A Magician Never Tells His Secrets

I didn’t have a plan. I wanted a plan. I wanted a set of steps I could follow to accomplish my goals. But whenever I tried to make one I just got lost inside my head. I just had to hope opportunities presented themselves and I could make the right decision. Accomplishing my goal wasn’t going to be easy.
But I wanted to see it accomplished. Not for my own benefit. But for Daw’s. For Peter’s.
I wanted to erase the tension between the gypsies and the freaks.
My first decision was to not be afraid of either camp. I made up my mind that I would be friends with people from both groups and not care about their reactions. Maybe if someone showed that we could all get along other people might follow my lead.
That’s what I hoped. I was a little naive.
So the next day I marched straight over to Tori’s camp. I wouldn’t be kept away from my best friend because of the stupid status quo.
My flip-flops slapped on the wooden stairs up to the door of her caravan. Spelt out in pink diamantes was the word ‘Galina.’ Under it was the name of my best friend, in slightly smaller letters. I banged my fist on the door, but to no avail. No one answered it.
Unjustifiable anger bubbled in my stomach. So she was out, was she? Well that’s just good for her. If she thinks I’ll just sulk away with my tail between my legs she’s got another thing coming.
I realised then that I was angry with my friend for no good reason and with a self directed sigh I took a seat on her steps. I felt edgy and out-of-place. Even in the warm summer morning’s sun I kept rubbing my bare arms with my hands. The activity was minimal; most people where enjoying their numbered hours of relaxation in bed.
“My, my, what do we have here?”
Prokhor stood on the dusty yellow ground, wearing thick work boots, a maroon, loosely woven cheesecloth* shirt and his typical moustache. In one hand he carried a metal pale.
“Morning,” I said hesitantly; not sure if he remembered who I was.
“Looking for Victoria?” He asked, shifting his weight to one foot. Even in the early hours of the day Prokhor still had beads of sweat along his neck and gathering in the indentations above his collarbones.
“Yes,” I said, looking back at the closed door of her van. “I don’t think she’s in.”
“I’m afraid she and Galina went out for breakfast in the town this morning,” he said, scratching his moustache with his free hand. “But if you would like some company waiting for her I would only be too pleased to oblige.”
“Umm . . . sure,” I answered, anxious. He plonked the metal bucket on the steps next to me and wiped his brow, one hand on his hip.
“Busy morning?” I inquired politely.
“Not any more than usual,” he replied in his usual foreign inflection, coupled with a wink. “I am not as young as I used to be.”
“You look plenty young to me,” I complimented nervously. I was being honest though. Prokhor looked pretty good for his age. He barked a laugh.
“Working at a carnival for half my life has kept me young at heart, though unfortunately not physically.”
I smiled at him, looking away. I was relieved that speaking to him wasn’t awkward like it was with most other adults. It was true what he said about being young at heart. His dark cheekiness made him seem like a man born twenty years later.
“How do you like your work?” Prokhor asked genuinely.
“Oh very much,” I lied.
He laughed again.
“I can imagine working in the ticket booth to be very uncomfortable.”
“It’s not so bad,” I shrugged.
“Well,” he said shrewdly with another wink. “If you ever feel like a change of pace let me know and I’ll see what other job I can find for you.”
Praying he wasn’t hinting towards anything perverted, I just smiled. “We’ll see.”
He grinned. “I wish my own daughter could be as nice as you. Maybe if you spent some time with her it would be contagious.”
“Prokhor!” A voice yelled from behind a caravan as I gaped at him. A dark haired boy ran out, dressed in harem pants and an Arabic vest; his hair singed. He yelled something in a language I couldn’t understand; but the panic in his voice by bilingual.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Prokhor said, picking up the bucket of water and running off towards where smoke was billowing.
“Vasha is often careless,” a soft, dark voice spoke from behind me. My strawberry blonde curls bounced as I turned to look at the girl I’d only seen once before. The briefly mentioned subject of my last conversation. The only child of Prokhor. The mysterious fortune teller.
The one and only Vera Ivanov.
“I sense a coming injury for him,” she continued, her burning green eyes focused far away.
I laughed uncomfortably. “Your fortune telling powers really are amazing,” I said graciously.
Her eyes narrowed as they moved to mine. “It’s more commonsense than any premonition powers. Fire twirlers often have little sense of self preservation.”
“Oh,” I said uncomfortably.
Her eyes travelled away and I stared at her face for a moment longer. Her square jaw seemed locked together.
“I know what you want to do.” She said suddenly. My brow creased, and though I didn’t know what she was talking about, my heart thudded guiltily.
“If you mean Anton,” I said uncertainly. “I respect your . . . your relationship. I would never try to muscle in or anything.”
Vera looked at me, her face emotive for the first time. Her brow was raised and her eyes sparked with humour, thick lips tweaking.
“I wasn’t referring to Anton,” she said, her accent thicker with held-back laughter.
I blushed with horror.
“What were you talking about then?” I demanded breathlessly.
She spent a moment composing herself. When she finished shaking her head her face was as impassive as ever.
“You wish to end the enmity between my kind and yours.”
I started. Two questions pushed through my mind.
One: how did she know?
And two: what was she going to do about it? Would she stop me? Would she get me thrown out like the Shi’s threw out her dad?
I waited for her to continue while I stewed in my silent freak-out.
“I want to help you.”