ordered, and indicated that the Duchess and I should lower ourselves on to a damp, filthy blanket on the floor.
‘Miss, my mother has a cold—’
‘The Head won’t come if you don’t sit down,’ Lily said, which, to me, had to mean that the illusion was somehow based on what angle a person viewed it from.
‘Oh, well,’ the Duchess said, with a smile, ‘if we must sit, we must sit. Help me down, would you, please, Francis dear?’ She took off her small black pillbox hat and reached up towards me.
I picked her up, then lowered her down at my feet. She’s light as a feather, poor old girl. Not that Lily watched with anything that appeared to be compassion. Although lovely, her face also had a hard cast at times, like her voice, which could be as sweet as it was throaty. Once I’d settled the Duchess I sat down beside her and waited for something to happen. There wasn’t much in that tatty old tent – just a pile of rags that probably constituted Lily’s bed, a bowl for washing, animal bones and fur hanging from the ceiling and a little table surrounded on three sides by a black fabric screen.
Lily, who was still wearing the long red dress she’d been seen in the night before, shuffled over to one side of the table, just behind the black screen, lit a small clay pipe and said, ‘The Head is very ancient and knows all things. It speaks many languages, one of which is English. You mustn’t come near or the Head will disappear, although you can ask it questions. The Head is a man of our people who was a great magician. His name is Django.’
And then she called him. ‘ Django! Django, av! ’
There was a light that I can only assume came from a tear in the top of the tent, which illuminated the surface of the table. Beyond Lily’s pipe, there was no smoke, nothing to distract a person’s attention and no sound whatsoever. So how the head of a dark, moustachioed man appeared out of thin air on that table top I couldn’t then imagine. Slowly, slowly, as if coming skin by skin into being the Head materialised and blinked its black-rimmed eyes. During this process I glanced away for the merest second so the thought about how it might have been done took my breath away.
‘Django.’ Finally I saw Lily smile. She said something else to the Head then in their language and he replied, I think, ‘ Va .’
Lily, who was obviously accustomed to chivvying along dumbstruck gauje from this to the next attraction, said, ‘Ask something of Django. He knows everything.’
I looked at the Duchess, who was, I could see, without a thought in her head, then cleared my throat and said, ‘Well, good afternoon, Django. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘It is most pleasant to make your acquaintance too,’ the Head responded, in a rather high, sing-song voice with an accent I couldn’t pin down for the life of me. The moustache, I could now see, was not real but painted on to his face.
‘So, er, how old are you, Django?’ I said, feeling a bit of a fool to be talking to what had to be an illusion in that darkened, dirty tent.
‘I am nearly two thousand years old,’ the Head responded proudly. ‘I have seen the Romans rise, fall and disappear completely.’
‘Oh, that’s very interesting.’
‘I have seen Julius Caesar walking by the Nile river with Queen Cleopatra.’
‘Egypt.’
‘Yes,’ the Head replied. ‘Our people stayed in that country for a while.’
The Duchess, though religious, is not a stupid person and I could feel her shaking with some sort of emotion. The Head was aware of it too. ‘You, lady,’ it said, ‘I think that you want to ask Django some question.’
The Duchess coughed, looked at me and then at Lily before she addressed herself to the Head. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I wanted to know, Django, whether you ever went in your long travels to the land of Palestine.’
‘You are a Christian woman, lady?’
‘Oh, yes.’
The Head smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. Quite
‘Miss, my mother has a cold—’
‘The Head won’t come if you don’t sit down,’ Lily said, which, to me, had to mean that the illusion was somehow based on what angle a person viewed it from.
‘Oh, well,’ the Duchess said, with a smile, ‘if we must sit, we must sit. Help me down, would you, please, Francis dear?’ She took off her small black pillbox hat and reached up towards me.
I picked her up, then lowered her down at my feet. She’s light as a feather, poor old girl. Not that Lily watched with anything that appeared to be compassion. Although lovely, her face also had a hard cast at times, like her voice, which could be as sweet as it was throaty. Once I’d settled the Duchess I sat down beside her and waited for something to happen. There wasn’t much in that tatty old tent – just a pile of rags that probably constituted Lily’s bed, a bowl for washing, animal bones and fur hanging from the ceiling and a little table surrounded on three sides by a black fabric screen.
Lily, who was still wearing the long red dress she’d been seen in the night before, shuffled over to one side of the table, just behind the black screen, lit a small clay pipe and said, ‘The Head is very ancient and knows all things. It speaks many languages, one of which is English. You mustn’t come near or the Head will disappear, although you can ask it questions. The Head is a man of our people who was a great magician. His name is Django.’
And then she called him. ‘ Django! Django, av! ’
There was a light that I can only assume came from a tear in the top of the tent, which illuminated the surface of the table. Beyond Lily’s pipe, there was no smoke, nothing to distract a person’s attention and no sound whatsoever. So how the head of a dark, moustachioed man appeared out of thin air on that table top I couldn’t then imagine. Slowly, slowly, as if coming skin by skin into being the Head materialised and blinked its black-rimmed eyes. During this process I glanced away for the merest second so the thought about how it might have been done took my breath away.
‘Django.’ Finally I saw Lily smile. She said something else to the Head then in their language and he replied, I think, ‘ Va .’
Lily, who was obviously accustomed to chivvying along dumbstruck gauje from this to the next attraction, said, ‘Ask something of Django. He knows everything.’
I looked at the Duchess, who was, I could see, without a thought in her head, then cleared my throat and said, ‘Well, good afternoon, Django. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘It is most pleasant to make your acquaintance too,’ the Head responded, in a rather high, sing-song voice with an accent I couldn’t pin down for the life of me. The moustache, I could now see, was not real but painted on to his face.
‘So, er, how old are you, Django?’ I said, feeling a bit of a fool to be talking to what had to be an illusion in that darkened, dirty tent.
‘I am nearly two thousand years old,’ the Head responded proudly. ‘I have seen the Romans rise, fall and disappear completely.’
‘Oh, that’s very interesting.’
‘I have seen Julius Caesar walking by the Nile river with Queen Cleopatra.’
‘Egypt.’
‘Yes,’ the Head replied. ‘Our people stayed in that country for a while.’
The Duchess, though religious, is not a stupid person and I could feel her shaking with some sort of emotion. The Head was aware of it too. ‘You, lady,’ it said, ‘I think that you want to ask Django some question.’
The Duchess coughed, looked at me and then at Lily before she addressed herself to the Head. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I wanted to know, Django, whether you ever went in your long travels to the land of Palestine.’
‘You are a Christian woman, lady?’
‘Oh, yes.’
The Head smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. Quite
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