The Witch of Portobello

"Who gave you the name Athena?"

"No one important. But I didn't ask you for your name, I asked who you are and why you spoke to me. And why I felt the same need to talk to you. Was it just because we were the only two women in that cafe? I don't think so. And you're saying things to me that make sense of my life."

She picked up her bags again, and we continued walking toward the bus station.

"I have another name too--Edda. But it wasn't chosen by chance, nor do I believe it was chance that brought us together."

Before us was the entrance to the bus station, with various people going in and out--soldiers in uniform, farmers, pretty women dressed as if they were still living in the 1950s.

"If it wasn't chance, what was it?"

She had another half an hour before her bus left, and I could have said: "It was the Mother. Some chosen spirits emit a special light and are drawn to one another, and you--Sherine or Athena--are one of those spirits, but you need to work very hard to use that energy to your advantage."

I could have explained that she was following the classic path of the witch, who, through her individual persona, seeks contact with the upper and lower world but always ends up destroying her own life--she serves others, gives out energy, but receives nothing in return.

I could have explained that although all paths are different, there is always a point when people come together, celebrate together, discuss their difficulties, and prepare themselves for the Rebirth of the Mother. I could have said that contact with the Divine Light is the greatest reality a human being can experience, and yet, in my tradition, that contact cannot be made alone, because we've suffered centuries of persecution, and this has taught us many things.

"Would you like to have a coffee while I wait for the bus?"

No, I did not. I would only end up saying things that might, at that stage, be misinterpreted.

"Certain people have been very important in my life," she went on. "My landlord, for example, or the calligrapher I met in the desert near Dubai. Who knows, you might have things to say to me that I can share with them, and repay them for all they've taught me."

So she had already had teachers in her life--excellent! Her spirit was ripe. All she needed was to continue her training, otherwise she would end up losing all she had achieved. But was I the right person?

I asked the Mother to inspire me, to tell me what to do. I got no answer, which did not surprise me. She always behaves like that when it's up to me to take responsibility for a decision.

I gave Athena my business card and asked her for hers. She gave me an address in Dubai, a country I would have been unable to find on the map.

I decided to try making a joke, to test her out a little more. "Isn't it a bit of a coincidence that three English people should meet in a cafe in Bucharest?"

"Well, from your card I see that you're Scottish. The man I met apparently works in England, but I don't know anything else about him." She took a deep breath. "And I'm...Romanian."

I gave an excuse and said that I had to rush back to the hotel and pack my bags.

Now she knew where to find me. If it was written that we would meet again, we would. The important thing is to allow fate to intervene in our lives and to decide what is best for everyone.

VOSHO "BUSHALO," SIXTY-FIVE, RESTAURANT OWNER

These Europeans come here thinking they know everything, thinking they deserve the very best treatment, that they have the right to bombard us with questions that we're obliged to answer. On the other hand, they think that by giving us some tricksy name, like "travelers" or "Roma," they can put right the many wrongs they've done us in the past.

Why can't they just call us gypsies and put an end to all the stories that make us look as if we were cursed in the eyes of the world? They accuse us of being the fruit of the illicit union between a woman and the Devil himself. They say that one of us forged the nails that fixed Christ to the cross, that mothers should be careful when our caravans come near, because we steal children and enslave them.

And because of this there have been frequent massacres throughout history; in the Middle Ages we were hunted as witches; for centuries our testimony wasn't even accepted in the German courts. I was born before the Nazi wind swept through Europe and I saw my father marched off to a concentration camp in Poland, with a humiliating black triangle sewn to his clothes. Of the five-hundred-thousand gypsies sent for slave labor, only five-thousand survived to tell the tale.

And no one, absolutely no one, wants to hear about this.

Right up until last year, our culture, religion, and language were banned in this godforsaken part of the world, where most of the tribes decided to settle. If you asked anyone in the city what they thought of gypsies, their immediate response would be: "They're all thieves." However hard we try to lead normal lives by ceasing our eternal wanderings and living in places where we're easily identifiable, the racism continues. Our children are forced to sit at the back of the class, and not a week goes by without someone insulting them.

Then people complain that we don't give straight answers, that we try to disguise ourselves, that we never openly admit our origins. Why would we do that? Everyone knows what a gypsy looks like, and everyone knows how to "protect" themselves from our "curses."

When a stuck-up, intellectual young woman appears, smiling and claiming to be part of our culture and our race, I'm immediately on my guard. She might have been sent by the Securitate, the secret police who work for that mad dictator--the Conducator, the Genius of the Carpathians, the Leader. They say he was put on trial and shot, but I don't believe it. His son may have disappeared from the scene for the moment, but he's still a powerful figure in these parts.

The young woman insists; she smiles, as if she were saying something highly amusing, and tells me that her mother is a gypsy and that she'd like to find her. She knows her full name. How could she obtain such information without the help of the Securitate?

It's best not to get on the wr

ong side of people who have government contacts. I tell her that I know nothing, that I'm just a gypsy who's decided to lead an honest life, but she won't listen: she wants to find her mother. I know who her mother is, and I know too that more than twenty years ago, she had a child she gave up to an orphanage that she never heard from again. We had to take her mother in because a blacksmith who thought he was the master of the universe insisted on it. But who can guarantee that this intellectual young woman standing before me really is Liliana's daughter? Before trying to find out who her mother is, she should at least respect some of our customs and not turn up dressed in red if it's not her wedding day. She ought to wear longer skirts as well, so as not to arouse men's lust. And she should be more respectful.