The Snow Gypsy(45)
She felt paralyzed. If she tried to grab it, it would struggle. It might die of fright. But if it hopped off her lap, into the crowd, it would be trampled underfoot. She was aware of dozens of pairs of eyes on her. The bird had cast a spellbinding hush on the room.
“Take it!” In one rapid movement she grasped the warm, quivering body and thrust it into Cristóbal’s hands. He waded through the sea of bodies, opened the door, and tossed the bird into the starlit sky.
Then all hell broke loose. The Gypsies crowded around her, their faces wild with excitement. They jabbered at her in kalo, the words incomprehensible. Nieve fought her way through the forest of legs, popping up at Rose’s side to translate.
“They’re saying that when a bird comes to you like this, it’s very, very lucky,” she said. “Now you have to make a wish. Think of something you really, really want—and before a year is up, the wish will come true.”
Rose’s heart was beating as fast as the wings she’d trapped in her hands. She closed her eyes.
“What are you wishing for?” Nieve was whispering in her ear. Rose could feel the warmth of her breath. “Oh no—you mustn’t tell me! It won’t come true if you do!”
Was it Nieve’s voice that drove thoughts of Nathan from her mind? Was it the tenderness she felt for this little girl that made her long for what she’d warned herself about wanting?
A child. The words flashed across the dark side of her eyes. I wish for a child.
It was close to midnight when the dancing ended. Each time Lola had taken a bow, the crowd had gone wild for more. Poor little Nieve had crawled under the bench and fallen asleep with Gunesh for a pillow. Now people were crowding around Lola and Cristóbal, proffering bottles of wine and brandy.
“I’ll take Nieve home if you want me to,” Rose called out when she managed to get within hailing distance of Lola.
A look of concern crossed Lola’s face.
“It’s okay—you should stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it!”
At that moment four of the men grabbed Lola and hoisted her onto their shoulders to whoops of joy from the crowd. She gave Rose a shrug of resignation as they carried her off across the room.
Outside it was very dark. The sky had clouded over, obscuring the moon and the stars. Rose had a flashlight in her bag, which helped them to negotiate the steep descent from the Alhambra, along the winding wooded path that led to the Gate of the Pomegranates. Once she and Nieve were through that, there were gas lamps to light the way. They gave the narrow cobbled streets an eerie yellow glow.
“Will you carry me?” Nieve had stumbled, zombielike, down the hillside, but now she was flagging.
Rose lifted the child into her arms, smelling the lavender scent of her hair as Nieve snuggled into her neck. Gunesh was already a few yards ahead of them. He seemed to know the way back to Sacromonte. As she followed behind him, Rose’s thoughts returned to the strange encounter with the swift. Why had she wished for a child? Was her growing closeness to Nieve really making her feel broody? Or was it the half-buried hope that Nieve could be her niece?
Lola was trying to get away from Antonio Lopez, who had her trapped in a corner of the tavern, his arm propped against the wall so she couldn’t sidle away from him.
“Have another drink!” He lifted a bottle of red wine, pouring some into his own glass before going to top up hers.
“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.” She tried to catch Cristóbal’s eye. He was over by the bar, a glass of brandy in his hand, standing very close to a girl Lola had seen him with before. She lived out of town, in a cave house on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and came to Granada to sell fruit from a basket in the streets—strawberries, cherries, apricots, or prickly pear, according to the season. Clearly her cousin was having far too good a time to want to come home anytime soon.
“Come on—what’s wrong with you?” Antonio moved closer, sliding his hand around her waist.
“Get off me!” She tried to push him away. Although he was twice her size, she managed to knock him off balance. He staggered slightly, his arms flailing as he braced himself against the wall. The people nearby turned and stared. But not Cristóbal. Either he was too absorbed to notice Lola’s pleading looks or he was deliberately ignoring her.
“I need to get home.” Still cornered, she ducked under Antonio’s arm. The smell of rancid sweat mixed with the whiff of stables almost made her gag.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, catching her by the wrist. “It’s late—you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll be fine.” She pulled away from him. She didn’t want to hurl insults, show him up in front of all these people, but if he persisted, she would have no choice.
“If that’s what you want.” He shrugged and drained his glass. “Mind how you go—it’s very dark out there.”
It took her a few minutes to pack away her costume, her shoes, and her makeup. She slipped out the back door of the tavern to avoid being held up by any other man, emboldened by drink, who might fancy his chances. That was the trouble with dancing in these places. After a few drinks, men thought the passion was for real—that moving your body like that meant you had only one thing on your mind and it was only natural to try to take advantage. Would they be different in Madrid? Was there any hope of meeting someone who didn’t see “whore” or “housewife” tattooed on her forehead when he looked at her?