Lola stared into the flames licking around the blackened base of the cauldron. The only person she’d opened her heart to in a long time was the Englishwoman, Rose—a complete stranger. And yet Lola had told her things she’d never revealed to the people in the vardos. Why had she done that? Was it just because she and Rose shared the devastating experience of losing a brother? Or was it something else? The feeling that in this outsider, she had found a kindred spirit?
She raked her fingers through her hair. If only she had recognized that face in the photograph. If only she could have softened the pain in Rose’s eyes—the look that so perfectly mirrored her own anguish.
Somewhere behind the wagon a dog barked—so loud it made her jump.
Nieve’s head appeared through the flap of canvas. “That’s Gunesh—I saw him through the hole!” She jumped nimbly over the edge of the wagon and ran around the back. Seconds later she returned, her hand looped through the dog’s collar.
“Look who I found!” Cristóbal appeared next. He was looking over his shoulder at Rose, who was a few steps behind him. “Can you believe she’s never tasted paella?”
Rose didn’t come right up to the wagon. The women by the fire were staring at her. She looked embarrassed, as if she thought Cristóbal shouldn’t have invited her without asking the others first.
“Come and sit here.” Lola patted the cushion beside her. “Don’t worry about them,” she whispered as Rose climbed up. “They might look like witches, but they’re very good cooks.”
“A jalar!” Time to eat! As if on cue the woman with no teeth stood up, scattering the fragments of seaweed caught in her apron.
Rose was on her second helping of paella. She noticed that Lola had hardly touched her food, pushing the little shellfish and the fragments of squid tentacles around her bowl and taking only the odd forkful of rice. Was it because she was worried about keeping that slim dancer’s figure? Or was she nervous about the competition?
“This is a big day for you, isn’t it?” Rose said. “Cristóbal told me about the prize money.”
Lola nodded. “In his head he’s already spent it. But there are some very good flamencas here. Male and female dancers. From Madrid, from Sevilla, from Barcelona . . .” She trailed off, spearing a prawn.
“You make it look so easy—but I suppose that comes from years of practice?”
“I started when I was younger than Nieve,” Lola replied. “I was on an errand for my mother—she’d sent me to buy sugar or something—and I caught sight of some girls in a courtyard. They were learning how to click their toes and heels—the thing we call zapateado. I hid behind a wall so I could watch. The teacher spotted me and asked me if I knew how to dance. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, but I just . . .” She shrugged. “I did it by some instinct, I think. I don’t know how long I stayed—I got into terrible trouble when I got back home. But the next week I was back there, taking lessons.”
“That was in your village, was it? In the mountains?”
Lola nodded. “In Capileira, yes. I had a good teacher there—but I wouldn’t have got to dance for a living if I hadn’t moved to Granada.” She set her bowl aside, the saffron-colored rice already beginning to desiccate in the heat from the sun. “Will you go there? To the mountains, I mean?”
“Yes, I will. Although your cousin warned me I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
Lola’s face clouded. “What did he say?”
“That people don’t like to talk about what happened during the Civil War. That . . .” Rose hesitated, aware that anything she said might sound like a judgment on whatever had befallen Lola’s family.
“It won’t be easy, I’m certain of that.” Lola turned her face away, gazing into the distance. “It’s a beautiful place—I miss it terribly. But I could never go back there.” She brought her hand up to her heart and held it there. “Fear remains in the blood.”
Rose held her breath for a moment, searching for the right words. “It must have been a terrible time for you,” she said at last.
Lola nodded slowly. “When I’m dancing, I stop feeling the pain. Only dance and tears can get rid of it. If I didn’t dance, I’d be crying all the time.” She closed her eyes as if to shut out images too harrowing to recall.
“I’m sorry to have made you talk about it,” Rose said.
Lola shook her head. Opening her eyes, she turned to Rose. “Don’t let Cristóbal put you off,” she said. “You have to go there. We both have pain—yours might be different from mine, but it won’t go away, will it? Not knowing if someone is dead or alive is a kind of torture.”
Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know. That kind of fear kills you without you realizing. Like bleeding inside.
Lola’s words were an echo of what Bill had said. Two Gypsies, half a continent apart, had given her the same wise advice.
Before Rose could reply, Nieve came bouncing up to the wagon, dragging Gunesh in her wake. “Can I give him Mama’s leftovers, Rose? He’s been sniffing the paella pan—I think he wants some!”
“Well, yes.” Rose smiled. “If your mother has finished.”
Lola handed Nieve her bowl. “I can never eat much before I dance,” she said to Rose. “I get too nervous.”
“Can we take Gunesh for a walk after that?” Nieve flashed a smile at Rose as she held the bowl out to the dog. “I could take you to see Rubio.”
“That’s our horse,” Lola said. “Well, not ours, exactly—we borrowed him for the journey from Granada. He belongs to a friend of Cristóbal’s.”
“I’ll look after Auntie Rose while you get ready.”
Rose smiled. No one had ever called her Auntie before. Nieve’s expression was very grown-up for an eight-year-old. Rose wondered what it had been like for her, being brought up by someone who was barely out of childhood herself. Probably the two of them were more like sisters than mother and daughter.
“Will you come and see us later?” Lola asked.
“Of course,” Rose said. “I’m looking forward it. And Cristóbal said there’s going to be a wedding afterward.”
“Yes.” Lola made a face. “I’m not sure I’ll be staying up for that.” She jerked her head at Cristóbal, who was standing on the far side of the campfire, deep in conversation with a couple of wizened Gypsy men. “He might try to pair me off with someone. He’s been threatening to find me a husband.”
“Auntie Rose! Are you coming?” Nieve was tugging at Rose’s skirt.
“¡Bueno éxito!” Good luck! Rose called over her shoulder as she jumped down from the wagon.
“With the dancing or the husband dodging?” Lola shot her a wry smile. “Hasta luego.” See you later.
Rose glanced down at Gunesh, who was curled up at her feet. She was amazed that he could sleep through the whirlwind of sound. Guitars, drums, violins, and castanets. The frenzied stamping of the dancers and the wild applause of the onlookers. There had been four other acts to sit through before Lola and Cristóbal took their turn. All were mixed groups of male and female dancers. There was enormous energy in the performances—the men, especially, were an arresting sight, projecting heartbreak as they hugged their waistcoats to their lithe bodies and desperate bravado as they threw back their heads. But it was difficult to watch when more than one person was dancing in such a small space. Perhaps that would give Lola an advantage over these others.
When the cousins emerged from the shadows at the edge of the square, Rose gave an involuntary gasp. Lola wore a gown of shimmering gold edged with black lace. The tight-fitting bodice gave way to a cascade of fishtail frills that swept the ground as she moved. Cristóbal’s costume complemented hers perfectly. He wore a waistcoat of the same fabric as the dress over a crisp white shirt with a dikló of black silk loosely knotted at his neck.
Rose followed him with her eyes as he took his seat on the straw bale beside the makeshift stage. The sensation of his lips on hers surged from her memory, quickening her pulse. She saw him reach across to Nieve and
give her hand a little squeeze. The child gave him a nervous smile. She looked like a Christmas-card angel, in a white dress trimmed with gold.
A hush came over the crowd as Lola raised her arms and angled her body in that proud, defiant posture that signaled the start of the performance. The moment the palmas began, her feet took off in a frenzy of movement. On their walk that afternoon, Nieve had explained some of the dance steps to Rose. The footwork in flamenco was called escobilla. Punta meant using half a foot; tacón was the heel only; planta was when the whole foot came down on the ground.
As she watched, Rose wondered how Lola managed not to trip over the golden train of her dress. Somehow, she kept it behind her, sweeping the fabric out in a great arc—an achievement that underlined the skill of her performance because she did it with such effortless grace.
Nieve had outlined the palos—the sequence of dances that would make up the competition entry—so Rose knew that this maelstrom of unaccompanied footwork was a prelude to Cristóbal striking up a melody. The name Nieve had given to this was a llamada—literally a calling—and that was just how it sounded when Cristóbal opened his mouth. His voice was the plaintive wail of a soul in agony. The drawn-out syllables made the words hard to comprehend, but Nieve had recited the lyrics to Rose. She said it was her uncle’s favorite song: a ballad about wanting to die in Granada.
Rose felt the rhythm of the music enter her body like a second heartbeat, drumming against her ribs. Dragging her gaze away from Cristóbal, she saw Lola’s fingers sculpting the air as her wrists rotated in a series of intricate movements, like fantail doves rolling in midair. This time she used her upper body more than her feet to convey the emotion. The combination of her movements and Cristóbal’s voice had a transcendent effect on the audience: it was as if they had cast spider threads into the night air to tug at the heartstrings of every man and woman in the vast crowd gathered in the village square.
When the sequence ended, there were shouts of adulation in a dozen different languages. But the performance was not over. With a flick of her wrist, Lola pulled off the fishtail part of her dress to reveal a second layer that hugged her slim body like a silken cocoon. She tossed it toward the straw bales, where Nieve leapt forward to retrieve it. At the same moment, Cristóbal sent a black lace shawl sailing through the air. Lola caught it in one hand, flourishing it like a bullfighter’s cape before wrapping it around her shoulders. She smiled at the audience for the first time, signaling that the next number was a happy one.
This time she induced a different kind of enchantment. People were twisting and swaying as if they had itching powder in their shoes. It was impossible not to be carried along by the sheer exuberance of Lola’s dancing.
It was not just flowers that showered the arena when the sequence ended. Coins flew through the air, too. Lola held her hand up to her heart as she bowed. Then she gestured to Cristóbal, who rose from his seat to rapturous applause. He, in turn, gestured to Nieve. The little girl was far too busy scooping up the fallen coins to notice—which brought peals of laughter from the crowd.
When eventually the hubbub subsided, Lola, Cristóbal, and Nieve disappeared to await the judges’ decision. Rose couldn’t have been more nervous if she’d been onstage herself. When the verdict was announced, she clapped her hand to her mouth.
There was no chance of fighting her way through the crowd to congratulate them. The Granada Gypsy men were already there, surrounding them like an honor guard. They hoisted all three onto their shoulders to parade them around the square with Lola at the front. It was like a reprise of the Saint Sara procession—this time with a flesh-and-blood woman instead of a wooden statue.
Rose decided to take Gunesh back to the tent and return when things had died down a bit. She got back to the square just in time to see Lola being crowned with a garland of lilies and Cristóbal taking proud possession of a fat envelope.
She pushed her way to the edge of the arena as they took a final bow. Nieve caught sight of her and gave a small, self-conscious wave. The ceremony at an end, she led her mother and uncle to the place where Rose was standing.
“¡Felicidades, vosostros estuvísteis fantásticos!” Rose hugged each of them in turn.
Cristóbal wrapped his arms around her, pulling her extra close to whisper in her ear. “¿Te veré después?” Will I see you later?
His lips brushed her skin, sending a fizz of desire all the way to her belly. She glanced sideways, aware of how it would look to Lola and Nieve. But they had disappeared into the sea of adoring fans.
Chapter 11
Lola hadn’t intended to stay for the wedding. Physically she was spent—but she knew that if she went back to the wagon and lay down, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Euphoria coursed through her body like liquid fire. She’d swapped the gold flamenco costume for an anonymous combination of white blouse and dark-blue skirt. A shawl of the same blue shrouded her face.
“I didn’t recognize you,” Rose said when Lola touched her arm.
“Good!” Lola grunted a laugh. “I was followed all the way to the changing rooms. Suddenly I seem to be very popular—I suppose five thousand francs does that for a girl.”
“I shouldn’t think money had anything to do with it,” Rose said. “You looked stunning in that dress, and you’re the star of the show—no wonder you’ve got men trailing after you.”
“Well, I managed to shake them off, thank goodness.”
“Who, Mama?” Nieve piped up.
“No one, cariño.” Lola stroked the child’s hair. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
“Oh look!” Rose pointed to a girl of about seventeen who was coming out of the church on the arm of a boy who looked barely old enough to shave, followed by a gaggle of little girls in white dresses. “Is that the bride and groom?”
“It must be,” Lola replied. “They’re not Spanish. I think they’re from Greece. You can tell from her hairstyle.”
“How?”
“Can you see how it’s all woven with ribbons? They pin it up in a sort of hat shape, then drape a white veil over the top. Only the Greek girls do that. And they have those embroidered velvet jackets, cut off above the waist.”
“I can’t see!” Nieve was standing on tiptoe. Rose lifted her up and hoisted her onto her shoulders.
“Is that better?”
“Yes—I’m a giant now!”
Rose felt the child stroking her hair.
“I can see everything!” Nieve laughed. “There’s Uncle Cristóbal. He’s going into that place he went to last night.”
“Well, he’d better not spend any of the prize money,” Lola muttered.
“Has the wedding ceremony already happened?” Rose was peering out from under the frills of Nieve’s dress.
“The church part, yes.” Lola nodded. “But the celebrations don’t start until they’ve jumped over the broomstick. Over there.” She jerked her head toward the sea side of the village square. “They’re going to do it on the beach. They’ve built a huge bonfire, and they’ve been roasting an ox for hours—ever since the procession ended. Are you hungry?”
Rose nodded. “I shouldn’t be after all that paella—but I am.”
“Me too,” Nieve chimed in. “Can we go there now?”
They joined the crush of people following the bride and groom. The night air was full of sounds and smells—of musical instruments, singing, and clapping; of tobacco, woodsmoke, and hot human bodies. As they drew near to the quayside, the stink of rotting fish drifted in on the breeze, overlaid with the aroma of roasting meat. Soon the cobblestones underfoot gave way to sand. A fire as tall as a house sent sparks flying into the purple sky and cast a path of shimmering bronze across the rippling ocean.
The wedding guests fanned out, circling the fire as the young couple took their places next to a broomstick lying in the sand. Lola thought how happy they looked, their faces glowing with the heat of the fire and their eyes shining with anticipation. It gave her a wi
stful feeling. Would they be happy? Could they? Was it possible to pledge your life to someone at seventeen and make it last until you died?
“That’s going to be quite a jump, isn’t it?” Rose’s voice broke into her thoughts. The broomstick had been lifted off the sand by two older men, who were holding it at just above knee height.
“Yes,” Lola said. “It’s not usually that high.”
“Why do they have to jump over it?” Nieve frowned.
“It’s . . . just what they do.” Lola cast a wry look at Rose. “Do you know about this custom of ours?”
“Not really,” Rose replied. “I have Gypsy friends who’ve got married, but I’ve never been to a wedding.”
“They have to jump as high as they can.” Lola lowered her voice to a whisper for what she had to say next: “If the girl’s skirt touches the broomstick, it signifies that she’s not a virgin—or that she’s pregnant already. If the boy’s trousers touch it, it means he’ll betray his bride.”
“Poor things,” Rose whispered back. “I hope for her sake he’s got springs in his legs.”
Lola nodded. She couldn’t help thinking of Cristóbal’s wife. She had a mental image of Juanita bending over a cooking pot, her belly distended. She wondered what her cousin was getting up to back there in the tavern. With a wad of cash in his pocket and the magnetism of being a winner, she feared the worst.
A hush fell on the watchers as the young bride lifted the froth of fabric that covered her legs to the ankle. She was a little dot of a thing—no more than five feet tall. Lola didn’t think she had a hope of clearing the broomstick. But she stepped a few paces back and took it at a run, her skirt flying up to her hips as she leapt over the wooden shaft.
There was wild cheering from the crowd. Then it was the boy’s turn. With a broad grin he rolled his trousers up to his knees, which brought boos and catcalls from the crowd. But he took no notice and jumped. The trousers stayed up, and he grabbed his bride, picking her up and twirling her around in his arms.
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