Holy Fire - Bruce Sterling [49]
Ulrich was ill at ease, face tight, smiling mechanically. A lot of Deutschlanders picked their way among the junk tables, mostly young people, but they were far outnumbered by the aliens.
These people were truly extraordinary. She was seeing a cast of features on people’s faces like she hadn’t seen on any human being in forty years. Faces from outside of time. Crow’s-feet, age spotting, networks of crabbed lines. Women gone gray and sagging in ways in which women simply weren’t supposed to sag anymore. Ferociously patriarchal old men in barbaric finery whose walk and gestures radiated pride and even menace.
And the children—entire packs of shrieking little children. To see so many little children in one place at one time was very strange. To see large packs of children all from a single narrow ethnic group was an experience beyond the pale.
“Who are these people?” Maya said.
“[They’re tsiganes.]”
“Who?”
“[They call themselves Romany.]”
Maya tapped her ear. “My translator doesn’t seem to understand that word, either.”
Ulrich thought it over. “These people are gypsies,” he said in English. “This is a big gathering camp for European gypsies.”
“Wow. I’ve never seen so many people in one place who weren’t on medical treatments. I had no idea there were this many gypsies left in the whole world.”
Ulrich went back to Deutsch. “[Gypsies are not rare. They’re just hard to notice. The Romany have their own ways of movement and they are good at hiding. These people have been Europe’s outcasts for eight hundred years.]”
“Why aren’t the gypsies just like everybody else by now?”
“[That’s a very interesting question,]” Ulrich said, pleased to hear it brought up. “[I often wonder that myself. I might learn the truth if I became a gypsy, but they don’t let gajo do that. We’re both gajo, you know. You’re American and I’m Deutschlander, but we’re both just gajo to these people. These people are nomads, and outcasts, and thieves, and pickpockets, and swindlers, and anarchists, and dirty lumpenproletariate who don’t use life extension or birth control!]” Ulrich looked them over with a certain proprietary joy, then his smile slowly faded to a deeply troubled look. “[Still, all those fine qualities don’t prove that they’re entirely romantic and wonderful.]”
“Oh.”
“[We’re trying to sell these people some stolen property,]” Ulrich reminded her. “[They’re going to try to cheat us.]”
Three Romany men passed them, carrying a lamb. A crowd of gawking gajo gathered quickly. She couldn’t see over the shoulders of the jostling men, but she heard the lamb’s last anguished bleat, and the crowd’s eager gasp. Followed by delighted gasps and groans of shock and titillation.
“They’re killing that animal over there,” she said.
“[Yes, they are. And skinning it, and gutting it, and putting its carcass on a stick, and roasting it over a fire.]”
“Why?”
Ulrich smiled. “[Because roast mutton tastes lovely. A little bit of mutton can’t hurt you.]” His eyes narrowed. “[Also, eating the animal makes you feel better about the dirty pleasure you took in seeing it killed. The bourgeoisie … they will pay well to eat a thing that they saw killed.]”
At the base of a nearby hill, a gypsy did public stunts on a motorcycle. His ancient and incredibly hazardous vehicle had no autopilot of any kind. The spitting, fluid-powered machine beat its combustive pistons with a bestial roar and spat blue clouds of toxic smoke.
The gypsy stood on the seat, did handstands on the handlebars, roared up the hill and down, zipped up a ramp and flew over an iron barrel. He wore boots and a spangled leather jacket and he had no helmet.
At last he leapt deftly from the machine and flung