Commonplace, I know, but I am left shaken by the odd intimacy between perpetrator and victim.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Sarajevo Gypsy (Roma)
Julia and I are walking in the evening in the ancient Turkish market when I am accosted by an old gypsy woman. She pushes up to me, her left hand cupped in begging up against my chest. Her right hand she slips into the front pocket of my jeans to snare my wallet. I slap it away. Of course, she is unaplogetic. It might have worked. Julia is unaware of the swift interaction until I mention it to her.
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I read this post last night before turning in and as I slipped into sleep this passage seemed to me like it was taken from an Orson Wells screenplay.
The protagonists throat swells and eyes dart around while the old woman feels around for the wallet in the husbands sport coats chest pocket her one good eye on fire while the droopy eye was motionless. The wife, while peering off into the distance, her scarf flipping in the breeze says sweetheart we just have to spend more time out at night walking these streets breathing this air and the husband, while pushing off the gypsy and wiping his face with his handkerchief to clear away the sweat caused by the anxiety of being violated because of centuries of raicist attitudes, says sure dear but next time let's walk with the dog.
charles
while waiting for the electrician or someone like him
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