The Snow Gypsy

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  “That’s . . . terrible.” She stared at her feet, unable to look at him.

  “You say you didn’t wake up when she came in? How was that? She must have walked right past you!”

  “I . . . I had a lot to drink last night.” She’d had only one glass of wine. But he wouldn’t know that. “I put Nieve to bed, then just collapsed out here. I vaguely remember Lola coming in—she called good night to me, I think—but I couldn’t tell you what time it was.”

  “Well, she’d better have a good story.” Cristóbal grabbed a poker from a hook on the wall and jabbed it into the embers of the fire. “The police are going to be buzzing around here like flies.”

  As if on cue, Chico started barking. Gunesh came running from the back of the house, and the two set up a racket that brought Juanita stumbling into the room in her nightdress.

  “Why are they barking?” She rubbed her eyes, staring at Rose. “What’s going on?”

  Before either Rose or Cristóbal could reply, there was a loud thump on the door.

  Chapter 17

  Lola sat shivering in a basement cell in the headquarters of Granada’s Guardia Civil. They had taken her in her nightclothes, not even allowing her to grab a shawl to keep out the chill of the subterranean prison they had frog-marched her into.

  All she could think of was Nieve. Her pale, frightened little face as she watched the nightmare unfolding. The police hadn’t cared that she was there. If Rose hadn’t taken Nieve’s hand and led her back to the bedroom, the child would have heard every sordid detail of what had happened under the Gate of the Pomegranates.

  He tried to rape me.

  They hadn’t seemed to care about that, either. Perhaps if she had been the daughter of the mayor, or a blonde-haired tourist, they would have believed her story.

  Gitana. Puta. Gypsy. Whore. She had heard them muttering the words under their breath—words that, in their minds, were interchangeable. She had killed a man whose only crime was loving her enough to want to marry her. That was how they saw it.

  As she stared at the dirty floor, numb with cold and shock, something else occurred to her—something even more terrifying than the prospect of standing trial for murder. They would take Nieve away. The authorities would be told that the Gypsy murderess had a child. There would be no question of Nieve being allowed to stay with Cristóbal and Juanita. She would be whisked away, and Lola would never set eyes on her again.

  Rose set off for the police station less than an hour after Lola was arrested. Nieve hadn’t wanted her to go. She had clung to Rose’s skirt with tears welling, as if she was afraid to let her out of her sight.

  “I have to try to help Mama.” Rose had wanted her to understand. But how could she explain it to a child? That her mother wouldn’t stand a chance of being believed because she was a Gypsy, that she needed someone outside the community to plead her case, someone the Guardia Civil couldn’t simply ignore as an illiterate troublemaker.

  She had left Nieve sobbing into Gunesh’s fur. Juanita had been sitting on the bed with her, the baby in her arms and a bowl of cherries in her free hand. But the child would not be comforted. The sight sent liquid steel shooting through Rose’s veins. She would do whatever it took to make them listen.

  The desk sergeant looked very young. Not much older than Lola. He eyed her with barely concealed disdain until she took out her passport and shoved it under his nose.

  “¿Es usted británica?” You are British?

  The surprise was clear to see. He had pigeonholed her the moment she walked through the door—the slanting cheekbones, the brightly patterned skirt, the dangling copper earrings.

  “Sí.” She pointed to the place on the passport where her profession had been written in. It said “Veterinarian,” but that was a term he was unlikely to understand. “I’m a doctor,” she said, pronouncing the words slowly and clearly in her best Spanish accent. “And I work for the king of England.” It wasn’t really a lie: during the war the royal vet had brought two of King George’s dogs to her after reading about her herbal cure for distemper.

  “I want to see Lola Aragon—the woman you arrested this morning.” Rose dived straight in with what came out sounding more like an order than a request, hoping he was sufficiently impressed by her qualifications to give way. “I’m also a lawyer,” she went on. “I’ll be acting on Miss Aragon’s behalf—so she has a right to see me.” This was a lie. But there was no one else to fight in Lola’s corner. In the absence of a real lawyer, Rose was going to have to do the best she could: try to get the charge dropped before the case went any further.

  “Wait here, please.” He disappeared through a door behind the desk, emerging almost immediately with a thickset older man with a mustache whose pointed ends looked like the handlebars of a motorcycle. This second officer eyed her up and down as if he were inspecting a stray dog with rabies. Then without a word to Rose, he turned to his colleague and said, “Diez minutos.”

  Ten minutes. Not very long. Barely long enough to hand over the clothes she had brought and offer a few words of comfort.

  She followed the desk sergeant down a twisting flight of steps into an underground corridor that stank of stale urine. Before she was allowed into the cell, she had to be searched. He made her strip down to her underwear and spent several minutes looking her up and down before he allowed her to get dressed again.

  By the time he went to unlock the door, Rose felt degraded and humiliated—but it was worth it. When Lola saw her, she let out a high-pitched whimper and threw herself into Rose’s arms. Her tears seeped through the thin cotton of Rose’s blouse.

  Rose stroked her hair, fighting back tears of her own. “It’s going to be all right, I promise.” She could feel Lola’s body trembling. With her free hand she groped inside the bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ve bought you some warm things to put on.”

  She guided Lola over to the concrete bench that ran along one wall. “Here—have this.” She draped a shawl of heather-colored wool around the shaking shoulders. “You can put the other things on when I’ve gone. I only have ten minutes—they won’t let me stay any longer than that.”

  Lola’s face crumpled.

  “I’m going to write letters,” Rose went on. “To the chief of the Guardia Civil, to the mayor of Granada, to General Franco himself if I have to. I’ll tell them what happened: that what you did was in self-defense. That he was trying to rape you because you’d didn’t want to marry him.”

  Lola stared at the wall, shaking her head.

  “What’s the matter? Is there something else? Something you haven’t told me about him?”

  “I . . . it’s not that.” Lola’s voice was barely audible.

  “What, then? Whatever it is, you must tell me—they’ll be coming any second.”

  “Please, Rose! Just get Nieve away—before they come and take her!”

  “You mean . . .” Rose searched her face, bewildered.

  “I want you to take her with you to the mountains. Tell the people there she’s yours.” Lola’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “It’s the only way to keep her safe!”

  “You think she’s in danger? Because of this?”

  “I know she is!” Lola glanced toward the door. “Go today—as soon as you can!”

  “I can’t just leave you here!” Rose sank onto the bench. She reached for Lola’s hand, enclosing it in both of hers. It felt cold and lifeless. She rubbed the flesh, as if she were trying to revive a stillborn foal or puppy.

  “But you have to!” Lola grasped Rose’s wrist. “Please, Rose! Take my baby!”

  Chapter 18

  Las Alpujarras, Spain: June 8, 1946

  The bus from Granada was packed with people and animals. The windows were open, but it made little difference. The smell was a suffocating mix of hot unwashed bodies and cigarette smoke. Rose’s hand ached from gripping Gunesh’s collar. She’d been afraid to let go in case he went for the chickens contained in a fragile-looking wicker basket at
the feet of the woman sitting across the aisle. Nieve was lying curled up in the seat with her head in Rose’s lap. Worn out from crying, she had fallen asleep within minutes of the bus setting off.

  The route had taken them due south, through the mountain pass known as the Moor’s Sigh—the place where the last Muslim ruler of Granada had stopped for a mournful look back at the city on his way to exile in the Alpujarras. The bus had skirted the western foothills of the Sierra Nevada, finally turning east, along a road with hairpin bends and terrifying ravines.

  Rose hadn’t noticed the changing landscape. All she could think about was Lola. She was writing a letter in her head—a letter she wouldn’t be able to send until she had a return address. That would be the priority when they reached Pampaneira: finding a room. Living in the tent was no longer an option—not with a child to look after. Money was going to be tight, but she would just have to be careful.

  The bus began the descent toward its destination—the town of Órgiva. To reach it they followed a road that wound along the bank of a river swollen with meltwater from the high peaks to the north. Passing through groves of citrus and olives, they came to a stop beside a church whose twin towers stuck up like giant honey-colored fingers against the looming backdrop of the mountains.

  It was a pretty little town, with flower-filled balconies and a bustling market in the main square. But there was no time to linger. Rose set about negotiating a price with the muleteers lined up outside the church. The only way to reach the villages higher up the mountains was on muleback. After a few minutes of bartering, Rose agreed to a fee of two pesetas and fifty cents for a guide and a pair of mules to carry Nieve, herself, and their baggage to Pampaneira.

  The sun was high in the sky when they set off. Swarms of flies followed the mules, making them twitch their heads and swish their tails. Rose tried to bat the insects away with her straw hat, but it didn’t have much effect and almost made her lose her balance.

  The flies became less of a problem when they left the road and started up a track that followed the river through a shady, steep-sided gorge. As they climbed above the town, the orange and lemon groves gave way to woodlands of chestnut and pine trees. Gunesh went chasing off after a squirrel, and when he finally came back, Rose had to clip his lead on and tie it to the mule’s saddle to keep him from doing it again.

  Rounding a bend in the river, they saw a great waterfall tumbling over boulders, sending a rainbow of spray across the track.

  “¡Cuídate!” Take care! The mule man tightened his grip on the lead reins of both animals. Rose heard the squelch of the animals’ hooves in the mud. Her mule almost lost its footing, tipping her sideways, before it righted itself. She got a dizzying glimpse over the precipice, of the waterfall crashing into the river.

  “I’m frightened!” Nieve grabbed Rose’s arm, fresh tears welling in her swollen eyes.

  “It’s all right—we’ll be there soon. Look! You can see the village—up there!” She pointed to a chimney just visible above the trees, seeping blue woodsmoke into the still air. It was probably just a forester’s cottage, but it did the trick—Nieve’s face brightened.

  “What will we have to eat there? Can we have migas? Mama said she used to have migas every day—even for breakfast!”

  “Well, that’s what we’ll have, then.” Rose smiled. Migas was a dish she’d never heard of before coming to Spain. Breadcrumbs fried in pork fat and garlic, served with whatever else you might have in the larder. She hadn’t known it was Nieve’s favorite. No doubt there was much else she didn’t know about the child. She was going to have to learn fast if she wanted to convince people that Nieve was her daughter.

  “Is it where I was born—up there?” Nieve fixed her eyes on the plume of smoke as her mule plodded along the muddy track. “Mama said bad people live there. That’s why she had to take me away. Are the bad people still there?”

  Rose glanced at the mule man. He was a few feet in front of them, puffing away on a cigarette. She hoped he couldn’t hear them above the roar of the waterfall. “That was a long time ago,” she said. “I’ll tell you what: tonight, when we’re tucked up in bed, I’ll tell you a story about a little girl who lived in a house in a forest—just like that one up there. Would you like that?”

  Nieve nodded. “Is it ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’?”

  “No.”

  “‘Hansel and Gretel’?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’ll give you a clue: it begins with L. Can you guess the next letter?”

  The game distracted Nieve for nearly half an hour, by which time they were riding past a mill on the river’s edge, with the rooftops of Pampaneira clearly visible on the opposite bank. The houses looked like a series of boxes piled on top of each other on the slopes. The chimneys were shaped like witches’ hats, and the roofs were not tiled but covered with grayish-brown clay.

  Rose’s throat tightened as they crossed the stone bridge that straddled the gorge. Had Nathan seen this same view? Had he walked among these houses? Was this really the place where he had met a girl and fallen in love?

  The mules clattered up a cobbled street with a translucent stream running along the edge of it. Each street they turned into had its own miniature man-made river, with the murmur of water a constant background sound. And there were flowers everywhere—terracotta pots bursting with scarlet geraniums in every nook and cranny of the whitewashed walls of the houses.

  Rose glanced up an alleyway, captivated by ancient-looking roof terraces jutting out over the street so far that neighbors living opposite each other could almost reach out and shake hands. Hibiscus, vines, and bougainvillea tumbled from trellises. Cobs of maize and strings of red peppers hung under the eaves. Down below, a ginger cat crouched on the cobbles, lapping water from the channel cut into the stones. The mule veered sideways as Gunesh tried to chase the cat, but Rose pulled him back before he could get any farther.

  The mule man set them down outside the village post office, which had a closed sign hanging in the window.

  “Gracias.” Rose handed over the fare and heaved her rucksack onto her back. The first thing she wanted to do was to look for the fountain Nathan had described in his letter. After traveling such a long way, she had to have tangible evidence that this really was the right place.

  They came across several springs as they walked through the village. Some were just holes in the wall, dribbling water into troughs that were probably intended for animals to drink from. The most elaborate one was in an arched niche in front of the church in Pampaneira’s main square. It had three ornamental spouts surrounded by painted ceramic tiles.

  “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.<
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  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.