The Snow Gypsy(42)
“What about Cristóbal and Juanita? What will they do?”
Lola shook her head slowly. “Juanita has family in the countryside. She’ll take the children if she has to. But Cristóbal will never leave Granada. It’s in his soul.”
Rose passed through a huge stone gate carved with the same fruit that had hung from the vardos of the Granada Gypsies. The Gate of the Pomegranates was the entrance to the hilltop fortress of the Alhambra. She climbed the winding tree-lined path, seeking refuge from the afternoon heat among the pools and fountains of the Jannat al-?Arīf—the palace gardens she’d read about.
Granada was beguiling but suffocating. Wandering the streets of the city was like being trapped in an enormous oven. She had arranged to meet Lola and Nieve in the gardens after the siesta, but sleep had eluded her in the stuffy room at the posada. And so she had gone for a walk, hoping to find a shady, secluded bench to doze on.
She made her way slowly up the slope, past man-made streams that ran along either side of the path. It was like walking through a forest on the side of a mountain. Towering cedars, sycamores, and cork oaks formed a canopy with their branches, blocking out the burning rays of the sun. Her old life in London seemed terribly unreal and far away. And soon she would be traveling even farther south—beyond the snowcapped peaks of the Sierra Nevada to find the village Nathan had described in his letter. The thought of boarding the bus the day after tomorrow stirred up a feverish sense of anticipation—a mixture of excitement and foreboding.
At the top of the hill, the trees gave way to a carpet of orange, blue, and yellow. Irises, marigolds, and roses were framed in low-trimmed hedges of box and myrtle. Passing through another great gate, she made her way through the old walled city created by the Moorish rulers over a thousand years ago.
Every few yards there were glimpses of the outside world between gaps in the architecture. She saw swifts performing astonishing aerobatics, diving and wheeling across the river valley. And in the distance, the cave houses of Sacromonte, with people the size of ants climbing up the road from the Albaicin.
She walked on, through horseshoe arches decorated with blue-and-white mosaic tiles, past stone walls honeycombed with arabesque carvings, along cobbled paths studded with black and white pebbles in intricate geometric designs. Then she went up a flight of stairs whose handrails were channels of running water. It took her into an avenue of fruit trees growing against terracotta walls—their boughs heavy with ripening peaches and apricots.
A profusion of scent filled her nostrils as she entered the first of a series of gardens. Rambling roses, honeysuckle, and oleander climbed up pillars and pergolas. Lavender, rosemary, candytuft, and agapanthus filled ornamental beds and terracotta pots. And between the beds was an abundance of other trees and bushes: oranges, plums, medlars, and magnolia.
Pools of water, long and narrow, formed the shape of a cross at the center of the garden. At the far end a fountain sent shimmering beads arcing through the air. Rose found a bench beneath a cascade of pale-blue wisteria. Hewn from rock, it looked hard and uncomfortable—but the sun had warmed it. She sat back and closed her eyes, breathing in the fragrance of the flowers, hearing nothing but the birds and the gentle splash of the fountain.
The guidebook said Jannat al-?Arīf was an old Arabic phrase. Scholars argued as to the meaning. It could be translated as “Orchard of the Architect” or “the Gardens of Knowing.” It seemed impossible that such a haven of tranquility could have continued to exist through the horrors of what had gone on in the city below just a handful of years ago. And that it would continue to exist, like some parallel universe, while people like Lola and Juanita and Cristóbal lived in fear of what the monster who now ruled Spain might do next.
The Gardens of Knowing.
The words seemed to mock Rose’s na?veté. She had allowed herself to believe that she could live the Gypsy life. That she could throw off convention and be free, passionate, alive. But in falling for Cristóbal, she had succumbed to nothing more than a romanticized image. He behaved as if he were free—but he was not free in any real sense of the word.
As she opened her eyes, she saw a swift swoop over one of the pools for a sip of water, skimming the surface so fast it barely caused a ripple, the droplets sliding away as if the feathers were coated in wax. As she watched the bird soar into the sky, it occurred to her that what had happened in France had released something inside her. The impermeable membrane spun around her heart by grief for the loss of her family had been breached. What Cristóbal had done felt like a wound, and it had hurt her—still hurt her—but somehow this new pain had freed her. It had forced her out of the cocoon of numbness. Now she knew she could be something more than she was when she left England. A different person. A better person.
She wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when she got up to leave the garden. She wandered into the harem courtyard—the place where the many wives of the Moorish rulers had lived, only able to glimpse the outside world through the fretwork of stone that enclosed the section of the palace they occupied. Rose wondered what that would have been like. It must have felt like living in a gilded cage. They would have been able to see the river, the streets and houses along its banks, and the distant snowcapped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. But they could never set foot outside the palace walls.
The confined world of women at the Alhambra was echoed in the name of the place she entered next. The Tower of the Captive was stunningly beautiful inside. Intricate mosaics of cobalt blue, emerald, and magenta covered the walls. Rose wondered who had been imprisoned here. The guidebook didn’t say. A group of tourists was clicking away with cameras. When they left she was all alone in the cavernous space. The silence was unnerving.