Page 68 of I Will Always Find You
“That was just the opening act,” the Romani witch proclaimed, his eyes glowing with a fiery intensity, brimming with uncontainable desire. “Now, let’s get that sweet ass taken care of.”
After several hours filled with grunts of exertion, deep moans of pleasure, and beads of sweat glistening in the sunlight beaming in from the large window overlooking the St. Lawrence, Marshall and the Romani witch lay entwined in each other’s arms, a tangle of limbs and shared warmth. They were basking in the glow of several mind-blowing orgasms. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of fulfilled desire, satisfied sexual hunger, and sweat.
Lost in the blissful haze that followed their passionate union, twenty minutes had slipped by unnoticed.
“I don’t know what to say,” Marshall admitted, finally being the one to break the silence. “Saying that was incredible isn’t enough. I don’t mean to give you a swelled head, but you’re thebest I’ve ever been with. Not that I’ve been with many. Still, there’s no comparison. That was amazing. You’re amazing!”
The fact that Marshall had been with others did not come as a shock to the Romani witch, given the age difference and the amount of time that had passed before they met. Still, it was not something he wished to think about. Those men had meant nothing; they were together now, with Aeneas’ heart and soul awakened to him.
“For someone who didn’t know what to say, you sure said a mouthful,” the Romani witch teased. He began tickling Marshall’s underside, just as he had so often done to Aeneas in the quiet moments of their first life together. As he silently hoped, Marshall responded in the same way, his body twitching, a startled laugh escaping him; the familiarity of it all stirred something profound and tender within the Romani witch.
“Stop, you monster!” the Englishman roared good-naturedly, flailing his arms and giggling.
Hearing the man’s laughter and seeing him act so playfully swelled the Romani witch’s heart.It’s so like Aeneas to be this way—so carefree. Enjoying life and our time together. Thank you, Hecate, for forgiving my past transgressions and restoring the man I love. If I had to wait two hundred more years to see him like this, not as that fiendish, soulless thing in Madrid, I would have gladly paid it.
“Say, listen—stop, please!” Marshall begged, laughing through his tears. “I want to ask you something.”
The Romani witch sighed, surrendering to the warmth of the red-haired man’s strong embrace. He nestled in closer, a playful glint remaining in his eyes. “Alright, you win,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Go ahead and ask me.”
“If you don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, how would you like to attend a séance with me in town later?”
“A what?”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
The Romani witch noted that the living room of the small house on Saint-Jean Street, one of the oldest commercial streets in Québec City, smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, lavender talcum, and hot dust from the radiator. It was a Thursday evening, just past nine, and the television—an RCA Victor with a bulging screen—had been switched off. The barkcloth curtains, with their bold floral pattern and nubby texture, were drawn against the oncoming dusk of night, and only a single lamp, its shade turned low, lit the room in a soft, amber haze.
A small group of participants from the film crew ofI Confessstood chatting in a loose circle around an old oak table adorned with an off-white tablecloth and lit candles.
The Romani witch had never heard of such a thing as séances. The last time he had drawn breath at the dawn of the nineteenth century, these spiritualist happenings were not common practice. This was not a coven, nor even occultists attempting to pierce the veil between realities, summon or invoke ancient beings, daemons, and gods, or endeavour to understand the theory of magic.
These individuals were often housewives and even children, he was informed, not witches, all of whom were attempting to communicate with ghosts. They asked the spirits about missing wills, hidden money, and even lost or stolen jewelry. These dime-store mediums sought answers even regarding the fidelity of spouses.
The Romani witch recalled that both his grandmother and Abriana Bianchi had used their ability to scry for the benefit of others, such as predicting when a child would be born, when love would enter someone’s life, or sometimes to determineif a person was cursed. Only, their foresight was freely given, never traded for coin, despite what people saw these days in Hollywood movies.
He believed—no, he knew—prescience was not a job. It was a gift to be revered and shared, a blessing meant for the whole community. People gave from the heart, offering a portion of their hard-earned bounty as a thank-you; it was not as a bribe to compel a witch to perform on their behalf. He was dismayed by how things mystical and spiritual had degenerated and been commodified since he last walked the Earth.
The Romani witch regarded the seer with a sharp eye, his skepticism bubbling beneath the surface. This so-called psychic demanded an outrageous fee for her insights, leaving him to wonder if these predictions were worth their weight in gold or just a clever charade.
“Only true witches and wizards have the power to channel spirits and speak with the dead. This French woman, wearing that head scarf and shawl, is absurd. She’s not Romani, only acting the part, and badly. It’s insulting.”
“Shhh, it’ll be fun,” Marshall whispered. “I promise. I’ve heard Madame Albertine is excellent. The real deal! Not some gypsy charlatan. I wish Hitch and Clift could have come. I’d love for you to meet them.”
The defamatory comment did not sit well with the Romani witch, especially since it came from the man he loved. He expected better from him. No other version of Aeneas had ever been so careless with his words regarding the Romani and other travellers, not even the blasphemous one in Madrid.
“I told you that I am Romani, Marshall. I don’t appreciate the slanderous comment. We are a proud people, and our abilities, our gifts are true.”
Marshall felt terrible. It had been a stupid, off-the-cuff comment made from ignorance. Still, he knew that was noexcuse. “I’m sorry, really,” he whispered. “I should know better than to slander another persecuted group. Forgive me. I promise, I’ll never do something so stupid and ignorant again.”
The Romani witch could never stay mad at his beloved; he knew the goodness within his heart. “Of course, I accept your apology.”
“I want to kiss you so badly,” Marshall whispered seductively into the Romani witch’s ear. “I want to make you feel better about my stupid blunder, but—’
“Just hold that thought for later. I’m not going anywhere.” The Romani witch patted Marshall’s butt, and he did not care if anyone saw.
Marshall blushed. “You’re bad! Now, pay attention. It’s about to start!”
A few of the film crew guys had noticed the romantic playfulness between the two men, but they just snickered under their breath. They liked Marshall, they were his friends, and the fact that he was a homosexual did not matter to them. They also did not care that the star of the movie they were working on was queer; in their experience, half of Hollywood was. They minded their business, did their job, and really only cared about their cheques clearing.
