Nieve took Rose’s right hand, moving the fingers into position.
“The wrist movement is most important,” Lola went on. “Think of the way water swirls.” She jerked her head at the fountain behind her.
Nieve began clapping out a rhythm, and Rose attempted to follow Lola’s movements. It was hard to move her arms and wrists gracefully while maintaining the very erect posture Lola displayed. And when the escobilla began, Rose tripped over her own feet and fell into a quivering, giggling heap on the grass.
“It’s no good,” she gasped. “I’ll never be able to do it—it’s much too hard!”
“You can’t expect to get it straightaway.” Lola was trying to look stern, but her cheeks were pink with suppressed laughter. “It’s taken me years of study and discipline.”
“But you said flamenco was spontaneous!” Huffing out a theatrical sigh, Rose propped herself up on one arm. “I thought once you got a few of the moves, you could . . . well . . . sort of make it up as you went along.”
“It might look like that but it’s not.” Lola sank down onto the grass beside her. “If you lived a whole lifetime, you could never learn it all. When you prepare to dance, you ask, What are the emotions we are trying to express? What are the rhythms of this piece? You have a backbone of material, but your imagination is just as important. You have to work out moves to reflect every single word that comes out of the singer’s mouth.”
Rose shook her head. “That sounds incredibly difficult.”
“That’s why I have to practice so much. When I came to Granada, it helped that I lived in the same house as Cristóbal. A dancer has to get a feeling for what the singer is going to do before he or she actually does it.” She brought her fist up to her chest. “It’s in here,” she said. “Like a sixth sense. It grows the more you practice. When Cristóbal starts to sing, he’s supposed to follow the signals I give with my feet. But he gets so lost in what he’s singing that it doesn’t always work like that. I have to be ready to change what I’ve planned in a heartbeat.”
“Have you told him yet? About going to Madrid?”
“I had to—we’re leaving a week from today.” Lola glanced across the grass at the tavern in the shadow of the palace walls. “It’s going to be strange, performing in this place for the last time.”
“How did he react?”
Lola grunted a laugh. “He said it was a bit drastic, going all the way to Madrid to get away from the husband he’s lined up for me.” She shook her head. “But when he stopped joking around, he said he wasn’t surprised. He knows it’s something I’ve been dreaming about for years. And the prize money will keep him going while he looks for a new dancer.”
“What about Nieve? How does she feel about leaving her cousins behind?”
“She’s sad, of course.” Lola followed the child with her eyes as Nieve chased Gunesh around a magnolia bush. Creamy petals showered down as they careered against the trunk. “But she’s excited, too. Thanks to you, she’s as mad about reading as she is about dancing. She wants to go to school in a place where no one knows her. If she went here, the other children would tease her. She’s a tough little thing, but she doesn’t need that. It’ll be so much easier for her in Madrid.”
“Well, I’m certainly going to miss her,” Rose said. “And so is Gunesh.”
Lola nodded. “Perhaps we’ll get a dog of our own one day. Although I don’t know how we’d find one as handsome as him.” She turned to Rose with a wistful smile. “It’s good that you have him with you. To protect you. There are wolves up there in the mountains.” She could have added that there were people there, too—people even more frightening than wild animals. She could have told Rose the other reason why she couldn’t go with her on her journey to the Alpujarras. That he might still be there. The faceless man who haunted her nightmares.
The performance was about to begin. Rose had taken a seat on one of the low benches that had been pushed against the wall in the back room of the tavern. The place was jam-packed. Word of Lola and Cristóbal’s success in Provence had traveled fast.
Lola had gone somewhere to get changed. She had seemed keen to get away the moment they stepped into the tavern. When Rose had asked her what the matter was, Lola had glanced fleetingly at a man who was standing at the bar.
“That’s the man Cristóbal wants me to marry,” she hissed. “His name’s Antonio Lopez. I can’t stand him.”
Rose had watched the man follow Lola with his eyes as she left the room. There was a furtive hunger in them, like a dog hovering around a dinner table, hoping for scraps. He looked about twenty years older than Lola, and his stomach bulged over the waist of his trousers. His thinning hair was slicked across the top of his head like bedraggled feathers.
She had lost sight of him as people began filing through to the back room, jostling for space on the benches. Nieve had grabbed her hand and led her to a seat. Cristóbal was already there, tuning his guitar. He gave her a brief, hooded look. She pretended not to notice, dropping her hand to the floor to find Gunesh, who had curled up under the bench.
It was hot and stuffy in the room. There was a small window in one wall. Someone had pulled it open. It had narrow-spaced bars on the outside, like the window of a prison cell. Rose was looking at it when something very strange happened. A swift flew straight through the bars, darted across the room, and landed in Rose’s lap.
It sat there, its claws digging into the fabric of her skirt, staring up at her with its bright little eyes. She stared back, hypnotized—not quite believing it was real. Swifts had always been her favorite birds. They were so strange and mysterious, with so many legends attached to them. She’d heard the English Gypsies call them devil birds, for their screaming, for their crossbow shape, and for their uncanny ability to do everything on the wing—to eat, drink, preen, and mate without ever touching the earth. According to Bill Lee, swifts didn’t sleep in the nests they built in the eaves of houses but soared to the moon at dusk to spend the night there, descending to earth with the dew of the morning.
She felt Gunesh brush the backs of her legs, but she hushed him before he could frighten the bird.
Suddenly Cristóbal was standing in front of her. “The bird must go back outside,” he said. “Its kind die quickly if they come out of the sky.”
She felt paralyzed. If she tried to grab it, it would struggle. It might die of fright. But if it hopped off her lap, into the crowd, it would be trampled underfoot. She was aware of dozens of pairs of eyes on her. The bird had cast a spellbinding hush on the room.
“Take it!” In one rapid movement she grasped the warm, quivering body and thrust it into Cristóbal’s hands. He waded through the sea of bodies, opened the door, and tossed the bird into the starlit sky.
Then all hell broke loose. The Gypsies crowded around her, their faces wild with excitement. They jabbered at her in kalo, the words incomprehensible. Nieve fought her way through the forest of legs, popping up at Rose’s side to translate.
“They’re saying that when a bird comes to you like this, it’s very, very lucky,” she said. “Now you have to make a wish. Think of something you really, really want—and before a year is up, the wish will come true.”
Rose’s heart was beating as fast as the wings she’d trapped in her hands. She closed her eyes.
“What are you wishing for?” Nieve was whispering in her ear. Rose could feel the warmth of her breath. “Oh no—you mustn’t tell me! It won’t come true if you do!”
Was it Nieve’s voice that drove thoughts of Nathan from her mind? Was it the tenderness she felt for this little girl that made her long for what she’d warned herself about wanting?
A child. The words flashed across the dark side of her eyes. I wish for a child.
It was close to midnight when the dancing ended. Each time Lola had taken a bow, the crowd had gone wild for more. Poor little Nieve had crawled under the bench and fallen asleep with Gunesh for a pillow. Now people were crowding around Lola and
Cristóbal, proffering bottles of wine and brandy.
“I’ll take Nieve home if you want me to,” Rose called out when she managed to get within hailing distance of Lola.
A look of concern crossed Lola’s face.
“It’s okay—you should stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it!”
At that moment four of the men grabbed Lola and hoisted her onto their shoulders to whoops of joy from the crowd. She gave Rose a shrug of resignation as they carried her off across the room.
Outside it was very dark. The sky had clouded over, obscuring the moon and the stars. Rose had a flashlight in her bag, which helped them to negotiate the steep descent from the Alhambra, along the winding wooded path that led to the Gate of the Pomegranates. Once she and Nieve were through that, there were gas lamps to light the way. They gave the narrow cobbled streets an eerie yellow glow.
“Will you carry me?” Nieve had stumbled, zombielike, down the hillside, but now she was flagging.
Rose lifted the child into her arms, smelling the lavender scent of her hair as Nieve snuggled into her neck. Gunesh was already a few yards ahead of them. He seemed to know the way back to Sacromonte. As she followed behind him, Rose’s thoughts returned to the strange encounter with the swift. Why had she wished for a child? Was her growing closeness to Nieve really making her feel broody? Or was it the half-buried hope that Nieve could be her niece?
Lola was trying to get away from Antonio Lopez, who had her trapped in a corner of the tavern, his arm propped against the wall so she couldn’t sidle away from him.
“Have another drink!” He lifted a bottle of red wine, pouring some into his own glass before going to top up hers.
“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.” She tried to catch Cristóbal’s eye. He was over by the bar, a glass of brandy in his hand, standing very close to a girl Lola had seen him with before. She lived out of town, in a cave house on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and came to Granada to sell fruit from a basket in the streets—strawberries, cherries, apricots, or prickly pear, according to the season. Clearly her cousin was having far too good a time to want to come home anytime soon.
“Come on—what’s wrong with you?” Antonio moved closer, sliding his hand around her waist.
“Get off me!” She tried to push him away. Although he was twice her size, she managed to knock him off balance. He staggered slightly, his arms flailing as he braced himself against the wall. The people nearby turned and stared. But not Cristóbal. Either he was too absorbed to notice Lola’s pleading looks or he was deliberately ignoring her.
“I need to get home.” Still cornered, she ducked under Antonio’s arm. The smell of rancid sweat mixed with the whiff of stables almost made her gag.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, catching her by the wrist. “It’s late—you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll be fine.” She pulled away from him. She didn’t want to hurl insults, show him up in front of all these people, but if he persisted, she would have no choice.
“If that’s what you want.” He shrugged and drained his glass. “Mind how you go—it’s very dark out there.”
It took her a few minutes to pack away her costume, her shoes, and her makeup. She slipped out the back door of the tavern to avoid being held up by any other man, emboldened by drink, who might fancy his chances. That was the trouble with dancing in these places. After a few drinks, men thought the passion was for real—that moving your body like that meant you had only one thing on your mind and it was only natural to try to take advantage. Would they be different in Madrid? Was there any hope of meeting someone who didn’t see “whore” or “housewife” tattooed on her forehead when he looked at her?
She stood outside the tavern for a moment, breathing in the cool air. The scent of galán de noche—night-flowering jasmine—drifted over the wall from the palace gardens. Apart from the muffled rise and fall of laughter, the only sound she could hear was the rhythmic thrumming of the crickets. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she set off down the path.
Her boots crunched on the fine, sandy gravel. She couldn’t see more than a couple of yards in front of her, but she knew the way well enough not to be fazed by the twists and turns as she made her way down the hill.
An owl flew out of a tree, swooping so low she could feel the rush of air from its wing beats. Then she heard another sound. Not the rustle of a bird in the branches but a sharp snap, like a twig breaking underfoot. She looked in the direction it had come from, trying to make sense of the dark shapes at the edge of the path. Was that the trunk of a tree or the body of a man lurking in the shadows?
She walked on, faster than before. Once she reached the Gate of the Pomegranates, she would be safe in the light of the streetlights. She could smell the city now—the stink of the river rising on the night breeze, mingling with the earthy scents of the woodland. She blew out a breath when she spotted the looming mass of the gate, black against the charcoal gray of the sky. But as she passed under the arch, someone grabbed her from behind, pushing her into the rough stone and pressing hard against her.
She kicked out and tried to scream, but a hand clamped her mouth shut before any sound could escape. She felt his breath through her hair, hot on her scalp, a wave of alcohol tainted with the stink of sweat. And mule shit.
Antonio Lopez.
His grip tightened. She could taste blood, like metal, in her mouth. An image of Nieve swam before her eyes. Naked and defenseless, the cord hanging from her belly. With all her strength Lola jerked her head up, jabbing him under the chin. She heard his teeth crunch. He swore. But it had no more impact than a sparrow pecking a vulture.
She felt him fumbling with her skirt, yanking it up over her buttocks. She jabbed blindly with her elbow, catching him under the ribs. He coughed, momentarily loosening his grip on her mouth. In one lightning movement she twisted sideways, thrust her hand inside her skirt, and pulled her knife from the belt around her waist. As he lunged at her, the knife went in, so fast and clean he hardly made a sound as he fell to the ground. And then she ran. Faster than she had ever run in her life, clattering up the cobbled streets, on and on, until she staggered through the blue-painted door of the cave house.
“Lola! My God!” Rose leapt up from the chair by the fire, catching Lola as she fell to her knees.
“I . . . I th . . . think I’ve k . . . killed him!” Her teeth rattled as the words spilled out.
“What! Who, Lola? Who?”
“An . . . tonio Lopez. H . . . he t . . .” The words disappeared into a great shuddering sob.
Rose lifted her up, half carried her to the armchair. She laid her gently down, stroking Lola’s hair. “Don’t try to talk. Let me get you something. Brandy—is there brandy?”
Lola nodded, unable to control her lips. She pointed to a cupboard in the wall.
Rose found the bottle and held it up to Lola’s mouth.
“Better?”
“Yes.” Lola’s voice was a rasping whisper.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Rose knelt beside the chair.
“He was waiting for me. By the G . . . Gate of the Pomegranates.” Lola bit her lip, trying to control the trembling. “He jumped on me and tried to . . . but I had m . . . my knife.”
Rose sucked in a breath. “You stabbed him?”
Lola nodded.
“Is he . . .”
“I . . . I don’t know. I just ran.”
Rose scrambled to her feet. “I’d better go and find him. He might be—”
“No!” Lola cut in. “You can’t! They’ll think it’s you who did it!”
“But we can’t just leave him!” Rose unhooked her jacket from a peg on the wall.
“Why not? He’s a monster! He deserves to die!” She spat out the words with a vehemence that stopped Rose in her tracks. Lola could imagine what she was thinking. And it was true. A portion of her heart had frozen solid that day on the mountain. There was no room in it for mercy.
Chapter 16<
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Rose was dozing fitfully in front of the embers of the fire, a blanket thrown over her knees. Lola had crawled into bed with Nieve and Gunesh after making Rose promise not to go down to the Gate of the Pomegranates.
It had been far too late to go back to her room at the posada—the place would be locked up. There had been no alternative but to try to get what little sleep she could in the armchair. She had fallen into a whirlpool of graphic nightmares, peopled by ghastly figures covered in blood. And Lola was dancing among them in the orange fishtail dress she had worn that first night at the fiesta, her skirts flying out as she slashed and jabbed at their ravaged bodies.
Rose woke with a start. She could hear a whining sound over by the door. She twisted around in the chair, thinking it was Gunesh wanting to be let out. But it was Cristóbal’s dog, Chico, she saw—a skinny black-and-white animal with pointed ears, like the dogs portrayed in Egyptian tombs.
She heard a key twist in the lock. Then Cristóbal’s voice. He was muttering something inaudible to the dog, who ran back and jumped into the chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“What are you doing here?” He loomed into view, his head silhouetted against the slice of pale-gray sky revealed by the open door. He had a hunk of bread in his hand, and he bit off a big mouthful, swallowing it without chewing.
Rose doubted that he had even noticed her leaving the tavern with Nieve. She didn’t want to contemplate what he’d been doing all night. “I wasn’t waiting for you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “It was too late to go back to my room, that’s all.”
“Where’s Lola?”
“In bed.”
“What time did she get back?” She could hear the foreboding in his voice.
“I . . . I’m not sure. I was asleep. Why do you ask?”
“A man was knifed to death last night. Antonio Lopez.” His eyes searched her face.
Rose held her breath, afraid that anything she said would betray the fact that she knew.
“He wanted to marry Lola—did she tell you that?” Cristóbal shoved his dog off the chair and sank down onto it. “People are saying she had a fight with him in the tavern—pushed him away when he tried to put his arm round her. And half an hour later, he was found under the Gate of the Pomegranates with a knife in his guts.”
The Snow Gypsy Page 14
