A band of Black gypsies are camped out in the courtyard. They are called “cigány” in the count’s native language. There are thousands of them in in Hungary and Transylvania.

I hastily wrote letters to Moesha and Abebe Hawkins. To Abebe, I wrote in English. But to Moesha, I wrote in Ovambo, the language of the people of Namibia. We try to uphold the pride of our African heritage by learning the language of our ancestor’s. When we want to talk privately, Moesha and I speak Ovambo to each other. If Count Blackula intercepted the letters, he wouldn’t be able to read Moesha’s letter, at least.

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I called to tried to get a cigány’s attention from my window. The Black gypsy walked over to me and said something in his Black native language, but I couldn’t understand. I threw out my letters and a couple of coins, then mimed putting the letters in a mailbox. The Black gypsy took the letters and coins, pressed them to his heart, then put them in his cap. I hope the letters get to England without Count B finding out …