The Beginning, by AmZ I don't remember my mother's face at all. She may have been pretty, or not. She may have been young, or not. I only recall her hands, soft and dark, with long nimble fingers. Quick hands spreading cards on the table. Gentle hands washing my face. Cool hands caressing my head when I was feverish. These memories are my only assurance that at one point in time, long ago, someone loved me. Mother braided my hair. I dare not guess why. Perhaps in honor of a folk hero, or maybe she wanted to pretend I was a girl. Two braids always, one under each ear. She hummed songs in Romani as she combed me. I can't recall the words any longer, just her tones, low-pitched and purring, and also somehow menacing. I'd know if I heard them again. She trusted her husband and no other man, Rom or Gadjo, gypsy or not. When he told her to take me and leave that wretched place, she obeyed him. I don't recall my birthplace at all - was it Bicetre? La Force? Toulon? Brest? I never saw our vurdon, the caravan where the rest of my clan lived. She never went back there, as they wouldn't have her back. But even ostracized by her own kind, and alone in the world of Gadje, she must have felt herself to be a Gypsy. She taught me the old tongue the best she could. "Mashkar le gadjende leski shib si le Romeski zor," she would say to me. Our language is our only defense against the Gadje. How useless her efforts! I am a Gadjo myself now, a traitor to my own blood. Where is my clan now, I wonder? Probably beyond thrice-nine lands. Thrice-nine lands... now where did I get that from? It doesn't sound French. Languages often mix in my head: Romani, French, Russian, German... none of them really my own. Romani from my mother. French from... my country? But I'm not even its citizen. My abode then. Russian from being impressed into Buonaparte's ridiculous and suicidal Eastern campaign. German from Isaac, taught to me as payment for sharing my flat. And Latin from my miserable schooldays. And a smattering of Gaelic-flavored English from old O'Reilly, Toulon's armsmaster. I retained them all passing well, but my memory confuses them. Sometimes I switch from one to another mindlessly and don't notice until I perceive my listener's bewildered face... I lived well enough as a child, because I didn't need much. Played in the streets a lot, poked my nose into every tavern, made friends with alley cats, irritated old shopkeepers. Even fell into the river once and almost drowned, but came to on the stones by the barge docks. I never learned whether I was rescued or whether the river just spat me out instead of eating me. One autumn day my mother went out to wherever it was she went, and came back battered. From that day on, she never left the room, but laid on her bed of rags, mostly silent, sometimes whimpering. Often she would rise and shriek at someone invisible, waving her arms about as if fighting a whole swarm of unseen foes. I tried to comfort her as best I could, but to no avail. Soon our money ran out and we were turned out of the building. The same day she led me by the hand to the threshold of St. Michel orphanage, kissed my hair, and told me to be a good boy, she'll come back for me very soon. A man led me into a drab office with a low ceiling, and commanded that I sit quietly. While he rustled with his papers, I sat in the corner and wondered where my mother has gone. It was warm in the office, and I dozed off. I woke up in a large room full of narrow cots. That room became my home for the next 8 years. She never came back. I never forgave her for lying to me. In any case, when I was left at the orphanage, I was old enough to be able to braid my hair on my own, but not old enough to understand why I had to do it. I only knew I felt wretched if my hair wasn't braided. My clumsy efforts were nothing like Mother's firm touch, but they soothed enough to alleviate the misery, if only for a few minutes. Needless to say, the others wouldn't take me seriously. I had no looking-glass then, but I suspect I looked quite girlish, taking into account my small frame. No other boy in St. Michel orphanage had braids, although a lot wore their hair long. I suppose that didn't help my status any. I was made the whipping boy from day one, and that rank was mine to keep until the end. Etienne and his gang were the worst by far. Etienne was a handsome lad, blond and arrogant like a young rooster. He meandered about, surrounded by cronies; he was our little 'Handsome Sailor', the pride of our old Grammarian and the terror of all underclassmen. His objectives were simple: to hurt and to humiliate. A few kicks to the belly, some bruises, a bit of blood to spice things up, but mostly just mockery. I don't think there is an insult in the world that wasn't hurled at me over those years. Looking back, they probably didn't understand half of what they called me, but simply repeated the filth they heard from older boys and instructors. Their words hurt far more than their fists. Why me? I often asked myself. Why did my presence offend them so? I've never witnessed them treating anyone else like that. Perhaps I was just unlucky. They would have crushed me for good, if not for one particular brawl. I resisted that time. I recovered whatever smidgen of pride I still had left to me, and fought back as hard as I could. It was my birthday, you know, and I felt that getting beat up on my birthday would be the height of injustice. I kicked out and threw punches, but they were five and I on my own, and they got me. And afterwards, to make a point about resisting him in the future, Etienne walked right up to me and stepped on my arm, just above the elbow. I heard the bone crack, but the pain was nothing compared to the hate I now felt for him. When they left, I got up from the dust, crawled back to the dorm, and bawled like a newborn. My faith in the goodness of the world was gone. And then I was angry, not at Etienne now, but at myself. You stupid little nancy-boy, I thought. You have no right to shed tears. You are weak, and you deserve everything he gives you. Open wide, maggot, and swallow, if you're too soft to fight back. That was my conviction from then on. If all I could do was weep, then I didn't deserve any better. So I resolved to become stronger. I wanted to be strong enough to come up to Etienne one day, lift him clean off the ground, spit in his face, then bash his brains out against a wall. If Etienne hurt me like that on any other day, nothing would have come of it. I would have gone on and carried on as his nose-rag until graduation. But it was my birthday, and I didn't deserve a broken hand for a present. Etienne was fated, even if he was ignorant of it. My mother's blood roared in me savagely: I hungered for revenge. The break in my arm was an unfortunate one. The bone mended right and straight, but something else was apparently damaged, because a strange thing happened: my right hand became less and less obedient. Eventually, three fingers on it became permanently stiff, and to this day I can't bend them. Isaac, who was a medical student at one point, told me it must have been nerves. I still don't understand what my nerves had to do with it. Bullies are plentiful everywhere. Before that day, my distress was an ordinary story, common to every schoolyard. Afterwards, it became something far more sinister. When the rest of the children laid nightly in their narrow cots, they probably dreamt that someone would adopt them, or of a good willow branch to make a bow, or of pinching an extra apple from the kitchens, or of growing wings and flying away from that horrid place. But I dreamt of carnage and savored every minute of those dreams. I was ready to do anything to have my revenge. Oh, I would have Etienne's blood cover my fingers, no matter the cost! I would sell my soul to Lucifer if I could, just to hear my foe squeal in pain. My outward side showed nothing of this transformation. The guys usually started "working" me after the midday lessons, and I submitted without a sound. Any protest I could have made would have been a waste of breath. Instead, I channeled my resolve into exercises. Night after night, I built myself, punching and kicking the air or holding uncomfortable poses. Pain and exhaustion became a narcotic; I could not rest until every inch of me ached. But either because of poor nourishment, or because it wasn't my time yet, nothing came of my efforts. Two years after that day, I was still smaller than almost anyone in my class. But I could not let myself be discouraged. Quitting would mean surrender. If I stopped training, I would be forever dishonored, and I would never get my heart's desire. Etienne's warm blood haunted my dreams still. So I gave myself time. Frequent aches in my hand spurred me along. A few more years passed. Many of my older acquaintances had been turned out into the world, and I sometimes heard rumors of their audacious criminal endeavors. Since I took up the position of an inspector, I had to deal quite frequently with these wretched products of my alma-mater. Our orphanage was supposed to be some progressive sort of a reform school, but as far as I heard, it never succeeded in reforming anyone. The boys that lived at St. Michel were the very drags of society, and after eight years of careful processing, they emerged as first-grade villains. But I was far too busy hating Etienne to contemplate my own future. The way I obsessed over him, it's surprising I didn't drive myself batty. Although I'm sure some people would disagree. I resemble that 'batty' sort at times. Valjean would probably concur that I'm batty. Little he knows. So I went on, kept alive mostly by dreams of a bloodbath. And then in April of my seventh year, it happened. Every minute of my exertion bore fruit overnight. Where there were only skin and bones, there was now steel. I could see every single one of my past aches manifest itself on my body as a muscle. How do boys become men? In my case, with exhilaration. It was almost too good to be believed. I was a worm and became a serpent. At night I contemplated my body like Pygmalion. I felt no shame or vanity. My body was to me only a tool to make Etienne suffer and it was nigh time for that. But I wanted for everything to be right and proper for this ritual. I picked my day carefully. Six and a half years after the fight that so changed me, I faced Etienne on the same playground. He was still taller than me, and just as cocksure of himself as before. His gang stood by, eager for their daily entertainment. Oh, I'll give you entertainment, lads, I thought with mad glee. Come one, come all! This one day only! See the little savage tear a side of meat to shreds! But remember, you are next. To make the long story short, I satisfied my craving in full. I let my fists fly and couldn't stop. Can't quite recall what happened, but at the end of it Etienne resembled a sack of bloody rags. My heart soared at the sight of his limp body. I defeated my tormentor and my own weakness along with him. I was ready to continue the battle and settle the score with of Etienne's cronies as well, but they took one look at the unsightly remains of their "Handsome Sailor" and made quick legs off the playground. I haven't regained my breath yet, when the proctor descended upon me like a vulture, and, cursing like a sailor, dragged me by the hair to the dorm. I was denied food for three days and kept under lock and key, like a beast, while the debate raged on about my future. They let me out only once, during the initial gathering of facts, when my presence was legally required. Etienne's too, for that matter, but he was still vegetating in the infirmary. I was not permitted to defend myself against their accusations. After all, I was a filthy Gypsy, and the son of a whore to boot, and Etienne was a poor dear of his respectable parents untimely bereaved. But I was indifferent to their opinions. I was sated and absolutely content with myself. They could've guillotined me then, and I wouldn't protest. My life's ambition was satisfied. To be sure, I was artless enough to blurt all that out to their astonished faces. And that declaration would have landed me straight into the juvie hall, if not for a stroke of luck. A strange geezer showed up one day to take a tour of our facilities, and inquired about this mess. He was politely informed that a degenerate Gypsy had savagely mutilated their star student, who was well loved by his classmates and greatly esteemed by his masters. Not to worry though, the villain will be dealt with severely. The man demanded to look at the culprit and was allowed into the room where they were keeping me. I lay in my dark little corner, trying to ignore the mice and get to sleep, when I heard the latch-key jangle in the lock. The light from the opened door and the loud voices in the hallway startled me; I lifted myself up on the elbows, shielded my eyes with my limp right palm and examined the visitor. He was not very tall but seemed severe and imposing for a man of his stature. His dark uniform was impeccable, and all of its metal buckles and buttons gleamed in the light of the lamp he carried. I grew embarrassed at my own disarray. I wasn't given any fire those three days, and the room had no windows, so I had to forego my daily grooming. I must've looked a sight: uncombed, bony, and still filthy from the fight, with bloody splatters all over the pants and vest, which I long outgrew. I never cared much about my appearance before, but the sight of the man's immaculate garb made me feel awkward. "Stand up at once, you little brute," someone hissed at me from behind the gentleman's back. "Monsieur Renault wishes to speak to you. He is a guard from the Toulon galleys." Back