The Snow Gypsy(35)
She could hear the crackle of a fire springing into life and the rattle of pans and cutlery. The thought of sharing a meal with Cristóbal made her feel sick. As she lay down and closed her eyes, she wondered what on earth to do. She thought of slipping away in the early hours of the morning when everyone was asleep. She could leave a note, saying that something had happened, and she had to go back to England. But what excuse could she possibly give? How could she have received any news from home while they were on the road? And she had no idea if Lola would even be able to comprehend a written message. None of the British Gypsies she’d encountered had known how to read or write. Most of them thought it an unnecessary waste of effort—completely irrelevant to their lifestyle. Bill Lee was the only one who’d wanted to learn.
Outside, the light was beginning to fade. As she lay there, agonizing over the thought of Cristóbal’s heavily pregnant wife, she suddenly heard his voice.
“Rose! Are you awake?” His voice had a harsh urgency.
She lay perfectly still, her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t want to talk to him. If she did, she would start crying or screaming at him or both.
“Let me in, won’t you?” She heard him pulling at the canvas flap.
“Go away,” she hissed.
“Not until I’ve had a chance to talk to you.” The silhouette of his head appeared through the opening. She could smell the bitter orange scent of the oil in his hair.
“What is there to talk about?” She rolled over, pulling the sleeping bag over her head. “Why didn’t you tell me about your wife?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“That’s a pathetic answer. You told me about your dog, for God’s sake! How the hell could you come out with that and fail to mention your wife and children?”
“What would have happened if I’d told you?” Cristóbal pulled down the sleeping bag, exposing her head and shoulders. “You were happy last night, weren’t you? I was happy. It was beautiful.”
“How can you say that?” She yanked the sleeping bag up again. “How could you have done it, knowing your wife’s about to give birth to your baby?”
“Because it’s natural for a man and a woman to love each other. There’s nothing wrong with it. When men and women love, they don’t kill or rob: they become givers. They create something magical.”
“But it is wrong! What would your wife say if she knew? She’d be heartbroken!”
“No, she wouldn’t—because she knows I’ll never leave her. That’s the way we live, Rose. A Gypsy man can have many passing loves—so long as he stays with his wife and children. I thought you knew that. You said you’d lived with Gypsies.”
“Just go, will you!” she hissed.
“All right, I’m going. But you’d better remember that it wasn’t my idea for you to travel with us.”
She heard him scramble out of the tent. Heard his footsteps receding into the night. Her heart felt as if it had shrunk to the size of a walnut, hard and bitter.
Sleep that night was a patchwork of nightmares. She was back in the building she had lived in as a student, wandering from floor to floor, unable to find her bedroom. She would climb into an elevator and press a button, but the doors would open in a part of the building she didn’t recognize. Then she was there, walking along the green-painted corridor to the door of her room. She stood outside, hearing laughter, whispers, and the unmistakable sounds of a man and woman making love.
She startled awake, her heart hammering in her chest. If there was such a thing as hell, she was in it. With harrowing clarity, the nightmare had re-created the day, nine years ago, when she had caught Sam—the boy she was supposed to be marrying after graduation—in bed with Daphne, her best friend. Every detail of the betrayal, every emotion, was there, stored away in her subconscious. And now it had seeped out, like something rotten and decayed, to haunt her in her sleep.
Serves you right.
The voice in her head was Daphne’s. She could see her face, a look of cold fury twisting her mouth as she flounced out of the room, her blouse buttoned up wrong and the laces of her boots trailing on the ground.
What did you expect him to do while you were frolicking about with the Gypsies?
How Daphne would crow if she could see her now. It wasn’t hard to imagine what she would say. Who did Rose think she was, mixing with people like that? Didn’t she have the sense to realize that wildness and freedom were shorthand for promiscuity and infidelity?
She closed her eyes, wishing she could rewind the past forty-eight hours. Instinctively she reached out for Gunesh, seeking the comfort of stroking him. But her fingers found only the dew-damp canvas of the tent wall. As she touched the fabric, something butted against it from the other side, as if an animal was grazing outside. Then she heard a familiar bark.
“Gunesh!”
The tent flap burst open, and the dog leapt on top of her, closely followed by Nieve.
“He couldn’t wait to see you—and neither could I!” The little girl snuggled in between Rose and Gunesh. “What shall we do today? Will you sit in the wagon with me? It’s so boring when Mama’s driving and Uncle Cristóbal’s snoring his head off. Can we make something? Or play a game?”
“Well, I . . .” Rose hesitated. “I’m not sure whether I can come all the way to Granada with you. I don’t think your . . . I mean . . . your uncle didn’t seem very pleased when he found out.”