The Snow Gypsy(20)

She left him to fuss over Gunesh while she went to the stall. She was handing out the money for the wine when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“?Rose, pensé que habías ido!” I thought you’d gone! Cristóbal looked as if he’d just unearthed buried treasure.

“I had to go and feed my dog.” She smiled back. “He’s over there.”

“Looks like someone’s trying to steal him . . .” Cristóbal was off before she could stop him.

“It’s all right—he’s my friend!” Her shout was drowned by the cacophony around her. Grabbing her bottle of wine, she tried to catch up with him, but her way was blocked by a flower seller with a huge basket of carnations.

“Vous voulez acheter?”

“Non, merci.” Rose waved away the peppery blooms thrust under her nose.

By the time she reached the fig tree, Jean Beau-Marie had vanished.

“My friend—where did he go?”

“He said he had to do something.” Cristóbal shrugged.

Rose scanned the seething mass of people in the square. “But he was going to have some wine.”

Cristóbal grinned. “I can help you drink that.”

“Where’s Lola?”

“She’s taken Nieve off to bed. There’s another competition tomorrow.”

“Another? I thought you’d won!” She shook her head. “It was breathtaking. You had the whole audience under a spell.”

“That was just the first round—tomorrow is the final. Mucho parné.”

Rose frowned, puzzled by the mixture of Spanish and kalo.

“Dinero. Mucho dinero.”

“Ah—money!” Rose mimed coins slipping through her fingers.

Cristóbal nodded. “If we win, we get five thousand francs.”

Rose did a quick calculation in her head, based on what she’d spent on groceries in Arles. French currency was worth nowhere near as much as before the war, in the days when she’d stayed with her aunt and uncle in Paris. But five thousand francs was still a lot of money. “That’s a big prize,” she said.

“Yes, it is.”

From somewhere behind Cristóbal there came a sudden loud noise, like a thunderclap. Gunesh echoed it with a deafening bark.

“What was that?” Rose swooped down, putting a protective arm around the dog.

“It’s the start of the drumming contest—want to go and see?”

Rose shook her head. “It’ll scare my dog. I’d better take him back.”

Cristóbal watched her untie the lead from the tree. “I’ll walk with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I’d like to.”

She glanced at his face. The light from the torches gave it a golden glow. His smile was almost angelic. He dropped down to stroke Gunesh, whispering something into his fur. The dog responded by licking him on the nose. It was all the approval Rose needed.



Cristóbal had got the fire going by the time Rose emerged from the tent.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any glasses—just these.” She held out two tin mugs.

“That’s okay.” He uncorked the bottle with his teeth. “It’ll taste just as good.” He settled down on the ground beside Gunesh. “I’ve never seen a dog like this before. What breed is he?”

“He’s an Afghan. From Afghanistan.” Rose sat down, the dog between them. “My father was a businessman who traded in rugs and gemstones. He often went on buying trips to Afghanistan. He brought Gunesh back with him. He was only a puppy—just a few weeks old.”

Cristóbal nodded. “How old is he now?”

“He’s ten.” She ran her hand along the length of the dog’s back. “Quite an old man now, aren’t you?” Gunesh burrowed his nose between his paws.

“Did you always want to be a vet?”

She nodded. “When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to come to visit us from Turkey. He always brought me a pet—sometimes a kitten, other times a lizard or a tortoise. But every time, after a couple of months, the animal would get sick. It would be taken down to the basement, and that would be the last I ever saw of it. My parents never told me my pet had died. I suppose they didn’t want to hurt me. But it made me desperate to learn how to cure animals.”

“I have a dog, back in Granada,” Cristóbal said. “I would have brought him along, but he’s not used to traveling. He’s a house dog.”

Rose had never met a Gypsy who lived in a house. When she told Cristóbal this, he explained that in Spain there were two types of Gypsies—house dwellers and nomads—and that he and Lola belonged to the first group. He told her about the cave houses in Granada that transformed into dance floors by night, where tourists flocked to see flamenco.

“Not all of us are dancers or musicians,” he went on. “There are basket makers, cobblers, flower sellers, blacksmiths. My father was a blacksmith—he left the mountains because there was more work to be had in Granada.”

Rose sipped her wine, hovering on the edge of asking what had been on her mind all evening. “What was it like in Granada during the Civil War?”