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A/N: I know I should be working on my other fics and blahblahblah, but I had to get this down before I lose my inspiration. This is basically a somewhat angsty oneshot about a Romani who has a schoolgirl crush on Clopin but knows he will never love her. Sad, no? But I want it to sound real, and it will be a wrench for me to write something other than a HoND parody. ;) It also helps if you listen to Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved.” I don’t know why, because it doesn’t fit in all that well, but it’s in my head, and it was my inspiration. Enough of my prattle.
“One half of me is yours, the other half yours—
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours!”
-William Shakespeare
He used to love them. He wrote sonnets, composed songs, even professed his undying devotion to them in the square before Notre Dame. But they never lasted long. He would grow bored with his lovers, discard them, and move on to the next one. And each time, the romances grew shorter and shorter until they only lasted as long as the wine did. It was not love; never love.
And all the while, she watches him. She is younger than him, and she has loved him all her life, it seems. He used to play with her and the other children, used to whip out his Puppet whenever she was gloomy. When she realized how to get his attention, she used to mope whenever he was around just so that he would look at her. But he grew bored with her constant depression, and so he abandoned his attempts to please her.
Instead of acting, she really did become morose, and now one likes her.
She is not pretty. She thinks herself ugly, and some agree. She is stout. Her face is dusted with blemishes. Her skin is not creamy like a gadje, but it is not rich like a pretty Romani. Her hair is flat and hangs meaninglessly around her shoulders. She is dull and plain. He does not see her.
He is handsome. Godlike. He is loved by all the women around him. Old, young, married, unmarried—all love him. He thinks their affection is sweet; naïve. He pretends to indulge them, but really he enjoys it. He languishes in their attentions, and once he has satisfied his unquenchable lust, he leaves them. Some are left in lakes of tears; others knew from the beginning that he would leave them. Those are the ones that move on, the ones that smile at him in a friendly fashion while on the arms of their beaus. It means little to them.
It means the world to her, but at the same time, it also means nothing. He will not love her while she pines for him. She knows that he will not love her; it is not knowledge, it is instinct. He may glance over at her once in awhile, but his eyes always find a pretty girl behind her, or perhaps one of his drinking friends. He knows her face, but he cannot place her, and so he ignores her.
The other girls simper in their gaggles; they know that the more of them there are, the more attention he will pay them. Even if she wanted to approach him, she could not. They shun her because of her appearance and her character. She is the ugly quiet girl. She is not worth their time.
She sees him walking down the streets of Paris, pulling a giggling fool into an alley, huskily kissing a wench at the tavern. She avoids the taverns, for he is always there with a wench upon his lap, giggling and simpering and flirting. They are all the same. Sometimes they have different hair, different eyes—always different clothes. But they are one and the same, and that is why he can never remember their names.
She wants him to remember her name. She wants him to whisper “Tsura,” into her ear, to kiss her softly and tenderly like he does his young virgins. They are never virgins at the end, and as upset as they are once he leaves, they are all grateful to have spent a night with him. She wants to be one of them. One night would cease the wrenching pain in her heart, and it would satisfy his lust.
She knows she could be a wonderful lover. She would caress him, kiss him tenderly, truly make love rather than a night of sweaty exertions by his trollops. He would beg for more, as would she. They would lay entwined in one another for a long time, and he would never go to another woman again. He would be hers, and she his, and they would belong to each other.
But in her heart of hearts, she knows it will not happen. She knows that should she be lucky enough to share one night with him, he will leave her the next morning. He will not remember her name. They will be expected to part ways. And she knows that while it will be pure agony, she will keep going.
He has a girl in each arm. His gloved hands slide easily around their thin waists, resting on their hips. When he deems it safe, his hand will slide to their bottoms and rest there. They do not complain. They do not even notice. They just keep simpering, batting their thick lashes. They do not know real love. They only know physical satisfaction, and he is just that. They are the same to him. It is not a relationship of any kind except a cycle of satisfaction that rewards them both.
And all the while, she is watching. Her passion comes in waves. Sometimes she feels ready to fling herself off a cliff, ready to wrench her agonized heart from her chest to stop the pain. Other times, she feels a dull resignation. She belongs to him, yet she is not his. She wants him to know the depth of her passion, but she is afraid. She feels unable to go on.
The years go by. More and more women come to his caravan, drunk and laughing. They leave with a satisfactory look on their face, purring as they bid him goodbye. She will not purr. She will not be drunk. She will be different from them, and he will notice. She will be a change, and he will love her for it. She wants to believe it, and it is what keeps her going.
Her father dies. It was only expected; he had had a hacking cough for years. Her mother goes to join the nomads, restless with her life in the Court of Miracles. Tsura’s sister, Vadoma, is married to a clothes-dyer. Tsura goes to live in their caravan. And she still watches him.
Her feelings do not go unnoticed. Vadoma knows. She smiles knowingly, making bawdy hints and jests that turn Tsura’s face pink. The other women tease her as well, pinching her cheeks and her rump playfully. They do not know the despair she feels, do not know that they heighten it.
And still he is unaware. He still brings women to his caravan, and if she does not hide out in her own, she will hear their moans, their animal noises of primitive satisfaction. She will not make such noises. She will not behave as loose as them. If she ever comes to his caravan, she will set herself apart.
She makes herself these promises. She vows to herself what she will and will not do to prove herself to him. She tells herself that she will own him. He will never want to be parted from her, and she will pretend to reluctantly allow him. They are petty fancies, promises she knows she is breaking the moment she makes them. But without them, she would be empty.
She walks past his caravan often. She loses weight, but it is still not enough. He still does not see her while he entertains the enthusiastic children with his colorful puppets and equally brilliant songs. She stops and watches every now and then, hoping he will look up and wink at her—but he does not.
And then she met Hanzi. He is two years older than her, younger than Clopin, but he notices her. He talked to her. Walked with her. Followed her. She found herself flirting with him, and she was overjoyed to find that he returned her feelings. She still loves Clopin, but Hanzi will have to do for now.
Hanzi is a nomad. He comes to Paris in the winter with his brother’s family, and he leaves in the spring when it is warm enough to travel. For two winters, he and Tsura are friends. They talk and laugh together. He teases her lightly, tugging at her hair. She lightly shoves him, flushing as she touches him. He is not muscular, not terribly handsome; he is not her Clopin. But he is enough.
On the third winter, they are no longer friends. They are lovers. She goes to his small tent, and she is happy. He holds her, does not push her away. The pain goes away after awhile, and she finds herself reciprocating willingly. She returns his embraces, his kisses, his emotions. For a time, she forgets about Clopin.
And then Hanzi leaves. He will be back in the winter, and he leaves her with a string of beads. They are beautiful. Not big enough to get her noticed and consequently arrested, but she knows they are there. She fingers the beads when she is thinking, runs her lips over their smooth surfaces when she feels alone. The pain from Clopin was eased by Hanzi, and the pain from leaving Hanzi slowly eases through time.
She continues wandering around Paris. She performs magic tricks, some slight of hand that puts bread on the table and clothes on her back. She is brighter. She has friends. She has found peace within herself. Clopin is no longer a priority.
And then one day, he comes to her. She is on her way back to the Court of Miracles when he approaches her. She is passing his caravan, fingering the beads again. She is lost in thought, wondering what bedtime story she will tell her niece and nephews tonight. He calls out to her, brushes a hand against her arm. She looks up, startled.
He is chattering unconcernedly, his laid-back demeanor putting her at ease. His grin makes her grin in return, and she realizes how silly she must look. But she doesn’t care. He is talking to her, willingly, and she would not change that moment for all the treasures in Christendom. And then he asks her.
“Are you going back to the Court, Tsura?”
He knows her name. Her heart flutters. She nods, mumbling a positive.
“Would you mind coming with me?”
He does not need to ask. He could bark at her to follow him, and she would still come willingly. But she is hesitant. He will leave her, of that she is certain. It is a law of nature; she will only last a night. Perhaps more, if she truly pleases him, but she does not matter. She is merely something to satisfy him. He needs a partner for the night, and she is the first girl he saw.
And yet, while this knowledge stings, it still does not seem to affect her. She always knew how it would happen, if ever it did. She has Hanzi. She will forget Clopin by the wintertime, and all will be well. She looks up at his dancing eyes.
“I will go with you.”
As she takes his arm, relaxing into his buoyant aura, she smiles. She is finally getting what she wants. Tonight, she will have her dream come true, her wish granted. And then, she will be able to live again.
They are bittersweet.
Enough of my endless rambling. Please, please, PLEASE review and tell me your thoughts!
Thanks!
bubblymuggle4