The midday sun blazed over the wide river as the small passenger steamboat glided through the calm waters. It was late summer, and the air was thick with the scent of ripe fruit and river mist. On the deck, a scene of lavish celebration unfolded: gypsies in swirling, colorful outfits danced to the rhythm of guitars strummed by long-haired men. The laughter and music echoed across the water, drawing the attention of every passenger on board.
At the heart of the revelry sat a tall, handsome man of about thirty, with a neatly trimmed black mustache, dressed in an immaculate white suit and matching hat. He reclined on a plush sofa, his arm wrapped around a curly-haired brunette woman of about twenty-five, who wore a striking blue dress and glistening jewelry. Before them, a table overflowed with bottles of wine and champagne, fresh fruits, roasted meat, fish, and a generous serving of caviar. “To us, my love,” he whispered, raising his glass, and she smiled, her eyes sparkling with affection.
A few meters behind the sofa, a short, stocky man of about forty stood nursing a glass of champagne. His reddish mustache twitched as he watched the loving couple, and a bald spot on his crown caught the sunlight. He could not tear his gaze away from the woman in blue, his expression a mixture of longing and bitterness. “She belongs with me,” he muttered under his breath, though no one heard him over the music.
As the afternoon wore on, the gypsy women danced tirelessly, their colorful skirts lifting and spinning in hypnotic circles. A lone gypsy guitarist played a melancholic tune near the couple, his fingers dancing over the strings. The brunette woman laughed, leaning into her lover’s embrace, while the man in the white suit whispered sweet nothings. But the short man with the reddish mustaches kept his vigil, his eyes never leaving her face.
Evening descended, and the steamboat grew quiet. Passengers retired to their cabins or fell asleep where they sat, surrounded by half-eaten food and empty wine glasses. The short man finally dozed off on a nearby bench, still clutching his empty glass. The river lapped gently against the hull, and the stars emerged one by one, casting a silver glow over the sleeping vessel.
The next morning arrived thick with fog and dampness. The woman in the blue dress walked along the deck, her curly hair tousled from sleep. She froze as she rounded a corner: there, at the edge of the deck, stood her beloved, his arms wrapped around a young gypsy woman with raven hair and a coy smile. He saw her and tried to step forward, but the gypsy held him fast. “Wait, it’s not what you think!” he called out, but his voice was lost in the mist.
The woman’s face twisted unnaturally, a mask of betrayal and anguish. She turned and ran frantically across the deck, her blue dress billowing behind her. The short man with the reddish mustaches, who had been watching from a distance, dashed after her. “Please, stop!” he begged, grabbing her arm. She shoved him away with a force that surprised them both. He stumbled and fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I love you!” he cried, but she was already gone.
The steamboat continued its quiet course under the clear summer sky, but the mood on board had shattered. The woman in the blue dress reached the stern deck, her breath ragged. She looked back once—at the man in the white suit, at the gypsy girl, at the weeping figure on his knees—and then she leaped. Her body arced through the air, a flash of blue against the white hull, before the river swallowed her. The water closed over her head, and the steamer moved on, leaving only ripples behind.
