him with a tolerant smile. She glanced at the array of wagons and half raised tents in the distance. Strains of haunting music wafted on the thickening air. She sniffed the air, wondering how long she had before the downpour. The young man waited anxiously, wetting his too thick bottom lip with his tongue.
“Well, this is it. Thanks for the ride and all, you know.” She gave him a last sparkling smile. She was aware of the swelling of his youthful sex as his eyes ran down the long, lazy length of her body. The sleazy green dress clung, cheap jersey, over young, upthrust breasts, jutting hipbones and a fine, high-set, round behind. He had been sure that he would have her, ever since he picked her up hitchhiking some twenty miles back. She took a certain sweet pleasure from these thoughts. “Well honey, thanks again.” She lifted her long-fingered hand covered with dime-store diamonds and gave a single little wave of goodbye.
“Wait. Get back in. I won't try anything again.”
He spoke the words in a rush, watching her feet as she stepped slowly backward before giving him a small one-sided smile and a short headshake. She swivelled her hips in a deliberate twist and turned, walking towards the tents, her fine arrogant ass swinging jauntily.
“Sloppy little cockteaser!” he shouted after her. She didn't turn around. Little rich boy! Well, she showed him, sitting in his little car, crossing, uncrossing her fine long legs until he could hardly keep his eyes on the road. Behind her the car roared to life and screeched down the road. Now she turned and gave the cloud of dust the finger.
She tossed her mane of hair again and placed her hands on her hips, lifting one sandalled foot to scratch a mosquito bite on her ankle. The colors spread across the wide meadow, beckoned to her. She crossed the open expanse of ground, reading the red and yellow sign that pointed to the array. Tinker's Crystal Carnival. She could probably get a job here. It might be fun too, a carnival. She walked deeper into the meadow, her senses taken with the whirlwind of people and gaily painted wagons. They were a dark people, black hair and flashing eyes. She wondered if they were perhaps gypsies. A thrill ran up her long legs. Gypsies—she thought the word again, rolling it on her tongue. The straining music she had heard before expanded. Violins! Gizelle moved through the madness unnoticed. Men pounded stakes, women dashed to and fro with baskets of costumes; some were leading horses, on colored ropes.
She moved into the narrow space between two different-hued tents that almost met. Hearing a close noise she stopped, startled, and looked around her. The tent, she smiled to herself, the tent is a house with even thinner walls than those back home. She heard a sudden quaking laugh and squatted near a rent in the loosely-hung canvas, about two feet from the ground. She glanced around nervously, then relaxed. No one could notice her here. With careful fingers she lifted the bit of torn canvas and took in the startling picture.
A very un-gypsylike blonde woman lay on a gaily striped cot, her body covered with sequined costumes. She lifted her arms toward a young man, whose face Gizelle could not see. Gizelle took in the narrow hips of the man. He was naked, except for a pair of fringed dungaree shorts, his back broad, tapering to a nice snug waist. The blonde moved her body and the costumes fell to the floor.
She was quite naked now and Gizelle squinted through the rent with new interest. A series of shouts and a sudden outburst of music in the opposite tent momentarily frightened her. Foot-stamping and singing filled the humid air. The man turned slightly and Gizelle could see his face now. His hair curled long over his slightly pointed ears. His eyes were slits of charcoal, the mouth long, with a full bottom lip. He gave off sexual vibrations that chilled Gizelle to the bone. “Do we have to work now? We can do all this in the morning, J.J. Come on.” The blonde sat up on the cot, her full breasts joggling against each other. Gizelle admired those breasts now; large red nipples decorated the tips. As she watched, these same nipples grew hard and the blonde's red-tipped fingers beckoned to the man she had called J.J. He smiled, a mocking, self-confident grin. Gizelle found herself at once attracted and repelled by him. He was enjoying the blonde's need, taking pleasure from his own resistance. Gizelle told herself that if she were in the blonde's place, it would be the other way around.
“Leona, you act more and more like a Gypsy every day. I mean laziness seems to grow on you. What about the others? We should help, no? There is plenty of time... later... for making love.”
“Liar! You play with me. J.J.! There is nothing else you would rather do. There is nothing else you could do better. Come on, Gypsy! Love me with your darkness!”
The blonde named Leona cupped her light-colored pubic area with both hands, her long legs moving seductively apart. She smiled at him, offering a gift. The tall man stood, his mouth open very slightly as he unzipped the shorts and let them drop to his ankles. Carefully, he stepped from them—towards the cot. One deft motion and he had the woman by the wrists, jerking her from the bed in a movement that brought her knees harshly down against the earthen floor. Gizelle winced.
“Don't tease me!” his voice rose darkly, rich with threats. “Get to work, Leona, and it had better be good.”
It seemed odd to Gizelle that the woman smiled at this treatment. Well, not so odd, but she wouldn't take that kind of treatment from a man. She might be young, but she wasn't stupid. The thoughts bogged in her mind as the man turned, his huge, mottled red cock practically aimed at her secret peephole. Gizelle closed her own mouth as the woman, Leona, opened hers and, taking the enormous weapon in her two hands, worked at it, fitting the tip of it into her soft-lipped mouth. A little at a time, she worked it in, her eyes closed as she moved her head in rocking motions. J.J. gritted his teeth and abruptly moved closer. Leona gagged a little, her lips stretching around the thick prick.
“Oh....” Gizelle murmured, her mouth forming a willing oval. Like a thick wet snake entering its secret hole, the huge prick disappeared all at once. The blonde woman's face was glistening with sweat. Her head was thrown back now, held in place by the gypsy's two large hands. Gizelle could see that she was trying to move her head. No wonder! How had the woman ever managed to swallow all of that? It must be halfway down her throat, crushing her tonsils! Slowly, maddeningly, he pulled it from the woman's mouth, saving the tip between her teeth. The music in the tent next door swelled, the insane voices within now lost in a mad chant. The cock swayed while Leona nibbled, her saliva running down the thick base of it, dribbling into his curled jungle of black pubic hairs.
Again she moved her mouth along it, swallowing it clear down to its trunk-like base. As suddenly at it disappeared it would reappear, shining with wetness.
Gizelle tore her eyes from the delicious-looking cock and watched J.J.'s face. His eyes were slitted by desire and pleasure; his hands tore at the long blonde hair, jerking the full-lipped Leona from side to angry side.
Outside the tent, Gizelle stifled a moan and slipped her right hand under her hiked-up dress as she squatted on the ground. Two long, pink-nailed fingers slid under the skimpy bikini panties, drawing circles against the slippery membrane, feeling the thick secretions. Easily the two fingers slid in among the juices, making a sucking noise. She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending she had something that big and filling inside her cunt, or mouth, or... anywhere. She opened her eyes again and watched J.J. thrust deeper into Leona's throat, fucking her mouth hard now as his passion built. Leona's arms held to his muscular thighs for dear life. Gizelle reached her fingers as far as they could go up inside her, digging with her long nails against the two wide walls of her young, demanding grotto.
She saw the woman long before the two engrossed lovers did. Gizelle ceased her movements at the surprise. As soon as she realized that the woman could not see her, in her secret place, she once more moved her fingers to the rhythms of the chant, the violins and the thick sucking noises, while she watched. The blonde woman's head shook with the racking pleasure. Gizelle imagined how delicious that cock really was and made similar noises to herself, stretching her lips to fit over her invisible cock. The new woman, dark, her hair waving beneath a fuchsia scarf, smilingly moved close to the two. J.J. saw her first and grinned, motioning for her to join them. The blonde did not see, did not know what was going on until the dark Gypsy woman had removed her clothes and was stretching the blonde's long legs out.
A muffled sound came from her mouth at the touch. J.J. moved suddenly backward, his tongue licking his lips. The two women exchanged glances and did not speak. J.J.'s huge cock left Leona's wide, wet, pink lips and slapped against her face. Oh, damn, the size of it, Gizelle thought wildly, slipping her other hand under her dress and panties. J.J. took his cock in his hands and examined it thoughtfully. Leona reached for it, but the new woman stepped in front of her.
“No no, Leona. You are still new here and must learn the customs.” She threw back her beautiful, sharp-boned head and laughed, her white teeth flashing.
“What is it?” Leona asked, looking worried. “J.J., tell her to go away. Go away, Rowena! Leave us alone.” The blonde wiped at her wet face with the back of her hand as she stood, her eyes straying to J.J.'s swaying cannon. His thick, round balls hung like clusters of red onions. He fingered his joint, smiling in secret thought.
“Listen to the violins!” Rowena held up a long bejeweled finger and smiled. “Gypsy violins, Leona. You are in a Gypsy camp, no? When in a Gypsy camp, my child, one must... do as the Gypsies do. Is an American saying, no? Gypsies sometimes share, some things; all the time, other things. No?” Rowena smiled at her own humor. Leona shot a look of daggers at her.
“Oh fuck all of you! I can find someone else!” She began to brush by J.J., casting an eye around for her clothes. J.J. grabbed her arms, his face serious.
“Rowena speaks the truth. If you want to live with us, behave like one of us.”
“Let me go.” Leona shrugged angrily at him, trying not to look at his cock as it touched her naked thigh. Gizelle saw the shiver run up the girl's spine and felt its echo on her own back. What the hell were they going to do? What did they want from her. It was mad! Gizelle grinned to herself, slowly working her hands within her elastic panties, waiting for the characters in her real fantasy to go on with their theatrics.
“Who do you think you are?” J.J. demanded in a quiet voice. Gizelle watched the effect this tone had on the blonde woman. Completely subdued, she stood still, looking down at the floor. Rowena, naked, wearing only a gloating smile, cupped the two full breasts of Leona. Leona shuddered at the older woman's touch, but did not move. Rowena knelt in front of Leona and with hands parted the blonde-covered lips. From her vantage viewpoint Gizelle could see the sticky wet opening. She watched J.J., fascinated, as he slowly bent Leona forward until her long blonde hair dangled along the arched spine of Rowena. Gizelle had a good side view now, her hands moving in the lubricous insides of her pussy as J.J. moved forward, his joint swaying against the backside of Leona. Rowena's long, pink tongue moved, inserting itself with little trouble inside the dripping cunt of the blonde. The blonde gasped and moved her arms to ward off the witch Rowena, but was stopped by J.J.'s vise-like grip as he held those long white arms tight on either side of her thighs. The big white ass waved as it moved away from Rowena's sliding teeth and tongue. Rowena made an angry, strangled sound in her throat and gripped the two, plump thighs.
Gizelle moved in a frenzy outside the tent, shaking her head with the dizziness she felt. The blonde was helpless now, her cunt being sucked and chewed by the older gypsy woman. She hardly had time to wonder what J.J. was going to do, before he smashed himself against that huge white-cheeked mound of flesh.
“What?” she whispered, louder than realized. She glanced around nervously and squinted through the rent to make sure she caught every moment now. She had heard of such things but had never really... Yes he was! She saw him part the cheeks and spit on his brown-skinned hands, rubbing the concoction over the tiny little aperture. Her sliding fingers found her own tiny anus opening and slid a finger in easily. Now she too was plugged at both ends, though not so well. Well, live and learn! She squinted with the annoying pain she felt from this small experiment and gasped in wonder as she saw J.J., with hardly any ceremony at all, push his cock into the resisting opening. Leona lurched surprisingly hard, considering how well she was held.
Rowena sucked and bit, her lips sliding over the angry red clitoris and J.J. pushed further in, grunting now with the effort. The fast violins and happy chanting drowned out the screams of poor Leona. Gizelle smiled, moaning. This was more than Leona had bargained for, but... she, Gizelle could handle it. J.J.'s swollen masterpiece looked like a spiral as it continued to slide into the impossibly small hole. All at once it was in completely. For a moment, she thought that Leona was dead, until the still form gave out with a terrible cry of pain. Gizelle moved her own body in time with J.J.'s as he thrust his pelvic bones harder against the white ass, a look of strained anger on his face. When he pushed, Rowena received, full into her open mouth and face the hard, bound belly of Leona. With a series of contortions he moved, pulling it out, slow, like endless torture and then he would wait at the end, resting at the now enlarged opening until the painful moan became a moan of want. Rowena shook the girl's legs, forcing her to stand, her legs even more impossibly further apart.
To Gizelle it seemed as if they would split the girl in two. The violins, the mad, passionate sounds, the looks of anguish and pleasure on their faces... Gizelle could bear it no longer. She took her right hand, including her thumb, keeping time with the harsh pound of J.J. as he slid in and out and formed a somewhat rude cone, an imitation cock, and slid it neatly inside her, feeling the walls give, the heel of her hand pummeling the hot red dot of her womanhood. As far as the slippery wetness would take her, she reached, watching the forward pulling of Rowena, the pushing, insistent painful fucking of J.J. Her hand twisted itself, and she clawed her lining with probing fingers, wishing she could take the place of Leona.
The heavens opened and the angry rain fell with a whoop of thunder from the sky, soaking her dress, changing the thick dust to a clogging mud. She ignored it, her eyes still glued to the scene in the tent. J.J. pulled Leona from the dark woman's mouth and grip and threw her down on the floor. With a hoarse grunt he pulled the two cheeks apart, hard, and hammered himself against her, while her hands reached out, clawing the air. Rowena sat, her eyes glittering, watching while J.J. worked himself up into a frenzy, his hands filled with her blonde hair. The expression on his face changed. With a whoop, he aimed himself dead center and shot his hot sperm into Leona's asshole while she cried out—a series of rhythmic screams that sounded scarcely human.
Gizelle could take no more. She rolled over in the thick mud and worked her hand furiously inside her, pumping her whole body over the pained hand. She felt the water in her mouth as she gasped, swallowing most of it and choking, felt the mud on her legs, a part of her sensual lusting. There it was, working itself up from the deep caverns, a well of thick, white syrup, oozing out over her hand she cried out now, no longer caring whether she was heard through the frenzied wailing of the violins. She lay for a while in the slime, struggling to catch her breath before raising herself to a sitting position. She exhaled sharply and moved, a mennerized fool, back to that place of wishful thinking. They were still at it. She grinned, shaking her head. Sounds of approaching men tore her from the spot.
They were shouting about the rain interfering with their progress. She got quickly to her feet and scurried from her place between the two tents, regretting that she would not learn anything else. Well, not right now, anyway. When she was safe from fear of being caught, she stopped and stood in the deluge, letting the rain reach her whole body. She turned her face upwards, cupped her hands and drank gratefully. She had to find out who ran this crazy place and bag a job. Now that she had caught a glimpse of carnival life, or Gypsy life, she wanted to be a part of the festivities. From her little string purse hanging from her belt, she took a small comb and tried to pull it through her tangled mop. After a few tries she realized it was useless. Well, whoever she had to deal with would surely see her obvious charms despite her dishevelled hair and sopping dress.
She walked through the now nearly deserted area. Most of the tents were up and their occupants safely hidden inside. Every so often, a stray person would cross from one of the wagons and run into a tent. She caught one of these people now, a woman with a huge straw hamper held tight against her thick skirts.
“Hey!”
“Run, foolish child. You will drown. Worse, I will drown.” The woman tried to push past her after a brief smile.
“I need a job. Who can I talk to?” Gizelle shouted, her mouth filling with water. She wiped the wet tendrils of hair from her face and watched the surprise in the woman's eyes. She shook her big head heavily.
“Huh! Yes, he might want you. We have one light-skinned with us.”
Gizelle bit her tongue, stifling the reply. She was beginning to feel that lightness was a real stroke of bad luck. “Over there, working on the big tent. A big man, with long...” the woman shifted her basket so that she could demonstrate with her hand, “drooping mustache.” She flashed bright teeth again and left Gizelle in the rain. Gizelle turned to find out the name of the man and saw the woman's broad back disappear into a wagon. She shrugged and made her way through the rain towards the largest tent. It was the only tent that was not fully up. The area was completely deserted now. No more scurrying dark forms. Two violins danced around each other in a romantic contest, duelling for the top note. It was the only audible sound besides the dull pounding that made itself heard even over the steady beat of the rain.
She stood, watching this man who ignored the downpour—would probably ignore a hurricane if he wanted. He stood at least six feet, perhaps an inch more. It was hard to tell now. His back was the back of a prize bull. She pictured it without the red shirt on, wondering how she would measure up to it if the time came. Compared to him, the man called J.J. would probably look like a child. The rain gathered on his strained shoulders before shooting into the surrounding gloom like tiny missiles of silver light.
Suddenly she moved through the rain, aware of how she shifted her body, from side to side, like certain reptiles. Her footsteps were padded, damp on soft straw. The new carnival smell wafted through the meadow, new canvas, old canvas, damp spectres of cotton candy, muddy straw. She stopped at the side of the man, seeing the incredible weight of his hair, blacker than any dark imaginings. The heavy mustache dripped, sweat mingled with the water, clinging to his squared jaw. Still, he did not take the time to notice her until, on a slow upswing, he paused for some seconds with the thick mallet hanging above his head. Gizelle moved, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she smiled into that unchanging face. His hands gripped the thick, wooden handle of the mallet but he did not lift it yet.
“What, girl?” he asked, his back moving, swaying, wanting to get back to its laborious movement again.
“A job? I need a job.” Gizelle wiped the rain from her bright green eyes, hoping he would see their unusual color through the sheets of shifting water.
Her arms moved back from her sides, skillfully, so that he could see the young breasts, uncovered and unhampered by a bra. A chill ran up her legs as she realized how she looked, the dress slick in the rain, molding her fine, elegant body. Still there was no answering light in his stony eyes, no quick flickering of desire. Anger flared in her. He didn't think she was so beautiful. She gritted her teeth at the clinical way his eyes ran down the length of her body as he looked her over. The slight curl of his lips suggested that she was, perhaps, all right, but nothing really special.
Rebellion stirred deep inside her. The old determination held the stirring spoon. Whatever she had been denied she found herself craving... ever since she could remember. She blanked her face, leaving her lips posing in their friendly smile. The lidded eyes once again met hers asking no questions, extending no invitations. His massive head moved. His large hands toyed with the mallet.
“You are in a camp of Gypsies.” he stated harshly. “Romanes, you know.”
Gizelle shook her head no. After all she did not know. Romanes?
He stared at the uncomprehending face, no smile breaking on the wide, heavy-lipped mouth. “We do not want any outsiders.” He was finished and turned back to his work.
“Wait.” Gizelle licked her lips clear of the water. She noticed it was letting up, the rain now much sparser than before.
“What, girl?” He waited, impatient, his eyes betraying a sliver of contained anger. It was delicious, she thought, all that man filled with such impatience.
“This is a carnival. Isn't it? I mean, all kinds of people come here. I can do lots of things, dance, sing, you know. Some people would like to see a redhead maybe.” She paused at his unchanging face. “I saw a blonde girl walking around before the rain started. Isn't she a part of your carnival?”
He still did not smile, and this annoyed her. Well, she had pleaded her case. She wanted to work here now. She had to.
“Leona is the blonde girl. She is new. Agh!” He looked deep into her eyes, searing her pupils. She held her breath. He was considering it, she knew. The bit about seeing Leona had helped. She tried to keep her eyes from his hips, but it was hard, having him standing there so damned big.
“I do not know. Leona was a friend of my friend. It is bad, this new blood, light things with mocking...” He stopped the words, suddenly aware that she was listening to his inner thoughts. “Perhaps I am wrong about changing things.”
“I need the job bad,” she injected quickly, seeing that his massive defense was partially lowered for a second. She ran her two hands down the soft, lean curves of her body perhaps to emphasize that need.
“How old are you anyway?...” he paused, and added as an afterthought. “And do not lie to me.”
For some reason she knew that she had better not, for once. “Seventeen.”
“Agh! That is the truth.”
Anger flickered in her chest, rising like a stony bubble in her throat.
“Okay.” That simple word of his dispersed the anger like a magic wand. “There...” he freed one hand from the mallet and pointed through the blur of colors to a faded blue tent. “The blue tent. Go see Mildene, get a costume and wait. If you can dance... or move... I will hire you.”
He had dismissed her that easily. She was still standing in the rain like a fool as he turned back to his work, pounding the stake into the ground. She watched his back for another second and turned, running with new excitement towards the blue outline. The rain sputtered to a dribbling stop as she reached the rolled tent flap, hanging a foot from the wet ground. She lifted this and slid under, thinking of how she would have it made here after a short time. Once the big man had enjoyed her, he would know her worth. Anyway, she looked like a drowned rat now. Wait until he saw her red hair glisten in the sun! Wait...
She tried to stop the sound the intake of breath made in her throat. “Oh!” the exclamation was torn from her. She was Alice in Wonderland, just fallen through the rabbit hole. Had she tried for a million years, she never would have been able to imagine the colors, the fairy-like quality of the tent's decor. Scarves of silk, of satin, of wild, berry-colored chiffons blew, waved, danced like phantom flowers on the air. A small hidden fan breathed on them with a soft whirr. Everywhere, from the tent ceiling, from the walls, beads, soft tinkling chimes, colors, impossible silken ropes. She stood, looking up where the colors shifted in the breeze. Her head brushed against a light golden chime and it sang and quivered with gentle laughter. Startled, she looked down, amongst the red, blue, purple, orange cushions, bear rugs and small carved tables less than a foot high. In the center of this array an old, wizened woman, her face dark and twisted like a prune, sat smiling at Gizelle as she laid cards on the table. Her hair was a startling white, not the yellow of the old and feeble. Gizelle approached her cautiously, wondering why the woman did not trouble to speak to her, just sat dealing cards.
“Mildene? Are you Mildene?”
She watched the incredibly old face move, throwing the eyes back so they rolled at the ceiling as the parched, croaking, laugh rocked the thin draperies. The laugh died down and the old woman tittered to herself.
“No, no child. Mildene if I should be Mildene, if luck would touch me so.”
Gizelle felt chilled to the bone. She watched the old woman, still smiling with amusement, go back to dealing her cards. She did not look at Gizelle again but called out, seemingly at the cards themselves.
“Mildene! Come see what the rain has washed ashore. A fire child!”
Gizelle wondered who the woman was speaking to, wishing at the same time that she had not come upon this madhouse. It was too far-out—exciting all right, but too different from what she knew. She looked at the waving scarves and colors that she had thought so beautiful a moment ago. Everything changed; now, it seemed silly. People didn't live in places like this. Not sane people!
“Sit down,” the old woman said, not looking up.
Gizelle held her ground and did not move. She had just noticed a beaded curtain and listened to noises coming from the area behind it. So that was where the old woman had addressed her words.
“I said, sit down, foolish child. You stand there and freeze. You are crazy.”
Gizelle sat down, somewhat against her will. The old woman's fierce eyes shining from the folds of her eyelids did not advise disobeying.
Gizelle felt silly, having listened to the woman. “I'm not the only crazy one,” she muttered, not quite meeting those eyes.
The old woman laughed loudly. “Yes, you are a fire child, with unlucky green eyes.”
“Bastet! Why are you making the child so frightened?”
“I'm not a child!” Gizelle turned to meet the voice that moved from behind the curtain, and tried not to let her face fall. A pang of envy moved in her stomach pit. She hated to admit the kind of impression the woman made on her. Tropical breasts, covered by gauze and beads, jutted lustily from the woman's frame. Full hips, large, deeply indented ass. She wore pantaloons trimmed with tinkling bells, her belly jutting just a fraction of an inch out from the waist band of the loosely hung pantaloons. The short gauzy blouse ended just below the heavy breasts. She moved, her face chiselled, dark, huge brown eyes a deep liquid, waist-length black hair thickly brushing her shoulders.
“Hello. I am sorry to have called you a child. I can see now that it is not so. You are a very beautiful young woman. As Bastet said, a fire child. That is a very big compliment anywhere. It means...” she fingered the air with long, ring-covered fingers “that one breathes and lives excitement. See?” She sat near the old one now on a red cushion, motioning for Gizelle to move closer. Gizelle obeyed, hiding her anger and disappointment. She took the kindness of the woman and wove it into hypocrisy, tied with phony ribbons.
“Oh, the fire child is jealous of you, my sweet Mildene.” The old woman crowed, her crooked old teeth leering at Gizelle.
“I am not,' she declared hotly, feeling the color rise in her face. It was horrible to have such things noticed and announced! The old crone! She would like to slap her.
“Hush, Bastet. That is unkind.” She turned to Gizelle who had settled on a yellow velvet cushion. “What are you here for, dear?”
“The man with the mustache... I forgot to ask his name... he said you would give me a costume. He might hire me if I can dance. I can dance,” she added as an afterthought.
“I am sure. Wait here.” Mildene rose and disappeared behind the curtain.
“It is bad to hire non-gypsies.” the old woman muttered, slapping both her gnarled old hands over the cards. “It is trouble. Mildene is modern thinking, she is young and does not know how change moves.”
Gizelle pretended she wasn't paying the old woman any attention. That was the way to handle old people. Ignore them and they were wounded.
Gizelle jumped as a black cat leaped from the underside of the small table where the woman moved her cards. The cat meowed, moving against the old woman's shoulder, peering down at the cards as if he were interested in them. Old women and cats, Gizelle thought. She suppressed a shudder.
“Come here!” Mildene called in her rich, husky voice from behind the beads. Gizelle felt glad of an excuse to leave the crazy old woman. She entered the small, partitioned-off cubicle and smiled shyly at Mildene, thinking that was the best way to act for the present.
“The man with the mustache is Tinker. Tinker owns this carnival. He is good man and will hire you. Take those wet things off and put this on. I will make up your face then. You will look so beautiful, like a grown woman.” Mildene bared her exquisite teeth in a friendly smile. It made Gizelle feel quite sick.
“It is strange.” Mildene spoke, half to herself, Gizelle thought, watching the woman move around her in a circle, draping fabric from a silver waistband. Gizelle lifted her arms and struggled into the short little blouse Mildene had handed her a moment before, slipping her dress off underneath it, somewhat embarrassed.
“What are you doing?” Mildene laughed. “Stop this shyness. You have a lovely body. You are very beautiful!” Mildene grabbed at Gizelle's wet dress, pulling it down over her knees.
“There!” Mildene nodded in approval at Gizelle's nakedness. She handed her the waistband she had been working on and watched, her face puckered in thought, as Gizelle slipped the gauzy garment on. “Very strange,” Mildene continued, much to Gizelle's annoyance.
“What is strange?” Gizelle asked, evenly, between tight teeth.”
“Ah. Excuse me.” Mildene apologized, amusement shining through the words. “I mean for Tinker to hire you. You are the second this month not of Gypsy blood. I myself am modern. I think we should mix, you understand. Tinker has always been the opposite... as unfortunately have most of us. My cousin J.J. and myself are the only modern thinking ones, to tell the truth.”
Gizelle started at the initials she had heard used so differently a while ago. “Oh?” she asked, hoping for information about J.J. It wasn't coming though. Mildene had used the name of her cousin and had passed it right by. With her dark hands she turned Gizelle around and tucked the folds of the swishing fabric.
“Ahh, well, perhaps he is changing now. Here, sit down and I will make you up.”
Gizelle lowered herself to a makeshift vanity table, complete with bright lights. She took a moment out now to take note of the vast array of glittering fabric.
Mildene followed her eyes and smiled. “Beautiful, no? I love the flashing of all these!” She held both her long, shapely arms out and grinned. “We have just got here... not so very long ago. Four hours, perhaps. I have to clean up... put up string to hang these things.” Her face sobered and Gizelle stared into the bottomless brown eyes. “I forget too. All this must be so strange to one like yourself. You probably come from a house, with four stand-up walls, and a high bed. You must think we people are... a little strange?” Mildene smiled, a bit shy now, Gizelle thought, but still so sure of herself. She wanted to tell her what she really thought, but swallowed the words. She had no place else to go anyway. Besides, she had taken a shine to the big, darkly silent man who ran this carnival. If he went for her, she would be set. A carnival must make a lot of money. Money and good sex with a big strong man. What else did she need? Mildene was waiting for her answer.
“No, it's exciting, all the colors. Where I came from everything is dull and the same as everything else. This is different... but wonderful, bright.” Gizelle felt the last words lame on her tongue. Mildene looked past the strained sounds and nodded, approving.
“I am glad. Tinker hates most other people because of the... shock... They think we are crazy. Partly just for being carnival... mostly for being dark Gypsies. There are not so many of us in this country. Perhaps there are too many.” Gizelle watched the woman's eyes mist over with unspoken thoughts. A sigh escaped the red mouth and she bent to her task, removing boxes from a half unpacked crate. She took various make-ups, black mascara, red lipstick and blue shadows, placing them in Gizelle's lap while she used them. Gizelle fingered them, picking up lipsticks and letting them drop against the shining fabric that covered her legs. Mildene pulled back Gizelle's head and went to work in earnest. Gizelle watched her while she worked, looking closely at the dark-skinned face, hoping to find an impossible flaw that could be gloated over.
“Mildene!” the old woman's voice crackled through the air, gathering electricity.
Gizelle shuddered inwardly. She hated even more the pat on the back that Mildene gave her. The woman poked her head through the beads and grinned. On her shoulder sat the slick, black cat. He looked at Gizelle and yowled.
“He doesn't like you,” the old woman explained. She turned to Mildene then, her craggy face imitating a smile. Gizelle wondered how the smile could show among all those other wrinkles. “The rain has stopped Mildene. Tinker is in your hospitality, waiting for the young girl to show herself... and her talent, if any.” Gizelle did not look at the woman now; she stared at the objects in her lap.
“The child does look pretty. If luck is with, she will dance like a jackass.”
“Quit that, Bastet!” Mildene shot the old hag a sharp sideways glance that was too tinged with amusement to suit Gizelle.
“I can defend myself. I can dance as well as anyone... and thank God, I look a lot better than you, old woman!” She stood, her newly acquired skirts flying around her knees, the small make-up objects clattering to the floor.
“Tsk, tsk,” the old witch slicked down the black cat's fur and he closed his strange almond eyes in momentary contentment. “The child certainly shows little respect for an old woman.” The white-haired Bastet grinned and left through the clattering beads.
“Well, come on then.” Mildene tugged gently at Gizelle's clenched fist. Violins filled the already cloying atmosphere. Gizelle let herself be pulled, in her skimpy costume, through the beads, closing her eyelids against the cool wooden shapes. When she opened her eyes she was standing in a cleared space. All the cushions had been moved to one side, and a small, ominous group sat, unsmiling among the fantasy of fabrics. Oh boy, Gizelle thought as she braced her slim shoulders, giving them an elegant little shake. It was either sink or swim and she did not believe in sinking.
Mildene released her hand and motioned to the two violinists to be silent.
“J.J.” Mildene smiled as the young man brushed under the tent flap. Gizelle tried not to meet his flashing eyes. Mildene motioned for him to sit next to Terry. Gizelle counted faces. Ahh, there was the infamous Rowena and the light-skinned victim, Leona. She was to show all the dark people that she could hold her own. She looked for reassurance at the round, cute face of Leona. After all they were sort of kin. But Leona's blue eyes were looking for the flaws... just like the Gypsies.
“What is your name? It was not thought to ask you before,” Tinker asked, his voice filling the vacuum that the now silent violins created.
“Gizelle.” Defiance gleamed in her eyes. She felt it blur the swaying lanterns, the battery-powered lights, hanging from their colored ropes.
“You will dance, in any manner you please. I want to see if you can move.”
“Do not be afraid.” Mildene whispered anxiously. “Tinker just wants to see if you have rhythm. I am sure you do.”