Since he didn't know what to do with himself any longer, Marcus spent the day standing in front of the house. He watched the workers walk by with their scythes in the morning. He no longer tried to join them. He stared at them, trying to will someone, anyone, to look at him. But no one did.
He was beginning to lose faith in his very reality. He was beginning to talk aloud to himself, "I am Marcus O'Reilly. And I am not a bad person. I do the best I can." The large muddy work boots shuffled and flapped as he walked. His shorts and t-shirt were rank with dirt and sweat. He needed to shave. He looked like a crazy man.
He had never felt this way before, so lost. He had not always felt this way. He had been efficient. Focused. So meticulous in the details of his films! It was what his films were known for. The details. That final day at home, looking at the location shots from a large private home in Long Island. A sleek, modern house. Glass and steel. Everything in it white, white white. He'd photographed ceiling fixtures, strange corners, doorways and closets.
And looking at these photographs, he felt such an odd feeling. Like he could walk into that cold, empty house. And live in it.
When nightfall came, he stared out the window, thinking of his night with Nadya. The way she followed him like a pair of disembodied eyes. Taking him in, taking it all in, as it really was. Her eyes were pure, without guile.
You are the one with the power, she'd told him in bed, and he'd laughed.
I need to be an actress, she'd begged, and he'd said, You don't know what you're saying, child.
I support my whole family, she said. They are gypsies. Shunned and poor. The modeling agency seeks the skinny girls from my country. But they are skinny because they are hungry! She gripped his arm. Make me an actress!"
Why?
Because they say I am getting too fat to model. She stood up to show him her naked body. The girl wasn't fat. She was going through puberty. A late bloomer. Dear little girl. And also, I do not go hungry anymore.
These memories in his mind's eye seem superimposed over the scene in front of him. The moon that evening was full and bright. The woods stood in black repose against the evening sky full of stars.
On the edge of those woods, he thought he saw a stirring. And then he heard a tinkling. He rubbed his eyes. It was coming closer. A ring of naked women, diaphanous as if made of smoke. Fairies, dancing together. They wore bells around their ankles. There were others here and there, perched in the trees, faintly glowing. Marcus watched, lost in the beauty of it, until one of the creatures spotted him, her eyes filled with anger and scorn. She started towards his window. Marcus covered his eyes and put down the curtain.
I am not a bad man.
* * *
He couldn't sleep the rest of the night; he was growing desperate for human contact. So he sat up in the dark, waiting to see if the man with the food would return. When the door at last creaked open, he did not switch the lights on. He just said, "I'm sorry."
"No problem," said the man, laying a covered dish on the table. "I am Emil."
"Your English is very good."
"I went to school in England for a while. Then I lived in different countries in the Union, so I got out of the village. But then I came back. My mother was sick. That was a long time ago. Now she is dead."
Silence for a while. "So, what do you make of this? You don't think I'm a ghost? Why do the people say that about me?"
Emil said nothing, just shrugged.
Then Marcus told him everything, starting with the morning he woke up in the strange house, moving backwards in time to his last day at home, throwing out the phone number of the young Romanian girl. Then the story of the girl herself.
"So, you say the girl is Roma? A gypsy?"
"That's what she said."
"Perhaps the girl has put a curse on you. And that is what sent you here."
"What? A gypsy curse? That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. And talk about politically correct..."
The man smiled. "Some would say, I suppose."
Some more silence passed, and then Marcus said quietly, "I need to tell you something."
"Yes?" he spoke as quietly as Marcus.
"I've...seen things. Hallucinations. But they were so real. I...was almost mauled by a giant wolf."
"Oh! Werewolf. Yes."
Marcus furrowed his brow. "And...I saw spirits? Beautiful naked women dancing in the moonlight, bells on their ankles..."
"The lele. If you see them, turn away. They don't like to be spied on."
"And. I saw a small person. With the head of a rat."
"Rohmani. Harmless. Very common."
"What, so you're telling me these things are real? The wolf thing...when I cried out, it kind of flickered and disappeared. It couldn't have been real."
"Depends on what you mean by real. This land where you are now? This is a place with strong folk traditions. Folklore! Fairytales! A lot of it started in Romania. In this village the beliefs are especially pure and strong, because we are cut off from the modern world."
"So what are these things?"
"Well, I guess I would call them memories. Dreams? They are encoded in the people and in the land. In the collective unconscious. Passed on for centuries."
"I don't know if I can buy that."
"Well, I'd imagine it'd be hard for you to understand. You come from a different place. Americans believe in living in the moment. New beginnings. Cutting yourself off from your past. It is different here. The past is now."
Marcus closed his eyes, pressing his temple. Again that sense of unreality came over him, a sense of losing his identity. His atoms dissolving away...."Listen, I need some help, and you're all I've got. I need to get out of here. I am expected to be at an important function back home. How do I get to the nearest city? With an airport?"
The man shrugged. "The nearest city with an airport is Baia Mare."
"How can I get there?"
"There is a train that goes there. First you would travel by horse cart to the station. I could provide you the cart. You will need money."
"I can make arrangements. People know who I am. If I could just get to a phone, a computer. Something."
"Where is it that you need to be?"
"An awards ceremony. For my 'achievements' in cinema! Ha. Well, if I miss the ceremony, then at least people will know something is wrong. They'll look for me."
"Maybe not. Perhaps the gypsy left a changeling in your place. No one to know the difference." He smiled wryly.
Marcus laughed without mirth, then put a hand on Emil's shoulder. "A ride. To the train station. Please."
