The Human
Phoenix, otherwise known as Tamas Zindelo,
has not the slightest inkling of his origin. Sold to the gypsies, they did not
ask his age when he joined their camp, but later when he questioned them, they
guessed he was nine. He did not look like the Romani; rather he had the golden
skin and sphinx like eyes from North Africa and the angular facial features of
the Russian. His interest in fire though, seemed to come from thin air. He
could watch flames for hours, looking into the heart of the inferno, wave his
fingers through the rippling tips of candle flames.
He slept on soft
earth under worn woolen blankets, or in a nest of pillows in the caravan. He
was liked for his quietness and small appetite. He wore whatever he was given,
often not changing his grungy white shirts and burgundy vests for days.
He stoked the
fire and stood in its smoke until he smelled as rich as roasted chestnuts and
his eyes watered. His uncle (for there were many in their gypsy family who,
while not blood related, gave the care and love of uncles) claimed “you breath
out smoke in you sleep.”
He was fortunate
to possess some knowledge of the alphabet and with practice from the only of
his family who could read, he was literature by the end of his boyhood.
When he meets
who he assumes is the proprietor of the cirque, dressed in his best black vest,
seeking a venue in town that would cater to the camp for the night, he is
surprised to hear of the circus, of her disappointment and growing urgency in
her lack of success. When he inquires as to her intentions, she replies she has
been unable to find anyone with spectacular skills in fire artistry.
He invites her
into the nearest café, his quest for Romani cuisine momentarily forgotten. She
insists on buying her own tea, but he pays for his Tuscan coffee.
After a great
many cups of coffee, perhaps one or two glasses of bourbon, he accepts the
invitation.
Art by Helen Musselwhite
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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