LatinosUSA

One wonders if it was love or boredom when Eliza remarked, “I’m off tomorrow as you know, Dmitri. Once I’m across the North Sea we will lose one another forever. A shame, yet a truth, so let us enjoy each other this day,” and with that in mind, it was to the tough-boys pub that they entered for one last time in 1839 and for evermore.

Once inside, a cocky young Dmitri trying to impress Miss Eliza, asked her, “What’s your poison, love? A proper drink like mine, a vodka, or a girly Sbiten, full of horrible, boiled honey and all those bloody spices and juices. They make me feel sick just looking at them,”

“Well, I don’t want too much booze today, so stuff yourself Mister Know-It-All, I’ll take the Sbiten. I’ll not get pissed as a rat this day,” the reply of an unconventional female, with a dream of her future to think about.

For the record she’d made mention to Dmitri that she christened herself with a new name for her new life, and that name was the one she was using already and that was, Eliza Mean. She acquired it from her granny who was called Eliza, although the name ‘Mean’ she’d added for no other reason than granny was a tight-fisted old boot nobody in the family cared for…and she left a disgusting pong whenever she farted. Never mind, Eliza was leaving behind her true title, her gypsy one, Eva Petrov. No more Russia, she was on the way to England…or she hoped she was.

That said, once more, Dmitri pitched in pointing out that, “Are you really going to call yourself, Eliza Mean? ‘Eliza’ is okay, it’s a nice name like Eva is, but ‘Mean’ sounds ridiculous.”

“That’s my problem, if indeed it is a problem, not yours. So shut your big gob,” she spat out with a wicked grin from ear to ear, before adding, “I think I must have sounded very rude. I didn’t mean to. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem. You’re always sounding rude, aggressive even. I’m used to it. But now, right now, I need to bring up something with you that’s much more important than the way you talk. So then, when you get onboard if passengers as well as sailors spot you they’ll all assume you’re nothing more than a plebeian gypo who’s creeped in by the back door and people don’t like you and your kind. Just looking at you they’ll all get it in their mind that if you’re on board you’re a gypsy miscreant…i.e. you’re a thief and they hate you. It’s terrible for me to say that, and even with your undeniable good looks, they will not tolerate you, and that, sadly is true. Yet, if you keep out of the way and leave everything to me, all will be well, and when you get to England safe and sound you’ll be able to put two fingers up at them…from a distance I suggest. Anyway, as a well-known deckhand en route as usual you should be OK.”

“Sorry Dmitri, I hear what you’re saying but I don’t give a toss what people think of me. It’s for that reason that I shall do whatever I want when I want, and if they want to gawp at me, so be it. I’ve no parents nor a decent home anymore, plus it’s so fucking cold here,” hardly the words of an angel that she often was, albeit one who was unaware of that, hence her latter remark, “Fuck it, so what, I’ll get by.” It was only then that Dmitri noticed tears dropping from her eyes; teeth nipping at the lips of her mouth. He said nothing, the look on her face had already told him to refrain from offering her compassion. Undeniably, Eliza was a tough girl.

Irrespective of what he’d previous told her, and on his third gigantic glass full of vodka, Dmitri, still remarkably sober, spoke of further difficulties once on ship, saying, “Wherever you might promenade when onboard, your smooth, brownish skin colour will give you away, let alone the tarty kit you’ll probably wear. I like it, I like it a lot, you look lovely in it, but I think I’m one in a million. You must listen to me; I know this world far better than you do. Will you listen?” 

At that, a cry of outrage as a complicated debate began inside of her. Should she or shouldn’t take heed of Dmitri’s advice? She was annoyed he’d said her dress was a ‘tarty kit’ when it wasn’t. To her it was special, as was being a Romani gypsy. She was proud, not ashamed of who she was. In an ever-growing temper she couldn’t help herself from grabbing Dmitri’s vodka and chucking the whole glassful smack in his face.

All was quiet at first as the pair sat frostily eye to eye not saying a single word, then a broad smile from Dmitri gave voice, telling her, “Nice one, Love. You’re more tougher than I thought.  I take it you will not be listening to my advice? At any rate, you know how to look after yourself, that’s for sure. I’m soaking, fucking wet now, and I stink of booze because of you. You’re lucky. I’ve made my mind up and won’t wallop you if you give me a proper kiss. What do you say?”     

Eliza said not a word, instead she confidently got out of her chair, and, to a hopelessly, drunk, cheering audience, Dmitrigot his kiss, a romantic kiss befitting entangled tongues. No harm done, despite her wondering why she did what she did, especially so as it was the first grown up kiss she’d ever had or been given, aside from those child ones from her departed mother and annoying granny. Back in her chair, she was a content gypsy girl, not that she’d tell that to Dmitri who, to Eliza, was presently more or less irrelevant…or was he? Only time could reveal the truth.

Copyright © 2025. All rights reserved, save for the the photo. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, and lending, prohibited.