The Snow Gypsy(17)

“Mama!” Nieve was suddenly beside them, eager eyed. “Uncle Cristóbal says it’s time to get ready!”

Lola stood up, her face betraying no hint of what she had been about to reveal. “I can look at your brother’s photograph tomorrow,” she said, “but tonight, why don’t you come and watch me dance?”





Chapter 8

Men were lighting flaming torches in the center of the village square. They cast a golden glow on the faces of the people who had already gathered to get the best view of what was about to take place. There was no stage in the square for Lola to dance on. Like all the other flamenco artists at the fiesta, she was required to perform on wooden boards laid on the paving stones.

“I just have to get changed.” Lola turned to Nieve, holding out her hand.

The child shook her head. “I want to take Rose to say hello to Uncle Cristóbal.”

Lola glanced across the square. “Where is he? I can’t see him.”

“He said he was going in there.” Nieve pointed to a door with a metal sign hanging above it. The light from the torches caught the lettering of a brand of beer.

“I don’t think Rose will want to—”

“It’s all right,” Rose cut in. “I don’t mind.”

Lola held her eyes for a moment, as if she were weighing her up. Then, with the slightest movement of her head, she turned away, disappearing into the darkness on the edge of the square.

“Come on.” Nieve took Rose’s hand. Rose smiled, thinking how strange it was that this little girl had led her to the information she had sought for so long. A child who was the same age that Nathan’s son or daughter would be, if he or she were alive.

“Uncle Cristóbal’s quite old,” Nieve said as they walked toward the door of the tavern. “Much older than Mama.”

Rose visualized someone grizzled and possibly toothless, so it came as a surprise when they entered the shadowy room and Nieve pointed to a man who looked no older than midthirties.

He was handsome—Rose could tell that at once, despite the dim light. She studied him as Nieve babbled away to her uncle. His wavy black hair was slicked back from his face, like the glossy coat of a seal. He had a fine, well-shaped nose and intense eyes. He wore a white shirt with a striped neckerchief loosely knotted at his throat. As he lifted his beer glass, Rose saw that he had a leather thong threaded with glass beads tied around his wrist.

“?Encantado!” He took Rose’s hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he hoisted Nieve onto his lap and whispered something in her ear. With a giggle, she went scampering off outside.

“Will you have a glass of wine?” He pulled out the chair beside him, moving the guitar that was propped against the backrest.

“Is there time?” Rose glanced toward the door, wondering where Nieve had gone.

“We don’t start for another half an hour or so. I sent Nieve to check out the competition. There’s a troupe from Portugal on before us.”

Rose nodded. She hadn’t realized it was a contest.

“My cousin is very nervous. It’s her first public performance outside Granada.” He motioned to the barman. “You like red wine or white? Or a beer?”

“Red wine would be lovely.” Rose couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted wine of either color. In London there were still shortages of everything, despite the war having ended eight months ago. There was always beer to be had in the pubs, but wine was not part of the culture in Britain in the way it was in continental Europe. It had been something her parents found strange—there had always been bottles of claret and champagne in the cellar at her childhood home in Cheshire. But that was another life.

The barman placed a tulip-shaped glass in front of her along with a little dish of black olives.

“?Salud!” Cristóbal clinked his glass against hers. “So, Nieve told me you come from England. And you look like one of us, but she says you’re not. Is it true?” He took hold of the earthenware saucer with a stub of candle in it, holding the flame in front of Rose’s face. “Your eyes are gray, aren’t they? Not Gypsy black. But they’re the same shape as ours—and you have the cheekbones.”

Rose felt like a horse being inspected by a wary buyer. There was something rather too familiar about his manner. But the way he looked at her was disarming. She could feel something inside her melting under his gaze.

“I think there must be some Gypsy blood in my family,” she said. “On my father’s side, probably. He was Turkish—from the port of Smyrna. My grandfather—his father—used to read my hand when he came to visit us: the dukeripen—you know?”

Cristóbal smiled, his teeth glinting in the candlelight. “So you know kalo, too?”

“I know some Romany words,” Rose replied. “That’s what they call the Gypsy language in England. But I’m told they’re quite alike.”

“How did you learn?”

She saw him looking at her left hand. He must be wondering if she was married to a Gypsy. She told him about the summer she’d spent on the Sussex marshes, about the Lee family and her mission to find herbal cures for animals.

“I suppose that’s something I might have inherited from my father’s side of the family,” she said. “I love animals—especially dogs. And my brother, Nathan, has the Gypsy passion for horses.” She checked herself, realizing she was talking about him in the present tense. “That’s why I’ve come here—to try and find out what happened to my brother.” She repeated what she’d told his cousin. “I could hardly believe it when Lola said she knew the village Nathan talked about in his letter.” It suddenly occurred to her that as a relative, Cristóbal might know the place, too. That he might have been one of the Gypsy partisans Nathan had mentioned. He was certainly the right age.