The Snow Gypsy

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  The nervous anticipation Rose would have felt at finally receiving a letter from Granada was completely extinguished by the grim reality of the sick child in the next room. She opened the envelope with a blank face, hardly able to take in the pomegranate symbol stamped in the top right-hand corner and the words “Oficina del Alcalde” inscribed below it. Her eyes widened as she scanned the handwritten lines. It was in English.

  “It’s from the mayor’s office.” She turned it over. The letter was signed Señora Aurora Fernandez. The mayor’s wife. She flipped the sheet over again, her heart racing as she read what the woman had written:

  Dear Miss Daniel,

  Thank you for bringing the case of Señorita Lola Aragon to my attention.

  While there can be no doubt that she is guilty of manslaughter, there is a case to be made that the crime was committed in self-defense.

  I am writing to let you know that your friend is to be released, with immediate effect, in the light of new evidence about the character of the deceased man and his behavior on the night of the incident. She has asked me to write to inform you of this. She awaits the return of you and your daughter to Granada at the earliest possible opportunity.

  “What?” Zoltan closed the space between them with a single stride.

  Rose sat motionless, staring, unblinking, at the letter in her hand. “Lola’s been released.” They were words she had feared she would never say. If it had arrived a day earlier, she would have been dancing around the room. “She wants me to take Nieve back to Granada. Oh, Zoltan—what on earth am I going to tell her?”

  Chapter 31

  Granada, Spain: The next day

  Lola woke in a panic, sweat beading her forehead. She sat bolt upright in the dark, searching the shadows. The smell was different. The stomach-churning stink of every kind of human waste mixed with the stinging fumes of disinfectant had been replaced by something fragrant and intoxicating. Coffee.

  She put out her hand, feeling the smooth, starched texture of a newly laundered sheet instead of the roughness of a prison blanket. “I’m home,” she whispered. “I’m home.”

  She slid her legs over the edge of the bed, feeling with her toes for her shoes. It felt strange and wonderful, being able to walk to the bedroom door and open it. Cristóbal was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a cup, an unlit cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Sorry—did I wake you?” He put down the pot and struck a match. “I didn’t mean to be back late.” He gave her a sheepish smile as he lit the cigarette. “You know how these things go on sometimes.”

  A month ago she would have given him a tongue-lashing. Told him how selfish and ill disciplined he was. But the relief at seeing him—of having the solid familiarity of his face there in front of her—drove all such thoughts from her mind.

  “Would you like some?” He reached for another cup.

  Lola sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes ranging over the blue-painted chairs, the flower-patterned curtains, the golden-haloed picture of Jesus hanging on the opposite wall. Even in artificial light the room felt vibrant, alive, the objects in it a source of wonder. How could she not have noticed the colors in this little house? How had she ever allowed herself to take things like a table and a cup of coffee for granted?

  “Did you get much sleep?” Cristóbal sat down beside her. “I imagine it’s pretty hard to adjust after being cooped up in a place like that.”

  She nodded. “I keep waking up thinking I’m still there. I’m glad you’re home. It’s reassuring, hearing you moving about. I wouldn’t have liked to come back to an empty house.” She took a sip of coffee, savoring the sensation on her tongue. “You must be missing Juanita and the children.”

  He sucked on his cigarette. “I thought I’d go and visit them today. Will you come?”

  “I’d like to,” Lola replied. “But I’m hoping Rose and Nieve will be here soon. Aurora promised to write the day they released me. Rose should have got the letter yesterday at the latest. With a bit of luck, they’ll be on the bus this morning.”

  “Do you think it’s safe—for Nieve to come back here?”

  “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.

  “Señorita 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.

  She wondered what she was going to do when she reached the fountain. The place where Rose and Nieve were staying must be somewhere close by—close enough for Rose to be able to see her from a window when she arrived. Because leaving Nieve—even for a few minutes—would not be an option.

  The muleteer took his money when they reached the main square. She stood for a moment, trying to remember the way to the fountain. She had been to Pampaneira only a handful of times as a child. Although it was just a few miles from Capileira, there had been few reasons to come down the mountain. She remembered a trip to buy fabric for the dress she had worn for her first communion. Her mother had wanted silk, but they couldn’t afford it. In the end they had settled for white cotton with a sash of silk ribbon. It was a bittersweet memory, of a time of innocence and normality, before war ripped the mountain villages apart.

  Lola could see a bell tower peeking above the witch’s hat chimneys of the houses. She recalled that the fountain had been in front of a church. She had a vivid mental image of the three gushing spouts. She remembered stopping to drink there on the day she and her mother had come shopping for the dress material. She had been fascinated by the patterns of letters on the tiles—but unable to read what they said. Her mother had explained the legend then, and Lola had glanced this way and that, afraid that she might be fated to marry any boy she set eyes on at that moment.

  As she set off in the direction of the church, she heard the deep, joyful barking of a dog. Instinctively she knew that it was not just any dog.

  “Gunesh!”

  He came bounding down the street and launched himself at Lola. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tears pricking her eyes at the familiar feel and smell of him. He licked her cheek as one tear escaped. In her fragile state, it made the tears come faster.

  “Lola?” She looked up to see a tall fair-haired man coming across the cobbles. Gunesh stopped licking her and scampered over to him. “I’m a friend of Rose’s—Zoltan—she sent me to meet you.”

  “Oh . . . I . . .” Lola held out her hand, confused.

  “They’re staying at my house. It’s a little way up the mountain. Rose didn’t want to leave Nieve.”

  Lola nodded. “How is she?”

  “She’s very sick. She’s been calling for you—but she doesn’t really know where she is.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong with her?”

  “It’s typhus.”

  Lola’s hand flew to her mouth.

  Zoltan laid his hand gently on her arm. “Let me take you to her. I have a mule tethered by the church. It won’t take long.”

  The door of the cottage was open. As they drew near, Zoltan took hold of Gunesh’s collar to stop him bounding inside. With his other hand he helped Lola dismount.

  “You go on in,” he said. “She’s in the bedroom—turn right as you go through the door.”

  Lola’s legs almost buckled as her feet touched the ground. She felt light-headed, as if she had no control over her limbs. She stumbled toward the cottage, tufts of lavender and rosemary brushing the bare flesh of her ankles. She took hold of the door handle as she crossed the threshold, steadying herself. The air inside had a tang of lemons. And another smell—like boiled spinach—coming from a pot hanging over the fire.

  “Lola!” Rose appeared, ghostlike, in the gloom. Her hair was scraped back from her head, emphasizing the hollows under her eyes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for days.

  “Oh, Rose!” Lola’s lower lip trembled as she lurched across the room, arms outstretched. The two women hugged each other, silent tears mingling where their faces touched.

  Rose led Lola into the bedroom. Nieve was lying on her side, facing the wall. “She’s not asleep,” Rose whispered. “She has moments when she lies still like that, but most of the time she’s tossing and turning with the fever.”

  As if on cue, Nieve let out a thin, anguished wail and flailed out with her arm. Lola gasped at the sight of her face, peppered with crimson blotches.

  “¡Mama!” Nieve cried out, her eyes still closed. “¡Agua!”

  “¡Cariño!” Lola dropped down onto the bed and pillowed Nieve’s head in her hand.

  “There’s water in the jug,” Rose breathed. “I’ve been dipping a cloth in it and holding it to her mouth—it’s the only way she can drink now.”

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Since yesterday morning. There was a fiesta in the village. She went to stay the night with a girl in her class at school. I didn’t know there was typhus in Pampaneira—I would never have . . .”

  Lola reached out, clasping Rose’s wrist. She wanted to say that she understood, that she knew Rose would only ever have done her best for the child, but all that came out was a strangled sob.

  Zoltan appeared in the doorway. Lola was intent on trying to get Nieve to swallow some water. She didn’t look up when she heard him whisper to Rose that she must try to get some rest. Rose said nothing. She hardly made a sound as she tiptoed from the room.

  “Can I get you something to eat or drink?” Zoltan crouched down by the bed so that his head was on a level with Lola’s.

  She shook her head, incapable of uttering a reply.

  “I’ll leave you for a while,” he said. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the next room.”

  Lola heard him shut the door. In the thick silence of the little room, her tears poured out unchecked. She groped in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief. As she mopped her face, Nieve opened her eyes. There was a wild, frightened expression in them, as if something monstrous were sitting beside her.

  “Nieve—cariño—it’s me, it’s your mama,” Lola whispered.

  The look of terror turned to one of blank incomprehension. With a rasping sigh, Nieve turned her face to the wall.

  Rose didn’t think she would be able to sleep. The most she had managed in the past thirty-six hours was a brief, fitful doze in a chair by Nieve’s bed. She took a blanket outside and laid it on the grass in the shade of an elder tree whose branches almost touched the wall of the cottage. She lay down and placed the edge of the blanket over her face to keep off the flies. As she closed her eyes, images tumbled around her head like dead leaves in a winter storm.

  The sigh
t of Lola had been a shock. Rose knew that her own appearance must be far from normal. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her face or brushed her hair. But Lola’s time in prison had taken a heavy toll. Her already slim body was almost skeletally thin. Her lovely face with its proud cheekbones was hollow and pallid. The journey from Granada must have drained what little strength she had. And then the trauma of seeing Nieve like that . . . Rose clenched her hands together, digging the nails into the skin. “Oh God,” she murmured. “Did I do the right thing?”

  Demon voices hissed back at her, telling her that in bringing Lola to this place, she was jeopardizing a life that already hung in the balance. What if Lola caught typhus, too? In her weakened state, she was unlikely to be able to fight it. But what else could Rose have done? Lola would never have forgiven her if she hadn’t sent that telegram, if she’d left her hanging on in Granada until it was too late . . .

  Rose felt as though her brain would burst out of her skull. Was this the beginning of the disease taking hold? Was she becoming delirious? Or was it just exhaustion and distress? She tried to regulate her breathing, tried to drive out all other thoughts as she silently counted in and counted out. She thought of the little book she had brought with her from England, written by a woman who had spent most of her life offering comfort to souls in torment through the high barred window of a hermit’s cell.

  All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  How could she believe that? How could anyone believe it, faced with the imminent death of someone they loved?

  Because every individual being, from a flower to a child, is of concern to the creator of life.