The Snow Gypsy(32)
Gunesh growled at Rose when she pulled back the tent flap. It was as if he knew what she had been up to and disapproved. She rummaged around in the dark and found him a biscuit. Then she rubbed the fur between his ears, murmuring an apology for leaving him for such a long time.
When he’d settled down, she wriggled into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. Her skin felt tight and gritty from the salt water and sand. Her body ached but her brain was fizzing. Images of Cristóbal flickered on the inside of her eyelids.
He’d tried to make love to her a second time on the way back from the beach. Passing the paddock, they had collapsed onto a pile of straw beside the fence, oblivious to the sharp prickle of the dry stalks on their naked flesh.
“Camelo el olor de tu piel.” I love the smell of your skin. He had whispered the words in a mixture of Spanish and kalo. And she had murmured a reply that had made him laugh because, in trying to tell him that she loved his body, she had confused the word cuerpo with the word culo, which meant bottom.
She had felt a delicious sense of freedom. It was so tempting to just let go after suppressing this part of herself for so long. But she’d told him she was afraid of getting pregnant. It hadn’t put him off, but in the end they had both fallen asleep, waking an hour or so later to the sound of what the English Gypsies called “horse music”—the neighing, whinnying, and snorting of dozens of animals, made restless by the proximity of slumbering humans.
She had stumbled the few yards to her tent, wondering if he would want to climb in next to her. But he had said good night with a long, lingering kiss before making his way back across the field to his wagon.
The people camped near her tent had gone on singing until the early hours of the morning, making it even harder to get to sleep. But somehow, she must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes again, it was light outside.
“Rose!”
Still semiconscious, she thought it was Cristóbal calling to her. She fumbled her way out of her sleeping bag.
“Es-tu réveillée?” Are you awake?
The question, spoken in French, penetrated the fug of sleep. It was Jean Beau-Marie, not Cristóbal, trying to rouse her.
She parted the tent flap just enough to see out. “I’m not dressed.”
“Sorry—I wanted to say goodbye. My people are leaving now.”
“Oh—what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.” He smiled. “Did you have a good time last night? I didn’t see you.”
“I . . . I was with the Spanish girl I told you about: the dancer.” It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.
“Well, I came to give you these.” His hand went to the pocket of his jacket. “To wish you luck on your journey.” He put a twist of brown paper on the patch of ground in front of the tent flap.
“Oh, Jean—that’s . . .” His kindness shamed her. Holding the tent flap with one hand, she slid out her other arm and drew in the little package. Unfolding the paper, she discovered a pair of Gypsy earrings of beaten copper set with stones the color of the kingfisher that had flashed in front of her on her walk across the Camargue marshes.
“Do you like them?”
“They’re beautiful, Jean—I . . . I . . .” She faltered, overwhelmed by his unconditional generosity.
“Will you put them on? I’d like to see you wear them.”
“Yes, of course—let me get dressed. I’ll make us some coffee.”
He shook his head. “I can’t stay—the horses are already harnessed. Just show me how they look.”
She hooked the copper wires through her ears and opened the tent flap wide enough for him to see her head and shoulders. “There! What do you think?”
“They suit you very well.” She saw the Adam’s apple in his throat rise and fall. “I knew they would. They belonged to my mother—she had eyes just like yours.” He stood up. “Take care of yourself, Rose. Perhaps you’ll think of me when you wear them.”
Tears welled as she waved him goodbye. Her fingers went to the earrings. She didn’t deserve them. If he’d known what she’d really been doing last night, he wouldn’t even have come to say goodbye, let alone bestowed such a precious gift on her.
The self-loathing persisted as she attempted to clean herself up. She wetted a flannel with the few inches of water she had left in the billycan, trying to erase all traces of the previous night. Memories that had intoxicated her just a few hours ago resurfaced with the painful clarity of a hangover. She had made love—without taking precautions—with a man she was likely never to see again. What had she been thinking of? How had she allowed herself to get so carried away?
She stuffed her sandy, salt-encrusted clothes into the bottom of her rucksack and pulled on a cotton dress. It was very wrinkled, but at least it was clean. She hoped the creases would fall out as she moved around.
Gunesh tugged at the lead as she fastened up the tent flap.
“I’m coming—be patient,” she said. Poor thing. He’d already been patient. He should have been walked hours ago. It was yet another thing to feel guilty about.
She’d only got a few yards from the tent when Nieve darted out from between the caravans.
“I thought you were never coming!” She fell on the dog’s neck, laughing when he twisted around to lick her face. “Mama’s making tortilla—do you want some?”