Read The Secret History of Moscow for Free Online Page A

Mausoleum, and gawked a bit at St Basil's Cathedral. He meandered through the streets and stood on bridges, watching the green-brown river below. Everywhere he went, he carried his album and watercolors, and took quick sketches, mostly just blurs of colors with only hints of shapes of everything that caught his fancy.
    "You're pretty good,” a girl said next to him.
    He looked up and realized that she was a gypsy-long skirt, black as soot hair, soft eyes and mouth. A panic struck him, and he babbled. “Please don't hex me,” he begged. “I don't have any money, honest. I'm out of town."
    The corners of her mouth dimpled as if she were holding back a smile. “I won't hex you, handsome,” she said, clearly enjoying her power over him. “Just paint me a picture, and we're good. I'll even give you a talisman that'll protect you from any gypsy curse."
    "I don't believe in talismans,” he said.
    She laughed. “But you believe in curses? Come on, paint."
    "You can have this one.” He proffered the sketchpad with his most recent view of the river and the Alexander Garden-splotches of green and light-on the other side.
    She shook her head, and her earrings and necklaces jangled. “I want a picture of me,” she said.
    He obeyed the woman, not quite sure why he did so. He painted in quick strokes, not waiting for the watercolor, barely diluted by the dank river water, to penetrate the paper, slathering it thick like oil. He poured on blacks and blues for the cloud of her hair, he painted gold and silver on her thin wrists, carmine for the lips, greens and yellows for her shawl and wide skirts. He painted with abandon, with catharsis-finally, finally, he had given in, unable to keep the gypsies out. Now he would be stolen away for sure; he felt relieved at the thought. When everything you had ever feared happened you didn't have to fear anymore.
    The girl looked at the picture and smiled. “I like it,” she said. “Here.” She unwrapped a thin chain with a copper circle from her neck and handed it to Fyodor. “Here's your talisman. Now no gypsy could harm you."
    He studied the dull circle that looked like an old coin polished into obscurity. “Does it really work?"
    "No,” she said, “but neither do hexes. Come on, put it on."
    He obeyed.
    "Now,” the girl said, “do you have anything to do?"
    "No,” he said, and followed her when she beckoned. On the way, he told her about the failed exams and the dusty asphalt of Zvenigorod growing soft under one's feet in the summer heat. He told her that he had no plans and no desire to go back.
    "You can stay with my tabor,” she offered. That's what a group of gypsies was called, he remembered. A tabor of gypsies-like a murder of crows or a pride of lions, a special word just for them.
    "No, thanks,” Fyodor said. “I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Where are we going?"
    She pointed ahead, at the squat gigantic building with arched windows, which he recognized as a train station.
    "Paveletzky Terminal,” she told him. “We're staying there, for now at least. They have a very nice waiting hall, and the courtyard. We need the courtyard for the bear."
    "The bear?” he repeated.
    She nodded. “Uh-huh. I think we're the only tabor in this city that does bear shows. Only he's getting old."
    "Oh."
    The station bustled with travelers, and the din of voices and sharp sounds of children's crying assaulted Fyodor; he hugged his sketchbook to his chest.
    "There are the Roma.” The girl pointed.
    They were not like Fyodor remembered them. Instead of bright colors they were dressed in drab city clothing, dirty with neglect and age. Only their dark faces indicated that they were truly alien. “Their clothes…” Fyodor faltered. “What about you? You're dressed like a proper gypsy."
    The girl laughed. “What, this? I'm coming from a party. This costume is something we wear when we have to perform."
    "And you pickpocket in the regular clothes."
    The girl gave him a long look.