The Snow Gypsy

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  She wasn’t sure which of the wagons Lola would be in. She bent over Gunesh, fiddling with his collar, trying not to look as if she was watching the women cooking over campfires and the men weaving baskets on the steps. She was hoping to see someone she recognized from the day before, someone who would know who Lola was and where she could be found.

  Suddenly she felt something hurtle against the back of her legs, almost knocking her over.

  “¡Tienes un perro!” You have a dog!

  It was Nieve, bright eyed with excitement at the sight of Gunesh—whose head was several inches taller than hers.

  “Can I stroke him? Will he bite?”

  Rose smiled. “He won’t bite—as long as you’re gentle with him. His name’s Gunesh.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “In a country called Turkey it means sun.” Rose pointed to the sky. “It’s because he’s all golden and shiny.”

  Nieve nodded. “What’s this?” Her fingers, buried in Gunesh’s fur, had found the collar of blue beads around his neck. Hanging from it was a silver filigree pendant in the shape of a hand.

  “It’s a lucky charm from my father’s country—it’s supposed to keep him safe.”

  Nieve’s face was half-hidden by the dog’s body. “You have a father?” There was a note of surprise in her voice, as if Rose had just revealed something quite unusual about herself.

  “I used to have,” Rose said. “But he died.”

  “Oh.” The small brown hand smoothed the dog’s silky coat. “That’s the same thing that happened to me. And to Mama.”

  Rose wondered if Nieve knew that Lola was not her real mother. Cristóbal hadn’t said. It was awful to think that the woman who had given birth to her had died when she was still a baby. And just as harrowing to speculate about the manner of her dying—butchered for being on the wrong side or slowly starved in some hellish prison camp. And what about Lola’s parents? Something similar must have befallen them for a fourteen-year-old to be left in sole charge of an orphaned baby.

  “That’s sad for you both.” The words sounded pathetically inadequate.

  Nieve shrugged. Rose was relieved to see that there was no hint of suffering in the child’s eyes. She was too young to remember what it was like to have a father.

  “I was looking for your mama,” Rose said. “Can you take me to her?”

  “She’s gone to buy bread,” Nieve replied.

  “Oh—shall we go and find her?”

  The child nodded. “Can I take Gunesh?”

  Rose handed the lead to Nieve. “We’d better ask your uncle, though—he’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.” The thought of seeing Cristóbal sent a warm tide surging through her stomach.

  “No, he won’t—he’s fast asleep!” Nieve was already on the move. “Come on, guapo.” She coaxed the dog. “We’re going for a walk!”

  Rose smiled inside, reminded of the word Cristóbal had used just before he kissed her. It was good that he was asleep: he needed it. She would see him this afternoon. Her hand went to her pocket, fingering the edges of the photograph. The thought of showing it to Lola made her feel queasy with anticipation.

  The village square was strewn with the debris of an all-night party. Empty bottles, crushed flowers, and the charred remains of toppled torches littered the paving stones.

  They found Lola queuing outside the boulangerie. In the bright morning light, she looked even younger. Her face, with last night’s dramatic eyeliner and rouge washed away, was fresh and innocent. And there were no flowers or jeweled clasps in her hair—it hung loose down her back, glinting with chestnut highlights where the sun caught it.

  Now that the moment had come, Rose was hesitant about showing her the photograph. She joined the queue, pretending that she, too, had come to buy bread. No matter what she’d told herself, she knew she would be crushed if Lola didn’t recognize Nathan. Yesterday, when his image was being passed around, she had felt as if a little piece of her was breaking off with every pair of hands that touched it. So now she found herself talking about anything but her brother—about Lola’s dancing, her costume, Cristóbal’s gifted accompaniment, and Nieve’s precocious ability to be part of the performance.

  In the end it was Lola who broached the subject of Nathan. They were coming out of the shop, Rose clutching a two-foot-long baguette that she was unlikely to get through before it went hard and stale, when Lola asked about the photograph.

  “Oh yes—I have it here.” The words came out sounding nonchalant, as if it were a matter of no more importance than buying the bread. But Rose’s hand trembled so much as she dug into her pocket that she almost dropped the baguette.

  Lola stared at the image for a long moment. Then she angled it to catch the sun. With a little shake of her head, she passed it back to Rose. “I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think I ever saw him.”

  Rose turned away as she took it. Lola and Nieve didn’t see her eyes filming over. She called over her shoulder that she had to go and buy food for the dog and would see them later. She dived into a butcher’s shop, hoping Nieve wouldn’t follow her, knowing that if she had to explain her glum face to the child, the tears would come flooding out.

  Gunesh had already had his breakfast—but the process of asking for a bone and waiting for the butcher to wrap it helped Rose to regain her composure. He wouldn’t take any money for it, so taken was he with the dog’s good looks. Embarrassed by his kindness, Rose asked if she could buy a couple of saucisses. She had apples and cheese back at the tent, but she felt a sudden overwhelming need for something fried and comforting.

  “Come on! Wake up!” Lola shook Cristóbal roughly by the shoulder. “It’s nearly time for the procession! You’ve been asleep half the day!”

  Cristóbal groaned as he opened his eyes. “Is there coffee?”

  “Coffee! ¡Cerdo perezoso!” Lazy pig!

  He stretched out his arms, revealing a bare honey-brown torso, the skin smooth and rippled with muscles. Before he could sit up, Lola dumped his clothes on his chest.

  “Get dressed! Why do I have to be your mother when you’re practically old enough to be my father? What were you up to last night, anyway?”

  His eyebrows arched like a hawk taking flight. “Do you really want to know?”

  “No, I don’t!” She gave him a black look. “You’ve got half an hour. There’s bread in the basket—probably stale by now. We had our breakfast hours ago.”

  Rose hadn’t meant to go back to sleep. She’d climbed back into the tent after cooking the sausages over the fire and closed her eyes, thinking she’d just let her food go down before cleaning the frying pan. But when she opened them again, she could hear trumpets and drums. Struggling to her knees, she opened the flap of the tent. The sound was coming from beyond the paddock, over by the road that led to the village. She crawled out of the tent and stood up, shading her eyes with her hand. She could see something silhouetted against the pale blue of the sky: it looked like a person standing in a boat as it glided over the sea. But the motion was jerky, as if the arms and legs couldn’t move. And the sea was in the wrong place.

  Suddenly her mind grasped what she was seeing. It was Saint Sara, the Black Virgin, being carried from the church to the beach. The procession was well underway, and she had almost missed it. She grabbed Gunesh’s lead and snapped it onto his collar. He pulled in the other direction, unwilling to leave his bone. It took all her strength to make him follow her.

  “Sorry, boy. You can have it back in a minute—but this I have to see.”

  As she hurried across the field, Rose saw that the paddock was empty of horses. Soon she realized why: the procession was being led by them. Snow-white mares and freckled colts trotted along the road, bare of saddles and harnesses, herded like sheep by Gypsy men sitting proud and tall on gleaming stallions.

  Behind them were people walking, all in their best clothes. The children were just as elaborately attired as the adults—the little girl
s in flouncy flamenco dresses, the boys in white shirts and waistcoats and colorful neckerchiefs. Despite their finery, everyone was barefoot.

  She wished she’d had time to change into something better than her mud-stained skirt and plain white blouse. But the sight of the statue coming closer drove out such thoughts. Held aloft by a dozen men, Saint Sara looked very different from the simple, unadorned figure Rose had seen in the shrine. She wore a sparkling white cloak over a dress of blue and gold. On her head, a spiky diadem threw out rainbow colors where the sun caught it.

  The river of bodies swelled in the wake of the statue. A few yards behind, a second group of men carried a huge cross festooned with fruit and flowers. Behind that was yet another cross—this one a copy of the symbol above the church door, with the heart and anchor entwined at its base. A painted wooden sign beneath it read: “Pèlerinage des Gitans.” Pilgrimage of the Gypsies.

  Rose scanned the press of people, searching for the familiar faces of Lola, Nieve, Cristóbal, or Jean. But it was difficult to pick out individuals in such a crowd. She glanced at Gunesh. She wanted to join in, but she was afraid that all the noise would frighten him. To her surprise, the dog was wagging his tail. She patted his head, wondering what to do with her shoes. After kicking them off, she balanced them in the crook of a branch of one of the tamarisk trees that lined the road. Then she slipped in at the back of the procession, walking alongside an old man strumming a mandolin and a young boy beating a drum.

  The tide of pilgrims slowed as it neared the sea. People fanned out along the beach as the men carrying the statue waded waist deep into the water, coming to a stop in front of a fishing boat. Standing in the bow was a bishop robed in white and gold, holding himself steady with a silver crosier. A hush fell over the crowd as he lifted his hand in a benediction. Raising his voice above the rise and fall of the waves, he pronounced a blessing on the sea, on the Camargue, and on the Gypsy pilgrims.

  As he lowered his hand, the crowd surged forward, everyone cheering as they waded into the water. Men carried babies above their heads, holding them out for the bishop to touch. Little girls spun around in the waves, laughing as they scooped up the sodden frills of their dresses. Old women gave toothless smiles and theatrical shivers as they stood knee deep in the shallows.

  Gunesh bounded into the waves, pulling Rose behind him. Her skirt billowed around her hips. It felt good to be in the water—not just because the waves were doing a good job of getting the mud out of her clothes: it was as if all her doubts and fears about what lay ahead were being washed away, too.

  At a sign from the bishop, the men carrying the statue waded out of the water. They passed very close to where Rose was standing. She could see the glass eyes glowing amber in the sunlight and the worn red paint on the lips. Somehow the face seemed more real than it had in the shrine. There was a Mona Lisa look about it. Rose could almost believe that the wooden image had come alive, secretly happy to have been freed from the gloomy crypt and allowed to breathe the fresh sea air.

  She’s smiling down on you.

  Jean’s words came back to her as the statue moved toward the water’s edge. How Rose longed for that to be true. But thus far her journey had brought mixed success. She made a silent prayer for what was to come.

  She blinked as the sun bounced off the surface of the water. Black discs bobbed in front of her eyes, blotting out the faces of the people in the sea. It made her feel dizzy. She turned toward the beach, staggering as a strong wave knocked her off balance. She gripped the slippery leather of Gunesh’s lead, afraid of losing him. Suddenly she felt a strong pair of hands around her waist, lifting her out of the water.

  “¡Ten cuidado!” Be careful! Cristóbal pulled her close as he turned her around. His skin glistened where the salt water had splashed it. She opened her mouth, but his lips stifled the words. She felt a powerful throbbing in her belly as they kissed. When he broke away, it was only to scoop her into his arms and carry her onto dry land.

  He set her down among the throng of sandy-limbed people preparing to follow Saint Sara up the beach. Gunesh, who had clambered out after them, shook himself violently, spraying Cristóbal all over.

  He spluttered and laughed. “Good job! I’m already wet!” She melted inside as he took her hand. “Shall we finish the pilgrimage? I’m going to need all the blessings I can get to stand a chance in that competition tonight.”

  Rose looked around, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of Nieve seeing what had happened in the sea. “Where’s Lola?”

  “She’s gone back,” Cristóbal replied. “Nieve has a new dress—she didn’t want to get it wet.” He rolled his eyes.

  Drum beats echoed across the sand, and the crowd pressed in around them. Soon they were being jostled along, away from the sea and back toward the village. Rose could hear the distant peal of church bells above the cacophony of sound around her. No wonder she hadn’t spotted Jean among the pilgrims—he must have stayed behind to ring out the saint’s return to the shrine.

  It was a relief to know that he hadn’t seen her kissing Cristóbal. It would have made her seem like a liar after her flat denial that there was anything between them. And she didn’t want to hurt Jean by flaunting this newfound . . . She pulled herself up short. What was it, exactly? The warmth of Cristóbal’s hand on her skin sent pulses of desire shooting through her body. In the wild, joyful fever of the fiesta, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to give in to what she was feeling. But should she even contemplate giving herself to a man she’d known for less than twenty-four hours? A man who would be gone for good when the celebrations ended? This wasn’t what she was here for. She should be making plans for the journey ahead—looking at maps, consulting train timetables, working out how to get to the place that Lola had put a name to.

  The procession came to a sudden halt. They were in the village square, shaded from the baking sun by the great edifice of the church. Rose’s skirt, still damp from the sea, hung limply around her legs. She shivered as the bishop raised his hand in the final act of blessing.

  “I’d better go and change out of these clothes,” she said, breaking away from Cristóbal as the wooden statue disappeared through the doors of the church.

  He gave her a lingering look, as if he was about to offer to help her out of them. But he said nothing.

  “I suppose you have to get ready for the competition?” She heard herself trying to sound brisk and matter of fact.

  He nodded. The change in his expression was subtle, almost imperceptible. “It’s not for a couple of hours yet. Why don’t you come and eat with us—when you’ve changed? There’s a special meal—seafood paella—do you like that?”

  “I’ve never had it—it sounds delicious.” Rose smiled, surprised by how hungry she felt. There was nothing wrong with a last meal with all three of them, was there? It would give her a chance to thank Lola and say goodbye. “I’ll have to pack first, though,” she said. “The bus leaves for Arles at four o’clock.”

  “You’re not going already?” He spread his hands, palms to the sky. “What difference will another day make? You can’t miss tonight—there’s going to be a wedding after the competition: music and dancing all night.”

  “I . . .” She felt her resolve melt away in the white heat of his gaze.

  Chapter 10

  Lola sat on a threadbare cushion at the edge of the wagon, watching a woman with no teeth throwing mussels into the cauldron of paella. Sitting cross-legged on the hard ground, this matriarch of the Granada clan was cleaning the shells with a knife, which she occasionally wiped on an apron stained red and orange from the paprika and cayenne pepper that had already gone into the pot. Another woman of a similar age was stirring the mixture, her sleeves rolled up to reveal arms as brown and sinewy as tree roots in a dried-up riverbed.

  The smell of the raw seafood made Lola want to gag. She was the only woman in the group who had not played some part in preparing the coming feast. Others had peeled the
onions and garlic, chopped tomatoes and peppers, gone to the harbor to bargain with the fishermen for prawns and mussels and squid. Lola had learned from bitter experience that it was pointless to offer to help. They didn’t want her. She was regarded as an outsider—not just because she lived in a house rather than a vardo, but because she wanted no husband.

  Every single Gypsy family from the Granada area had a male relative who, during the past five or six years, had come forward with a proposal of marriage. But Lola had rejected them all. She hadn’t realized how much the women despised her for it. But they had made their feelings plain on the journey to France. However much she tried, however well she danced, she was tolerated but not wanted.

  She sometimes caught these women watching Nieve—waiting for her to misbehave, get food down her clothes, or any other kind of evidence of Lola’s shortcomings as a substitute mother. Lola could just imagine what they were saying behind her back. That someone in her position should be grateful to any man who offered marriage; that she had no right to be so fussy; that the child was most likely hers—not adopted but conceived out of wedlock. In Granada she had learned to close her ears to such talk, to ignore the sidelong looks and the upturned noses. But on the road, it had not been so easy.

  The woman stirring the paella looked only a few years older than Lola’s mother would have been if she had lived. Perhaps the woman would have been a little kinder if she had seen what Lola had seen: a mother and a brother lying cold and bloody in the snow; a dying woman begging for the life of her newborn baby. But no. Granada had seen more bloodshed than any other city in Spain. Who knew what horrors those eyes, staring so intently at the bubbling surface of the cauldron, had seen?

  Lola knew she must try not to mind the way these women treated her. But their coldness intensified the pain of not having a mother to confide in. The hardest time of all was when she was about to start performing. That was when she longed for someone to soothe her frazzled nerves. Cristóbal was no good—he was nervous enough himself—and Nieve was too young to understand.