The Gypsy

The Gypsy

It all began with the discovery of the little black book. Before that day I was more or less happy. I led a normal life, like yours.

This is a story about a choice; about an eventuality that may or may not have been preventable. I bet it all on something that was never mine to begin with.

What would you do?

The answer always seems obvious in hindsight.

I found the portentous book by the park on First Avenue. I noted that my bootlace has come untied. As I bent to my task, impatient because I had already burnt my toast that morning and forgotten my umbrella.

There was nothing extraordinary or even remarkable about it. The little black book that ultimately determined my fate. It looked forlorn, antiquated and abandoned, begging to not be forgotten. I picked it up and hastily stuffed it into my coat pocket and went about my day, now late for work and chilled by the drizzling rain.

I turned my key in the door, home at last. The lock made it’s familiar click, the apartment’s shadows waiting to be dispelled by the light switch.

I shook the raindrops from my coat, trying to shed the dampness of the day. I felt a bulge in the pocket and remembered the mysterious black book, unaware that it was a land mine waiting for me to trigger the bomb that would blow up my life.

I awoke to a whistling siren and panicked, sending the black book flying like a startled bird, pages a flutter. I eyed the splayed pile of paper as I made my way to the tiny kitchen to quiet the wailing kettle.

I climbed into the cracked leather armchair, tea and blanket at hand. I considered the little black book. The cover bore a faded illegible monogram engraved into the soft, durable leather cover. It had the texture of butter, velvet and silk, unctuous, almost slippery. It was reminiscent of an embrace from a childhood friend, a familiar yet distant smell that had been misplaced somewhere in my mind.

I lifted the cover gently with trepidation, feeling as though I were invading someone’s privacy. On the first page, carefully written in black ink was today’s date.

20/03/21

As the clock on the mantel struck midnight, I glanced up and thought about how many days it had welcomed over the years.

I looked down at the book and blinked in confusion and disbelief. The date had changed.

21/03/21

Hands shaking I closed the book, unsure if I should open it or burn it. I was enchanted, compelled to go down the rabbit hole. I dove in.

Underneath today’s date words began to appear, writing themselves with an invisible pen.

TERMS OF AGREEMENT

-Provide the numbers when called upon

-$20,000 per transaction

-Do not use for personal gain

If you agree to these terms, turn the page...

The clock on the mantel struck noon. I awoke to find the book was still there, the page undisturbed and waiting for my compliance.

What would you do?

I turned the page.

“Meet the Gypsy woman in the park on First Avenue at noon. Exchange this set of numbers for $20,000.”

17 22 29 33 45 49

In a mad frenzy I snatched up my soggy raincoat, falling into my boots and frantically made my way down the street towards the park. I realized that I had again forgotten my umbrella.

I approached the bench near where I had discovered the book. The rain had abated and left behind a thick, soupy fog. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears although I couldn’t hear anything but muted white noise.

I didn’t have to search for her, she beckoned to me like a silent siren from beneath an ancient oak tree. The Gypsy appeared to smile but it was a sad similie of happiness. A twisted expression that seemed to mock the very idea of pleasure.

As I approached she extended a slender, translucent hand with expectation. I noticed that her sleeve wasn’t damp as if she was impervious to the rain.

The transaction was over before I realized it had begun and she was gone. I looked down at the crumpled paper bag in my hand, the unmistakable feel of a stack of cash inside.

I rushed home, certain that the sequence of digits couldn’t be anything but lottery numbers. I set the kettle to boil on the stove and turned on the decrepit, moody television set. It was a relic from a previous era. The tubes came to life and the picture brightened accompanied by a low pitched buzzing that set my teeth on edge.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight for the umpteenth time. I looked down to the cold cup of tea in my hand with no memory of having made it. The television was on, the local weather forecast predicting more rain. The winning lottery numbers flashed across the screen. I glanced at the srap of paper I had secreted the numbers upon for confirmation.

I had just surrendered the winning combination for the $77 million jackpot. I felt exhilarated and nauseous. What could possibly happen if I disregard the rules and bought the winning ticket for myself? I would soon find out.

What would you do?

The following week I was dizzy with anticipation. I had almost convinced myself that it was a dream, despite the evidence. I had placed the little black book and the bag of cash in a kitchen cupboard among the cans of soup, teabags and dry pasta, checking several times per day to ensure that it was still there.

That evening as I sat entranced by the book, the mantel clock ticking towards midnight, I imagined the freedom that millions of dollars would bring. I opened the book in anticipation of the numbers appearing, a small part of me hoping they wouldn’t.

At the stroke of midnight the words began to write them themselves. The rules that I had ingrained upon my memory materialized. Hastily turning the page, I watched numbly as the seven numbers became visible.

I gave one last thought to the Gypsy, considering the possible consequences of my betrayal as I donned my coat and boots with unsteady hands. I set out to purchase my lottery ticket.

By the following evening I was feeling no ill effects and was growing excited about the endless opportunities and comforts that I would enjoy as a millionaire. I sat in front of the television, unaware of my clenched fists and sweaty brow.

The numbers came up one by one, painfully slowly. I had just won $98 million. The last thing I remember was standing up quickly, growing dizzy, faint and detached. I never even got to claim my prize, the satisfaction of having cheated the system for a better life.

My punishment for breaking the rules was delivered swiftly.

I now spent my days in constant limbo, waiting in the park under the ancient oak tree. Waiting for you. When you inevitably arrive you’ll find me, the Gypsy, with a sad, regretful smile. I know your fate but I am unable to warn you. The rules are clear.

What will you do?