The Snow Gypsy(13)
It was easy to find the place Cristóbal had gone to. The church tower dwarfed the other buildings of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Lola wondered how such a magnificent structure had come to be erected in what was just a small fishing village. She had thought it was only big cities, like Granada, that had great turreted fortresses. But this place echoed the might of the Alhambra in the way it dominated the landscape around it.
She spotted her cousin in front of the great wooden door, playing his guitar to a group of women. Lola saw one of them giggle softly as he glanced up at her. The others exchanged furtive looks from beneath dark-lashed eyelids. The women were all young—no older than herself—and had clearly taken great care over their appearance. Their dresses made a rainbow of colors—red, orange, yellow, turquoise, violet—and their hair shone blue black where the sun touched it.
“Oh, Cristóbal,” Lola muttered under her breath. “You just can’t resist, can you?”
“What can’t Uncle Cristóbal do?” Nieve tugged at Lola’s sleeve.
“Nothing, cari?o.” Lola took Nieve’s hand as she scanned the teeming village square. “Let’s go and look for those ribbons, shall we?”
The child nodded eagerly. “And when I’ve got them on, I want to go and show them to Saint Sara!”
Lola frowned. “She’s not a real person—I mean, she was, once upon a time. But now she’s . . . well, she’s like a doll—a very big doll made of wood.”
“I still want to show her my ribbons.” Nieve stuck out her bottom lip.
“Yes, of course you can. We’ve got plenty of time.” Lola ushered Nieve past the women simpering over her cousin. “I’m sure Uncle Cristóbal won’t mind.”
Rose stood in the shadow of one of the vardos, waiting for Jean to explain who she was. But Gunesh was not so polite. Perhaps it was the smell of rabbit stew that sent him bounding from her grasp. The Gypsies didn’t seem to mind. They clustered around him, clearly taken with his statuesque good looks. As his owner, she commanded their interest even before she’d handed out her gifts of coffee and tobacco.
Jean explained that the people in the group were mainly from northern Spain. Some of the men had fought as partisans during the Spanish Civil War, but none had gone as far south as Granada.
“I’d still like them to see my brother’s photograph.” She took it from her jacket pocket and handed it to him. “He would have traveled through northern Spain if he managed to get to France.”
If Jean thought it was a waste of time, his face didn’t show it. He passed the image around and Rose watched the men’s faces. There was much scratching of heads and narrowing of eyes. Clearly they wanted to help. But no one recognized Nathan.
One of the men gesticulated at Jean. Rose couldn’t tell if he was speaking Spanish or kalo, his voice was so gruff.
“He says there’s a group from Granada in the next field—he’s offering to take us to them.”
The gloom that had settled on Rose dissolved in a heartbeat. Murmuring hurried thanks to the others, she grabbed Gunesh by the collar and followed the man through a maze of wagons. To her right she caught glimpses of the sea, glinting amber in the afternoon light. A pair of flamingos glided across the sky, their long bodies silhouetted against the orange orb of the sun. Despite the nearness of the water, Rose couldn’t hear the rumble of the waves on the beach. The cacophony in the field drowned out all other sounds. Fires crackled, dogs barked, horses snorted, and babies wailed. Men yelled at dogs, and women screeched at children. Fortune-tellers called out to Rose as she passed by, and flower sellers stepped in her way, thrusting bunches of jasmine and lavender under her nose.
It was a relief when they reached the dirt track that separated the two camping areas. Skirting around the edge of the field, their guide took them straight to the place where the Granada Gypsies had set up home. He indicated a circle of a dozen or so vardos, distinguished from the others by bunches of dried pomegranates hung on string from the carved wooden fronts of the wagons. Pointing at the tawny globes rattling together in the breeze, he turned and muttered something to Jean.
“He says the fruit is their symbol,” Jean said to Rose. “We hang things up to represent the places we come from. We have cabbages—they have pomegranates.”
“Where is everyone?” Rose could see no one on the steps of the wagons or on the patches of land in between them.
“They’ve only just arrived,” Jean replied. “The men are probably sorting out the horses, and the women and children are out fetching water and firewood.”
“Oh.” Rose tried not to show her frustration. “I suppose I’d better come back later, then? At least I know where they are now.”
Their guide was climbing up the steps of one of the vardos. He rapped on the wooden door, then put his ear to it. He turned to Rose and Jean and shrugged. “Lo siento.”
For the first time, Rose understood what he was saying. It meant “I’m sorry.”
“De nada,” she replied. It’s nothing. She made herself smile as she said it. It had been kind of him to take the trouble to bring her here. She mustn’t keep him from his family. But she couldn’t help feeling that her chances of getting the Granada Gypsies to listen to her would be severely limited without his presence. She had already parted with all the gifts she had purchased in Arles. An outsider with nothing to offer, she feared instant rejection from these new people.