The Snow Gypsy(14)

As she watched him walk away, she heard a shout from the sea side of the field. Through a gap in the wagons, she spotted a group of men with horse tack slung over their shoulders. They were heading toward Rose and Jean. The guide, who had caught sight of them, too, turned back, waving.

Minutes later the men were passing around Nathan’s photograph. Unlike the Spaniards she had met earlier, they were asking questions. Which brigade did her brother belong to? What was the name of the mountain range where he was based? Did she know the name of the nearest town?

The first question was easy. She told them that Nathan had been a member of the Fourteenth International Brigade and that he had traveled to the region south of Granada after training in a city called Albacete. But she was unable to answer their other questions. All she could do was repeat the story Nathan had told about the legendary fountain in the village near to where he had lived.

The men looked at one another and shook their heads. Apparently they had never heard of such a place. It must be on the other side of the Sierra Nevada, they said—the side that faced across the water to Africa. It could be in another mountain range entirely: the Contraviesa, perhaps, which ran west to east between the snowcapped peaks south of Granada and the Mediterranean.

Rose stared at her boots. They were trying so hard to help her, but she felt more confused than ever. She asked if there was anyone else in their party who might know of the village Nathan had described. The answer was no. The only other people traveling with them were a guitarist and his cousin, a dancer. Both lived in the city and were house dwellers, not travelers.

Tears blurred Rose’s vision as Jean led her back through the field to her tent.

“I have to go now.” He took both her hands in his. His eyes, as dark as sea-washed stones, echoed her pain. “We could try again tomorrow. There might be others . . .” He trailed off, looking away, too honest to give her false hope.

She nodded, dropping her hands to release his. “Thank you,” she said. “You mustn’t worry about me. I knew when I came here that the chances were very slim.”

“What will you do?”

“It’s a fiesta.” She managed a wry smile. “I might as well make the most of it.”

“Well, if you need me, I’m over there.” He pointed to the side of the field closest to the village.

When he’d gone, she went inside the tent and spent a while just gazing at Nathan’s image, as if she could divine the answers to the Gypsies’ questions by some sort of telepathy. But it left her feeling more miserable and bereft than ever. What on earth had she thought she was doing, setting off on a trek across Europe, grasping at straws? She leaned across to where her rucksack lay and thrust her arm inside it, burrowing among the clothes. She pulled out a book, its cover stained and creased. It fell open at her favorite page.

“‘All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.’” She whispered the words to herself like a mantra. They had been written more than six centuries ago by a British nun who’d had herself walled up alive in a cell inside Norwich Cathedral and spent her days giving words of comfort to unseen people in need on the outside, via a window high up in the wall.

Rose had turned to this book countless times over the past few years. Its pages contained a profound, reassuring wisdom that transcended the boundaries of religion. But now, as she stared at the familiar phrase, she failed to feel that reassurance. How could all be well? How could she go on with her search for Nathan when she’d failed at the first hurdle?

You know, Rose, everything that is lost will be found . . .

How empty those words of Bill’s sounded now.

She reached out her hand to Gunesh, who had settled himself against her legs. Sensing her sadness, he lifted his head and licked her chin. She buried her face in his coat.

“I can’t stay here all evening, can I?” She mumbled the words into the silky golden hair. The thought of venturing into the melee outside was daunting. But the idea of being cooped up with her own thoughts was much worse.

The dog thrust out his legs in a long, luxurious stretch, his front paws almost sticking through the tent flap.

“Well, you can stay if you want to. I don’t suppose you got much sleep in the guard’s van, did you?”

Rose wasn’t in the habit of going anywhere without Gunesh if she could help it. But feeling the way she did, there was only one place she could think of going—and it was somewhere dogs were not allowed.



The setting sun had turned the sky into a bonfire. Tiny charcoal clouds drifted across the sea, glowing red where the dying rays touched them. The smell of cooking was everywhere. As Rose made her way across the field, she felt a gnawing in her stomach. All she’d had to eat since leaving the train was an apple and a slice of bread and cheese. She wondered if there might be stalls selling hot food in the village square. Perhaps. But that would have to wait.

The tower of the church cast a long shadow across the road. As she drew near, she saw that people were still standing in line to buy candles. A few yards away there was a man selling pancakes. The scent of frying batter made her mouth water. She thought about buying one but decided instead to save it as a treat for later.

Rose took her place behind an elderly French woman with skin like polished leather who asked her if she would like her palm read while she waited. The word she used—dukeripen—was one Rose had often heard when she was among English Gypsies.