Darcourt and Dr. Gunilla Dahl-Soot arrived at the Gypsy camp in the basement of the Cornishes’ apartment building well provided with food and drink. He had insisted on it, and the Doctor had agreed that they should, if possible, avoid the enormities of Gypsy cuisine. But they understood that if they were not to eat soviako and sarmi and kindred delights, they must take something tempting with them; they had a smoked turkey, and a large, rich Christmas cake as the foundation of their feast, and a basketful of kickshaws, as well as half a dozen bottles of champagne and some excellent cognac. Mamusia was delighted.

“This is kindness! I have been so busy these last days. My Christmas shop-lifting, you know,” she confided to Gunilla, who did not blink an eye.

“It must take a lot of cleverness,” said she.

“Yes. I must not be caught. Maria says that if I am caught and it gets out that she is my daughter, she will kill me.”

“Because the Cornishes are so very Kater Murr?”

“I don’t know what that is. But Arthur has a very respectable position.”

“Yes, of course.”

Mamusia went off into a fit of deep-throated laughter.

“No, no, not to be disgraced by his mother-in-law.” She looked inquiringly at Darcourt. “But you know all about this business, Father Darcourt.”

“What business are you talking about, Madame Laoutaro?”

“Father, we are old friends, aren’t we? Must we pretend? Oh, you kiss my hand, very polite, and call me ‘Madame’ but we have a real understanding, don’t we? We are old friends and old rogues, eh? Or do we have to keep quiet because of this very fine lady you have brought with you? Will she be shocked? She doesn’t look to me as if she would be very much shocked.”

“I assure you I have not been shocked in many years, Madame Laoutaro.”

“Of course not! Shock is for stupids. You are a woman of the world, like me. So—you understand this joke? I must not disgrace the great Arthur because shop-lifting is a sin against money, and money is the Big God. But disgrace of the bed, and the heart, doesn’t count. Isn’t that a good joke? That is the gadjo world.”

The door opened and Yerko came in. Unshaven, longhaired, unkempt, he was wearing a skin cap and some sort of rough skin coat. How he is reverting to his Gypsy world, thought Darcourt; who would believe that this fellow was once a business man, a gifted, inventive engineer.

“What is the gadjo world?” he said, shaking snow generously in all directions from the cap.

“We are talking of the little raklo upstairs. I will not call him the biwuzo.”

“You’d better not, or I’ll take my belt to you, sister. And you know that it is very rude to use Gypsy words when we are talking with our friends who are not Romany. You can never keep your mouth shut about the child upstairs.”

“Only because it is such a good joke.”

“I do not like your joke.” Yerko turned to Gunilla and bowed deeply. “Madame, it is an honour to greet you.” He kissed her hand. “I know you are a very great musician. I, too, am a musician. I honour greatness in our profession.”

“I hear you are a noble player on the cimbalom, Mr. Laoutaro.”

“Yerko. Call me Yerko. I am all through with Mister.”

“They have brought a feast, brother.”

“Good! I want a feast. I have at last beaten the insurance robbers.”

“They are going to give us money?”

“No; but they are not going to sue us. That is victory enough. I went to them like this, and said, ‘I am a poor Gypsy. I have nothing. Are you going to put me in jail? Are you going to put my sister in jail? We are old. We are sick. We do not understand your ways. Have mercy.’—Lots of that—At last they were tired of it, and of me, and told me to go away and never come into their grand building again. ‘You are merciful,’ I said, weeping. It is Christmas. You are moved by the spirit of Bebby Jesus, and He will reward you in Heaven.’ I even tried to kiss the feet of the most important man but he jerked his foot away. Nearly kicked me on the nose. I said, ‘You have forgiven us, before these witnesses, whose names I have. That is all I ask.’ So now they can’t sue us. That is gadjo law. We have won.”

“Wonderful! We have beaten those crooks!” In her glee, Mamusia seized Darcourt by the hands and danced a few steps, in which he followed, as well as he could.

“But what about all those magnificent instruments that went up in flames?” he said, puffing.

“All gone. It is the will of God. The people who owned them must have insured them. But simple Gypsies know nothing of such things.” Mamusia laughed again. “Now we feast. Sit on the floor, great lady. That is what our real friends do.”

On the floor they sat, and immediately set about the turkey and the olives and the rye bread, using such implements as Yerko provided, some of them not very thoroughly washed.

With plenty of champagne, Darcourt thought, it is not half bad. Gunilla, he saw, dug in with a good will, showing nothing of the refined manners he associated with her. Even so, he thought, the young Liszt might have feasted with Gypsies. She was especially attentive to the champagne, rivalling Yerko, and taking it straight from the neck of the bottle.

“You are a real fine lady!” said Yerko. “You do not hold away from our humble meal! That is high politeness. Only common people make a fuss about how they eat.”

“Not when I brought it myself,” said Gunilla, gnawing a drumstick.

“Yes, yes: I only meant that you are a guest in our house. No rudeness was intended.”

“You will not get the best of her,” said Mamusia. “I know who she is,” she said to Darcourt. “She is the lady in the cards—you know, the one on the left of the spread? She is La Force. Very great strength, but used without any roughness. You are in this opera thing my son-in-law is so worried about?”

“So you know about that?” said Gunilla.

“What don’t I know? You have heard about the spread? Father Simon here made me lay out the cards right at the beginning of that adventure, and there you were, though I didn’t know you then. Do you know who any of the others in the spread are now, Father? All you could think of then was that my daughter Maria must be Empress. She, an Empress! I laugh!”

Mamusia laughed, and quite a lot of turkey and champagne flew about.

“Perhaps she is not the Empress, but she may be the Female Pope. She must be one of the women in the cards.”

“I think she is the third in the oracle cards; that was Judgement, you remember? She is La Justice, who tries and weighs everything. But don’t ask me how. That will be seen when the time comes.”

“I see you have been thinking about the forecast,” said Darcourt. “Have you identified any of the other figures?”

“They are not people, you know,” said Mamusia. “They are—smoro. Yerko, what is smoro in English?”

“Things,” said Yerko, through a full mouth. “I don’t know. Big things.”

“Might we say Platonic ideas?” said Darcourt.

“If you like. You are the wise man, Priest Simon.”

“Is he the Hermit? I said so then but now I wonder,” said Mamusia. “There is too much of the devil in our good Father for him to be the Hermit.”

`”You have left me behind,” said Dr. Gunilla. “Is this a prediction about our opera? What did it say? Was it a good outlook for us?”

“Good enough,” said Mamusia. “Not bad: not good. Hard to say. I was not at my best that night.”

The Doctor frowned. “Are we heading toward a mediocrity?” she said. “Failure I can endure; success I like but not too much. Mediocrity turns my stomach.”

“I know you are not a person who lives in the middle of the road,” said Mamusia. “I do not need the cards to tell me that. Your clothes, your manners, the way you drink—all of it. Let me guess. You are funny about sex, too, eh?”