“Clever lad!” Cristóbal’s voice took Lola by surprise.
“I thought you’d gone to the tavern?”
“I did—but I wasn’t going to miss this. They did well, didn’t they?”
“Well, yes—except he cheated.” She gave Cristóbal a knowing look, wondering what had happened when he and Juanita had jumped the broomstick. She didn’t know, because she hadn’t been there. The wedding had taken place fifteen years ago, when she was still living in the mountains.
“Shall I take Nieve?” Cristóbal was talking to Rose now. The child was still on her shoulders—so sleepy that she was swaying sideways.
“It’s all right—I’ll take her to bed,” Lola replied. “You’d better give me that money, though.”
“I can carry her back,” Rose offered. “You must be worn out.”
“No—I’ll be fine, honestly.” Lola took the wad of money from her cousin and tucked it down the front of her blouse. “It’d be a shame for you to come away now, just when the fun’s about to start. I’ve seen it all before—but you haven’t.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
Lola nodded. She looked around for Cristóbal, but he had already melted into the crowd. She wondered if she should warn Rose about him. But Rose was clearly used to taking care of herself. A woman who traveled alone in a tent with only a dog for company must know how to handle unwanted attention from men.
“Have a good time,” Lola said as she took Nieve into her arms. “Will we see you tomorrow?”
Rose nodded. “My bus doesn’t leave until four o’clock.”
“Come and have something to eat before you go.”
“Thank you—I’d like that.”
“Oh—and bring your dog.” Lola smiled over her shoulder. “Nieve’s fallen in love with him. I’m going to have a hard job stopping her from jumping on that bus with you.”
Rose was kneeling on the sand, a few yards away from the bonfire, holding a steaming hunk of roast beef out in front of her to stop the juices running onto her clothes. Cristóbal laughed as he sank down beside her.
“We’re going to have to go for a swim in the sea after this—just to get clean,” he said.
Rose glanced at him, wondering if he was serious. No one would see them in the dark. They wouldn’t have to bother about keeping their clothes on. The thought of being naked in the water with him stoked a fire inside that had nothing to do with the hot food she was eating.
“I suppose we could dance first, though, couldn’t we?” He tossed a bone through the air. It landed with a small splash in the waves. “Do you like dancing?”
Rose nodded. “I have to warn you—I’m not very graceful. I hate to think what Lola would say if she saw me.”
“Well, she won’t, because she’s safely tucked up in bed.” He slid across the space between them, slipping his arm around her waist. “I’m glad you’re not skinny, like her,” he said. “I love this.” He ran his fingers along the curve of her hips. “And this.” His hand found the bare flesh in the small of her back where her blouse had come untucked from her skirt. She felt his fingers slip beneath her waistband, setting off a throbbing pulse of lust. When he bent his head to kiss her there, she could smell the sharp citrus fragrance of the oil in his hair. They rolled over onto the sand in a steamy embrace, pulling at each other’s clothes.
But there were people everywhere. Rose tried to sit up, struggling to quench the blaze in her belly. “Cristóbal . . . I . . .”
“I know.” He placed a finger on her lips. “Not here.” He jumped to his feet and helped her up. “There’s a place farther along the beach,” he said. “No one will see us there.”
“But I . . .” She faltered, afraid of what her body was begging her to do.
“Ah! You want to dance first?” His face split into a grin. “That’s okay. We can do that.”
Hand in hand, they stumbled over the sand to the bonfire, where couples were circling the flames in a wild, galloping waltz. Cristóbal took her by the waist and pulled her close. She could feel the hardness of his body as he pressed against her. There were violins playing, the notes pouring out in a delirious shower of sound. As the music soared he lifted her up, tossing her into the air as if she were no heavier than a piece of driftwood, then catching her under the arms and spinning her around until her legs flew out behind her.
“Enough?” He chuckled as she caught her breath.
“I’m very hot.” She fanned herself with her hand. “Shall we go for that swim?”
As they made their way through the tamarisk trees and over the sand dunes, she wondered what on earth she was doing. It had been a long time since she had given herself to a man. The last person she had made love with had been a British fighter pilot called Jim Russell. She hadn’t been in love with him. She had liked him, admired him. But there hadn’t been the primal passion she felt for Cristóbal. She had gone to bed with Jim because he was convinced he was going to die. And he had been right. Three weeks after their first night together, he had been shot down over the English Channel.
That had been more than two years ago. It had left her numb, as if that part of her had gone into hibernation. The shutting down of the physical side of her nature had been compounded by the failing health of her mother. But Cristóbal had suddenly reawakened what had been slumbering inside her. Was it right to let herself go? To surrender her body to someone she was unlikely to see again after tomorrow?
A bird flew overhead, letting out a long, poignant cry. She glanced upward at a sky studded with stars. Was it the romance of it—this Gypsy fiesta with its crazy, exuberant atmosphere, taking place amid the untamed beauty of the Camargue? Was that what was making her throw caution to the wind? Looking at the stars—at the vastness of the universe—made her own actions seem utterly insignificant. Did it really matter what she did tonight?
She could hear the waves gently lapping the sand. Cristóbal was already pulling his shirt over his head. She could see the taut outline of his chest.
“Come on—it’s not cold!” He stepped out of his trousers, turning toward the sea as he kicked them onto the sand.
Rose unbuttoned her blouse, throwing it on top of his clothes. Then she wriggled out of her skirt and her underwear, almost tripping in her haste to run after him. The shock as she plunged into the water took her breath away. Her teeth began to rattle, but he pulled her to him, stilling them with the warmth of his lips and tongue. She felt as if she were floating out of time, to a place where nobody but she and he existed.
Locked together, they moved from the sea to the sand. She felt its coarseness against the wet skin of her thighs as their bodies writhed, snakelike, at the water’s edge. His mouth was on her neck, traveling down to her breasts. He circled her belly button, licking away the droplets of salt water. She moaned as he edged lower. Then, in a sudden, deft movement, he was on top of her. Inside her. As she climaxed, it flashed across her mind that she might get pregnant. For a fleeting moment she allowed herself to imagine the child they might have—a little girl like Nieve, with Gypsy curls and laughing eyes.
A wave washed over them as he rolled off her. The spray stung her eyes, bringing her sharply back to reality. Broken shells scraped her elbows as she pulled herself up. What was she thinking of? To get pregnant by a man she’d only just met—a man she was unlikely to see again after tomorrow—was a stupid idea. It was one thing to fantasize about having a child without the ties of marriage, but to bring up a baby on her own . . . that would be a monumental struggle, wouldn’t it?
But Lola did it.
The thought flashed through her mind as she pulled on her clothes, swiftly followed by the realization that whatever the rights and wrongs, it was too late now.
Gunesh growled at Rose when she pulled back the tent flap. It was as if he knew what she had been up to and disapproved. She rummaged around in the dark and found him a biscuit. Then she rubbed the fur between his ears, murmuring an apology for leaving him for such a long t
ime.
When he’d settled down, she wriggled into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. Her skin felt tight and gritty from the salt water and sand. Her body ached but her brain was fizzing. Images of Cristóbal flickered on the inside of her eyelids.
He’d tried to make love to her a second time on the way back from the beach. Passing the paddock, they had collapsed onto a pile of straw beside the fence, oblivious to the sharp prickle of the dry stalks on their naked flesh.
“Camelo el olor de tu piel.” I love the smell of your skin. He had whispered the words in a mixture of Spanish and kalo. And she had murmured a reply that had made him laugh because, in trying to tell him that she loved his body, she had confused the word cuerpo with the word culo, which meant bottom.
She had felt a delicious sense of freedom. It was so tempting to just let go after suppressing this part of herself for so long. But she’d told him she was afraid of getting pregnant. It hadn’t put him off, but in the end they had both fallen asleep, waking an hour or so later to the sound of what the English Gypsies called “horse music”—the neighing, whinnying, and snorting of dozens of animals, made restless by the proximity of slumbering humans.
She had stumbled the few yards to her tent, wondering if he would want to climb in next to her. But he had said good night with a long, lingering kiss before making his way back across the field to his wagon.
The people camped near her tent had gone on singing until the early hours of the morning, making it even harder to get to sleep. But somehow, she must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes again, it was light outside.
“Rose!”
Still semiconscious, she thought it was Cristóbal calling to her. She fumbled her way out of her sleeping bag.
“Es-tu réveillée?” Are you awake?
The question, spoken in French, penetrated the fug of sleep. It was Jean Beau-Marie, not Cristóbal, trying to rouse her.
She parted the tent flap just enough to see out. “I’m not dressed.”
“Sorry—I wanted to say goodbye. My people are leaving now.”
“Oh—what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.” He smiled. “Did you have a good time last night? I didn’t see you.”
“I . . . I was with the Spanish girl I told you about: the dancer.” It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.
“Well, I came to give you these.” His hand went to the pocket of his jacket. “To wish you luck on your journey.” He put a twist of brown paper on the patch of ground in front of the tent flap.
“Oh, Jean—that’s . . .” His kindness shamed her. Holding the tent flap with one hand, she slid out her other arm and drew in the little package. Unfolding the paper, she discovered a pair of Gypsy earrings of beaten copper set with stones the color of the kingfisher that had flashed in front of her on her walk across the Camargue marshes.
“Do you like them?”
“They’re beautiful, Jean—I . . . I . . .” She faltered, overwhelmed by his unconditional generosity.
“Will you put them on? I’d like to see you wear them.”
“Yes, of course—let me get dressed. I’ll make us some coffee.”
He shook his head. “I can’t stay—the horses are already harnessed. Just show me how they look.”
She hooked the copper wires through her ears and opened the tent flap wide enough for him to see her head and shoulders. “There! What do you think?”
“They suit you very well.” She saw the Adam’s apple in his throat rise and fall. “I knew they would. They belonged to my mother—she had eyes just like yours.” He stood up. “Take care of yourself, Rose. Perhaps you’ll think of me when you wear them.”
Tears welled as she waved him goodbye. Her fingers went to the earrings. She didn’t deserve them. If he’d known what she’d really been doing last night, he wouldn’t even have come to say goodbye, let alone bestowed such a precious gift on her.
The self-loathing persisted as she attempted to clean herself up. She wetted a flannel with the few inches of water she had left in the billycan, trying to erase all traces of the previous night. Memories that had intoxicated her just a few hours ago resurfaced with the painful clarity of a hangover. She had made love—without taking precautions—with a man she was likely never to see again. What had she been thinking of? How had she allowed herself to get so carried away?
She stuffed her sandy, salt-encrusted clothes into the bottom of her rucksack and pulled on a cotton dress. It was very wrinkled, but at least it was clean. She hoped the creases would fall out as she moved around.
Gunesh tugged at the lead as she fastened up the tent flap.
“I’m coming—be patient,” she said. Poor thing. He’d already been patient. He should have been walked hours ago. It was yet another thing to feel guilty about.
She’d only got a few yards from the tent when Nieve darted out from between the caravans.
“I thought you were never coming!” She fell on the dog’s neck, laughing when he twisted around to lick her face. “Mama’s making tortilla—do you want some?”
“I might, if I knew what it was.” Rose hoped the little girl wouldn’t see through her brittle smile. The thought of eating breakfast with Cristóbal made her stomach flip over. What if he was as embarrassed as she was? Acted as if nothing had happened? Worse still, what if he had bragged to Lola about last night?
“It’s eggs and onions and potato fried in butter,” Nieve said, “with other stuff thrown in, like mushrooms or snails. There might be sausage with it today—Mama says we’re rich now!”
“That sounds delicious.” Rose took the child’s outstretched hand. “Is . . . your uncle helping with the cooking?”
Nieve rolled her eyes. “He’s much too lazy for that! He never wakes up until the afternoon.”
Rose felt her apprehension evaporate. With a bit of luck, she could have a bite to eat and get away before Cristóbal surfaced.
Lola was breaking eggs into an enamel bowl when they reached the wagon. The sausages, already cooked, were keeping warm in a cloth-wrapped metal skillet.
“Can I do anything to help?” Rose asked as Lola spread out a blanket for her to sit on.
“No—you’re our guest,” Lola replied.
“I don’t mind, honestly. I feel guilty being waited on. You’re the one who should be taking it easy. Did you find it hard to get to sleep after all that excitement? I’m sure I would have.” Rose watched her face, looking for any sign that Lola might know what had taken place after she’d gone off to bed.
“It did take me a while.” Lola smiled as she took a head of garlic from a basket. Slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her skirt, she pulled out a wicked-looking knife. “I couldn’t help thinking about what I could do with all that money—well, my share of it. Cristóbal will have half, of course.” She dug the knife into the garlic and pulled out three cloves. Peeling off the skin, she sliced them into the bowl of eggs. “It means Nieve and I can move to Madrid.”
“Oh? Why the big city?”
“It’s where España Films is based. That’s what I’d really love to do. Be a dancer in the movies.”
“That sounds amazing! You’d be perfect, I’m sure.”
“It’s just a dream, really. I don’t know if I stand a chance.”
“I’d say that after last night, there’s nothing you can’t pull off.” Rose was watching Lola throw an assortment of torn herbs into the beaten eggs. She could smell parsley, mint, and basil. The mixture hissed as Lola poured it into a frying pan. Rose didn’t hear Gunesh come bounding up behind her. He put his paws on her shoulders, almost knocking her over. Nieve followed, out of breath as she hovered on the edge of the blanket.
“I’ve taught Gunesh to dance! Look!” Nieve clapped her hands twice, and the dog went to her side. She clicked her fingers, moving her hands from side to side in a swaying motion. Gunesh crossed his right paw over his left, then the left over the right.
Rose laughed.
“That’s fantastic! How did you teach him all that?”
“With sausage.” Nieve shot a sideways look at the covered pan perched on an upturned wooden apple crate. “I only took two.” She glanced at Lola, who gave an exasperated sigh.
“Those were supposed to be for us!”
“I know. But you said we were rich now—so I thought it wouldn’t matter.”
“I don’t mind not having any,” Rose said quickly. “The tortilla smells absolutely delicious.”
A few minutes later, they were eating. Lola had cut the remaining sausages into small chunks so that each of them had some. Rose had a hard job trying to stop Gunesh from snaffling hers.
“He’s going to want this for breakfast every day now.” She smiled as she pushed his muzzle away from her plate.
“Well, he could if you came with us, couldn’t he, Mama?” Nieve gave Lola a crafty look.
“Nieve! You mustn’t be a pest!” Lola shook her head. “She’s been going on at me all morning—she keeps asking if you can come with us, back to Granada. I told her you have your own plans—that you’re going by train—but she won’t listen.”
“Why can’t you come with us, Auntie Rose?” Nieve piped up. “It would be such fun—you could camp beside our wagon, and I could teach Gunesh more tricks!”
“She hasn’t got time for that, cariño,” Lola said. She glanced at Rose with an apologetic smile. “I told her that you have an important job in England that you have to get back to—that you don’t have time to travel slowly like us.”
Rose looked at Nieve. The child was staring at her with imploring eyes. “Well, I’m not in a terrific hurry,” she said. “I’ve taken the whole summer off, so . . .” She hesitated, the possibilities whirling in her mind. The thought of ambling through Spain with a group of Gypsies was tantalizing. But what about Cristóbal? What would he say if he could hear this conversation? It occurred to her that he might already know about Nieve’s suggestion—that he had, perhaps, encouraged her to make it.
The Snow Gypsy Page 10