The Snow Gypsy(28)
Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know. That kind of fear kills you without you realizing. Like bleeding inside.
Lola’s words were an echo of what Bill had said. Two Gypsies, half a continent apart, had given her the same wise advice.
Before Rose could reply, Nieve came bouncing up to the wagon, dragging Gunesh in her wake. “Can I give him Mama’s leftovers, Rose? He’s been sniffing the paella pan—I think he wants some!”
“Well, yes.” Rose smiled. “If your mother has finished.”
Lola handed Nieve her bowl. “I can never eat much before I dance,” she said to Rose. “I get too nervous.”
“Can we take Gunesh for a walk after that?” Nieve flashed a smile at Rose as she held the bowl out to the dog. “I could take you to see Rubio.”
“That’s our horse,” Lola said. “Well, not ours, exactly—we borrowed him for the journey from Granada. He belongs to a friend of Cristóbal’s.”
“I’ll look after Auntie Rose while you get ready.”
Rose smiled. No one had ever called her Auntie before. Nieve’s expression was very grown-up for an eight-year-old. Rose wondered what it had been like for her, being brought up by someone who was barely out of childhood herself. Probably the two of them were more like sisters than mother and daughter.
“Will you come and see us later?” Lola asked.
“Of course,” Rose said. “I’m looking forward it. And Cristóbal said there’s going to be a wedding afterward.”
“Yes.” Lola made a face. “I’m not sure I’ll be staying up for that.” She jerked her head at Cristóbal, who was standing on the far side of the campfire, deep in conversation with a couple of wizened Gypsy men. “He might try to pair me off with someone. He’s been threatening to find me a husband.”
“Auntie Rose! Are you coming?” Nieve was tugging at Rose’s skirt.
“?Bueno éxito!” Good luck! Rose called over her shoulder as she jumped down from the wagon.
“With the dancing or the husband dodging?” Lola shot her a wry smile. “Hasta luego.” See you later.
Rose glanced down at Gunesh, who was curled up at her feet. She was amazed that he could sleep through the whirlwind of sound. Guitars, drums, violins, and castanets. The frenzied stamping of the dancers and the wild applause of the onlookers. There had been four other acts to sit through before Lola and Cristóbal took their turn. All were mixed groups of male and female dancers. There was enormous energy in the performances—the men, especially, were an arresting sight, projecting heartbreak as they hugged their waistcoats to their lithe bodies and desperate bravado as they threw back their heads. But it was difficult to watch when more than one person was dancing in such a small space. Perhaps that would give Lola an advantage over these others.
When the cousins emerged from the shadows at the edge of the square, Rose gave an involuntary gasp. Lola wore a gown of shimmering gold edged with black lace. The tight-fitting bodice gave way to a cascade of fishtail frills that swept the ground as she moved. Cristóbal’s costume complemented hers perfectly. He wore a waistcoat of the same fabric as the dress over a crisp white shirt with a dikló of black silk loosely knotted at his neck.
Rose followed him with her eyes as he took his seat on the straw bale beside the makeshift stage. The sensation of his lips on hers surged from her memory, quickening her pulse. She saw him reach across to Nieve and give her hand a little squeeze. The child gave him a nervous smile. She looked like a Christmas-card angel, in a white dress trimmed with gold.
A hush came over the crowd as Lola raised her arms and angled her body in that proud, defiant posture that signaled the start of the performance. The moment the palmas began, her feet took off in a frenzy of movement. On their walk that afternoon, Nieve had explained some of the dance steps to Rose. The footwork in flamenco was called escobilla. Punta meant using half a foot; tacón was the heel only; planta was when the whole foot came down on the ground.
As she watched, Rose wondered how Lola managed not to trip over the golden train of her dress. Somehow, she kept it behind her, sweeping the fabric out in a great arc—an achievement that underlined the skill of her performance because she did it with such effortless grace.
Nieve had outlined the palos—the sequence of dances that would make up the competition entry—so Rose knew that this maelstrom of unaccompanied footwork was a prelude to Cristóbal striking up a melody. The name Nieve had given to this was a llamada—literally a calling—and that was just how it sounded when Cristóbal opened his mouth. His voice was the plaintive wail of a soul in agony. The drawn-out syllables made the words hard to comprehend, but Nieve had recited the lyrics to Rose. She said it was her uncle’s favorite song: a ballad about wanting to die in Granada.
Rose felt the rhythm of the music enter her body like a second heartbeat, drumming against her ribs. Dragging her gaze away from Cristóbal, she saw Lola’s fingers sculpting the air as her wrists rotated in a series of intricate movements, like fantail doves rolling in midair. This time she used her upper body more than her feet to convey the emotion. The combination of her movements and Cristóbal’s voice had a transcendent effect on the audience: it was as if they had cast spider threads into the night air to tug at the heartstrings of every man and woman in the vast crowd gathered in the village square.