THE LAST OF THE ROMANY

“It’s been a long hot journey,” said the man with the waxed mustache. “A Collins please, bartender.”

The fat bartender reached over to the console, punched the “Collins” button, and asked “Gin, rum, vodka or grahooey?”

“Gin, of course,” said the man with the waxed mustache. “A grahooey Collins indeed!” He lit up a large olive-green cigar.

The bartender punched the “gin” button, and tapped the serve bar. The clear plastic container of cloudy liquid popped up through the serving hole in the bar.

The man with the waxed black mustache looked at the drink, and then at the console, and then at the bartender. “Do not think me rude, my friend,” he said, “but I’ve always wondered why there are still bartenders, when anyone could press those silly buttons.”

The bartender laughed, a fat good-natured laugh. “Why are there bus drivers on robot buses? Why are there brewers when the beer practically brews itself? I guess the government figures that if everyone who was unnecessary was fired, they’d have a hundred million unemployed on their hands.”

The man with the mustache, who called himself Miklos, toyed with the battered guitar, which leaned against the bar. “I’m sorry my friend, for my remark,” he said. “Actually, bartenders are still useful. Could I talk to that machine? And they still don’t have an automatic bouncer.“

“Oh?” said the bartender, leaning close to Miklos. “I was in Tokyo last year, and there they have a great padded hook that drops from the ceiling, grabs a drunk, and heaves him out the door. All untouched by human hands. Ah, science!”

Miklos scowled, and then brightened. “Ah, but the bartender still must decide who to bounce! A very delicate task, not to be trusted to a machine. Therefore, a bartender will always be necessary. Another Collins, please.”

“Why are you so concerned with my usefulness?” asked the bartender, punching out another Collins.

The man with the waxed black mustache and the weather-tanned face became very serious. “It is one of the things I search for in my travels,” he said. “It is very important.”

“What is?”

“Men who are still useful,” said Miklos. “They are like rare birds. When I spot one, it makes my whole day. I’m sort of a people watcher.”

“You travel a lot?” asked the bartender, with a little laugh. “You must be one of the idle rich.”

“No,” said Miklos without smiling. “It’s part of my job to travel.”

“Job? What kind of job? There are no more traveling salesmen, and you hardly look like a pilot—”

Miklos puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “It is a hard thing to explain,” he said. “Actually, there are two jobs. But if I succeed in one, the other is unnecessary. The first job is to search.”

“To search for what?”

The man with the waxed mustache picked up his guitar and fiddled with the strings. “To search,” he said, “for the Romany.”

“The what?”

“The Romany, man! Gypsies.”

The bartender gave him a queer look. “Gypsies? There aren’t any Gypsies left. It wouldn’t be permitted.”

“You’re telling me?” said Miklos, sighing. “For fourteen years I have searched for the Romany. I’ve hitched, when nobody hitches, I’ve bummed when nobody bums. I’ve looked in fifty states and six continents. I even went to the Spanish caves, and do you know what? They have a big mechanical display there now. Robot Romany! Flamenco machines. The things even pass a metal hat around. But the Romany are gone. And yet, some day, somewhere… Maybe you could… perhaps you would… ?”

“Me?” said the bartender, drawing away from the man with the mustache.

“Ah, but of course not. Nobody knows. And of course, everyone thinks I’m crazy. But let me tell you, my friend, crazy is strictly relative. I think you’re all crazy. Nothing personal, you understand. It’s this dry, clean, shiny Romany-killing world that’s crazy. But come close, and I’ll let you in on a secret.“

 

Miklos stuck his face in the bartender’s ear. “They have not killed the Romany”, he whispered. Then louder: “I am the last Romany. That’s the other job, to keep it all alive until I can find them. It’s a good joke on the world. They try to kill the Romany, and when they fail, they try harder. But it is good for them that they do not succeed, for it is the Romany that keeps them alive. They don’t know it, but when I am gone, they will die. Oh, they’ll walk around in their nice, antiseptic cities for a few hundred years before they realize it, but for all practical purposes, they’ll be dead.”

“Sure,” said the bartender. “Sure.”

The man with the waxed black mustache frowned heavily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I forget that I’m crazy, and then I become crazier. A neat paradox no?”

“You sound like an educated man,” said the bartender, “a not-stupid man. How come you can’t get a job?”

Miklos raised his head proudly. “Can’t get a job! Sir, before I became Miklos, the Last Romany, I was assistant vice president in charge of sales for General Aircon-ditioning. I am a moderately wealthy man. I know what success in this boring world is. You can have it.”

“But with your money…”

“Bah! I wanted to see the exotic Orient, for example, so what was there? Tokyo was New York, Hong Kong was Chicago, Macao was Philadelphia. Far Samarkand is now a Russian rocket port. It’s all gone. The Baghdad of the Caliphs, the China of Kubla Khan, far Samarkand, Cairo… Oh, the cities are still there, but so what? They’re all the same, all neat and clean and shiny.”

“You ought to be glad,” said the bartender. “They cleaned up the opium traffic and the prostitution. They licked malaria and yellow fever—even dysentery. They got the beggars off the streets, and built sanitary markets for the street vendors. I was in Tokyo, as I said, and it’s every bit as modern as New York.”

Miklos snorted cigar smoke. “And while they were at it, they replaced the Caliphs and Sultans and Khans with City Managers. Feh!”

“Well,” said the bartender, “you can’t please everybody. Most folks like things the way they are.”

“They think they do. Ah well, I’ve got things to do. Can you tell me where there’s a playground?”

“A playground? You wanna play golf or something?”

“No, no, a children’s playground.”

“There’s one three blocks west of here,” said the bartender, “But what do you want there?”

“It’s part of the job, my friend,” said Miklos, getting up and hoisting his guitar to his shoulder. “It keeps me from thinking too much and doing too little, and besides, who knows, maybe it does some little good. Good-by.” He left the bar whistling a chardash.

“A nut,” mumbled the bartender, tossing the used containers into the disposal. “Seems harmless enough, though.”

 

The playground was the standard model, one block square, surrounded by a six-foot force-fence, with one entrance on each side. In addition to the usual exponential hopscotch board, force-slides and basketball grid, there was some newer equipment, including a large tri-D, and a robot watchman. Most of the children were seated on benches in front of the tri-D watching “Modern Lives,” the playground educational series. They seemed quite bored, except when, as a sop to their frivolity, someone was hit over the head.

The man with the waxed black mustache and the battered guitar walked through the gate. He was noticed only by the robot watchman.

“Sir,” rasped the robot, “are you the parent or guardian of any of these children?”

Miklos blew a smoke ring at the robot. “No!”

“Peddlers, beggars, salesmen, roller skates, pets and children over twelve years of age are forbidden in the playground,” said the robot.

“I am not a peddler, beggar, salesman, roller skate, bicycle, pet or child over twelve,” said Miklos, who knew the routine.

“Are you a sexual deviate?” asked the robot. “Sexual deviates are prohibited from the playground by law, and may be forceably removed.”

“I am not a sexual deviate,” said the man with the mustache. Predictably, the robot stood there for a moment, relays clicking confusedly, and then rolled away. Miklos entered the playground, threw away his half-smoked cigar, and sprawled himself on the last bench in front of the tri-D.

He strummed a few random chords on the guitar, and then sang a staccato song in Spanish. His voice was harsh, and his playing, at best, passable, but both were loud and enthusiastic, so the total effect was not un-pleasing.

A few of the younger children detached themselves from the group around the tri-D and grouped themselves around Miklos’ bench. He went through “Santa Anna,” some very amateurish flamenco, and an old Israeli marching song. By the end of the marching song, all but the oldest children had gathered around him. He spoke for the first time. “My name is Miklos. Now my friends, I will sing for you a very nice little song about a rather nasty fellow. It is called ‘Sam Hall’.”

When he got to the part of the chorus which goes: “You’re a buncha bastards all, damn your eyes,” the robot came rolling over at top speed, screeching “Obscenity is forbidden in the playground. Forbidden. No child must say naughty words. No obscenity. Will the child who said the bad words please stop.”

“I said the bad words, you pile of tin,” laughed Miklos.

“Please stop using obscenity,” croaked the robot. “Obscenity is forbidden to children.”

Miklos lit a cigar and blew a huge puff of smoke at the robot. “I am not a child, you monstrosity. I can say what I please.” He grinned at his appreciative audience.

Relays clicked frantically. “Are you a sexual deviate? Are you a beggar, saleman or peddler? Are you a child over twelve?”

“We went through this already. I am none of those things. Get out of here, before I report you for interfering with the civil rights of an adult human.”

More relays clicked frantically. There was a slight smell of burning insulation. The robot wheeled off, careening crazily. It stopped about a hundred yards away, and began to mumble to itself.

 

Miklos laughed, and the children, all of whom were now clustered about him, roared with him.

“And now, my friends,” he said, “let us talk of better things: Of pirates and khans and indians. Of the thousand and three white elephants of the King of Siam. Of the Seven Cities of Gold, and the great Caliph Haroun-al-Rashid.”

“Have you been to all those, mister?”

“Are you a pirate?”

“What’s a caliph?”

Miklos spread his large hands. “Wait, wait, one at a time.” He smiled. “No, I am not a pirate. I am a Romany.”

“What’s a Ro… ?”

“Romany! A gypsy, my young friend. Not so long ago, there were thousands of us, rolling all over the world in bright red and yellow wagons, singing and playing and stealing chickens. Now I am the only one left, but I know all the stories, I know all the places—”

“You ever steal a chicken, mister?”

“Well… No, but I’ve stowed away on planes, even on a ship once. Do you know what that would have meant in the days of the pirates? Sir Henry Morgan would have made me walk the plank!”

“Walk the… plank?”

“Yes, he would’ve stroked his dirty black beard, and said: ‘Miklos, ye scurvy bilge-rat, ye’ll jump into the drink, and be ate by the sharks, or I’ll run ye through with me cutlass!’”

“Couldn’t you call a cop?”

Miklos grimaced and twirled the ends of his mustache. “A cop! Sir Henry would’ve ate one of your cops for breakfast. And at that, he’d be getting off easy. You know what Haroun-al-Rashid would’ve done? He’d have his Grand Vizier turn him into a camel!”

An older boy snickered loudly. “Aw, come on, ya can’t turn a cop into a camel.”

“I can’t, and you can’t, and maybe nobody today can. But in those days, in Baghdad! Why, anyone could!”

Most of the older children wandered away, but a hard core of six-and seven-and eight-year-olds remained.

“You must believe,” said Miklos, “and then you can do these things. Fifty years ago, you could cross the world with your thumb. Now they say it’s impossible. But, my little friends, I know better. I have done it. How? Because I am a Romany. I believe, even if they say I’m crazy.”

“Wow mister, Romanies is smart, huh?”

“No smarter than you. In fact, you can only do these things if you’re a little stupid. Stupid enough to believe that somewhere, sometime, there still is a Baghdad, and Samarkand is still Far. You must be stupid enough not to care when the police and the Chairmen of the Board say you’re crazy. And if you believe hard enough, and are crazy enough…”

“What, mister?”

The man with the waxed black mustache sighed, and then he leaned close to the circle of small heads and whispered: “If you believe hard enough, and care long enough, and are crazy enough, and become nice and wicked, then some day you will get to the Spanish Main, and the Seven Cities of gold, and the magic city of Baghdad, where there are no robots or schools, only magicians and wild black horses. And some day, you will see Far Samarkand, shining white and gold and red above the sands of the desert. And, little friends, if you are especially dirty, and never, never wash behind your ears, and only brush your teeth once a day, and don’t watch the tri-D, and say four bad words a day for a month, and dream always of the lost far magic places, some day you will wake up, early on a cool autumn morning, and you will be a Romany!”

Miklos picked up the guitar. “And now, my little Romany, we will sing.”

And he played the old songs, and sang of the far places until the sweat dripped onto his mustache. Then he pulled out a red bandanna, wiped his face, and played some more.

For two hours, he played and sang, and told the old tales.

He was just finishing the story of Atlantis, when the cop arrived. The cop was dressed in the usual blue tunic and shorts, and the usual scowl. “What the hell’s going on here?” he said.

The robot came wheeling over, moaning, “Obscenity is forbidden in the playground. Obscenity is—”

“Shaddap!” said the cop.

The robot shut up.

“All right, bud,” said the cop, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“Just singing a few songs, and telling a few stories,” said the man with the waxed mustache meekly.

“You’re disturbing a public playground,” said the cop. “I think I’ll run you in.”

A little sparkle returned to the man with the mustache. “Is that a crime, officer?” he said.

“No, but…”

Miklos chewed on his cigar. “Then I guess you’ll be on your way,” he said.

“Not so fast,” said the cop. “I can still run you in for vagrancy.”

The man with the mustache grinned, and then permitted himself a large laugh. “I’m afraid not, my friend. No indeed, I’m afraid not.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a role of wet, soiled bills. He counted out two hundred dollars, and shoved them under the cop’s nose. “See, my friend? I am hardly a vagrant. Well, my little friends,” he said, turning his back to the cop, “I must be going, before there is any more trouble, and I am tempted to turn this worthy officer of the law into a you-know-what. Good-by, my friends. Remember the Romany.”

The children grinned. The cop stood there The man with the waxed black mustache hoisted his guitar to his shoulder, and slowly walked out of the playground, whistling loudly.

 

The early morning sun shone in through the large picture window, bathing the bar in bright yellow light. The bar was empty, except for the bartender and a young man with a detached, faraway look. The young man, who was wearing the gold and black uniform of the Space Corps, sat at one end of the bar staring out the window and sipping a beer.

Miklos stepped in, the open door admitting a blast of hot air into the air-conditioned room. “Hello, my friend,” he said, sitting down two seats away from the young Spaceman. “A beer, please.”

The bartender pressed beer, and the plastic stein appeared in front of Miklos. Miklos took a long drink. “The morning is the best time for a good cold beer,” he said. “Too bad so few people recognize it’s beauties.” He glanced at the young man. The Spaceman gave Miklos a funny look, but not one of distaste. He said nothing, and continued to stare out the window.

“Did you find the playground?” asked the bartender. The Spaceman smiled a twisted smile.

“Of course,” said Miklos, lighting a cigar. “No trouble at all. That is, except for a cop that tried to chase me away. But he was little trouble.” He pointed to his head. “Not too bright, you know.”

The Spaceman chuckled softly.

“You still haven’t told me what you did there,” said the bartender.

The man with the mustache thumped his guitar. “I played this thing, I sang, I told the kids a few stories.”

“What for?” asked the bartender.

The young man got up, and sat down next to Miklos. “I know what for, don’t I?” he said, smiling.

Miklos laughed. “If you say you do.”

“Say,” said the bartender, “you’re a Spaceman. You been around, no?”

“I suppose I have.”

“Well then,” said the bartender, “maybe you can help our guitar friend here. He’s looking for something.“

“Oh?” said the young man with the faraway stare. He seemed to be suppressing something between a snicker and a grin.

“Yeah,” said the bartender, laughing, “Gypsies!”

The Spaceman did not laugh. He ignored the bartend-der, and turned to Miklos. “You are looking for Gypsies?”

“Yes,” said Miklos soberly. “Yes, I am looking for Gypsies.”

“For the Romany?”

Miklos stared hard at him. “Yes, the Romany.”

The Spaceman drank the last of his beer. “It is a hard thing,” he said, “to find Romany these days.”

“I know, I know,” said Miklos, resting his head in his hands. “For fourteen years I have looked. Fourteen years, six continents, and God knows how many countries. It’s a long time—a long sweaty time. Perhaps too long, perhaps I am crazy, and there are no more Romany, and perhaps there never will be. Perhaps I should give up, and go back to being a vice president in charge of sales, or go to a psychiatrist, or—”

“I know a place,” said the young man.

“A place?”

“A far place,” said the Spaceman. “A place that no one has yet seen. Alpha Centauri. Or perhaps Sirus. Or Ri-gel.”

“The stars?” said Miklos. “Nobody’s ever been to the stars.”

“Indeed,” said the young man, smiling, “no one has ever been to the stars. What better place to find the Romany? Out there, in a land that is not yet in the travel tours, a land that no one has ever seen, the kind of land where the Romany have always gone. Somewhere out there, there are cities that put all the legends to shame. And magic, and wonder… The Universe has a billion worlds. Surely, on one of them there are Gypsies, on another Khans, on another ancient Baghdad.”

“A very pleasant picture,” said Miklos, lighting a cigar, “and probably true. But unfortunately, it’s as possible to go to those worlds as it is to visit ancient Baghdad.”

“Not quite,” said the Spaceman. “On the Moon, they are building a faster-than-light starship. First stop Alpha Centauri. There will be others. Many others.”

Miklos stood up. “A starship! Yes! I’ll book passage right away. You wouldn’t think it, to look at me, but I’m moderately rich.” He stared out the window at the sky. “Perhaps I’ll find them yet, out there.”

“Of course,” said the young man, “It’s a government project, like the Moon, and Mars and Venus. As they say, there’s only room for ‘trained experts’. ”

“Of course,” said Miklos, “of course… it’s always that way. Always machines, or men like machines, always. But no matter! If those ships exist, there is a way on them. If the stars are there, there’s a way to bum your way. If the Romany exist, some day, somewhere, I’ll find them.“ He stood up, and slung his guitar over his shoulder. ”I’m off for Canaveral,“ he said. ”And then to the Moon, and then… Well, good-by and thanks.“

The man with the waxed black mustache strode out into the sunny street.

 

“Thanks, pal,” said the bartender. “You really got rid of that screwball. He was starting to worry me. You really knew what made him tick.”

“I ought to,” said the Spaceman.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well, once there was a kid in Springfield, Ohio, in fact the kid was me. And this kid was like all the other kids in this world, a nice, packaged future member of a nice packaged society. And then one day, maybe eleven years ago, a crazy guy with a mustache blew into town, and told that kid a lot of tall tales about a lot of far places. Something changed in that kid that day—a very small change. But it got bigger and bigger every year, until now that little change is the whole person. And here I am, on my way to Centaurus.”

“You mean there really is a starship?”

“There sure is, and you know something? Somehow, some day, in some highly illegal manner, that guy is going to get on it.” The Spaceman looked out the window as if he were already on his way to Centaurus.

“What’ll they do to him when they find him?” asked the bartender.

The Spaceman looked at him, a strange softness in his eyes.

“Only a certain rare kind of man can go somewhere no one’s ever seen. You can’t package that kind of man. You can’t grow him in controlled schools and mold him on canned dreams. You’ve got to beat him and kick him and laugh at him and call him crazy. And if someone has whispered certain things in his ear at a critical time, you have a man who will go to the stars.”

The young man glared at the bartender.

“What will we say to him, when we find him on the ship? What else, but ‘Welcome, Miklos. Welcome home’.” ■