Part 13.
- My name is Ugo, sir. - The gardener said in a barely audible, muffled voice, without even blinking.
The Padrone stared at him even more intently.
"You fool! Who do you take me for?!"
He thought to himself.
But out loud, he said something quite different:
- Ugo! A wonderful name, Ugo, and by the way, you look wonderful! - The Padrone’s face brightened. - Yes! You look good, and not like a miserable gardener, if we don't count the incident for which you are here now.
Cynicism and hidden sternness could be felt in the Padrone’s soft voice, yet the gardener did not even twitch an eyebrow.
The Padrone stared at him so sternly that it was as if he wouldn't even let him blink.
"Hmph, they have trained him well."
He did not seem like a man who was easily frightened. Not just not easily, but he was staring back at the Padrone with such a calm face that it seemed nothing at all could scare him.
For a quite handsome, young man, it was not difficult to charm the opposite sex, and as for Dada—what would it take to charm her?
"They have calculated this well too; they want to destroy me from every side! Let them wait; they still don't realize who they have tangled with!"
The Padrone thought, observing the gardener with a piercing gaze, who was awaiting his verdict with astonishing calmness.
Dada was the Padrone’s only warmth and solace. Since childhood, it was only with this girl that he had felt what is called "kinship," even though he was neither her parent nor a blood relative. On the other hand, Zeki was his only relative. He did not love the boy; at times he was even terribly unbearable, but because there was at least a drop of blood connecting them, he still felt obligated to look after him until the end.
He had even witnessed Zeki’s birth. They had made him hold the infant. They even made him give his word that he would be his patron and protector forever and would never abandon him in times of trouble.
Such were the rules of the camp at the time. The camp where the Padrone grew up. A large mixed group, a lawless mob of bandits, and a ruthless band of gypsies as well. No one remembered when they had united. Usually, gypsies always protected their own camp and did not easily let outsiders linger, but here, thanks to some deal or common business, they had blended together so much that it was often difficult to distinguish who was of which blood.
The Padrone grew up there, just like Zeki, though he always stood out from them—quite intelligent, sharp, and well-read. On top of all this, thanks to his gypsy grandmother, he was gifted with the ability to foresee events. He could easily guess others' thoughts, an ability he already possessed, and his grandmother often gave him life lessons—lessons of the life he was living at the time and how he had to survive.
She would make him sit for hours in the tent. She would make him close his eyes and re-analyze everything he had seen or heard throughout the day. She would force him to find even the smallest mistake that had caused heartache or harm, even if it were trivial. In this search, the main focus was on the cause, not just what had already happened or been committed. And he had to find an explanation and figure out the reason not only for his own actions, but for everyone and everything.
His grandmother also taught him to read, though she herself found it very difficult. Sometimes she would read with great effort, syllable by syllable, and sometimes she would rattle it off. From childhood, the Padrone realized his grandmother’s trickery; what she read well, she had already memorized and was reciting by heart. Later, when he learned to read for himself, he would read thick books to her. His grandmother would listen to her only grandson with rapt attention, her heart filling with pride.
Zeki was from his grandmother’s family, but unlike him, he was a pure-blooded gypsy boy. Proud, stern, relentless, and arrogant. The Padrone would force him to sit in the tent and listen to what he was reading. And he could not wait to get away and rush outside.
From childhood, the Padrone hated this nomadic life. His dream had become a small hut filled with books, and nothing else in this world interested him. Neither plundered, stolen wealth, nor name and glory. He wanted nothing in this world but books.
In the camp, they even secretly mocked the child, saying, "What kind of man will he ever become?" But no one dared to say it out loud for fear of his cruel and ruthless grandfather, who did not even know his own origin—who he was or what breed he was. He knew only one thing: he was not a gypsy. A vagabond, a petty thief, a lad willing to stoop to any abomination, he had attached himself to the gypsy camp and had never left it since.
The Padrone did not love his grandfather; at his appearance, he would curl up in the corner of the tent in fear. The grandfather had given up on him, constantly reproaching his own son—the Padrone’s father—for the boy’s "unmanliness."
"The boy isn't growing up to be a man," - he would constantly yell at him.
The Padrone’s father was no less a bandit and a villain than the grandfather. Furthermore, he was an incorrigible drunkard. He always smelled of vodka; the child couldn't stand his father either, though unlike the stern grandfather, he didn't fear him at all, so the Padrone’s only comfort was his grandmother. A loving, warm, and quiet person, she also took the place of a mother.
His father spent his life in drunkenness, and when he died, the Padrone did not shed a single tear. He was even surprised at why his grandmother wept so much over that drunken villain.
The Padrone's father was over forty when he accidentally learned that the girl, whom he had once seduced, caused to lose her home, and robbed, had borne him a child and had gone into hiding with the baby. Fearing the bandit, the girl’s family had moved elsewhere; they didn't want such a robber for a son-in-law. They wouldn't even let him near them, and they even hid the fact that he was to become a father, disappearing without a trace before the child was born.
Furious, he spent a long time searching for the family with his gang of bandit gypsies, and one fine day, his luck turned—he found them. They snatched the child from the sleeping mother so skillfully that they erased every trace of him forever.
The kidnapped infant was handed over to the grandmother, and since then, the Padrone’s only comfort was his loving, kind grandmother.
This is how he grew up in the gypsy camp. His bleak childhood passed in constant wandering, back and forth, and in the endless pitching and folding of tents.
He always had the desire to run away, to escape from this mob of bandits, but where could he go? Who would then protect his helpless grandmother from his cruel and ruthless grandfather?
However, one day everything changed and took a completely different turn.
He wasn't even twelve years old when, seeing his grandfather burst into the tent in a rage, ready to beat his grandmother, he stood in front of her. With all his might, he grabbed the swinging whip with both hands and twisted it so hard that he nearly dislocated his [grandfather's] arm. He brought his grandfather to his knees and struck him hard with the snatched whip. Everyone was stunned. Until then, no one had dared not only to fight but even to argue with the fierce and ruthless grandfather. Terrified and frozen in place, they watched the spectacle, convinced that the boy had passed a death sentence on himself. They knew he would not forgive him, and no one could protect him from this terrible man, but the grandfather understood. This was no mere resistance. This was a man's sacrifice. The boy was protecting the person he loved most, for whom he would stop at nothing, at the cost of his own life.
The man smiled bitterly. He didn't even strike back. Perhaps if [the boy] had struck him many times, he would have fought back, but for him, that one blow was enough to recognize a man in his helpless grandson, rather than the small, frightened boy huddled in the corner who wanted nothing in this world but to read books. The grandfather didn't even get up; he looked up from below at his enraged grandson, then took his hand—the very hand that had struck him with the whip—carefully brought it to his lips, kissed it, stood up, and left without looking back.
From that day on, everyone treated the youth with respect. They often sought the advice of the sharp-witted boy. He, in turn, firmly decided that it was time to attend all the camp’s gatherings, to keep an eye on their activities, to participate himself, and to accumulate enough wealth to leave, to get away forever, and to move far, very far, from these cursed people.
Later, many years later, his wish came true. And as fate would have it, Dada also appeared to grace his life. What more could he want in this world, other than peace and joy?
The Gardener and the Padrone did not take their eyes off each other. The Padrone chose to compromise again. He stood up, turned the chair around, and sat down, crossing his legs. He rested his hand—the one holding the weapon—on his knee, the muzzle still pointed at the Gardener. The gold-plated Parabellum with a wooden grip and a long, narrow barrel shimmered dazzlingly. A large ruby adorned the end of the grip.
The Gardener glanced at the weapon, and it was evident from his face that he had assessed it well. The Padrone realized this too; Hugo was also well-versed in weapons.
"Hmm, a know-it-all!"
The thought flashed through the Padrone's mind, and he suddenly asked:
- Do you like it? - he gestured toward the weapon with his hand.
The Gardener was certainly not expecting such a question and even startled slightly.
LEX. February 19, 2016, Friday.
- My name is Ugo, sir. - The gardener said in a barely audible, muffled voice, without even blinking.
The Padrone stared at him even more intently.
"You fool! Who do you take me for?!"
He thought to himself.
But out loud, he said something quite different:
- Ugo! A wonderful name, Ugo, and by the way, you look wonderful! - The Padrone’s face brightened. - Yes! You look good, and not like a miserable gardener, if we don't count the incident for which you are here now.
Cynicism and hidden sternness could be felt in the Padrone’s soft voice, yet the gardener did not even twitch an eyebrow.
The Padrone stared at him so sternly that it was as if he wouldn't even let him blink.
"Hmph, they have trained him well."
He did not seem like a man who was easily frightened. Not just not easily, but he was staring back at the Padrone with such a calm face that it seemed nothing at all could scare him.
For a quite handsome, young man, it was not difficult to charm the opposite sex, and as for Dada—what would it take to charm her?
"They have calculated this well too; they want to destroy me from every side! Let them wait; they still don't realize who they have tangled with!"
The Padrone thought, observing the gardener with a piercing gaze, who was awaiting his verdict with astonishing calmness.
Dada was the Padrone’s only warmth and solace. Since childhood, it was only with this girl that he had felt what is called "kinship," even though he was neither her parent nor a blood relative. On the other hand, Zeki was his only relative. He did not love the boy; at times he was even terribly unbearable, but because there was at least a drop of blood connecting them, he still felt obligated to look after him until the end.
He had even witnessed Zeki’s birth. They had made him hold the infant. They even made him give his word that he would be his patron and protector forever and would never abandon him in times of trouble.
Such were the rules of the camp at the time. The camp where the Padrone grew up. A large mixed group, a lawless mob of bandits, and a ruthless band of gypsies as well. No one remembered when they had united. Usually, gypsies always protected their own camp and did not easily let outsiders linger, but here, thanks to some deal or common business, they had blended together so much that it was often difficult to distinguish who was of which blood.
The Padrone grew up there, just like Zeki, though he always stood out from them—quite intelligent, sharp, and well-read. On top of all this, thanks to his gypsy grandmother, he was gifted with the ability to foresee events. He could easily guess others' thoughts, an ability he already possessed, and his grandmother often gave him life lessons—lessons of the life he was living at the time and how he had to survive.
She would make him sit for hours in the tent. She would make him close his eyes and re-analyze everything he had seen or heard throughout the day. She would force him to find even the smallest mistake that had caused heartache or harm, even if it were trivial. In this search, the main focus was on the cause, not just what had already happened or been committed. And he had to find an explanation and figure out the reason not only for his own actions, but for everyone and everything.
His grandmother also taught him to read, though she herself found it very difficult. Sometimes she would read with great effort, syllable by syllable, and sometimes she would rattle it off. From childhood, the Padrone realized his grandmother’s trickery; what she read well, she had already memorized and was reciting by heart. Later, when he learned to read for himself, he would read thick books to her. His grandmother would listen to her only grandson with rapt attention, her heart filling with pride.
Zeki was from his grandmother’s family, but unlike him, he was a pure-blooded gypsy boy. Proud, stern, relentless, and arrogant. The Padrone would force him to sit in the tent and listen to what he was reading. And he could not wait to get away and rush outside.
From childhood, the Padrone hated this nomadic life. His dream had become a small hut filled with books, and nothing else in this world interested him. Neither plundered, stolen wealth, nor name and glory. He wanted nothing in this world but books.
In the camp, they even secretly mocked the child, saying, "What kind of man will he ever become?" But no one dared to say it out loud for fear of his cruel and ruthless grandfather, who did not even know his own origin—who he was or what breed he was. He knew only one thing: he was not a gypsy. A vagabond, a petty thief, a lad willing to stoop to any abomination, he had attached himself to the gypsy camp and had never left it since.
The Padrone did not love his grandfather; at his appearance, he would curl up in the corner of the tent in fear. The grandfather had given up on him, constantly reproaching his own son—the Padrone’s father—for the boy’s "unmanliness."
"The boy isn't growing up to be a man," - he would constantly yell at him.
The Padrone’s father was no less a bandit and a villain than the grandfather. Furthermore, he was an incorrigible drunkard. He always smelled of vodka; the child couldn't stand his father either, though unlike the stern grandfather, he didn't fear him at all, so the Padrone’s only comfort was his grandmother. A loving, warm, and quiet person, she also took the place of a mother.
His father spent his life in drunkenness, and when he died, the Padrone did not shed a single tear. He was even surprised at why his grandmother wept so much over that drunken villain.
The Padrone's father was over forty when he accidentally learned that the girl, whom he had once seduced, caused to lose her home, and robbed, had borne him a child and had gone into hiding with the baby. Fearing the bandit, the girl’s family had moved elsewhere; they didn't want such a robber for a son-in-law. They wouldn't even let him near them, and they even hid the fact that he was to become a father, disappearing without a trace before the child was born.
Furious, he spent a long time searching for the family with his gang of bandit gypsies, and one fine day, his luck turned—he found them. They snatched the child from the sleeping mother so skillfully that they erased every trace of him forever.
The kidnapped infant was handed over to the grandmother, and since then, the Padrone’s only comfort was his loving, kind grandmother.
This is how he grew up in the gypsy camp. His bleak childhood passed in constant wandering, back and forth, and in the endless pitching and folding of tents.
He always had the desire to run away, to escape from this mob of bandits, but where could he go? Who would then protect his helpless grandmother from his cruel and ruthless grandfather?
However, one day everything changed and took a completely different turn.
He wasn't even twelve years old when, seeing his grandfather burst into the tent in a rage, ready to beat his grandmother, he stood in front of her. With all his might, he grabbed the swinging whip with both hands and twisted it so hard that he nearly dislocated his [grandfather's] arm. He brought his grandfather to his knees and struck him hard with the snatched whip. Everyone was stunned. Until then, no one had dared not only to fight but even to argue with the fierce and ruthless grandfather. Terrified and frozen in place, they watched the spectacle, convinced that the boy had passed a death sentence on himself. They knew he would not forgive him, and no one could protect him from this terrible man, but the grandfather understood. This was no mere resistance. This was a man's sacrifice. The boy was protecting the person he loved most, for whom he would stop at nothing, at the cost of his own life.
The man smiled bitterly. He didn't even strike back. Perhaps if [the boy] had struck him many times, he would have fought back, but for him, that one blow was enough to recognize a man in his helpless grandson, rather than the small, frightened boy huddled in the corner who wanted nothing in this world but to read books. The grandfather didn't even get up; he looked up from below at his enraged grandson, then took his hand—the very hand that had struck him with the whip—carefully brought it to his lips, kissed it, stood up, and left without looking back.
From that day on, everyone treated the youth with respect. They often sought the advice of the sharp-witted boy. He, in turn, firmly decided that it was time to attend all the camp’s gatherings, to keep an eye on their activities, to participate himself, and to accumulate enough wealth to leave, to get away forever, and to move far, very far, from these cursed people.
Later, many years later, his wish came true. And as fate would have it, Dada also appeared to grace his life. What more could he want in this world, other than peace and joy?
The Gardener and the Padrone did not take their eyes off each other. The Padrone chose to compromise again. He stood up, turned the chair around, and sat down, crossing his legs. He rested his hand—the one holding the weapon—on his knee, the muzzle still pointed at the Gardener. The gold-plated Parabellum with a wooden grip and a long, narrow barrel shimmered dazzlingly. A large ruby adorned the end of the grip.
The Gardener glanced at the weapon, and it was evident from his face that he had assessed it well. The Padrone realized this too; Hugo was also well-versed in weapons.
"Hmm, a know-it-all!"
The thought flashed through the Padrone's mind, and he suddenly asked:
- Do you like it? - he gestured toward the weapon with his hand.
The Gardener was certainly not expecting such a question and even startled slightly.
LEX. February 19, 2016, Friday.
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