The Snow Gypsy(19)
At the end of the sequence, the crowd went wild. Flowers sailed through the air and landed at Lola’s feet. Nieve ran to gather them up, her red ribbons flying out in the breeze as she bobbed up and down. Cristóbal struck up a chord. This time the music was upbeat, not melancholy.
“This one’s a llamada,” Nieve whispered as she laid down long-stemmed carnations of coral, cream, and scarlet on the seat of straw. “Watch her feet!”
Lola looked as though she had slipped into a trance. She swept one arm slowly over her head, turning as she did so, surveying the audience through half-closed eyes as she lifted her skirt to knee height with the other hand. Then, with an explosion of sound, her feet took off in a sequence so fast her shoes became a blur of black against the sun-bleached brown of the wooden board.
Rose watched in awe, wondering how it was possible to keep up such a relentless rhythm. Lola’s feet seemed to have taken on a life of their own, rapping out a storm while her upper body remained almost motionless. The only sign of the physical toll the dance was taking was a faint beading of perspiration on her forehead. She finished with a flourish of her shawl, then plucked marigolds from her hair to throw into the crowd, where they were fought over by enraptured fans. Cristóbal rose from his perch on the straw bale to take a bow beside her. What a handsome pair the cousins made, basking in the applause. For some inexplicable reason, a fragment of Cristóbal’s warning floated into Rose’s head as she watched them:
It’s like a family secret, best not spoken about . . .
What had made Lola leave her mountain home at the age of fourteen at the height of the Civil War? Had Nieve been born then? And what had happened to Cristóbal during those years? What dark shadows lurked behind those beaming smiles?
“Say thank you to your mama for me, will you, Nieve? I have to go now.” Rose bent to kiss the dark curls between the ribbons, then slipped away into the crowd, not wanting to intrude on whatever celebrations were likely to follow such resounding success.
It wasn’t very late, but she needed to feed Gunesh and let him out for a walk. Perhaps after that she could come back to the square and enjoy more of the sights and sounds of the fiesta.
The dog was still fast asleep when she undid the tent flap. He lifted his head lazily as she crawled inside. But when he heard the rustle of her rucksack, he was on his feet like a shot, almost demolishing the tent in his eagerness to get at the food she’d packed in a carefully sealed jar.
When he’d finished eating, she slipped on his collar and lead. They made their way across the field, past the amber glow of dozens of campfires, past faces flushed with heat and the excitement of what the coming night promised. There was music everywhere. Guitars, mandolins, fiddles, flutes. And those who didn’t own an instrument improvised: there were drums made from apple boxes and castanets fashioned from wooden spoons.
When they reached the square, she saw that it had been transformed into a vast outdoor ballroom. People of all ages were dancing—from wizened grandmothers to children barely able to walk. They danced in couples, in groups—some even on their own. The music was provided by fiddlers who were standing on the bales of straw that Rose, Nieve, and Cristóbal had vacated.
Rose suddenly spotted a face she recognized. The French Gypsy chief Jean Beau-Marie was dancing near the musicians, executing a complicated routine that involved rapid crossing and uncrossing of the feet. It reminded Rose of the tap-dancing classes she had been sent to as a child. She’d never been able to get the hang of it. If there was any Gypsy blood in her veins, it hadn’t bestowed the gift for dancing.
“Rose! Viens par ici!” Come over here!
Jean bounded toward her, his legs thin but powerful, like a grasshopper. He kissed her on both cheeks. She could smell something stronger than wine on his breath. Brandy, possibly, or some homemade brew.
“I can’t dance with you,” she said. “What would I do with Gunesh?”
“You can tie him to that fig tree,” Jean replied. “He’ll be quite safe. We’ll be able to watch him while we dance.”
Rose hesitated. She did love dancing, even though she wasn’t very good at it. “All right,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”
With Gunesh safely tethered to the tree, she followed Jean into the midst of the dancers. He took her hand in his, raising her arm over her head and twirling her around. Then he lifted her by the waist and spun with her, making her so dizzy she staggered like a drunk when he set her down.
“Jean! Enough!” She laughed, gasping for breath as she leaned on his arm for support. “Can’t we just do a normal dance?” She glanced at the Gypsy revelers around them. There was no such thing as normal. This was wilder than anything she’d seen in the Sussex marshes—and it was a world away from the sedate waltzes and foxtrots of London ballrooms.
Jean turned up his hands in a helpless shrug. “Would you like a drink?” He led her back to the tree where Gunesh was tethered, walking a little unsteadily himself. Rose wasn’t sure if the dancing or the alcohol was to blame. “We can get wine over there,” Jean went on, jerking his head at a stall opposite the church. “But I have something stronger back at the field.”
“Wine is fine, thank you. I’ll get it.” She wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had been so quiet and self-effacing earlier on. The drink had changed him. She wondered if it was his way of blotting out the memories that haunted him. Was the invitation to partake of something stronger a veiled attempt to get her into bed? She hoped not.