The Snow Gypsy

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  “I’ve already stayed longer than I should have.”

  Rose looked up, aware of something in the way the words were delivered. Not tinged with regret, but something darker. “It must be hard for you,” she said, “being back in the place that holds such terrible memories.”

  Lola nodded. “But it’s not just that. I . . .” She hesitated, glancing ahead to where Nieve was holding a stick above her head, making Gunesh dance around her. “I didn’t tell you everything, Rose. That day in the ravine, when I heard my mother calling out—it wasn’t just screams of terror. There was something else.” Lola closed her eyes, as if playing back the moment in her head.

  “What? What was it?”

  “I heard her shouting at someone. Even through the snow, I heard every word: ‘Are you going to shoot him, even though he’s your son?’ That’s what she said.”

  Rose stared at her, uncomprehending. “Your father was in the firing squad?”

  “It’s beyond belief, isn’t it?” Lola breathed. “I told myself it couldn’t be true, that I must have heard wrong. But when I got to the bottom of the ravine, there they were, covered in blood.” Her eyes narrowed. “My mother always said our father was dead. She told us he’d died of a fever when Amador and I were too young to remember him. I never questioned it—why would I?” Lola’s hands scooped the air. “It never occurred to me that she would lie about something like that.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  Lola shook her head. “They’d all gone by the time I got there. I still have nightmares about him. A man with a gun and no face. A man who would have killed me, too, if I’d been in the house when they came.”

  “Was he one of the Escuadra Negra?”

  “I don’t think so. They didn’t do the killing—they just rounded people up and handed them over. The Guardia Civil were the executioners.”

  “The police?”

  “That’s why I’m so afraid.” Her eyes darted to the copse of trees on the hillside above them, as if she thought he might be lurking there. “They still arrest people who were part of the resistance, you know. There are hundreds of them—men and women—in prison all over Spain.

  “Sometimes, in those nightmares, I’d dream of seeing his name written on a piece of paper. That was before I learned to read. It was just meaningless shapes—like he was taunting me even while I was asleep. And I would wake up covered in sweat, my fists clenched, because I’d been dreaming of punching him, over and over, until he dropped down dead.”

  “I suppose you could find out his name—if you wanted to,” Rose said.

  “How?” Lola frowned.

  “Well, if it was me, I’d go to Maria—the old woman who sent that purse for Nieve. She’s lived around here for a long time. She was the one who told me what happened to Nathan.”

  Lola looked at her, anxiety clouding her eyes. “Does she know who I am? Did you tell her?”

  “No—but I think she might have guessed.” Rose raked her hair with her hand. “When I was trying to find out about Nathan, I told her I had a friend whose mother and brother had been executed near here. I never imagined then that you’d ever come back. I’m sorry—if I’d known what was going to happen to Nieve . . .” She searched Lola’s face. “You mustn’t worry, though—she’s on your side. She helped the partisans during the war. Zoltan says most of their food came from her farm.”

  Lola didn’t look convinced.

  “We could go and see her now if you want to,” Rose said. “The farm’s not far away—just beyond those trees.”

  Lola stopped walking. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Isn’t it better to know your enemy’s name? Otherwise you’re frightened of every shadow.”

  Nieve hid behind Lola’s skirt when Maria emerged with Rose from the shed where the goats were milked. When the old woman had stood over her bed, she had been too delirious with fever to notice her. Even though Nieve’s eyes had been open, she had no memory of her.

  “This is the lady who sent you that lovely purse,” Rose said.

  Nieve peeped out, a wary look on her face.

  “My, aren’t you pretty now?” Maria smiled. “All those nasty spots have gone!” She paused, her head on one side. Rose saw that her eyes were on Lola now. There was a strange expression on the old woman’s face. As if she recognized her. Was that possible? Rose wondered.

  “This is my friend Lola,” Rose said.

  Maria nodded. “You’re the image of your mother, my dear.”

  Lola flinched. “You knew her?”

  “I used to see her in the market. She worked in Pampaneira as a young girl.”

  “How did you know she was my mother?”

  Maria felt in her pocket for her pipe. She stuffed tobacco into the bowl and put it to her lips without lighting it. “I think we should sit down,” she said. “Perhaps the little girl would like to have a go at milking. Will you show her, Rose?”

  Lola’s hands were trembling as she took the glass of wine Maria brought out for her. She felt as though she were standing against a door, trying to hold back an army with a battering ram. The dark images that had haunted her dreams for the past eight years were fighting to burst into the light.

  “Your mother was a maid in one of the houses—did she tell you that?” Maria held a match to her pipe, shielding the bowl with her other hand as the tobacco caught alight.

  “Not exactly,” Lola replied. “All she used to say was that she worked in Pampaneira before we were born.”

  “Did she tell you who she worked for?”

  Lola shook her head.

  “It was the wife of Diego Batista.”

  A flicker of recognition crossed Lola’s face. It was a name she’d heard before. A name that people in her village had spoken in whispers.

  “The comandante?” Lola stared at the wisp of smoke snaking toward her.

  “Yes.” Maria sucked on the pipe. “He wasn’t so high up when your mother worked for his wife. He was just an officer in the Guardia Civil.”

  Lola’s fingers clenched around the glass in her hand. Her tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of her mouth. She brought the wine up to her lips. It tasted warm and bitter.

  “Is he still alive?”

  Maria sucked on her pipe before she answered. “Still alive, yes. He lives in one of the big houses now—opposite the Iglesia de la Santa Cruz.”

  Lola held Maria’s gaze through the smoke. Her eyes began to blur, the old woman’s face morphing into the spectral image of the man with the gun. “He’s my father,” Lola whispered. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  Maria took the pipe out of her mouth. “That was the rumor when your mother left. People said his wife threw her out when she discovered she was pregnant.” She poked at the smoldering tobacco with her thumbnail. “It wasn’t your mother’s fault. Batista was a brute. His wife told me so when I treated her for a problem with her legs. What he wanted, he took. And your mother was so young.”

  Lola opened her mouth, her lips trembling. “Are you saying he raped her?”

  The tobacco glowed red as Maria inhaled. “I’m sorry. Rose said you needed to know—but this is hard for you to hear.”

  “Yes, it is,” Lola whispered. She heard her mother’s voice, crying out through the falling snow. Pleading with a monster who had abused her and abandoned her. A monster who was about to destroy his own flesh and blood. The murderous thoughts that had haunted Lola’s dreams surged through her head with dizzying intensity, driving out the fear. He was down there, in the village. She must have passed right by his house. She could find him. And she knew how to kill a man . . .

  She tried to stand up, but her legs wouldn’t obey her. She staggered forward, spilling wine down her skirt.

  “Oh—Lola!”

  Rose came running across the yard. Lola crumpled against her like a rag doll.

  Chapter 34

  It was well after midnight when Rose blew out the candles in the cottage. L
ola was asleep in the bedroom, worn out by the emotional turmoil the visit to Maria had caused. Rose crept out the front door and sank down onto the blanket spread over the grass.

  She blamed herself for the state Lola was in. Finding out her father’s name had unleashed a maelstrom of rage and grief that threatened to tip her over the edge. She had said she wanted to kill him. Moments after tucking Nieve up in bed, she had been pacing the floor of the cottage, fists clenched, ranting about what she would do to him if she got the chance. At one point she had grabbed the knife Zoltan had been using to peel potatoes and made for the door. Zoltan had had to twist her arm behind her back to make her drop it. The shock of that had reduced her to floods of tears. She had lain facedown on the stone floor, beating her knuckles until they bled.

  “Thank goodness Nieve didn’t see all that,” Zoltan said as he came to join Rose on the blanket.

  “I’m going to have to watch her like a hawk tomorrow,” Rose whispered. “I was going to go with you to market, but I daren’t leave her.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he replied. “I know Batista’s house. She’d have to walk right past my stall to get to it.”

  “She told me this morning that she was planning to leave the day after tomorrow. She’s going to go and live in Madrid.”

  Zoltan searched her face in the firelight. “That’s going to be hard on you, isn’t it? Saying goodbye to Nieve.”

  Rose pressed her face into his neck, tears prickling her eyes. “I can’t imagine not having her here,” she murmured. “I was only supposed to be looking after her. But she’s become so . . . so much more.” She couldn’t bring herself to say what she really meant: that Nieve had become the child she had wished for that night in the tavern in Granada—and that she couldn’t love her more if she were her own daughter. “Lola said she wished I could go with them to Madrid.”

  Rose regretted the words as soon as they were out. It sounded as if she were trying to manipulate Zoltan into saying whether he saw a future for the two of them.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m not sure what I want. I should go back to England. To my job. But . . .” She hesitated, closing her eyes as she felt his breath on her neck.

  “I don’t want this to end, Rose.”

  She felt his lips move down to her collarbone, pausing to kiss her there before sliding down her body. “Neither do I,” she murmured.

  Zoltan had already loaded up the mules and set off for the village when Lola emerged from the bedroom the next morning. Rose was stirring migas over the fire. She looked up warily.

  “I’m sorry.” Lola dropped her head, muttering under her breath. Rose heard the word loca. Crazy.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to kill him,” Rose said. “I could murder him myself.”

  Lola looked up.

  “It’s quite possible that he shot my brother as well as your relatives,” Rose went on. “But what good would it do, going to his house and confronting him? The chances are we’d be arrested before we got anywhere near him. And even if we did, we’d never get away with it. We’d be killed ourselves. And what would happen to Nieve then?”

  “I know you’re right, but it’s hard to control those feelings.” Lola glanced over her shoulder. The door was open a couple of inches. Nieve’s head was just visible. “She’s still asleep,” Lola said. “When she wakes up I’m going to have to tell her that we’re leaving. I need to go today, Rose, not tomorrow. I’ve got to get away from him.”

  Rose nodded, staring past her at the sleeping form beyond the bedroom door. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed in an iron fist. “I’ll come with you to Órgiva. We can borrow Zoltan’s mules. If we go straight after breakfast, I can get them back to him before the market packs up.” She went to unhook the pot of migas from the fire, not wanting Lola to see the anguish in her face. If they took Zoltan’s mules, she would have to return them. There would be no chance of her making a spur-of-the-moment decision to jump on the bus to Granada.

  As she doled the contents of the pot onto three plates, she tried to imagine what life was going to be like after Lola and Nieve had gone. It was too early to know if she and Zoltan had any real future together. She could have asked him last night, but after the trauma of the day’s events, all she’d wanted was to lose herself in the warmth of his body. The thought of leaving him behind was unbearable.

  “You know I’d love it if you came with us.” Lola was suddenly beside her. “But I’m not blind, Rose. I’ve seen the way you and Zoltan look at each other. You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

  “I . . .” Rose faltered, the ladle halfway between the pot and the plate. “I don’t know what to do—I feel as if I’m being torn apart.”

  “You don’t have to decide now,” Lola said. “I’ll write to you when we get to Madrid. I’ll let you know where we’re staying. You can come and visit us, can’t you? Even if you decide to stay here.”

  Rose nodded, pressing her lips together to stem the fresh tide of emotion Lola’s words had set off. Yes, she could visit. But it wouldn’t be the same. The thought of not seeing Nieve every day, of not watching her grow up, was heartrending.

  It took less than half an hour to pack their belongings. Lola had left Granada with nothing but the clothes she was wearing. Nieve’s things fit into a small suitcase.

  “Where’s your rucksack, Auntie Rose?” Nieve asked as they walked through the door of the cottage into the sunshine.

  Rose turned away, fiddling with the latch.

  “She has to stay behind to help Uncle Zoltan for a while,” Lola piped up. “But we’ll see her soon—once we’ve found a place to live in Madrid.”

  Nieve’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What about Gunesh?”

  “He has to stay here, too. But we’ll get a dog of our own once we’re settled—that’ll be exciting, won’t it?”

  Nieve wouldn’t be comforted. She sobbed silently as they made their way down the track, her shoulders twitching beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. Rose walked in front of her and Lola, not trusting herself to speak. The three of them trooped down the hillside as if they were on their way to a funeral.

  They’d almost reached the ruined mill when a familiar sound came drifting on the breeze—the clump of hooves on sunbaked earth. Someone was coming toward them, hidden from view by the bend in the stream.

  “Rose!”

  Zoltan came riding out of the trees at a trot, yanking the second mule on a lead rein. His face was pink with exertion.

  Rose ran up to him. “What are you doing back so early? Did they close the market?”

  “Nothing like that.” He was panting for breath. “There was a man asking questions. He wanted to know who was living with me.”

  “A policeman?” Rose’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t in uniform.” Zoltan glanced over to where Lola was standing with the suitcase in her hand. “Someone must have seen her when she met me by the fountain.”

  “What’s happened?” Lola had come up beside them. Her face crumpled as Zoltan repeated what he had told Rose. “There was a woman outside one of the houses,” she said. “She stared at me as if she knew me.” Her eyes went from Zoltan to Rose. “I didn’t think anyone in Pampaneira could know me. But Maria said I’m the image of my mother . . .”

  “The comandante’s wife,” Rose breathed. “Could it have been her watching you?”

  “Whoever it was, word’s obviously spread around the village,” Zoltan said. “It’s not safe to go there. They’ll be watching out for her. Maybe checking the bus in Órgiva as well.”

  “What can we do?” Rose could hear the panic in her own voice. “If we go back to the cottage, they might come looking.”

  “We’ll go over the mountain.” Lola sounded almost unnaturally calm. “I’ll take the route I took with Nieve when she was a baby.”

  “Over the Mulhacén?” Zoltan shook his head.

  “Why not? I did
it in a blizzard back then—it’ll be nothing in weather like this.”

  “But there are people looking for you now,” Rose said. “I can’t let you do that on your own—I’m going with you.”

  “We’ll both go with you.” Zoltan jumped down from the mule and lifted Nieve into the saddle. “Let’s get going—if we unload the panniers at the cottage, you three can ride most of the way.”

  Rose was carrying one of the baskets of plums into the shed when she glimpsed something that stopped her in her tracks. It was something black and shiny, glinting in the sun as it jerked along the path below the cottage—the three-cornered patent-leather hat of an officer of the Guardia Civil.

  She dropped the basket and ran into the cottage.

  “There’s a policeman coming!”

  Zoltan moved like lightning, grabbing the suitcase and herding them all into the bedroom.

  “Get under the bed,” he hissed. “Don’t come out until he’s gone.”

  They lay on their stomachs, squashed together in the semidarkness. Rose could feel Lola trembling.

  “Why are we hiding?” Nieve whispered.

  “We’re just playing a little game,” Rose replied. “It’s like hide-and-seek. We all must be very quiet. And Gunesh isn’t allowed to bark. Shall I show you how to stop him?”

  Nieve nodded.

  Rose showed her how to encircle the dog’s snout with her fingers, applying gentle pressure to the lower jaw. It was something she’d instilled in him as a puppy when they were living in the Sussex marshes—a way to avoid frightening the sheep and any wild animals they might encounter.

  Moments later they heard a loud rap on the door. Zoltan must have taken his time answering it, because a fist thumped the wood before the sound of voices reached them.

  “Buenos días, Comandante. What brings you up the mountain?”

  Rose felt Lola clutch her arm.

  “I hear you have a couple of women living with you. A regular little harem, eh?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Zoltan said, “Well, I have had one or two girlfriends, yes. A man gets lonely up here. But they don’t stay long. It’s not much of a place for a woman, is it?”