The Funeral

***

“My sincere condolences,” said Fifty’s father Emynem Mirga, extending a rough hand to the sobbing Romani woman.

The immediate family of the deceased had gathered under the sagging roof of the home where he once lived with his wife and children. There was no formal procession, no black suits—just a tight crowd of grief and familiarity.

“It’s a great loss. He was a good friend,” Madona added, gently taking the widow’s hand with the confidence of someone who had done this many times.

Fifty followed behind his parents, shaking the widow’s hand briefly—more out of social expectation than anything else—before slipping into a chair near the crowded table.

He leaned toward his mother and whispered, “Why are we here?”

Madona raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “If you came with us more often, you’d know. This is what we do when someone we knew quite well passes away. The family and friends gather to comfort the loved ones of the deceased.”

“Isn’t that what funerals are for?”

“And you want to be a Gypsy King?” she hissed. “That’s what I mean when I say you’ve been too influenced by gádže. They don’t have traditions like ours but this is how it should be. We call it ‘nights’—the time between the passing and the funeral.”

Fifty glanced around. Despite the mournful occasion, people were laughing, chain-smoking, and filling plastic cups with pálenka like it was a wedding. The tables groaned under stacks of fried food, pickled things, and suspiciously pink sausages.

“If this is mourning,” he muttered, “then someone forgot to tell the liver.”

“Shut up and eat something.”

While Fifty and Madona debated etiquette, Emynem quietly approached the widow again and discreetly slipped a 1,000-crown note into her coat pocket. She gave a weak protest, wiping her eyes theatrically.

Each new group that entered did the same—hugs, handshakes, and folded bills passed off like contraband. The widow repeated the same story, each time with small variations, about how they’d found him smiling, peaceful, heart stopped like it simply forgot to keep going.

It became a cycle: entrance, tears, banknote, story, more pálenka.

This was how the Roma did it. When someone they cared about passed on, they didn’t just grieve. They made sure the family could bury the dead with dignity. It was their way of contributing to the funeral costs. They showed sorrow with presence and solidarity with cash. Mourning wasn’t just personal—it was communal. Loud. Lively.

“Let’s raise a glass to his memory!”

And slightly alcoholic.

Fifty watched it all with cautious detachment. He understood the warmth, but couldn’t feel it yet. And yet, he liked it nonetheless.

Two days later, it was time for the funeral.

As the Mirga family stepped out of their car, Fifty noticed the license plates lining the cemetery road—Shintawa, Koshitse, Orawa, Rewutsa… even a few from across the border.

This wasn’t just any funeral.

Fredi Jackson—the Gypsy King—had died.

Unexpectedly. Unforgettably.

As they walked toward the cemetery gates, Emynem Mirga cleared his throat. “Why’d you decide to come? Because of that stupid reality show?”

Fifty shrugged. “I dunno. Just felt like I had to be here. Give the man a proper send-off.”

Truth was, he didn’t know why. But it felt right.

They entered the heart of the cemetery where Fredi’s casket was being lowered into the ground. Loud music poured from speakers—live performances, heartfelt ballads, proud anthems. Romani musicians from across the country had come to sing their final verses for a legend.

Fifty’s parents approached the casket to lay a red rose. Fifty himself stayed back, quietly sliding onto a weathered bench under the shade of a chestnut tree.

“This looks more like a continuation of the city fair than a funeral, right?”

The fairy-light voice buzzed at his ear.

“Stella?”

“Shhh!” She pressed a long finger to his lips. “My dad has ears everywhere. I don’t want attention.”

“You’re acting like a brat. Not everything revolves around you, you know.”

“Well, technically, I am a brat. That’s what happens when your dad’s rich and a dick.”

“I wish my dad was rich. I’d take the dick part if it came with air conditioning.”

They both chuckled. The funeral band played something too upbeat for mourning.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Fifty asked.

“The grandpa actually kept his promise. I’m staying at a hotel—full service. But he said wherever he goes, I go too.”

“So Marshall’s here?”

“Yup.”

“Shouldn’t be surprising, I guess. Fredi was huge. Maybe Fate’s just here to pay his respects.”

Stella cocked her head and smiled.

“Aww. You’re so cute when you’re naïve.”

“Didn’t take that as a compliment.”

“You think he’s here for sentimental reasons? Look closer.”

She pointed toward the speaker’s platform, where friends and family had been taking turns to speak.

And there he was.

Marshall Fate. Standing behind the mic in a black suit, looking suspiciously camera-ready.

“This is a great loss for the Romani world,” he said into the mic. “I want to express my sincerest condolences to the family.”

“What’s that ugly gádžo doing here?” someone muttered.

“The Romani culture has lost its greatest icon,” Marshall continued. “You are burying your King. And that means… there is now a vacant seat in your community.”

“Dykh more, who do you think you are?” a man barked.

“Elvys! Do something!” a woman shouted.

The large, bald man with a beard long enough to braid blinked awake on his bench.

“Huh? Yeah, I was already planning to do that,” grunted Vajda Elvys, standing slowly.

“Come join our new reality show!” Marshall boomed. “Young Romani men from across the country—and beyond—are welcome to compete for the title of the next Gypsy King! Don’t you want to mean something? For your community? For your disappointed parents?”

“Vajda, what now?!” a man called from the crowd.

Elvys scratched his belly and squinted at the man behind the speaker’s desk.

“This man is spitting on Fredi’s legacy!” someone yelled.

At that, Elvys finally walked toward the platform.

“Okay, not gonna lie,” Fifty muttered. “This funeral is kind of epic.”

“Are all Romani funerals like this?” Stella whispered.

“Even with music and our own band, it’s never like this.”

As Elvys reached the stage, Marshall lifted the mic again.

“And the prize? The hand of the beautiful daughter of tycoon Kral himself… Stella Kralova!”

Elvys calmly plucked the mic from Marshall’s hand like it was a cigarette in church.

“Ugh, that’s gross when he says it like that.” Stella pulled down her mask just long enough to stick out her tongue in protest.

“Are you that famous?” Fifty asked.

“Technically, my dad’s the famous one. I’m just the kid the tabloids followed back when he was on magazine covers.”

“You white people are weird.”

“My fellow Roma!” Elvys raised the mic. “We should ask this gádžo with a horse mouth who came here to ruin our friend’s funeral just one question. Am I right?”

The crowd roared in approval.

Elvys raised one eyebrow. “Is there… an age limit for the show?”

Silence.

Marshall adjusted his glasses, smirking.

“Of course not. As long as you're an adult—even a grey-bearded man like you can become the next Gypsy King.”

“You heard him!” Elvys bellowed. “I’m applying!”

Confusion spread like mold in Velgravian hospital. People exchanged glances. No one expected that.

But Elvys stood tall. And when the Vajda says something, the people listen.

Off to the side, Victor held up his phone, filming the entire disaster with a smug grin. “This is gold… But if I wanted, it’d already be trending in three countries and banned in two.”

“What’s a ‘vajda’, anyway?” Stella asked.

“I don’t know exactly. If Gypsy King is their president, then Vajda is like... their mayor?”

“You keep saying ‘their’ like it’s not your culture.”

Fifty looked down. “I mean… I’m Velgravian, nationally. Our ID cards never said Romani. I’m sure many people have Romani nationality but my family’s IDs never said ‘Romani’. But yeah—my ethnicity’s Roma.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. Thanks for teaching me! Do you feel like you don’t belong, then?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I grew up with white kids. Maybe my mom’s right—I don’t act Romani enough.”

“You don’t have to ‘act’ like anyone,” she said gently. “You’re just you. That’s enough. But if you do end up winning me as a prize…” Her eyes glinted. “…please take good care of me.”

Somewhere behind them, people were still arguing over microphones. But for a second, it felt quiet. Like it was just the two of them.

“That’s a weird thing to say at a funeral,” Fifty muttered.

“You’re not wrong, haha!”

Chapter 3: END