The Snow Gypsy(66)

“Buenos días, Maria.” Zoltan stepped forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “This is my friend Rose—the one who cured my mule.”

“Buenos días.” Rose held out her hand. The woman’s skin felt surprisingly soft and warm.

“Ella es muy joven para ser una hechicera.” She’s very young for a witch. Maria arched bushy gray eyebrows at Zoltan.

“I told you—she’s not a witch: she’s an animal doctor. She went to university in England.”

Maria ran her eyes over Rose, from head to toe. “Well, she looks like a Gypsy to me.”

“I’ve lived among Gypsies,” Rose said. “They taught me everything I know about curing animals with herbal medicine.”

The old woman stared at her for a moment, her head on one side. “How did you cure the mule?”

“The wound was bathed with an infusion of potato peelings and garlic,” Rose replied. “Then he was fed on bran mixed with more garlic and watercress.”

Maria nodded. “Sit down over there.” She pointed to a wooden bench under a canopy of trailing vines. “I’ll bring you something to eat and drink.”

She disappeared inside, shutting the door behind her.

“You’ve passed the test.” Zoltan smiled.

“But she didn’t invite us in,” Rose said.

“She never allows anyone into the house—she likes to maintain the air of mystery.” He smiled as he sat down beside Rose on the bench. “The local people say the hechicera fly down the mountain at full moon and perch like owls in the poplar trees. I think she likes to play up to that image. She says it makes her laugh if she spots people crossing themselves when they see her.”

“How old is she?”

“I’ve no idea. She could be sixty-five or eighty-five. The women in this part of Spain tend to look old before their time. I think it’s a combination of the sun and the way they dress.”

Maria emerged from the house with a basket in one hand and a metal bowl in the other. She sat on the bench next to Zoltan and pulled a small ladle from the pocket of her skirt. For each of her guests, including Gunesh, she produced a large chestnut leaf from the basket, onto which she ladled dollops of goat curds. She served the dog first, then garnished the remaining portions with a handful of cherries before handing them out.

Rose wasn’t sure whether to hold the leaf up to her mouth and pour the contents in or to scoop up the mixture with her fingers. She glanced at Zoltan, who simply raised the leaf to chin level and bent his head over it.

“Delicious,” he mumbled, looking up with a white mustache.

“I laced it with a love potion.” Maria flashed a wicked smile.

Zoltan rolled his eyes. “She’s joking,” he said.

But Rose saw that his cheeks were tinged pink. “It tastes very fresh,” she said to Maria, trying to make it look as if she hadn’t noticed Zoltan blushing.

“I made it this morning,” Maria replied.

“Zoltan told me that you used to supply food for the partisans during the war.”

“Yes, I did.” Maria spat a cherry stone onto the ground. “What of it?”

“My brother was one of them.” Rose laid down the chestnut leaf and took Nathan’s picture from her pocket. “This is him. I . . .” She trailed off, her voice threatening to break as she handed the photograph over. “I’ve come here to try and find out what happened to him.”

Maria’s face was inscrutable as she studied the image. “Yes, I remember this one.” She glanced up at Rose, the lines on her forehead creasing into deep furrows. “They called him Caballo.”

Rose stared at her, transfixed. Had she heard right? Had she finally found someone who remembered Nathan? The woman’s face melted as tears filmed Rose’s eyes. Her lips felt swollen and clumsy, as if they’d been injected with anesthetic. She wanted to ask Maria if she knew what had happened to him. But her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

“He used to come here when he was going to one of the villages,” Maria went on. “He was a good boy—used to bring me tobacco. He and the others had to stay hidden in the daytime, but at night they would go into Capileira or Pampaneira for news and cigarettes.

“Early on in the war, they would stay the night with a peasant and his family. But then they started shooting the families who sheltered the partisans, so that stopped.”

“I have a friend who lived in Capileira. Her mother and brother were killed for doing that.” Rose heard her own voice, distant, as if in a dream. Why couldn’t she bring herself to steer the conversation to what she really wanted to talk about?

“It was a terrible time,” Maria replied. “People would denounce their neighbors for all kinds of reasons—not political, just to settle old scores. Is your friend a Gypsy?”

“Yes—how did you know that?”

“The Gypsies got the worst of it. One woman in Pampaneira denounced two young Gypsy girls who, she said, stole the sheets from her washing line. Another Gypsy woman was arrested just for fortune-telling.”

“Rose has been asking around in Pampaneira about her brother,” Zoltan said, “but no one wants to talk. We were wondering if you knew where he might have gone.”

Rose shot him a grateful glance.