The Snow Gypsy(21)

For a long moment Cristóbal was silent, gazing into the crackling flames of the fire. “It was terrible. Unspeakable. Worse than any other city in the whole of Spain. No one knows exactly how many died. It was more than twenty thousand. Not just men—they killed women and children, too. People would denounce their neighbors to settle old scores, and the next thing you knew, the Guardia Civil would arrive on the doorstep. There was no justice—just mass executions.”

“What was it like for you?” She held her breath.

“I wasn’t there.” He brought the tin mug up to his mouth and tipped it back. Then he took the bottle and poured out more wine. “I was in prison.”

“Prison?”

“Don’t look so worried! I didn’t do anything bad—well, not against the law, anyway. My crime was the same as your brother’s: I was on the wrong side.” He paused, ruffling Gunesh’s fur with his fingers. “I was one of the lucky ones. There are hundreds still in prison—men and women. Our esteemed General Franco has a long memory.”

Rose closed her eyes, thinking about Nathan, unable to bear the possibility that he might be trapped in such a place. “It must have been . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“It wasn’t a party, that’s for sure.” Cristóbal shrugged. “I was made to work in a quarry, and my right hand got smashed. I thought I’d never be able to play the guitar again.”

“Did they release you—when you were injured?”

He gave a grunt of a laugh. “Not a chance. It healed, thank God—but as soon as the bandages were off, they put me back to work. I got lucky, though: one day I managed to slip away from the line. The guards were beating someone up. They didn’t see me.” He took another swallow of wine. “I found a cave a few miles off and lived there for a few days until I started to go crazy for water. I tried walking south, at night so no one would see me. When the sun came up, I saw farm workers harvesting watermelons. I hid in the back of the truck they were loading them onto to take to market. I got through half a dozen by the time it reached the town.” He shook his head. “I don’t think anything ever tasted as good—before or since. After that I sang in the streets to get enough money for the train fare to Granada. By the time I got back, the war was over.”

He picked up the wine bottle and went to top off her mug, but only a dribble came out. “Sorry!” He gave her a wry smile. “I shouldn’t have gone on about the war—it always makes me drink too much.”

“It’s okay—it’s my fault anyway for asking you about it. I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?”

While they waited for the water to boil, he asked her why she was traveling alone with only a dog for company. “Is there a man waiting for you back in England?” He gave her a sidelong glance.

“No, there isn’t!” She laughed at his impudence.

“Well, a man likes to know these things.” He moved away from her, taking a stick from the pile by her tent and prodding the fire to make it blaze more brightly. “Perhaps you’re like my cousin. There’s a man back in Granada who’s desperate to marry her—but she won’t have it.”

“She won’t?” Rose wondered if Lola had been widowed during the war. There had been no mention of Nieve’s father when they were standing in front of the candles at the shrine of Saint Sara.

“She says she’s not interested in marriage—only dancing.”

“So Nieve . . .” Rose trailed off, not wanting to sound as if she was prying.

“She’s not Lola’s daughter. The woman who gave birth to her died in the war. Lola adopted Nieve when she was a baby.”

So that was why Lola looked too young to be a mother, Rose thought. Why had she done that at such a young age? Rose’s head was bursting with questions.

“Listen to me, banging on about the war again!” Cristóbal huffed out a sigh and pushed the night air with his hand, as if banishing memories too painful to contemplate. “I want to know about your friends—these English Gypsies. Tell me, do they look like us?”

“Well, some of them do,” she replied. “Others have red hair and . . .” She paused, wondering what the Spanish for freckles could be. She put her fingers to her face, dotting them over her cheeks.

“They have a disease?” Cristóbal looked horrified.

“No.” Rose laughed. “Little brown things—like . . .” She searched for something he might recognize. “Like you get on a quail’s egg.”

“?Ah, pecas!” He grinned. “So the sun does shine in England sometimes? I heard it’s a very cold place, yet you say they live outdoors. What do they eat?”

She described the meals she had shared with the Lee family—the soups made of snails and seaweed and the elderflowers dipped in batter and fried over the fire. Then he wanted to know about their animals: what breeds of dogs and horses they favored.

“And how do they get money?” He wanted to know. “Do they make baskets like our people?”

“Baskets, yes, but they can only do that in the springtime, when the willow trees make new shoots. The rest of the year they make . . .” She didn’t know the Spanish word for pegs, so she mimed hanging washing on a line.