The Snow Gypsy(18)
Before she could ask, he gave her the answer. “Lola lived in that part of Spain until she was fourteen,” he said. “I’ve never been there myself. Her mother was my father’s sister, but he left the mountains before I was born.”
Rose tried to conceal her disappointment. “I’m going to show her Nathan’s photograph in the morning,” she said.
He didn’t reply. He was staring into his glass, rubbing his index finger around the rim. His nails were long, for a man. But only on that hand—his guitar-strumming hand, Rose thought. The fingers of the left hand, spread out on the table, had stubby ends.
“I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much,” she went on. “I mean, it’s enough that I know the name of the village. I can go and talk to the people who still live there.”
He looked up, his eyes dark slits in the candlelight. “It might not be as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“People in Spain don’t like to talk about the Civil War. It’s like a family secret, best not spoken about, best hidden in the back of the drawer and left there until it can do no more harm.”
“But it’s seven years since the fighting ended. Surely they—”
“That may be true,” he cut in. “But the guilt and the shame don’t go away. So many people died. There were atrocities on both sides. And in the villages, it’s worse than in the cities because everyone knows what their neighbor did. It’s like . . .” He paused, his eyes focusing on his glass again. “It’s like waking up with the worst hangover you’ve ever had, thinking that the images in your head are from a bad nightmare—then realizing that it really happened. That you really did those terrible things.”
I’d like to marry her—but they murdered the priest last summer.
The sentence from Nathan’s letter flashed through Rose’s mind. Shocking in its matter-of-fact brevity. It conveyed that a line had been crossed, that this was a place where there were no moral boundaries. How long would it take for a community to talk openly about something like that? A decade? A generation?
“Uncle Cristóbal!” Nieve came charging into the bar like a whirlwind, almost knocking over the table. “They’re not very good, those Portuguese! The woman twirled round so fast her skirt got caught in her knickers! Everyone was laughing!”
“Hmm.” Cristóbal’s face changed in a heartbeat. With a disarming smile he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “We’d better go and show them how it should be done, then, hadn’t we?”
Rose squeezed through the crowd of onlookers, following in Cristóbal’s wake. She couldn’t help wondering if he had been talking about himself back there in the bar. Had he done terrible things during the Civil War? Or had he been using the word you in a more general sense?
“Come on.” Nieve had a tight hold of her hand. “You can say that you’re with us.” The child had to raise her voice to make herself heard. “That means you’ll be able to sit down instead of standing up.”
When they reached the makeshift arena, Rose saw that three bales of straw had been placed at the side of it.
“Those are for us,” Nieve said. “Mama won’t need hers—you can have that one.”
“Are you sure?” Rose glanced at Cristóbal, who sank down on one of the bales and began tuning his guitar. He nodded without looking up.
“Look! Mama’s coming!” Nieve pointed to where the crowd was parting. Lola emerged, as exotic as a tiger lily, in a tight-fitting dress of orange-and-black silk. Her hair was studded with marigolds, and a shawl of black lace was draped over her shoulders.
A hush fell over the spectators as she took her place on the wooden board. There was a look of intense concentration on her face. She seemed to be completely oblivious to the crowd pressing in around her. With one foot in front of the other, she raised her arms above her head, stretching her body into a sinuous arc. She held the pose, her eyes fiercely proud, her painted lips unsmiling. Then, with a dramatic sweep of her arms, the dance began.
There was no music for this first sequence. Simply the palmas—the rhythmic clapping of hands performed by Cristóbal and Nieve, which kept perfect time with the staccato beat of Lola’s feet. The way she moved was magnetic. Every watcher was transfixed. Her body transmitted an ethereal beauty, as if possessed by some otherworldly spirit.
When the dance ended, the applause was thunderous. Nieve flashed a smile at Rose. But other than a slight nod of acknowledgment, Lola remained impassive. She closed her eyes and angled her arms and head, waiting for the next sequence to begin. Cristóbal picked up his guitar, and his fingers rippled across the strings, the notes conjuring a poignant sense of longing. Then, as Lola started to move, he began to sing.
It was the strangest sound: anguished and yet utterly compelling. As if he were leaving a little piece of his soul in each line. Rose couldn’t discern the words, but it didn’t matter. The song transcended language. It spoke of some primeval pain that drew an echo from the hearts of all who heard it. And Lola gave life to all that emotion. The way she held her head, arched her body, snatched her shawl from her shoulders and whipped the ground—her dancing electrified the air around her.
Rose felt as if all her pent-up grief was suddenly exposed. It made her feel raw, vulnerable—and yet it was somehow cleansing and cathartic.