ABSTRACT
In the middle of the afternoon on a cold Saturday in January a group of Gypsy men have gathered in the road outside the brightly painted, singlestorey house of Mokus and his wife Terez. For a while the talk is listless, the men chat to pass the time, almost as if seeking an excuse to sit around together, to avoid going back alone to their own houses and yards. After a while a couple of the men set off to attend to their own business and it seems the group might break up entirely. Instead Mokus invites those who remain into his house to share a beer. One man excuses himself: ‘I can’t drink beer, I’ve just drunk water’ (Nastig pav bere, paji pilem), and goes home. But the other seven men gratefully take up the invitation and join Mokus on the floor in his kitchen. The only furniture in the room apart from the iron stove and a flimsy wall cupboard is a bed on which the family sleep. Right now Mokus’s three-year-old son is curled up on it.
