HEART TO HEART CONVERSATION

Gentleman Adventurer

Good afternoon! Now you cannot complain that I am keeping you from your beauty-sleep, can you? Today I brought a picnic basket for us. These apples are really good - it is not easy to find them in the market and they are expensive, but I really love them. Delicious. Wine? O, I forgot, you do not drink wine. Do you mind if I have some? Not that your objection would hinder me drinking it... Apple?

Yes, that winter in Italy I would have loved to have apples...

Running away to live on my own might not have been the best of my decisions, for now I was really alone. The first days I stayed away from everyone, trying to bring some distance between me and them without being too easy to track down. After three days the hunger forced me to enter a village. I was really scared, I had never done this alone. You see, in circus I was announced and just had to do my show. I had never announced myself or tried to draw in a crowd. And now I needed to make myself known, I had to find a place where I could perform and I needed to gain the people's attention despite all my instincts telling me to keep quiet and hide. I was a shy boy after all.

But with shyness and modesty I would never fill my stomach. So I decided to tie my mule to a post and took my violin and just started to play. Passers stood and listened. I really managed to gather a small audience, maybe ten or twelve people. Judging from their clothes they were poor, but I really needed money and food. When my music ended they applauded. I bowed to them and tipped my hat. "Thank you, gentlemen, but as much as I appreciate your applause - an artist can't live only on applause." Yes, I was more or less begging and I was ashamed, but what could I do?

They were about to go away, but I would not give up so easily. I knew I could not reach the next village that day and it was my fourth day without food. The hunger gave me the necessary strength to go on. "Gentlemen, I see that music might not be to your liking. Maybe you would prefer a little game?" Some of them went away, eight men stayed and watched me curiously. I took out three dice-boxes and a taw. It was no black glass marble, it just looked like one, it was made of metal. Then I put the taw under one of the dice-boxes, changed them and dared them to find the taw. They did. Of course they did. Actually I had three metal taws and in the left sleeve a magnet. So if I lifted one dice-box with my left hand, the magnet would attract the taw and the box appeared empty. If I lifted it with my right hand, the taw stayed where it was and the audience won.

They were really willing to bet money - not asking if I could pay should I ever lose in that gamble. Well, I won a few times, then I did not dare risk another game for there was the risk they might find out how I did this. So I changed the game and made another bet. I handed them a deck of cards and turned round. Then I told them to take one card out of the deck. I took a rug and asked them to hand me the deck under the rug so I would not see it, after that, they should place the card somewhere in the deck - still beneath the rug. If I found the card, I won, if not, they win. Of course I won. A really childish trick, but it earned me a coin.

To soothe them - I did not want them to feel bad for they always lost against me - I played a few pieces on my violin and then I told them I had entertained them enough and went away. I didn't go to an inn or a store, I went to a little farm and asked if I could buy some food there. They did not like my mask and I had to stay outside and wait for them to return for they did not allow me to cross the threshold, they charged me a very high price for a bit of milk and a piece of bread but I was starving and didn't want to look for another farm where I could buy something.

So my life as a travelling entertainer started. I remember being constantly cold and hungry, sleeping on the streets, seeking shelter in dark corners, sometimes sleeping somewhere in the fields or woods or sometimes in fruit groves. It was not that my shows were bad or people didn't like to see them - it was the problem that they themselves were poor. They gave me money, yes, and I knew some of them gave me as much as they could afford, but they had nearly nothing. So my problem was that I was in the wrong part of the world to be a nomad street artist.

Well, maybe it was not the best idea to sleep in the fruit groves, for one night I woke up because someone took away my cozy sheepskin-blanket. I cried out in alarm, as did he. Obviously he had seen my face - I slept with the mask off because I always removed it in my sleep anyway - and thought I was dead and he could steal from me easily. He was as shocked as I was and ran. I did not dare go after him, he was a tall man and much stronger than I was. I was lucky he just took my blanket and not my mule and the saddlebags with my violin and my props. That would have been much more of a problem.

The problem with the blanket - well, my solution was quite criminal. I just stole a grey coat from a coachdriver. It was too large for me, but it was warm and would even keep me dry in rain.

I soon learned that performing in the street would not earn much money. A bit, yes, but I did not show my face and I did not earn much. I was rather treated like a beggar, I had barely enough to keep body and soul together. It was a really hard life, especially when I fell ill again, sleeping under the stars in winter is not a good idea, even in south of Italy. I had rhinnitis, a cough and terrible headache. I would have loved to lie down and rest a few days but I was on my own and could not stop just because I was ill. But I found that in cities I would easier earn money, the best way was to ask an innkeeper if I was allowed to entertain his guests to earn a little bit. Most innkeepers turned me down for I wore a mask, but sometimes I was lucky and they allowed it. I would start with a piece of music on my violin and wait for the guests to get a bit drunk. Then I would start with simple tricks, like just pointing to a candle and the extinguishing the flame just by pointing to it to get their attention.

And then I started stories, card tricks, dice tricks, tricks with my handkerchief or eating a candle.

The "eat the candle" trick is really easy. You need an apple and an almond. Carve the apple to a candle stump and press the almond in it. Lit the almond with a match to show everyone it is a real candle. Then eat it. Tastes good.

I would go from table to table to entertain the guests. I did not earn money but they invited me to eat something or to drink something with them and at that time this was much better for me. I sometimes even managed to get them to drink much more and the innkeeper asked me to stay a few days, I could sleep in the barn and the guests I entertained invited me. That life was not that bad, at least I had a few days where I would eat as much as I could, then a few days of wandering nearly without food and then a few days in an inn again... well, I survived. And I gained some self-assurance being able to survive alone as a street artist and close-up magician. My tricks and stories were not dark or macabre and I did not show my face, I preferred to be a clown magician, even if it meant being hungry far too often. It was my choice.

There is a reason I did not steal much that time - I was among people who had close to nothing themselves. How could I steal from them - there was nothing. I did not steal from innkeepers who had taken me in, that was some sort of morality I had. I would not repay their kindness with theft.

But soon I encountered another problem, although I did not recognize it as a problem at that time. In these inns I learned to drink wine. They had cheap wine but I drank far too much and liked the feeling of being drunk. Wine helped me to deal with people, to endure their mocking, to entertain them and make them laugh despite my fear and mistrust for them. As a thirteen year old boy I was on my best way to become a drunkard. Sometimes I woke with a horrible hangover, sometimes I could not really remember what had happened the night before. The innkeepers liked that, for I was encouraging the other guests in drinking games to buy more wine, but one day I woke and had lost my golden earrings and no idea how or where. While travelling I was sober and I guess that was what saved me from really becoming addicted. But I spent too many mornings shaking and retching, no boy that age should do that.

And I had no one to forbid me drinking or to berate me. I just... well, one day I woke up in a lock-up and had no idea how I got there. It was a small room, not more than two squaremeters large, and I was alone on the filthy earth-floor. The police told me I had been caught stealing money. I really could not remember anything, but I panicked and begged them to let me go, I would give everything back, I would do anything - but being locked up was really one of my worst fears. Maybe I was lucky for the policemen where corrupt and told me if I gave them my mule they would look the other way and let me run. I could take my violin and my props in a kitback. I accepted. What else could I have done? Say no and go to prison for years for a theft I didn't even remember? To be true - I still wonder sometimes if I had tried to steal or not. Maybe I was just easy prey to their blackmail, maybe I had really stolen something. I do not know.

Now I was really alone, on foot, without my mule and I swore to myself never to get drunk again.
Cheers!
What? I am no child, so there is no reason I should not enjoy a good glass of wine or two. Come on, life is hard enough - especially for me - I deserve a little reprieve. Eat your apple-pie and keep quiet.

I just went south with the sun as my compass until I reached the ocean. I somehow managed to persuade a fisherman to take me to Sicilia and then I went on on foot. I have no idea why I was so fascinated by Sicilia, maybe because it was so warm in winter I could survive without freezing. And yes, staying close to the coast and the salty air from the sea helped my cough and I soon felt much better. That time I lived mainly on playing music in the street or entertaining people with cardtricks in various inns. And yes, I was a pickpocket. It was not my first option, but if I did not earn enough, I started stealing. But I stopped drinking, which was really the best idea I had had that time!

So I came to Palermo. You don't know Palermo, do you? Well, not the most interesting of cities. But it has one attraction really worth seeing. The Catacombe dei Cappuccini. Never heard of it? What a pity! It is a burial crypt, catacombs beneath a church, a monastery. And the corridors are full of corpses in various states of decay. They mummify their dead ones and put them up there. Corpses wherever you look, standing at the walls, sitting in niches, lying in shelves. Some are in caskets, most are not, they are literally put on display as "memento mori". Sometimes the families come to change the clothing of their ancestors. There are rooms for monks, rooms for men, for women, for children, for the rich and the not-so-rich - no poor people of course. Noblesse obligue, even in death. Some of these mummies are just skeletons but some look so very alive, I was tempted to take my hat off and greet them. Well, at least to me they did look alive.

It was a bit like looking in a mirror with some mummies. So when I visited the catacombs, I simply sat down with two mummies which looked very much like me and took off my mask. In the evening a monk went through the catacombs and asked the visitors to leave for he had to lock the door. I was locked in and slept very well among the mummies. No, there was no stench. Mummies generally do not stink, well, not much. I had not washed or changed my clothes for three weeks, I guess my smell was worse than their's.

Cheers! Don't give me that look! What do you mean, if I do not want to hear your opinion I should stop visiting? That is a joke, isn't it? Surely you want to know what happened next.

It was a really foolproof idea I had then. My idea was that I would venture outside, wearing my mask, my cloak and hat and pick pockets. If I was suspected, I fled to the catacombs, took off my mask and sat very still, trying to look dead. I had my favourite group of mummies, they looked so much like me, one of them even much better than me, no one ever suspected me to be alive. O, they did haunt me. Of course. They ran after me, knowing the masked thief had fled to the catacombs. And there they lost me while I was sitting right under their noses, having fun watching them searching for me in vain. Of course, they only searched for a living boy, not for a dead one and I looked more like a mummy than my new best friend Stinky. Yes, I gave them nicknames. Stinky, Patch and Booby were my favourite mummies. Haha. I would often talk with them, pretending to have friends. At night I would show them my card tricks, I sometimes even played my violin for them. When I sat with them it looked like me and my three friends sitting there for a nice evening chat. Sometimes I placed my coat around Booby's shoulders and my hat on Stinky, but the policemen never knew. They never looked at the corpses. It was astonishing to find out what a human can overlook.

I loved the corpses. With my vivid imagination I really pretended to have friends. It was a bit like a girl playing with dolls, only I was playing with corpses. The good thing about them - they never object or berate you for something. I guess I was very lonely. Very, very, lonely.

This wine is really good. Are you sure you don't want to try? Suit yourself.

I guess I would have stayed in Palermo much longer, if I had not become really cocky. It was one of those evenings in spring when I noticed a very elegant gentleman. His immaculate clothing was like a "please pick my pockets"-sign. I sneaked up with him and started to talk to him, asking for a job and giving good advise where the next inn was... pretending to be just another unnerving guttersnipe. He slapped me, pushed me away and I came back, offering to sell him a ring. Of course he didn't want a ring and I didn't have one to sell - I just needed an excuse to stay close to him. So I got his purse, his pocketwatch, his handkerchief, his pocket knife, even his cufflinks and necktie. Maybe the necktie was was a bit too much for he noticed that I was picking his pockets.

He did not cry "thief" and "police" like most people do when they notice that they are stolen from and I ran, he following close behind. For a gentleman he was really fast, he was as fast as myself and I barely managed to get into the catacombs where I managed to lose him for a moment. I sat next to my mummies, my hat on Stinky's head but I had no time to take off the cloak as well for the gentleman came to the room. I watched him through nearly closed eyelids as he went to and fro, not understanding where I had gone. He even opened a few caskets.

I was really relaxed, even as he stared at me and my mummy-friends. It was not like I hadn't seen that before. They stared at me, some even poked at Stinky for he looked much better than I did and then went away. But not he. He stood there, staring at me and the mummies. First he pinched Stinky. I had trouble to keep myself from grinning. Then he touched Booby. I was his third guess and he touched my hand. I was so startled that my eyes flew open and he backed away with a horrified scream, landing on his back. I got up and took my hat from Stinky's head and tried to run. I had to pass him but thought he was too shocked to try to catch me. I had underestimated him, he grabbed my leg and suddenly I was on the floor and he held onto my ankles, his hands like a jaw vise. I struggled to get free, he didn't let me go and he was much stronger than me. I was just a thirteen year old boy then. I even drew my knife, but he drew a gun and I stopped fighting as the gun barrel appeared only centimeters before my eyes.

"Don't shoot," I begged.
"Don't fight," re replied a bit breathless.
Suddenly all my bad boy buster was gone and I was just the frightened teenage boy. I begged him not to call the police, I would give everything back and more, I would do anything if he let me go.
He laughed. "How old are you, boy?"
I admitted that I was going to be fourteen in six months.
That was when he cocked his head, an amused gleam in his eyes. "You are talented," he made Stinky say. My jaw dropped. He was a ventriloquist. Now I understood why he had found me - he must have learned some magic tricks himself. "Tell me how you do that?" he made Patch say.

"Do what?" I asked.
"Your make-up. It is perfect. You really look like a corpse. Great idea to hide here, really, so tell me how you did your make-up?"
"I do not wear make-up," I answered, hurt and humiliated. Obviously he did not believe me for he reached out and touched my face. Then he was sick. It would have been my chance to run but I did not. I covered my face with my mask, trying to hide my tears.

"Sorry," he said as he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He must have noticed that I stood there crying in shame and pain for he suddenly was quite friendly. "What is your name, young sir?" he asked politely.
"Erik Ami Hein," I answered.
He looked round and found his hat, placed it on his head and took it off with an elegant bow. "Pleased to meet you, sir. Henry Smith, Gentleman-Adventurer, at your service," he said. I guess his name was as false as mine was.

He asked me to join him for he thought me a promising talent. He was just a thief like me but with better clothing and better behaviour. He was as penniless as I at that time - the purse I had stolen was empty. But together we would have an easier life.

So began my next step in my questionable career. Henry wanted to leave Italy, obviously because he was a wanted man, but without money he could not leave Palermo. He was a confidence trickster, burglar and thief. I was a talented pickpocket and a magician and yes, a card sharper. Together many doors opened to us. First we broke into a second hand shop for elegant clothes to get me an elegant suit and shirt and elegant shoes. I even took some silk with me to stitch a better mask for me, a white one. He was surprised that I knew how to behave and soon we passed as the rich English gentleman and his servant.

Of course I was not naive enough to believe he picked me because he liked me, certainly not, he needed money and he needed it soon. In Italy it is easy to sell relics. That was his idea how we would make money. I would have to be the relic - I was perfect for playing the corpse - and do some miracle like folding my hands when I heard the Lord's prayer, to prove that I was really the corpse of Saint So-and-So. The "miracle" would be that I would speak to them, I would join their prayer. Henry taught me the art of ventriloquism so I could speak without moving my lips or any other part of my face.

It worked. We played that trick just once, it was the hell of a preparation and it took us three weeks of really hard work and practice but then Henry sold the relics of Saint Whats-his-name to some superstitious rich fool. Henry taught me about timing and escape plans. My escape plan with the catacombs had been good, but his was much better. He had booked a passage on a ship that would leave the port that night, before our victim would find the relic had run away. Literally.

Henry waited outside the house of that fool and took me with him. I do not know, maybe it was honour among thieves, maybe he wanted to store me for further use, I don't know. All I knew was that we were in a tiny cabin on an English ship bound for India. Henry romanticized India. India, a British colony where everyone could make a fortune. Everyone could become rich, everyone would become a king - I accepted his fairy-tales. It was nice to listen to them, well, after my seasickness was gone, that is. I spent the first two days on that blasted ship with my head in a bucket.

The travel on that ship was really boring. I was struck in the small cabin Henry and I shared. I was not allowed to leave it, my appearance could have frightened the ship's crew for they might mistake it for a deadly illness and that could cost my life. So I spent much time on my narrow berth and I have to admit, I loved it. It was the first time in many, many years that I was lying in a real bed. It was so soft and warm and I really loved to be lazy, doing nothing, just staring at the planks and sleeping all day long. It was the first time in my life that I could really relax - and I fell ill again. I do not know why, maybe the previous years had taken their toll on me, but I had a nasty cough and was really glad to be able to stay in bed and recover.

Henry didn't stop complaining. The bed was too hard, the food not good enough, everything was far beneath his station. He was a common thief, so what would be appropriate to his station? A prison cell? But of course I kept my tongue in check. I wanted to become a "Gentleman-Adventurer" with him in India.

My first impression of India was that I suddenly was homesick to the catacombs with the mummies. India is so many people, so much noise and so many bright colours, so many different smells - it was a painful assault on my unprotected senses. There is so much chaos, noise and so little space. Horrible. But then - a pickpockets paradise. Especially where the British merchants were. I collected more purses than I could hide in my pockets and constantly supplied Henry with them, he would take the money and throw the purses away.

We had enough to rent two rooms an a hotel. A real hotel, with all luxury I had never even dreamed of. The room that was mine was large. Really large - you could have stored four caravans in there - and had a bathroom. Of course no running water but servants would bring hot water if I wanted a bath. The bed was large, as large as a small caravan, and so very soft, the sheets and the carpets silk. I barely dared to touch these things for fear to dirty them. It was my first day in real luxury and I had a very tasty meal brought to my room. Henry taught me how to be a picklock.

We soon had a nice trick to "earn money". He pretended to be an archaeologist who wanted to go back to his homeland and was selling a few artifacts. Of course his "artifacts" were just things he had bought at the bazaar and made look older. But the highlight of his collection would be a mummy. I guess you already know who the mummy would be. I would be covered in dirty rags and lie in a large wooden box with straw. The idea was that Henry would deliver the casket with the mummy to the house of the greedy collector. While Henry was enjoying a nice dinner with his host, I was to climb out of the sarcophagus and steal whatever I could, then take the black abaya, hijab and niquab I had hidden in the straw and run back to the hotel. In India were many muslim women, so one more of them would go unnoticed. I loved the clothing of the women in India. Long dresses and veils. So many women covering their faces. I passed easily as a woman and no one took any notice of me. Of course when they found the mummy was gone and money, jewelry and artifacts missing, they suspected Henry. But how could he have done it? He was sitting at dinner with them and no one had entered the house. Sometimes a woman was seen running away.

Our trick worked well until Henry made a mistake. He tried to pull that trick on a man who knew someone who had already been robbed by us. We only used the trick once in each city, always moving on, but obviously that was not enough. That man called the police and they arrested Henry as he was about to deliver the box with the mummy. Of course no one thought about arresting his mummy... I got away that time, ran back to the hotel dressed as a woman and got my sailor's kitbag and fled. Of course we never paid the hotel bill.

Now I was alone in the streets once more. I was on my way to the north and it was summer and horribly hot. Water became my first concern now. I stole a donkey and rode in the night, seeking a cool, shadowy place to spend the day. Again I started to live as street artist, but I soon discovered that people in India didn't appreciate the same entertainment as Europeans do. They had their own music and their own entertainment. So I turned to a completely different idea. I noticed that women always kept their eyes down and never looked at a man. Looking at a man would be seen as invitation to make love.

I would dress as a girl and I would lure them into a quite corner and start to caress their breasts and legs, picking their pockets. They were stupid, really stupid, I didn't even need to say one word - which was good for I didn't know their language and most of them didn't speak English. At first I thought maybe one in a hundred men would react to my "flirting" and was surprised to find almost every second man reacting and not one wondering why a strange woman would find them attractive. If that was what a man was, I never wanted to grow up to be one. When they opened their pants I just took off my niquab and gave them a triumphant, scornful sneer. That was enough to send them running as if the devil himself was chasing them.

Maybe not the most honorable way to earn money, but I got much. So much in fact, I could afford to sleep in inns and hotels at day, traveled at night. I even bought a horse, so I rode a horse and had a donkey carrying my kitbag. I was quite fast traveling like that. Really fast. I made it to Lahore, in the Punjab region. There the British didn't want people to speak their own language, fearing rebellion as the people there had ties to Afghanistan. There were many British people in Lahore. But I had learned that my new profession would earn me much more than being a street artist, so I continued with my flirt-and-steal trick.

But then one really horrible experience taught me that masquerading as a woman was dangerous. It was late evening and I was nearly done picking pockets and wanted to return to the inn soon to play the "son of an English gentleman whose father would arrive any day now" again. I liked that role and as long as I paid in advance I was not asked too many questions. It was not a noble hotel, it was one of those inns where all sort of scum from Europe gathered together, escaping the law in their homelands or hoping for easy money in India. No one asked about my mask, as long as I stayed out of everyone's way and never complained about the noise at night. Of course I had to be careful, they were older and stronger than me, at least I thought so. I was not one to risk a fight then when it could be avoided.

Yes. I know. I digress again. Sorry.

Well, that evening I just lured another man into a dark corner of a sidestreet, ready to caress him and collect his belongings, but the man grabbed me and pushed me up to the wall. He must have mistaken me for a woman, for when he reached between my legs he let go of me briefly, only to attack again, forcing me to my knees. I had no idea what he was doing, I just knew I did not want to be raped. When he took off my veil he lost every interest in having me. But this did not stop him from brutally beating me up and leaving me in the street, hurt, scared and humiliated. Somehow I managed to cover my face again and tried to go back to the hotel - but I could not. He had stomped on my toes with his heavy boots, breaking most of them. I had four broken toes left and three broken right. No way to get up and walk, all I could do was crawl.

I was forced to sell the horse and the donkey, of course I was cheated by the buyers, but I needed a few weeks rest to heal and be able to walk again. Yes, I know. The landlord was exploiting me, he knew I had no choice and asked a horrible price for a few weeks just staying there. I guess he knew by then that I was lying and there was no father who would eventually come to pick me up.

So when I was healed, I found myself penniless on the streets of Lahore and the monsoon began with tons of water. Sleeping in the streets was absolutely impossible. Sometimes I was under the impression to drown in the rain, so much water fell. There were so many homeless people, so many homeless children, it was not easy to find any shelter that was not already occupied by a group of them. Of course they refused to share what little shelter they had with me. Performing on the streets, at the market or somewhere else was impossible. I was forced to live as a thief and a beggar.

One day I found a small boy dressed in women's clothes lying in the mud. He cried for help and I went to him. He was bleeding from his anus and his nose, had a black eye and really horrible bruises all over his body. I asked if he understood English and he nodded. I picked him up and took him with me, don't ask me why, maybe I was just lonely, maybe I simply could not resist his dark eyes. His eyes were so... so full of pain and grief, it was almost too much to bear.

He turned out to be a really beautiful boy of just seven years, I was almost twice as old. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen with his fair skin, the raven black hair and his dark eyes with the long lashes. His body was - perfect. Perfect in every sense, in all my life I never saw a boy that beautiful. Aestethically attractive.

No, I was certainly not attracted to him. I was a child myself, even with nearly fourteen, but my voice was still Mezzosoprano and I had not started to grow a beard. Maybe it was just my desperate need for a companion that made me help him. He saw my face when we finally found shelter and settled down for the night, clinging together for warmth. He did not scream. He just studied my face for a while, then settled down in my arms and slept.

He told me he was from Afghanistan, a "batcha". That is a tradition in Afghanistan, "bacha bazi". It means the most beautiful boys are dressed in women's clothes and have to dance for their masters. And they are used as sex-slaves, forced to satisfy every pervert wish of their owners. He had been raped so often and so brutally he could no longer control his anal sphincter, with all disgusting consequences. Therefor his masters threw him out whenever he soiled the bed. But he kept running back to them, seeking a new master, offering his services. Until another embarrassing mishap made his new master so angry, he would beat him and cast him out in the streets. I learned he had been sold by his mother so she could pay the blood money to stop a blood vengance that had already cost him his father and two brothers.

We started a new trick - he would dance to get people look at him while I would make music. I knew stealing would be punished by hacking off the right hand and suddenly was scared of that punishment since I saw the public punishment one day. Far too often the boy would go with a man and come back with money. I would stand outside the house and wait for him, feeling terrible. When he came back he was usually crying and asking me to hold him. I told him to stop that, we could survive with what little we earned with music and dance, but he insisted we needed more. I admit that living with him made my life easier, he earned much more with his dance than I could with my music and my tricks. And he could translate between English and the local dialect.

A souteneur? Who, me? Well... now that you say it... maybe. You see, I did not force him, on the contrary, I told him to stop but he... he couldn't. He needed the money for drugs, opium. He was seven years old and smoking opium. And I was taking advantage of his desperate need to be held and comforted by someone. Once he told me he envied me, for no man would ever make me a dancing boy. He would have done everything for a face like mine. As I would have for a face like his. He was beautiful like a Greek god. But as much as we wished for it, we could not switch our bodies.

His problem with his anus forced him to seek the British quarters regularly for newspapers - the Englishmen were fond of newspapers and he used the paper in his pants as some sort of makeshift nappies. Englishmen even threw away old newspapers. Newspapers, something valuable in the world I was living in. It could be used to create a fire, to use as mattress, to use to clean yourself after defecating or you could fabricate some tools for magic shows of them. And they threw that luxury thing away like trash! Their trash had so many valuable things, sometimes we even found delicious food.

We were searching for old newspaper and old clothes in the trash when we noticed a building site. I overheard the owner yelling at the architect and the master mason, they yelled at each other or at the owner - but they could not understand each other. You see, the owner was an Englishman, the architect was German and the master mason Russian. The master mason spoke a bit German, but the architect's English was simply horrible. They were so busy yelling at each other, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to steal. Stealing from Europeans involved less risk, they wouldn't cut my hand off immediately.

I sneaked up on them. A small, old man was standing beside the Englishman, leaning on his crude stick. I didn't pay much attention to him, I barely recognized he was there. Until I found myself at the feet of the English merchant and had no idea how I had fallen. The small man bent down and whispered: "Never try that again, boy!" then he straightened his spine and smiled friendly at his master, telling him: "Sir, this young lady just tripped over the hem of her dress." He bent down to help me up. Yes, I wore a dress and a veil at that time to cover my face. But I was curious who that little man was who so easily threw me to the ground and saw through my masquerade.

So I came back the next day, and the day after. The third day I was there shortly after midnight, waiting for the Englishman and his servant to appear in the morning, annoying his workers. As you might have guessed already, it was not the Englishman I wanted to meet. I was not easily surprised at that time, but somehow that man managed to sneak up on me and I only noticed him when a thin rope cut off my breathing and something hard hit the back of my head. I struggled against the rope, tried to get my fingers between the rope and my neck, tried to give in and move towards him, but he adjusted so fast, it was all in vain and I ended up on my knees at his feet, terrible fear seizing me as I found I could not breathe and I could not think rationally any more.

You are right. It was my first encounter with that special piece of catgut, what I later called "Punjap lasso".

He loosened his grip on the rope and I gasped for air, unable to get up or speak. "What do you want, boy?" he asked, but I could not answer. He waited patiently until I was able to speak again.
"I'm interested in architecture," I lied, "And the building site looks interesting." That was only half a lie. I liked architecture and masonry, but my main goal had been the money in the Englishman's pocket. I guess he knew that, for he told me never to lie to him again, he knew I was a thief and a burglar and a trickster.

That was how I met the man who would change my life forever.

I do not know why but I was fascinated by his behaviour. When he was dealing with other people, he was a clumsy old man, a bit dull-witted but good humored. When he spoke to me he... he was not clumsy, not dull-witted and... well, his humor was a bit strange. But there was something in him that fascinated me. I cannot even say what it was, his dark eyes like a hawk, his impressive strength and his agility beyond nature. For that was, what he really was. He just pretended to be the friendly if a bit stupid servant. He had a superior intellect and his body was, old as he was, trained in decades of rigid discipline, he was more agile than I was at that time by far. I was a clumsy fool stumbling over my own feet compared to him.

He was interested in me because I was, as he called it, a "natural". With my natural agility and trickery I had proven myself worthy of his time. He would teach me, if I would bow down to him, submissively obey him and follow his instructions without ever questioning him. I did not want to be a slave again and I told him so. He chuckled.

"No slave, boy, my pupil," he said, "If you are worthy, you will gain my respect and secret knowledge of my ancient art."

I had no idea what his "ancient art" was and what talent of mine he was referring to. You see, I did play music and magic tricks at the marketplace, mostly for Europeans, the native didn't like that kind of entertainment that much. He might have seen me. Maybe he even knew I spoke several languages.

"What is it, you would teach me?" I asked.

He smiled and said "follow me". Then he ran into the building site, shot up a wall like one of those lizards, ran over a half-finished wall, climbed higher and higher. I could not follow him. I was agile, but not like him. He jumped over a really large gap, landing on his feet without a noise. I had seen circus artists, really good circus artists, and this man's agility rivaled theirs. It took me half an hour in the darkness to reach him and I wasn't noiseless.

He patiently waited for me in what would later be a patio with a fountain. I was a bit breathless. "You are a circus artist," I observed.

"No, I am not," he replied a bit offended, I felt obliged to apologize. I didn't understand how he did it, but he was able to influence my feelings. Not my rational thoughts, that would require logical arguments, but my feelings, just with his stance and his voice. Once I understood that, I was able to resist and act against my feelings. I straightened my spine and looked down at him. He was smaller than me.

He smiled. "You have an alert mind," he said, "That's good."

"Tell me," I asked quite rude, "Why would you want to teach me? I can't pay anything, as you already know, I am just one piece of human trash." I did not have a very high self-esteem then. I knew I was nothing more than a thief and a beggar, worst of all, I was taking advantage of that poor boys desperate need for companionship. I was using him as I had been used. And I had already decided to abandon him as soon as he would become a burden instead of a source of income. Yes, I was a selfish bastard, I was in no way better than Ivan or anyone else who had taken advantage of me. I didn't even think about this - to me, that was normal. It was absolutely normal to exploit the weak ones and in this curious relationship I was the stronger one.

I absolutely agree with you. That was horribly selfish and cruel. But what could I do? I was offered a chance that someone might take me out of the gutter. It was only a slight chance, but I was in no position to miss any chance.

The small man cocked his head and smiled. "I am like a swordsmith," he stated, "If a good swordsmith finds the perfect block of raw steel he knows he can forge it to a perfect blade. But without the swordsmith the steel will always be nothing but a crude block of steel."

I did not understand him. Something must have given away my confusion for he tried again to explain himself: "I've seen you play the violin. You tune it. If you would find the perfect violin and find out that is not properly tuned, would you feel the need to tune it?"

"Of course!" I answered before I could stop myself.

"Then consider yourself a good, but horribly untuned, instrument. Allow me to tune you."

"I still do not understand why you would do that for me? What do you hope to gain?" I answered, knowing fully well that nothing is for nothing.

He smiled at me and answered sadly: "One day you will find the perfect instrument and cringe when you hear it horribly off-tune. You will feel the need to tune it. Then you will understand."

His cryptic messages sounded much more like fortune-telling than wisdom to me at that time, but I agreed, willing to take the risk of having to pay a yet unknown price. He told me he would get the Englishman to give me a job. He had watched me in the market and he had seen me as a thief, he knew I spoke several languages and his employer needed someone who could translate for him. A perfect job for me - if there was not my face. I told him about my need to cover my face and before I could react he had snatched my veil away. He didn't flinch, he didn't show any emotion. "You are handicapped," he stated, "But I think we will find a way to use your weakness to your advantage."

"I already do know!" I snapped angrily, "I was called 'the Living Corpse' and I used that for being a magician."

"I see why..." he answered dryly, "Get your luggage, come back here at three o'clock. Do not dress as woman. Hide your face, if you must, but wear your most elegant suit. Don't speak unless spoken to. Let me do the talking, I don't want you to ruin it."

I promised to be there.

When I came back to the little shelter the dancing boy and I... No, I do not remember his name. I never cared much for names, most of them are false anyway. Well, returned to find him on the pile of old newspaper he always slept on. The smell I associated with him then was overpowering, the stench of smoke from his opium-pipe and faeces. Usually it was just faint and I have to admit my own hygiene left much to be desired, but that morning it was just disgusting.

He woke up when I changed my clothes. My black suit was dirty and crumpled, but I could do nothing about that now. I put on shirt, suit, mask and hat and my shoes. I looked like a boy from an elegant family who had fallen into a dunghill. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Away."

"Wait, I just get my..." he said and looked around for his pipe and his shoes.

"No!"

"What do you mean 'no'?" he asked confused, then an unbelieving realization crept into his dark eyes: "You aren't leaving me, are you?"

"Precisely." My answers were taciturn. I didn't want to speak more than absolutely necessary.

"Why? What have I done?" he asked, crying like the small boy that he was.

"Nothing. I no longer need you, that's all. Face it, boy, life is rugged," I snapped, concealing my guilty conscience behind aggression and cynicism. He was crying now and in his dark eyes that shed tears over his beautiful face I saw my own sorrow at being abandoned. He lay there, on the filthy pile of old newspaper, stinking of smoke and faeces, but he was nevertheless beautiful. Really. He looked like a prince in an oil-painting. Too beautiful to be real. I took my pocket knife from my pocket and threw it at his feet. "Do yourself in, for all I care!" I spat and left him.

Ugh. Yes, now that I think of it it makes me sick. God, I wish I could forget his face and his sad dark eyes that had seen so much more than anyone should ever have to see. Back then I thought I was just doing what needed to be done and felt very grown-up. It was I who abandoned him and it made me feel powerful. I do not know what became of him, but a seven year old opium addicted street boy has no chance to ever grow up, not really, and for me there was a chance to rise up from the gutter. Or I was going to be enslaved again, abused, used. That was the risk and I took it.

I had no watch so I was just there from early morning. Waiting at the building site, watching them work. When the Englishman and his little servant approached, I got up and went to them, took my hat off and bowed deeply to him. The little man frowned, obviously I had just done something unexpected. But he reacted really fast and started to explain to his employer that he had seen me play the violin and do magic tricks in the market and knew I spoke several languages. He said that in a cheerfully childish tone as if he just wanted to amuse his master. Well, he was good in pushing his master to make the decisions he wanted and the clever little fellow even made it look like it had been the Englishman's own decision.

The Englishman fancied himself a collector. A collector of curiosities. Again, I was just another curiosity in a sideshow, but it was a more elegant audience I would have to entertain. That man collected human oddities, or what he considered human curiosities, and hired them as servants. No payment in money, of course, but a bed and clothing and three meals a day. Plus, I got to use a bathroom regularly. I loved having a hot bath so using a bathroom, scented soap and towels... that sounded great as well as sleeping in a bed and having three meals a day. Three meals! What wasteful luxury!

I used my false name "Erik Ami Hein" and soon I became his translator in almost everything. He loved to show off his new "prized pet" - for that was what I really was to him. And I got to eat three meals a day, wear nice, clean clothes and sleep in a soft bed each night. Even the rooms for his servants were what I regarded pure luxury that time. I shared a room with my little teacher, we had a bunk bed, a table with two chairs and a cupboard. In that floor all servants lived and we had to share the bathroom and the toilet, but it could be locked! You can't imagine how glad I was to be able to have some privacy.

I was a well-trained monkey he could show off to his guests, all rich people from all over the world. I had to entertain them with music, my violin and a piano, with magic tricks and I had to translate for them very often. And he loved to shock his guests by telling me to take off my mask. It highly amused him to see them gasp and gag, women faint and men choking on their drink. It was the same as before, only on a higher level. And yes, I once told him that my stage name hand been "the Living Corpse" and that was what he called me when he made me take off my mask.

And all the time I could not forget that poor boy's dark eyes. They haunted me each night, no matter what I tried to forget him. It became better over the years, but there are times when I hear my cruel words "do yourself in, for all I care" and see him staring at me with so much pain...

Now look what you made me do! I drained the whole bottle of wine alone and it is all your fault! No? Why, of course it is your fault! You could have joined me for at least one glass. I shouldn't have bought it? Who said I actually BOUGHT it? Well, yes, I did buy it, don't worry, I'm just teasing you. I better go before I make a fool of myself in my drunken stupor. Next time... ooops, sorry, I didn't... Great. Next time I just do not bring anything, I guess that will be better.

What? O, I know you liked the apples and the apple pie. Was that an invitation? Haha. Of course I accept, gladly. And yes, I will bring another apple pie if you are so fond of it. Goodnight, my friend.

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Okay, a bit background information:

Palermo, Catacombe dei Cappuccini: h+t+t+p+s+:+/+/+en+.+wiki+pedia+.+org+/+wiki+/+Catacombe_dei_Cappuccini - or you just g+o+o+g+l+e the pictures. ;-)

Extinguish the candle, candle-eating and dice box and guess-the-card-trick: They work. I regularly used them.

Pakistan didn't exist that time. It was all "India" and India was a british colony (annexed in the 1820s). Lahore was the capital city of the province Pundjap.

Bacha bazi: h+t+t+p+s+:+/+/+en+.+wiki+pedia+.+org+/+wiki+/+Bacha_bazi - I know, child abuse happens in all countries and all nationalities, all religions. It just was not practiced that openly as in Afghanistan. Therefor I chose this dancing boy as an example - his story is purely fictional, but it puts together different real biographies.

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Thank you for reading and please review. The next chapter will take a bit longer, I'm afraid, due to the Christmas holidays.