“I Want Her to Be Mine”: The Story of Pyotr and the Gypsy Woman Tena. A Chapter from the Book “Crossroads of Worlds”
This book was born from an unusual find — the archive of a self-taught hypnotist who kept his records for more than eight years. Along with the archive came a note: “The one into whose hands this archive falls must continue the regressions from the point where I stopped.” That is how a story began that later grew into a large-scale project researching dreams and the subconscious.
Section 1. Chapter 1. “Crossroads of Fates”
Predict my future for me, or better yet, create the future yourself. Don’t believe the tears in the eyes — perhaps at the same time a demon is laughing in the soul!
In the corner of a small dark room, hunched over and burying his face in his knees, a young man was sobbing like a little boy. He looked about twenty-five to twenty-seven. A long, tousled forelock stubbornly fell over his eyes, and his short gray trouser legs did not even cover his ankles, which made the sandals on his bare feet look like little frog’s legs. He sat with his face hidden in his hands, and his shoulders convulsed with jerky trembling.
Such heart-rending sobbing, and from a man at that, even if he was a young man, Tena had not heard in a long time. He was a man, after all, or was he a rag!
She watched and was amazed. Amazed despite the fact that over the past thirty years she had seen and heard so much that was astonishing and unexpected from people! She, a fourth-generation witch, had nerves of steel! Conscience was a relative thing. Her view of the world was black, like her eyes. Neither take away nor add!
“And this one is quite something. Imagine sobbing like that. It seems a little more and he’ll start dying in a fit of helplessness and grief from unrequited love,” she thought.
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Come on, explain it properly, in plain human language. What’s gotten into you so badly?
Trying to control his ragged breathing, the young man, without lifting his head, uttered a few inarticulate phrases:
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…I can…, I can’t…gu…gu…oo-oo-oo-oo…
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I can’t understand what you’re saying.
Tena stood in silence for another minute. Paced around the room. Glanced at the clock. Thought it was about time the “client” knew his place, and also that she really didn’t feel like dealing with this sniveling mess. Then she caught herself and remembered that control over the situation was in her hands, and she used a technique that worked in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.
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Calm down and shut up! – she barked, and slapped the guy on the back so hard that his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and the spirit of Don Juan with smeared snot was momentarily knocked out of him.
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Either we talk normally, or goodbye. I don’t have time for your sniveling. People are waiting. You’re not the only one.
It worked. The young man froze. A minute later he began to breathe evenly, and a couple more after that – Russian speech could be heard.
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I can’t live without her. I feel awful, I’m dying. I feel really awful.
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There! That’s more like it! That’s a different story. Now explain, who is it you can’t live without? – Tena leaned in with her heavy body and placed her enormous hand on his shoulders.
The young man raised his eyes. Just in time to stare into the gap between the gypsy woman’s yellow teeth. As in a slow-motion film, he saw that her mouth was opening and closing, but the smell of onion and lard acted like amnesia, and he realized—his hearing had disappeared. At least for a time. The breath that had recently been knocked out of him was now sucked somewhere inside, which made him feel very bad indeed.
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I think I’m going to be sick, he whispered barely audibly.
Then a gurgling roar rolled over him. The roar turned into a staccato bark. Finally, into the gypsy woman’s hiccupping laughter, resembling a donkey’s bray.
“What is she laughing at?”
The young man was taken aback. He shook his head and came to his senses.
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What are you babbling?—the gypsy woman repeated, still hiccupping with her staccato laughter.
Her body was shaking, her eyes had turned into two narrow slits.
“That’s quite a spell! He’s unwell! He’s dying! People, people. Your passions ruin you! You are their slaves. Or mine?!”—the last thought put an end to the neurasthenic outburst.
“My slaves.. mine.. mine.”
Tena straightened up, squared her shoulders, her eyes flashing:
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How can I help you, man?
Goosebumps ran down the young man’s back—such strength and confidence suddenly emanated from this woman. He looked into her eyes and felt that she was no simple person, and above all—the law was not written for her. Laws are for people, after all. But she is above them. That is what she meant when she addressed him: “Man…”
“I am a man. Then who is she?”
He stared at the gypsy woman more and more intently. He no longer smelled the odors, and the nausea had passed.
“That’s the kind I need. The kind like her. The kind who doesn’t obey any law.”
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Without Anna. Without Anna I can’t.
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Let’s see what’s going on now.
Tena scattered the cards in a fan across the velvet tablecloth on the table, and her eyebrows crept upward.
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Has the world come to an end?
It wasn’t very clear what she saw in her cards, or whether she saw anything at all, but that wasn’t the main thing.
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Yes, it has, – answered the young man.
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What’s your name?
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Petro.
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And what about her?
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She has a fiancé. She loves him. He loves her. When he comes back from the army, they’ll get married.
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Then that’s fate, – answered Tena.
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And what should I do? – asked Pyotr.
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And you wait for your fate.
The gypsy woman raised an eyebrow, as if to say that was all, and cast a fleeting glance at Pyotr. He caught her glance and understood everything. She was catching him like a fish on a hook. What had he wanted when he agreed to go to her?
“And what difference does it make? So she’s a gypsy woman. So she’s conning me out of money. As long as she does what she’s asked. I need it, don’t I?”
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I chose my own fate.
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He chose! Well, look at that! People like you aren’t given the right to choose their fate.
Pyotr looked at her from under his brow and, unexpectedly for himself, blurted out:
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Well, and do you have the gift?
The gypsy woman’s chin crept up again, and her eyes glistened:
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All right, man.
Tena scattered the cards again. She pressed her lips together. Gathered the cards into a single deck, shifted them to her other hand and scattered them again.
Having seated Peter across from her, she began to study him intently. Shadows ran across the hut, shuddered and froze. Three oil lamps were burning, and the tongues of their flames began to stream upward in black, scorched trails.
The shadows on the young man’s face changed his appearance beyond recognition. His nose stretched into a sagging drop, his eyes sank in, and in their place two dark hollows formed, while the corners of his lips in a grimace crept upward. Perhaps the gypsy woman only imagined it? Tena shook her head, and everything vanished.
“The devil knows what,” she thought.
“He looks so pitiful. It can’t be… It can’t be…”
It was as if a fine needle passed through the gypsy woman’s heart. And a melancholy resembling eternity. All of it flashed by quickly and dispersed like smoke from her cigarettes: “It’s just fatigue. Should you be afraid?”
As if nothing had happened, she continued the conversation:
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And does it grab you like that often?
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What do you mean? – Peter tensed.
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I’m asking, do you fall in love often? – Tena asked, continuing to study Peter intently. – Don’t lie, I see everything without your words anyway, and if you start yapping – each stays with his own.
By the look of the young man it became clear – he understood everything.
“Do whatever you want, but this woman is your last hope,” Pyotr thought to himself. His mother said that she could turn a person around so much that he would forget who he was and what he lived for.
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Just to fool around — that happened. But to love — for the first time.
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And what do you want from me? — Tena asked and folded the cards.
She knew what Pyotr wanted. But every time she was offered “that kind” of work, she wanted to hear this human expression of needs. How would he say it? With what words? And most importantly, what he was ready for.
The young man, without raising his eyes, said quietly but very confidently:
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I want her to be my wife. Mine and no one else’s. I’ll give all the money I have. I earned almost a thousand doing side jobs over two years. And my sister will give me five hundred rubles for my room in the city. I’ll give you everything.
If not for the acting skills trained over the years!
“Not bad! How not bad!” — Tena thought, and a warm, familiarly pleasant wave of inner joy passed from bottom to top, causing the gypsy woman to shut her eyes so that the greedy glint of her black eyes would not be visible.
“Someone like you is exactly what I need. Yes! My client.”
It was for such “specimens” that the whole hive was buzzing.
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I need to think. Come by in three days, I’ll give you an answer.
Tena took a pencil, a yellow scrap of paper from a school notebook. She wrote two names: Pyotr and Anna, and asked:
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What is her fiancé’s name?
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Sergei, — answered Pyotr.
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Can’t you get a photo of Anna or some thing of hers?
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Here’s the photograph.
Pyotr pulled out from under his shirt a photograph of the girl, torn at the edges. The whole picture was sticky and shrunken.
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What, did it get sweaty near your heart? – asked Tena.
The young man didn’t understand who exactly had gotten sweaty: he or the picture, smiled embarrassedly, and placed the photograph on the table.
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Beautiful, oh what a beautiful girl! – said Tena, fixing her gaze on the face of the girl in the photograph.
Pyotr fidgeted on the chair, as if this remark had not pleased him. After all, he should have been flattered that his choice was approved and understood, why he was suffering so much. But it, on the contrary, stung him, and it was clear that he was uneasy. Tena noticed this.
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You’re not a bad guy either, but you’re different. Don’t be offended, but you, how to explain it better, – are from different worlds. You are completely different.
Pyotr shuddered again. But now he wasn’t upset, he barely concealed a grimace of hatred on his face.
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So, I’ll come by in three days?
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As agreed, – answered Tena.
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I have some of the money with me, – said Pyotr, reaching his hand behind his belt.
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How much money do you have now? – asked Tena.
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Two hundred rubles.
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Give me your money.
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All of it?
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And what did you think? It’s not all that simple. Because of you, I now have to go to both the morning and evening services for three days. We leave half our income at the church, we diminish the saints. It’s not you—ungrateful Russians… When you’re matchmaking a girl, you promise her a city, but when the wedding is over, you begrudge even a little village. But we honor the laws. We won’t keep it for ourselves, we’ll give it to our saint. Or do you already begrudge what you promised?
Tena got so “carried away” that Pyotr shrank, felt ashamed, and even had a fleeting thought—to borrow money and give it to her earlier.
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All right, all right. If need be…
But the gypsy woman interrupted him:
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I believe you, I believe you. Against dishonest people I have my own weapon. But you’re honest, right?
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Yes, I am! I’m honest!
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Well then go. Go, and in three days come and bring a thousand next time. And on the very last time you’ll bring the remainder.
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And I’ll have to come two more times?
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It’s a complex ritual. What did you think? You have to… But why am I telling you? You won’t understand anything anyway. Don’t you worry about a thing, your sweetheart will look only at you. She won’t see or hear anyone but you.
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Really? And that’s possible?
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I said I’d do it. Or do you think I’m a liar?
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No, no. I don’t think so.
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Then go, before I change my mind!
The young man almost ran out.
At that pace, barely catching his breath, he ran all the way home. His temples were pounding, circles swam before his eyes, but something inside whispered: “I can do it! I can do it!”
To be continued…
You can find the continuation of the book in the section “Hypnotherapist’s Archive”.
About the book and the project
This book is based on real materials obtained from an archive of hypnosis sessions. This archive belonged to a self-taught hypnotist who lived and worked in the seventies of the last century. His records, many years later, ended up in the hands of a certified therapist practicing progressive hypnosis.
Surprisingly, the archival records were dated twenty-five years back and covered a period of more than eight years, while in our country regressive techniques into past lives began to be actively used relatively recently.
The archive came to the therapist through a young woman who found it in an apartment she had inherited. Along with the records, a detailed instruction was discovered, at the end of which it said: “the one into whose hands this archive falls must continue the regressions from the point at which I stopped.” Over the course of four years, more than seventy sessions of immersion into past lives and into the space between lives were conducted.
The results of these sessions exceeded all expectations. With the consent of that very heiress, who later came to be called the “client by inheritance,” all the materials of the archive were handed over to the author.
It is important to say: what was revealed during these studies about the destinies of people on Earth turned out to be far deeper than any mystical or esoteric teachings. Every step of a person is already recorded, every decision is not an accident but a choice, and everything that happens to us is merely one of many possible models of reality.
Possessing an artistic imagination, the author reworked the archival records into a book, adding characters and storylines that can be placed in familiar earthly conditions. At the same time, the main meaning embedded in the archive remained unchanged and did not lose its value.
“Crossroads of Worlds” became the author’s first book, with which a long journey began. Over time, this path led to the creation of a large-scale analytical platform based on thousands of dreams of the project participants, their confirmed realizations, and the discovered patterns between symbols and real events.
