your soul. Ana straightened up, about to face the challenge, but her eyes met El Conde’s:
Listen and learn!
his face told her.
La Trianera sang a cappella, without music, without anyone shouting, clapping or goading her on. She sang a
debla
: a song to the gypsy gods. Her hoarse old voice, weak, out of tune, nevertheless touched those who heard it deep inside. She sang with her hands trembling and partially open in front of her breasts, as if she were gathering strength through them, and she sang of the many sorrows of the gypsies: the injustices, jail, heartbreak … in verses without meter that only found their meaning in the rhythm that La Trianera’s voice wanted to give them, always ending with praise in the gypsy tongue.
Deblica barea,
magnificent goddess.
The
debla
seemed endless. La Trianera could have made it go on as long as her imagination or memory allowed, but she finally let her hands drop on her knees and lifted her head, which she had kept tilted to one side as she sang. The gypsies, Ana among them, her throat hoarse, broke out in applause again; many with their eyes flooded with tears. Milagros applauded too, looking at her mother out of the corner of her eye.
In that moment, when she offered her applause and saw her daughter do the same, Ana was glad Melchor wasn’t there. Her hands hit each other slackly for one last time and she took advantage of the clamor to slip through the crowd. She rushed as she felt El Conde’s and La Trianera’s eyes on her back; she imagined them smiling smugly, them and theirs. She pushed aside the gypsies who were still celebrating the singing and, onceoutside of the circle, she headed to the entryway of her house, and leaned against one of the doorposts.
The Garcías! Rafael García! Her father spat when he heard that name. Her mother … her mother had passed away two years after Melchor was fettered to the bench of a galley, and she did so swearing vengeance from the world beyond.
“It was him!” muttered her mother again and again as they begged for alms on the streets of Málaga, in front of the jail where Melchor was waiting to be led to the Port of Santa María to board the galleys. “Rafael denounced him to the sergeant of the tobacco patrol. Wretch. He violated gypsy law. Son of a bitch! Swine! Mangy dog …!”
And when little Ana saw that people were moving away from them, she would elbow her so she wouldn’t scare off the parishioners with her yelling.
“Why did he denounce him?” the girl asked one day.
Her mother squinted her eyes and twisted her mouth scornfully before answering.
“The fighting between the Vegas and the Garcías goes way back. Nobody knows exactly why. There are those who say it was over a donkey, others say it was over a woman. Some money? Perhaps. No one knows any longer, but the two families have always hated each other.”
“Just over—?”
“Don’t interrupt me, girl.” Her mother smacked her on the back of the neck, hard. “Listen well to what I am going to say to you, because you are a Vega and you will have to live as one. We gypsies have always been free. Every king and prince of every place in the world has tried to make us submit and they have never been able to do it. They never will; our race is better than all of them, smarter. We don’t need much. We take what we need: what the Creator put in this world isn’t anyone’s property, the fruits of the earth belong to all men and, if we don’t like some place, we just move to another. Nothing and no one ties us down. We don’t care about the risks; what do laws and decrees mean to us? That is what we Vegas, and everyone who considers themselves gypsy by blood, have always defended. And that is how we have always lived.” Her mother had paused before continuing. “Shortly before they arrested your father, the head of the council of elders died. The Garcías pressured the others to chooseone from their family and your father opposed it. He accused
Listen and learn!
his face told her.
La Trianera sang a cappella, without music, without anyone shouting, clapping or goading her on. She sang a
debla
: a song to the gypsy gods. Her hoarse old voice, weak, out of tune, nevertheless touched those who heard it deep inside. She sang with her hands trembling and partially open in front of her breasts, as if she were gathering strength through them, and she sang of the many sorrows of the gypsies: the injustices, jail, heartbreak … in verses without meter that only found their meaning in the rhythm that La Trianera’s voice wanted to give them, always ending with praise in the gypsy tongue.
Deblica barea,
magnificent goddess.
The
debla
seemed endless. La Trianera could have made it go on as long as her imagination or memory allowed, but she finally let her hands drop on her knees and lifted her head, which she had kept tilted to one side as she sang. The gypsies, Ana among them, her throat hoarse, broke out in applause again; many with their eyes flooded with tears. Milagros applauded too, looking at her mother out of the corner of her eye.
In that moment, when she offered her applause and saw her daughter do the same, Ana was glad Melchor wasn’t there. Her hands hit each other slackly for one last time and she took advantage of the clamor to slip through the crowd. She rushed as she felt El Conde’s and La Trianera’s eyes on her back; she imagined them smiling smugly, them and theirs. She pushed aside the gypsies who were still celebrating the singing and, onceoutside of the circle, she headed to the entryway of her house, and leaned against one of the doorposts.
The Garcías! Rafael García! Her father spat when he heard that name. Her mother … her mother had passed away two years after Melchor was fettered to the bench of a galley, and she did so swearing vengeance from the world beyond.
“It was him!” muttered her mother again and again as they begged for alms on the streets of Málaga, in front of the jail where Melchor was waiting to be led to the Port of Santa María to board the galleys. “Rafael denounced him to the sergeant of the tobacco patrol. Wretch. He violated gypsy law. Son of a bitch! Swine! Mangy dog …!”
And when little Ana saw that people were moving away from them, she would elbow her so she wouldn’t scare off the parishioners with her yelling.
“Why did he denounce him?” the girl asked one day.
Her mother squinted her eyes and twisted her mouth scornfully before answering.
“The fighting between the Vegas and the Garcías goes way back. Nobody knows exactly why. There are those who say it was over a donkey, others say it was over a woman. Some money? Perhaps. No one knows any longer, but the two families have always hated each other.”
“Just over—?”
“Don’t interrupt me, girl.” Her mother smacked her on the back of the neck, hard. “Listen well to what I am going to say to you, because you are a Vega and you will have to live as one. We gypsies have always been free. Every king and prince of every place in the world has tried to make us submit and they have never been able to do it. They never will; our race is better than all of them, smarter. We don’t need much. We take what we need: what the Creator put in this world isn’t anyone’s property, the fruits of the earth belong to all men and, if we don’t like some place, we just move to another. Nothing and no one ties us down. We don’t care about the risks; what do laws and decrees mean to us? That is what we Vegas, and everyone who considers themselves gypsy by blood, have always defended. And that is how we have always lived.” Her mother had paused before continuing. “Shortly before they arrested your father, the head of the council of elders died. The Garcías pressured the others to chooseone from their family and your father opposed it. He accused
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