The Snow Gypsy(15)
“Merci beaucoup,” Rose replied. “Mais non.” Having her future told at this precise moment seemed like a very bad idea.
“Ah, je comprends,” the woman replied. “Vous êtes très pieuse!”
Rose didn’t try to contradict her. It was too complicated to explain that she was not a Catholic but a Jew—a Jew who belonged to neither synagogue nor church but drew inspiration from the writings of an early Christian mystic. Easier to let this woman think that she was too pious to believe in fortune-telling.
She bought three candles and stepped into the dark interior of the church. The scent of incense and beeswax hung heavy in the air. At the far end of the huge vaulted nave, the shrine of the two Marys glowed with hundreds of tiny lights. As Rose got closer she could make out the flesh-tinted faces of the plaster saints. Lit from beneath, they had an eerily lifelike look.
She wasn’t particularly keen on these garishly painted images. From what she’d read in Baedeker’s guide, the statue in the crypt down below sounded more appealing, carved out of wood and unadorned. But she didn’t feel she could venture down there. It was the Gypsies’ special place. Bill Lee had told her that his people would resent anyone who was not of their own blood entering the shrine of the Black Virgin. It was a pity because Sara sounded like just the sort of saint she could relate to: practical, down to earth, and a friend to wanderers who weren’t quite sure where they were going.
Rose lingered in the shadows, watching people line up to kiss the feet of the two Marys. She hadn’t come here to do that. What had drawn her to the church was a longing to be in a space that felt calm and spiritual. It wasn’t that she disliked crowds or music or dancing. That was something she loved about the Gypsy way of life—the ability to conjure up a party at the drop of a hat. But after what had happened this afternoon, it was the last thing she wanted to do. In the tent she had felt trapped, surrounded by so many people enjoying themselves. But in here the atmosphere was very different. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scented air, letting the peace of the place soak into her.
When she opened her eyes, she remembered the three candles she’d stuffed into her pocket. There was less of a crowd around the shrine now. She could go and light them. She walked slowly up to the feet of the statues and took a taper from one of the containers positioned on a ledge in front of the shrine. She placed her candles in a row of others. One for Nathan and one for each of her parents. But when she lit the taper and held it to the wicks, they wouldn’t catch. The moment each one flared up, it blew out. Rose glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t feel any draft coming from the door. The other candles in the row were all alight. She tried a second time. Then a third. But flame after flame blew out.
Suddenly Rose felt someone tugging at her arm. She glanced around to see a little girl, no taller than her waist, staring up at her with an earnest expression.
“Ven, intenta encender las velas para Santa Sara.” The red ribbons in her dark curls bobbed up and down as she spoke.
“Santa Sara?” Rose smiled at her, puzzled by the foreign words spoken so quickly.
“Av akai!”
This was more familiar. It sounded just like a phrase Bill and his sisters had used when they wanted her to accompany them to some place or another. The child was pointing to the three candles. Rose suddenly grasped what the child was trying to say: she was telling her to take them down to the crypt.
Rose glanced over her shoulder, wondering who the little girl was with. “?Tu madre?” Your mother? She swept a hand at the people gathered around the shrine.
“Abajo.” The child jerked her thumb at the floor, then beckoned Rose to follow her.
The hesitation was momentary. This was an invitation from a Gypsy child to enter the inner sanctum of her people. To turn away would be worse than going where she was not supposed to go.
“Soy Nieve,” the girl said as they made their way down a narrow flight of stone steps.
“Nyeh-veh.” Rose repeated the name as it sounded. It was not one she had ever heard before.
“?Cómo te llamas?”
“Rose.”
“Rose.” The child drew out the word, as if trying it for size. “?Como Rosa?”
“Yes, like Rosa.” The Spanish was coming more easily to her now. Perhaps it was because with someone so young, she felt less self-conscious.
A hum of whispered voices, like a swarm of bees, was coming from the crypt. When Rose reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw a room that looked like a cave, its rough walls studded with pinpricks of light from the candles placed in every available nook and cranny. The statue of Saint Sara was much smaller than the plaster saints in the main part of the church. The wood from which it was carved looked like ebony, but as Rose got closer, she could see that the dark color had been painted on. The Black Virgin had brown almond-shaped eyes and a mane of dark hair crowned with a circle of white roses. Unlike the Mary saints, who had been dressed for the fiesta in shiny satin robes trimmed with gold lace, Sara wore a simple dress of faded blue cotton.
A Gypsy woman was holding her baby up to the statue, pressing the child’s face to the wooden mouth. When she lifted it back down, Rose could see that Sara’s full lips bore faint traces of red pigment, the paint kissed away by generations of worshippers. Two more children were held up in the same way; then the whole group moved toward the steps, leaving Rose and the little girl alone in the crypt.