The Snow Gypsy(85)
“We won’t be staying long.”
“You’re still planning to go to Madrid?”
“Yes—as soon as I look less like a ghost and more like my old self.”
“You need sunshine—and lots of migas.” He blew out a wreath of smoke. “There never was much of you, was there? We need to fatten you up a bit before you think about dancing again.”
“I tried to dance while I was locked up, you know. It was the only way I managed to stay sane. But if the guards heard me, they yelled at me. I had to spread my blanket on the floor and dance on that.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “In the end I was too weak, though. I could only pretend to dance, sitting on the edge of the bed and moving my arms and feet. I used to close my eyes and imagine I was back in Provence.”
“That seems like years ago, doesn’t it?”
Lola nodded. “And it seems like an eternity since I saw Nieve.”
Cristóbal had already left when the telegram arrived. Lola was sitting outside the front door, gazing at the sun lighting up the smudges of snow on the Sierra Nevada. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a boy in the uniform of the Correos—Spain’s postal service—his limbs laboring as he pedaled up the hill. She had seen boys like this before, cycling around the city. But no one she knew had ever received a telegram. Because no one in the cave houses of Sacromonte could read or write.
She wondered where he was going. When he jumped off his bike a few yards from the house, her heart began to thud.
“Se?orita Aragon?” The boy came closer, holding out a piece of paper.
Had they changed their minds? Was this a summons? Were they coming to take her to Málaga prison? She wouldn’t let them. She’d run away. To Madrid. Anywhere. But what about Nieve? How could she leave without Nieve?
“You have to open it.” The boy’s eyebrows were so dark and full they met in the middle, the hairs arching over the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “I can’t leave until I see you do that.” There was no subtlety in his voice. He sounded as though he was taking pleasure in humiliating her. Waiting for her to hand the telegram back for him to decipher.
Her hands shook as she prized it open. She stared at the printed message, confused by all the capital letters. She could feel the boy’s eyes on her. The words started to swirl on the page.
Take the letters one at a time.
Rose’s voice rang out inside her head.
That one—like two dancers bowing to each other—it’s M. One leg is an I. Two legs joined in the middle is H.
MI HIJA . . . My daughter . . . Lola’s stomach lurched as the words emerged. GRAVEMENTE ENFERMA. Gravely ill. VEN A LA FUENTE SIN DEMORA. Come to the fountain without delay.
Lola had never ridden a bicycle before. She almost came off as she careered down the hill. But it wasn’t so very different from dancing—just a matter of poise and balance. She had offered the boy two pesetas, then three. In the end she had handed over five. There wasn’t time to haggle. There was only one bus to órgiva—and no other way she could think of to get to it in time.
She left the bicycle chained to a lamppost outside the Iglesia de Santo Domingo. The bus was revving its engine, ready to go. Breathless and exhausted, she scrambled up the steps and fell into a seat next to a large woman with a basket of figs on her lap.
As they left the city behind, dark thoughts began to crowd in. She didn’t notice the orchards and vineyards in the valley below the road. All she could see was an image of Nieve, pale and crying, lying on a bed in some anonymous room in a place whose address she didn’t even know.
Gravely ill.
Rose wouldn’t have used those words unless the situation was desperate. Lola felt as if claws were tearing at her heart, trying to pull it out of her body. Nieve had always been such a healthy child. Apart from the odd cold and a mild case of chicken pox, she had never really been unwell. If Lola could just get to her. There must be a chance that she would pull through. There had to be. The thought of living without her was unimaginable. Unendurable.
Lola thought fleetingly of the vow she had made—that she would never go back to the Alpujarras. It hadn’t occurred to her that circumstances might force her to return. Rose wouldn’t have taken the decision to summon her back lightly. She knew what harrowing memories the place held. But Rose couldn’t know that there was more. That Lola was scared—terrified, in fact—of what might happen if she went back to the area where she’d grown up. Because the chances were, he was still living there: the unknown man who had killed her mother and brother—and would have killed her, too, if he’d had the chance. Because whatever she had done with her life in the past eight years, she would always be the enemy: from a family who had sided with the partisans.
Lola had scant regard for her own safety now that Nieve’s life hung in the balance. But the faceless man hovered like a specter at the margins of her mind’s eye, refusing to go away.
Chapter 32
Pampaneira, Spain
The streets of the village were deserted. It was siesta time—and so hot that even the cats had retreated to the shadowy recesses of the whitewashed houses that lined Calle Veronica. The only sounds were the chirping of birds in cages set on windowsills and the trickle of running water.
As the mule lumbered along the cobbles, Lola was aware of eyes watching her from the vine-covered balconies that overhung the streets. One woman leaned forward as the mule passed, shading her eyes to get a better look. Even though this wasn’t Lola’s village, it made her feel conspicuous. If there had been more time, she would have brought something to disguise herself.