The Luck of Fifica Faa

Fifica, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter in the Gypsy tribe of Faa, wore her luck like a braceleted pet viper.

She leaned her hair over a dented basin, shivering in the Parisian morning. “Hurry,” she urged. Steam rose from the basin, the scents of lavender and thyme tickling her nose.

          “Wonderful,” said Fifica. “Brush it for me.”

          JoFranka frowned at her youngest sister’s presumption. She kneaded Fifica’s head, prodding the base of her skull. “You have too much bone here. You lead too much with your heart.”

          “Oh, Sister, my head, my palms. Next you’ll be reading my toes to prove I am not the lucky one, the basht. I won’t turn the Evil Eye towards us.”

          A cloud passed overhead, shading the glade. JoFranka stopped abruptly and spit to her left. “Enough, little sister. Not even you may mock the spirits. Remember our mother.”

Fifica reached for the brush. “I’ll finish” she said. More lectures would only darken this day when good luck tingled in the air on the pasture land of the Isle de Saint Louis.

          JoFranka studied the woods over Fifica’s shoulder. “Come for me if our men return with game, or if you see French men in red.”

          Fifica shuddered. Red meant gypsy-hating gendarmes.

          Alone, Fifica brushed her curly hair dry. She rummaged through JoFranka’s trunk until she found a voluminous blouse.. She cinched it into a dress with a chain belt found among the golden jewelry rattling at the bottom of the trunk, payment for fortune-telling from the foolish Gaje.

She pranced outside the wagon annoying her twin sisters, Fairnette and Marinelli, pillowy matrons at seventeen. Marinelli touched her needle to a pile of shirts. “Prove your nimbleness with sewing, Fifica,” she hissed.

          “Soon!” Fifica ran from the camp toward the river to search for a lucky stone. A dream had told her to find one.

          Fifica examined stones in the cold River Seine. She hefted rocks one against the other. At last one spoke to her spirit. It was white and smooth, egg-shaped, speckled with glinting mica. “Baktalo!” she said.

          Twigs snapped at the tree line. Fifica gasped, then relaxed when a lone dog ambled out of the woods. He was thin, mottled black and white. She cocked her arm to throw her rock, but stopped.

          “Don’t be afraid! Come!” she called. The dog sat, cocking his head. She mimed eating, smacking her lips. The dog approached. She offered him bread from her pocket. He wagged his tail. “Follow me. We need a dog.”

          She walked inland, the dog scampering behind. In camp, she opened a barrel of salt pork. The dog rushed for the meat. Squealing, her cousins encircled Fifica and the dog, creating a chaos of questions.

          The dog settled by Fifica’s side to gnaw his treasure. “I hope he’s a guarding breed,” said Fifica, “to warn us. A dog will be good luck unless he howls at night.”

          The children grew quiet. “A dog howled when Grandmother died.”

          They wanted to hear the story of her mother’s death, burned as a witch in Lombardy. “Ask Vashta,” said Fifica.

          The children scattered. Fifica sat petting the dog as he slept. She was examining each paw when she saw it. She eased the toes apart, teasing out a four-leaf clover. A red thread stuck to it, which she flicked away.

          “What luck! His name will be Clover,” she said.

After dinner, Vashta lit his pipe, signaling a story.

But Clover lifted his nose, stiffened, and howled. He barked and dashed towards the woods.

Slashes of red appeared between the trees. Twenty gendarmes emerged, armed with swords and muskets. They encircled the camp, tied up the men to transport to jail, and held the women down to crop their hair to mark them with shame.

Fifica threw her lucky rock at the Captain. He laughed when it glanced off his shoulder. He brushed the spot as if powder had fallen from his wig. “Gypsy devils,” he told his beefy lieutenant, appraising Fifica. “Diabolique! Too young, alas.”

Clover whined at the Captain’s heels.

“There you are, Luck!” said the Captain, scratching the dog’s ears. “You’ve a good nose for vermin.” He tied his red bandana around the dog’s neck. “One man’s luck is another man’s pain,” he sang as soldiers plundered the wagons. They marched the Faa men away.

The Captain tossed Fifica’s rock at her feet. “May Luck find you again when you’re full grown,” he said.