The Snow Gypsy(50)
“Fuente de San Antonio.” Nieve slowly deciphered the words inscribed on the tiles above the bubbling jets of water. There was a verse underneath—too long and complicated for Nieve to tackle yet. Rose couldn’t read all of it, either—it seemed to be written in very archaic Spanish, and parts of it had been obscured by time. But she understood the last two lines:
“. . . y soltero que lo bebe con intención de casarse no falla! Pues al instante novia tiene.” . . . and a single man who drinks it with the intention of getting married—you cannot fail! You will instantly find a sweetheart.
Rose stared at the words, hardly daring to believe. But there was no doubt. This was it—the place Nathan had stopped on the night he met the girl he fell in love with. In all the darkness of the last few days, this was a little ray of hope. She dug into her rucksack and pulled out her water bottle, emptying the dregs onto the cobbles and refilling it from the central spout of the fountain.
“Are you thirsty?” She offered it to Nieve, who took a swig before passing it back.
“It tastes nice,” Nieve said. “Better than the water in Granada.”
It did taste good. Fresh and cold, with no taint of chemicals. And the thought that Nathan had drunk it made it all the sweeter.
“Shall we go and get something to eat?” Rose held out her hand.
They walked on through the village until they came to a place with tables and chairs set out under a vine-covered veranda.
“Look!” Nieve pointed at the menu board hanging from a nail. “It says migas!”
Rose smiled. Not only was it Nieve’s favorite, it was the cheapest thing on offer. When the waiter appeared, she ordered it for them both. But when the food arrived, Nieve wrinkled her nose.
“What’s that?” She stuck her fork into the pile of fried breadcrumbs, pulling out the tail of a fish. When she dug deeper, she uncovered a brown, sticky lake beneath the migas.
The waiter, who was hovering nearby, stepped forward. “Es una especialidad de la región.” His lips twitched as if he was trying not to smile. “Migas con chocolate y sardinas.”
“Ugh!” Nieve grimaced at Rose. “Chocolate and sardines!”
“Hmm. That’s an . . . interesting combination.” Rose took a forkful of the gooey breadcrumbs, trying to avoid the fishy bit in the middle. “Mmm!” She made an enraptured face. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. The taste reminded her of the chocolate biscuits her mother used to buy before the war—only much saltier. She swallowed it down. “I think you’ll like it—try eating round the edges.”
With a bit of cajoling, Nieve ate nearly half of what was on her plate.
“Shall we give the rest to Gunesh?” Rose knocked the sardines over the side of the table onto the cobbles, where they were swiftly gobbled up. She glanced up and down the street, wondering if any of the houses would have rooms available. It would have to be an apartment of some kind—somewhere they could prepare their own food—otherwise Rose’s money was going to run out very quickly.
She explained what they were looking for to the waiter when she paid the bill. He cocked his head to one side, glancing at the remains of the migas, as if the food were an indicator of what she might be able to afford.
“There’s the mill over the bridge,” he said. “She sometimes has rooms. The only other place is the posada—but they don’t take dogs.”
“Thank you.” Rose stood up. “What’s the lady’s name?”
The waiter shrugged. “Se?ora Molino.” He scooped up the money and headed back inside the building.
Mrs. Mill. Either he didn’t know the woman’s name or he didn’t want to say it. Rose wondered if this was a legacy of the Civil War. Cristóbal had warned her how it had divided communities—and that in the villages, the bitterness was more palpable than in the cities. She wondered what role the occupants of the mill had played. Had they been on the side of the fascists or the republicans? Had they been involved in the atrocities Lola had spoken about? Was that why the waiter was reluctant to say the family name out loud?
As Rose lifted her rucksack onto her back, she realized that she was going to have to be very cautious if she was going to get any further in her search. How to ask questions without ruffling feathers—that was going to take a lot of thought.
Chapter 19
It was just after three o’clock when Rose and Nieve arrived at the mill. Apart from half a dozen scrawny chickens scratching around in the dirt, there was no sign of life. Rose had forgotten that it was siesta time. Not a good time to go knocking on a stranger’s door. The only thing to do was wait. She sank down on the riverbank, glad to be free of the heavy rucksack. Nieve kicked off her boots and went to dip her feet in the rock pools near the water’s edge, Gunesh following her like a shadow.
“Don’t go any closer!” Rose called after her. The mill wheel—a wooden monster dripping with green weed—was churning around and around just yards from where Nieve stood. If they did manage to get a room here, Rose was going to have to give the child strict instructions about where she could and couldn’t play.
The sun made Rose feel drowsy. But she mustn’t doze off—that would be asking for trouble. Instead she unlaced her boots and went to join Nieve. She stood ankle deep in the water, letting it soothe her tired feet. It was icy cold. But she’d swum in rivers just as bone chilling as this in England. If it hadn’t been for the proximity of the mill, she would have been tempted to strip off and plunge in.