The Snow Gypsy(48)
“I want to see Lola Aragon—the woman you arrested this morning.” Rose dived straight in with what came out sounding more like an order than a request, hoping he was sufficiently impressed by her qualifications to give way. “I’m also a lawyer,” she went on. “I’ll be acting on Miss Aragon’s behalf—so she has a right to see me.” This was a lie. But there was no one else to fight in Lola’s corner. In the absence of a real lawyer, Rose was going to have to do the best she could: try to get the charge dropped before the case went any further.
“Wait here, please.” He disappeared through a door behind the desk, emerging almost immediately with a thickset older man with a mustache whose pointed ends looked like the handlebars of a motorcycle. This second officer eyed her up and down as if he were inspecting a stray dog with rabies. Then without a word to Rose, he turned to his colleague and said, “Diez minutos.”
Ten minutes. Not very long. Barely long enough to hand over the clothes she had brought and offer a few words of comfort.
She followed the desk sergeant down a twisting flight of steps into an underground corridor that stank of stale urine. Before she was allowed into the cell, she had to be searched. He made her strip down to her underwear and spent several minutes looking her up and down before he allowed her to get dressed again.
By the time he went to unlock the door, Rose felt degraded and humiliated—but it was worth it. When Lola saw her, she let out a high-pitched whimper and threw herself into Rose’s arms. Her tears seeped through the thin cotton of Rose’s blouse.
Rose stroked her hair, fighting back tears of her own. “It’s going to be all right, I promise.” She could feel Lola’s body trembling. With her free hand she groped inside the bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ve bought you some warm things to put on.”
She guided Lola over to the concrete bench that ran along one wall. “Here—have this.” She draped a shawl of heather-colored wool around the shaking shoulders. “You can put the other things on when I’ve gone. I only have ten minutes—they won’t let me stay any longer than that.”
Lola’s face crumpled.
“I’m going to write letters,” Rose went on. “To the chief of the Guardia Civil, to the mayor of Granada, to General Franco himself if I have to. I’ll tell them what happened: that what you did was in self-defense. That he was trying to rape you because you’d didn’t want to marry him.”
Lola stared at the wall, shaking her head.
“What’s the matter? Is there something else? Something you haven’t told me about him?”
“I . . . it’s not that.” Lola’s voice was barely audible.
“What, then? Whatever it is, you must tell me—they’ll be coming any second.”
“Please, Rose! Just get Nieve away—before they come and take her!”
“You mean . . .” Rose searched her face, bewildered.
“I want you to take her with you to the mountains. Tell the people there she’s yours.” Lola’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “It’s the only way to keep her safe!”
“You think she’s in danger? Because of this?”
“I know she is!” Lola glanced toward the door. “Go today—as soon as you can!”
“I can’t just leave you here!” Rose sank onto the bench. She reached for Lola’s hand, enclosing it in both of hers. It felt cold and lifeless. She rubbed the flesh, as if she were trying to revive a stillborn foal or puppy.
“But you have to!” Lola grasped Rose’s wrist. “Please, Rose! Take my baby!”
Chapter 18
Las Alpujarras, Spain: June 8, 1946
The bus from Granada was packed with people and animals. The windows were open, but it made little difference. The smell was a suffocating mix of hot unwashed bodies and cigarette smoke. Rose’s hand ached from gripping Gunesh’s collar. She’d been afraid to let go in case he went for the chickens contained in a fragile-looking wicker basket at the feet of the woman sitting across the aisle. Nieve was lying curled up in the seat with her head in Rose’s lap. Worn out from crying, she had fallen asleep within minutes of the bus setting off.
The route had taken them due south, through the mountain pass known as the Moor’s Sigh—the place where the last Muslim ruler of Granada had stopped for a mournful look back at the city on his way to exile in the Alpujarras. The bus had skirted the western foothills of the Sierra Nevada, finally turning east, along a road with hairpin bends and terrifying ravines.
Rose hadn’t noticed the changing landscape. All she could think about was Lola. She was writing a letter in her head—a letter she wouldn’t be able to send until she had a return address. That would be the priority when they reached Pampaneira: finding a room. Living in the tent was no longer an option—not with a child to look after. Money was going to be tight, but she would just have to be careful.
The bus began the descent toward its destination—the town of órgiva. To reach it they followed a road that wound along the bank of a river swollen with meltwater from the high peaks to the north. Passing through groves of citrus and olives, they came to a stop beside a church whose twin towers stuck up like giant honey-colored fingers against the looming backdrop of the mountains.