Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 15. Chapter 15: Train Ride to Sighisoara

Chapter 15: Train Ride to Sighisoara

A rickety train car prowls through the dull Romanian landscape. It's mid-morning now, but fortunately it was still mostly dark as we rumbled our way through the Commy rustbelt that cinches Bucharest's waist. Currently green fields and tumbledown farms roll by outside our window at fifty klicks an hour.

The train is not crowded at all, in fact no one is sitting anyplace near our little open 'compartment' of six seats. Silviu sits across from me and his eyes dart with the passing flicker of the sights. I glance down and absentmindedly watch him fumble with the hefty silver band on his right ring finger. He twists it in an unsettled way.

After we returned to the hotel last night, we packed right away. We hardly spoke, and certainly not about the blood-lusty vamp kids, nor about Silviu's Batman-like 'rescue' either.

We stayed awake the rest of the night camped out in the middle of the room with our bags and our reticence to communicate.

At 4 AM we took showers and got ready to depart.

At 6 AM we could retrieve my father's letter, check out, and call a cab. It was all cloak and dagger shit, as we told driver to pick up behind the hotel. That was followed by a taxi ride to the central train station, and the procuring of two tickets to a place I cannot pronounce.

Right now I feel tired and a bit disconcerted. Silviu insisted we buy some unpromising-looking food from the snack kiosk on the train platform, but eating seems about the least appealing thing of all. I'm almost too tired for a nap, and I fear that if I close my eyes, 'the coin' will flicker on the inside of my eyelids, and I do not want to think about it. Why? Because that will lead to questions of whether Silviu is really someone who can be trusted. I can't allow myself to doze off in case I am overwhelmed with a sense of being powerless again.

Sitting across the annoying little train table from him, I reappraise Silviu's looks. He's gentler looking than I recalled. His spiky hair may be glossy black, but it feathers out to the sides in a very soft way. It also comes down on his forehead in a really well delineated scalp line, and this line is shapely as it dips into a pronounced widow's peak. The downward pointing arrow of it aligns in beautiful symmetry with the centre of his Roman nose, which in turn flatters his high cheekbones and full, ruby lips. Traces of crimson happily ride his cheeks, but seem tactfully shielded by a light coat of natural tan. Silviu's jaw line is Roman too, but as it seems used to clenching in frustration or sorrow; so in other words, it's softened with signs of his humanity as well.

It is a kind and unaffected face overall, and I marvel that I hadn't really put all the pieces of it together before, but then again, I've never had the filter of fatigue edit out all my own projections onto him either.

I clear my throat and draw his attention. "So, this place we're going to…" I linger out an ambiguous ending, hoping Silviu will generously fill in the name of this place I can't pronounce.

He eyes me coldly and refuses to play into my cunning trap.

"Si – go – shy – "

He cut me off curtly. "See-gee-swhore-ah. Ok?"

"Si-gi-shwur-a; what's there that we need to see?"

He sighs and his arms fold. He turns to the window, and I again can track his eyes follow and snap back with the various 'sights' whipping past our rail car.

Silviu stiffens his spine straight as a board, and speaks in a tone as riveted as if it were actually meant for the window glass and not me. "It’s a medieval city noted for a fine town hall, several squares and churches of both Orthodox and Catholic standing…"

He suddenly turns to me. His gaze is tender and his tone is sweetly insistent that we change the subject. Through a newly rising smile, he asks me, "So, what is it you really want to ask me?"

He settle back in his seat, eyes me frankly and as an overt or covert invitation, he unfolds his arms and appears open to me.

The one thing I think he means is the one item I have to avoid, so instead I pile on a 'conversational' tone and hit him with, "Ok, tell me – how does a big guy like you become a Gypsy seer?"

He erupts into a small laugh. "I have a natural love of all things myth, magical and historic."

Now I fold my arms. "But it seems – at least from an outsider's view – that most Gypsy fortune tellers are women."

"Men are seers too," he explains patiently. "But it takes us longer. Usually in our culture, some of the old men who have been around for a long time become the trusted diviners."

"But with women?"

"With women, it's different. Once they have gone through childbirth, they have proper grounding, so to speak, and are ready to become seers."

"But, you're young."

"In Romani tradition, the gift is mainly passed from mother to daughter, but sometimes this comes to a son."

"Really?"

"Yes, Daj sensed this early on with me and kept me by her side to train me, and to hone my inborn abilities."

My arms fall to my side as I sit up straighter in my seat. "I've never heard of boys…"

He comes forward slightly to place his wrists on the edge of the table; his move expressively with all his rings in play as he continues to tell me, "You've heard of the berdache of North American First Nations, or the koekchuch of the native Siberians[1] – they are chosen because of their spiritual powers, and recognized as being born to it. They are the queer boys, the quiet observant ones, the dreamers, the introverts, the boys who stay separated from their playmates – they are the ones set apart."

I laugh in quiet amazement. "Well, except for the last one, that doesn't sound like you at all. Especially not the introvert description!"

"I never minded being with my mum at the shop; she was right, I did have insights into events and the way people were feeling."

"But still, it must have been a bit lonely, and I can't imagine your brothers did not tease you, especially in your macho, hyper-masculine society."

"You're an only child, aren’t you?" He rests an elbow full on the table to prop his head on his hand and stare at me. His rings flash bright and sexy against his fair complexion, and add luster to those already sparkling, damn-blue eyes of his.

"Yes, I am, but don’t avoid – "

He cuts me off, by raising a smile. "My brothers? They kidded me mercilessly about being a 'fey,' so I had to toughen up young. Our dad, if he ever found the older boys bothering me about it, would smack the back of heads first, and then try to reason with them – pointing out that 'Silviu is on the path to leading our family, not you!' Obviously, this only made my life rougher, as they had hard feelings about me being 'someone special.'"

"What's your relationship like with them now?"

"Now! We're grown up. We love and support each other, without question. That's Romani family; we're all like that."

I chuckle, "Fight like cats and dogs, then unite against a common foe?"

His smile for me turns cockeye. "What, you Romani too? You'd fit right in."

I smirk, "Even considering how conceited I am, maybe even spoiled?"

He raises his head and laughs outright. "As I said, you'd fit right in!" He folds his hands on the table between us like he has something serious to discuss. "But besides being an only child, do you have any young cousins, nieces, nephews..?"

"Nope."

"None?!"

"My family is evidently not big on kids."

"And what about you?

"Do I want to have kids, you mean?"

"Yes. Come on, Emeric. You cannot fool me. I saw the way you were with my little brother."

An instant smile comes to my mouth. "Little Lupasc? He's okay, I guess."

"Humph," Silviu lets slip out from between his lips. "I get the act you're putting on, so ok, you're only borderline with being around kids, even though you love them."

"Okay, so I like kids!" I laugh. "I saw by the way you handled your bro that you like them too. So, happy now? We have one more thing in common."

Sil ignores my question, or I should say mostly ignores, for the little raise of an ear-to-ear grin tells me he is indeed pleased with what he has just learned.

Silviu noisily pulls up the plastic bag from the seat next to him. He peers in and takes out the cans of coffee, placing one in front of both of us. He then fishes out one of the sandwiches and tosses the bag on the table where he thinks I can reach it easily. He cracks into the can and takes a slurp like a little boy.

Smacking lips a bit, he asks me, "You told me you attend Ryerson U, but what are your studies there?"

I glance into the bag and see a bunch of paper napkins that my big lug of a fellow traveler has ignored. "I study film production, movie design, and creative writing."

He begins to rip into his packaged sandwich. "You can't fool me; I know you chose Ryerson because it's close to 'the village." His eyes brows flare at me before he quickly brings his food up to his lips.

"Maybe that convenience vaguely crossed my mind, but I do study, you know. It's a hard degree to get – we have to train and know every aspect of making a film. We have to gain insight into what every person is doing on a set, and be able to jump in and do it ourselves, if need be."

Chewing, again just like a little boy, Sil says, "Sounds like a perfect career, for a control freak. Ahem."

"Yes and no. It's the control freaks who burn out and implode before anyone else. Movie-making is all about trust – if you don’t have that, especially in yourself, then you don’t have a film. Making cinema magic is rough work."

"But I bet you're good at it."

I shrug, feeling a blush rise out of nowhere. Somehow this near-stranger's offer of support means a lot to me.

He gestures to the plastic bag and untouched can of coffee nearby my hand on the table. "Why don’t you eat? It's not bad; you haven't had anything since dinner last light."

I glance at his sandwich, knowing there was an identical one in the bag for me, and worst of all, the sudden smell of meat and cheese and bread and oily spread makes me feel less inclined than ever to eat. I smile and say, "Maybe later, but it's no Timmy Ho's!"[2]

"You can say that again." Silviu grins through half-masticated Romanian ham.

"It's just that my stomach's not quite settled yet."

Now he gets it. "You all right? I mean – it must have been awful."

"Yeah, I'm still a bit jittery, but…" I come to the big scary moment. "Did you mean all those things you said about me in the alley?"

Silviu makes an audible swallow. "Ummm, the truth, or do you wanna hear something nice?"

I sigh, thinking maybe this reaching out crap is bullshit. I mean, how much easier would it be to tell myself 'fuck him,' but something in me resists that. "The truth."

It seems my answer takes him by pleasant surprise. "Well, I was too rough in delivering the message, but I guess I do see you as someone who still has a bit of growing up to do. But, I am sorry for being an asshole."

"It's ok. Maybe the thing about it is, I don’t really have anyone around me who speaks as honestly as you do, and well, I guess that's both a challenge and kinda refreshing."

Sil starts eating again with gusto. "So, what is Emeric Corvin like out of school?"

I can resist no more; I dig in the bag and hand him a paper napkin. Naturally, I think he'll use it. He doesn't. Instead, he dips his head slightly in a 'thanking' gesture, the stuffs the corner of the serviette in at his open chest buttons.

I smile despite myself, saying to distract myself, "I'm a total Sci Fi geek. I'd look for guys who were closet nerds like me, so we could lock ourselves away – not go to clubs, not go out to parties – just cloister ourselves, or freetime-it with each other, and completely geek out on DVD's and shows about alien shit."

Silviu must have sensed my sadness about the subject.

"And, how'd that work out for you?"

"I haven’t dated in two years, but before that, I had my perfect guy. He's the one I'd lock myself away with."

"Sounds a bit claustrophobic."

"Umm… I'd rather not talk about Erich right now, okay?"

He shrugs.

"And you?" I ask trying to somewhat mask my curiosity. "What type of guy do you go after?"

He slows his chewing, and stalls by taking a noisy slurp; it looks like I have hurt him, but I don’t know how.

Setting his can down, he finally says, "I like men who know what they like; that can talk on a subject – any subject – that shows that they have passion. And, I like guys who are truthful and funny."

'Wow,' I think. 'That's about the best answer to that question I've ever heard.' However, I say the second thing that pops into my mind. "Do you think I'm funny..?"

He nearly chokes. His hand flies up a moment to shield his mouth as he coughs.

"You all right?" I ask, concerned.

He holds up his hand in a gesture of 'give me a minute.'

I do, and he swallows. He then takes a calm swig of coffee.

"You all right?"

Silviu nods.

"I didn't think asking if you find me amusing would nearly take your life."

He laughs. "Of course, Emeric. You know you're funny. Wickedly so."

I abash and look out the window a moment, trying to keep my blush from burning too brightly.

Still aglow inside from Silviu's compliment, I watch the sights roll passed. There is a regular rhythm of haystacks and rusty tin roofs, and then something interesting comes up. A bay mare is with her foal in a paddock of at least a hectare, and they both decide to run along with the train, apparently just for the exhilarating fun of it.

I turn back to see his blue peepers smiling at me. I tell him, "This is turning out to be quite an adventure. This will make fantastic material for a screenplay!"

Silviu's gaze dims on a dime, and turns a disgusted look on the sandwich in his hand.

"What..?" I ask.

"This ain't no adventure." His sudden withering scowl tells me he is pissed. "You need to snap out of your bubble soon and see how serious this is."

The image of gold against Silviu's darkly-hairy chest pops into my mind. I want to ask once and for all how he came to possess the same medallion as mine, but an insistent voice at the back of my head says 'not yet.'

"Silviu?"

"Yes." He lets his guard down a bit.

"What's it like to be a Gay Gypsy?"

"Well, I put my socks on one at a time, I brush my teeth starting from the left side of my mouth – what do you mean, what’s it like to be a 'Gay Gypsy?'"

"I just mean – wow, take it easy – what's it like being out? My impression is that your culture is VERY traditional."

Silviu deflates. After he sets his sandwich down on the wrapper, he tells me, "Oh. That. My father never said two words about it – he was really cool about it, except he started talking about school Gay-Straight Alliances and LGBT youth groups, so it was all good. My brothers took it differently, it wasn't that they didn’t care, we in fact became a lot closer because of it. They wanted names and addresses of any smart aleck who had two unkind words to say about it. I love them; they love me. However, when I first told Daj, she said 'I know, son – so? So, you'll marry a nice girl, you'll make her happy with a family – and you won't lie to her – and then we'll find you a nice, married Romani guy on the side.' She said 'That way you can be happy and in love with him, and happy with your family's love too.'"

A sort of simultaneously astounded and sympathetic breath escapes as the words: "Holy crap."

"I know. I told her there'd be no fake marriages for me. That when I take my guy, it will be before God and everybody, and I will mean it to last forever."

"She freak?"

"Sort of; wouldn’t speak to me for days."

"What happened?"

Silviu suddenly smiles, and it was like rays of radiant light and heat forcing their way through storm clouds. "My sister, Corina, who's three years younger than me. She went to my mum and told her not to worry. 'When Silviu finds his husband,' she told her. 'I will have their kids for them.'"

"Awww, and your mom liked that?"

"Liked?! She started matchmaking me right away, tapping her forehead and saying that Corina's biological clock was ticking."

I laugh; it's all so perfect and sweet for him, isn't it? I have nothing in terms of family to match any of that.

Silviu leans in a bit more serious. The bottom white of his eyes show as he says, "By the way, now that you are around one everyday, you have to learn that we call ourselves Romani. A lot of us – ok, ALL of us – tend to find the 'g-word' offensive."

"Offensive?" I'm amazed. "Really?"

"It's just like the idea of using the term Gay – Romani is the self-chosen term of minority identification, and outsiders have to use it to have any credibility with us. So, maybe offensive is too strong, but to know and then chose not to use the correct term is strongly suspicious. It's like all those damn hets knowing we are Gay but continuing to brand us with the fuckin' h-word word as an open act of bigotry which they try to excuse as 'religion' or 'politics.' It’s exactly the same. Romani shouldn't let Gypsy be said to their faces like they are too cowardly and stupid to know any better. Unfortunately, a lot of queers let that h-word name of a 19^th century notion of 'disease' be used to their face without comment, and it's just as pitiful."

"Ok, I never let anyone call me anything but Gay. I think if anyone even tried, like the way straight writers love to show it on TV sitcoms – on Will and Grace, and that horrible Happy Endings – that one of them comes up to me and uses 'homo' to my face, I think I'd knock their fucking block off. I hate watching that crap; it's so offensive and not true to life at all. So, I get it about the g-word, and I will try not to slip. Okay?"

He flashes a wink at me from underneath a rakishly flaring eyebrow. With a contented smirk, he returns his attention to his food. As I watch him take another swig of coffee, I think that he's satisfied, and I like that.

Silviu and I are more alike than I initially knew. Truth is, he's just as right-brained and passionate as I am, and in that regard, we are in sync – though perhaps I have my feelings and enthusiasm under control in order to meet deadlines and study for exams and such. Because Silviu was kept apart and made acolyte to his mother and to his psychic gift, his personality developed into one rich in bluster and tough posturing, but there is a profound connection with his sense of isolation and in the environment in which I grew as well. Despite the bravado Sil feels he needs to make it in his world, this inherent loneliness is a tie between us, and I can't help but feel sympathetic towards his struggles.

Now, if he'd only use a napkin…

As he picks up his ham and cheese to polish it off, I gesture to a glob of mayo that's been riding his chin for the last forty kilometers.

He makes a sour face and shrugs.

I let a gasp come through my nostrils before I lean across the table and pluck the napkin from amongst the hairs of his chest beard. I motion with a face gesture for Sil to make a grimace, and then wipe his chin for him.

Afterwards, after he sees the unsightly blob I have just removed from his person, he grins like a teddy bear, and I find myself thinking about how interesting an adventure this really truly is turning out to be.

All of a sudden, exactly as if the seer-in-training has just read my mind, his mood darkens. "If I have to repeat it, I will. This is serious stuff we're dealing with, Em. To fix this curse of yours won't be easy – it's already been powerful enough to last for centuries…"

He trails off, I guess seeing how depressed the notion makes me.

"Ok…" He starts again. "I'm sorry. We'll focus on what we can do about it. Tell me, have you ever had any odd animal experiences?"

I think about it for a moment. "When I was little, I was almost attacked on our property by a pack of wild dogs."

"What drove them off?"

"My father."

"Any others?"

"Yes. At my father's funeral – we were surrounded by crows at the cemetery; 'a murder of crows,' as my dad's creepy lawyer told me afterwards. They swarmed us like a black-feathered tornado."

I glance at Silviu, and it's he who acts like he's reliving my experience.

"Ah," he says.

I puzzle, "What do you mean 'Ah?'"

Silviu wipes his hand and mouth with a fresh napkin, then leans back in his seat to fold arms against any further inquiry. He slouches down like it's naptime, but a slightly annoyed tone creeps through as he tells me, "I mean, ah. That's all."