The Snow Gypsy(10)
Gunesh licked her face all over when she went to fetch him from the guard’s van at Avignon, unable to understand why he’d had to spend a night without her. When she’d made a fuss of him, she went to collect her rucksack from the baggage car. It was very heavy. Crammed into the main compartment were a tent, cooking utensils, and a sleeping bag, along with a few basic toiletries and a small assortment of clothes. She had no idea how long this journey would last—or where it would end—but what she had in her rucksack would enable her to stay in Spain for the whole of the summer if she needed to.
She bought food in Arles while she waited for the bus that would take her to the little town where the Gypsy fiesta was being held. She wasn’t sure whether there would be many shops in such a place, and she didn’t want to arrive without something to offer the people she hoped would help her. If these Gypsies were anything like the ones she had met in England, they would be happy with simple gifts of things they couldn’t find or make themselves, such as tobacco, tea, and coffee. She stuffed packets of each of these into the side pockets of her rucksack, along with bread, cheese, and apples for herself.
On the bus she got her first glimpse of the wild landscape called the Camargue. The wetlands bordering the Mediterranean Sea were nothing like the Sussex marshes. Sand dunes crowned with pink-blossomed tamarisk trees lined the seashore. Coral-winged flamingos stood knee deep in the brackish water, balancing precariously on one leg, and shy white egrets picked their way across muddy banks to nests concealed in swathes of marsh grass.
Rose caught her breath as she spotted a trio of wild white horses charging through a water meadow, their manes and tails flying out behind them like sea foam. And farther on, she caught a glimpse of a huge black bull lumbering out of a clump of bulrushes, its coat gleaming like polished ebony in the sunshine.
As the bus neared its destination, she caught sight of the Gypsy caravans. There were whole fields full of them, a sea of painted wagons with lines of washing strung between them, fluttering in the breeze. She saw naked children kicking up clouds of dust as they chased each other under the vardos and out the other side. Dogs snoozed in the shade while women sat on steps, peeling vegetables, plaiting rush baskets, or combing their hair. Men were strumming guitars and saddling up horses. At the edge of one field, she glimpsed two youths, stripped to the waist, fists flying in a bare-knuckle fight.
It was a far bigger gathering than she had imagined. There must be hundreds, possibly thousands of people camped out around the little seaside town. She wondered if it had always been like this or whether the prohibition of such meetings during the war had led to a surge in numbers now that it was over. Where on earth was she going to start searching among such a vast crowd?
The bus dropped her right in the center of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, outside the medieval church. The building towered over the little fishing village like an enormous ship. Its walls were built like a fortress, with arrow-slit windows and castellated turrets. Above the great wooden door was an elegant metal cross whose lower end opened into a heart sitting on an anchor.
She had read about the history of the place in a Baedeker’s guide to Provence. According to local legend, two female followers of Jesus—Mary Jacoby and Mary Salome—had fled Israel by boat after the crucifixion. Their servant, a dark-skinned Gypsy girl called Sara, had begged to be taken with them, and when the boat got lost in a storm, it was Sara who had guided the vessel by the stars and brought them safely to the Camargue. She became the Gypsies’ very own saint—and they came from all corners of Europe at this time of year to keep a vigil at her shrine in the crypt of the church before carrying her statue in a procession to the sea.
There were queues of people going into the building. A gaggle of young women stopped to buy votive candles from a stall outside the door. They moved like flowers in the wind, their slender bodies swathed in vibrant dresses of taffeta and satin. Some were like carnations, in frilled gowns of bright red or deep pink. Some wore skirts of fluted yellow, like daffodils, while others were wrapped in the sultry purple of orchids.
As they disappeared into the dark interior of the church, a crowd of others came to take their place, all clamoring for candles. Behind them came a group of men, perhaps thirty or forty strong, some playing fiddles or flutes as they walked, others shouting out to the women, calling their names and whistling.
To be surrounded by so many people was dazzling, bewildering. Rose sank onto a bench in the shadow cast by the soaring walls of the church. She had to go and find somewhere to pitch her tent, but the thought of it was daunting. She didn’t want to encroach on the fields where the Gypsy caravans were parked. She wanted to keep a respectful distance—and in any case those fields already looked full to bursting. She wondered if she would have to camp on the beach itself. That might be the only available space.
“Bonjour, mam’zelle!”
Two Gypsy women with brilliant eyes and thick, shining hair came up to her, half a dozen children following in their wake. One of the women pointed at Rose’s rucksack. “Avez-vous des vêtements?”
“Non!” Rose pulled the bag against her legs. “Je suis désolée.” I’m sorry.
They wanted her clothes—but she had packed so frugally she had none to spare. Seeing the women’s faces harden, she pulled a paper bag from her jacket pocket. She’d bought sugared almonds at the quayside in Calais, and there were still a few left. She handed them out to the children, telling the mothers how proud they must be to have such handsome sons and daughters. It wasn’t empty praise. They were all strikingly beautiful, with the same blue-green eyes and caramel skin as the women.