them of not living like gypsies, of working in the forge like
payos,
in accord with them, doing business with them, marrying in the church and baptizing their children. Of renouncing freedom.
“One day Rafael showed up at the settlement; he was looking for your father.” Ana thought she remembered that day. Her mother and aunts had ordered her to move aside, like the other little ones, and she had obeyed … but she sneaked back to the place where Rafael had planted himself, threatening, surrounded by members of the Vega family. “He came armed with a knife and looking for a fight, but your father wasn’t there. Someone told him that he’d gone to Portugal for tobacco. The smile that crossed that bastard’s face then was proof enough.”
In the San Miguel alley, as the elders got up from their chairs, the men and women began to leave, some to their homes, others scattered through the inner courtyards of the clusters of apartments, in groups, chatting and drinking. The guitars, castanets and tambourines were still heard, but now in younger hands; girls and boys took over and made the party their own.
Ana’s eyes swept over the alley: Milagros was dancing happily with other girls her age. She was so pretty! Her grandfather had said the same thing the first time they showed her to him. Less than a day passed between Melchor Vega’s return from the galleys—barely a few hours, during which Melchor learned of his wife’s death and met his four-year-old granddaughter whom he didn’t dare touch, fearing his filthy and cracked hands could hurt her—and his taking up of a large knife and heading, still weak and disheveled, in search of the man who had informed on him. His daughter had wanted to hold him back, but she didn’t dare.
Rafael came out to meet him, armed as well and accompanied by his family. They didn’t exchange a single word; they knew what was at stake and why. The men goaded each other, their arms and knives extended, the weapons mere extensions of their bodies. Rafael did it with strength and agility, keeping his hand firm. Melchor’s trembled slightly. They spun around each other as their family members remained silent. Few focused their attention on Melchor’s trembling knife; most watched his face, his bearing, the anxiousness and decisiveness his entire body displayed. He wanted to kill! He was going to kill! His weakened state didn’t matter, orhis wounds, his shabby clothes, his filth or his shaking. Melchor would kill Rafael: that much was clear.
That certainty was what led Antonio García, Rafael’s uncle and then head of the council, to come between the contenders before either of them launched the first stab. Ana, with Milagros in her arms, held tight against her chest, sighed in relief. After Antonio García’s gesture, the elders intervened; the men of the Vega family were warned to deal with the matter before it came to blood. The council, despite opposition from the Vegas and the representatives of two other families who lived in the settlement on the Carthusians’ grounds, ruled that there was no proof that Rafael had informed on Melchor, so if he killed Rafael, they would come out in defense of the Garcías and start a war against the Vegas. In addition, they decided that if Melchor killed Rafael, any gypsy could take vengeance and kill another member of the Vega family; in that case gypsy law wouldn’t punish him, the council would stay out of it.
As night fell, Uncle Basilio Vega headed over to Melchor and his family. Milagros was sleeping in her mother’s arms.
“Melchor,” he said after telling him of the council’s decisions. “You know that we will all support whatever you decide. No one can make us back down!”
And he handed him the girl, who woke up when placed into her grandfather’s arms. Milagros remained still, as if aware of the significance of that moment.
Smile at him!
begged Ana in silence, her hands crossed, stiff, but the girl didn’t do it. A few
payos,
in accord with them, doing business with them, marrying in the church and baptizing their children. Of renouncing freedom.
“One day Rafael showed up at the settlement; he was looking for your father.” Ana thought she remembered that day. Her mother and aunts had ordered her to move aside, like the other little ones, and she had obeyed … but she sneaked back to the place where Rafael had planted himself, threatening, surrounded by members of the Vega family. “He came armed with a knife and looking for a fight, but your father wasn’t there. Someone told him that he’d gone to Portugal for tobacco. The smile that crossed that bastard’s face then was proof enough.”
In the San Miguel alley, as the elders got up from their chairs, the men and women began to leave, some to their homes, others scattered through the inner courtyards of the clusters of apartments, in groups, chatting and drinking. The guitars, castanets and tambourines were still heard, but now in younger hands; girls and boys took over and made the party their own.
Ana’s eyes swept over the alley: Milagros was dancing happily with other girls her age. She was so pretty! Her grandfather had said the same thing the first time they showed her to him. Less than a day passed between Melchor Vega’s return from the galleys—barely a few hours, during which Melchor learned of his wife’s death and met his four-year-old granddaughter whom he didn’t dare touch, fearing his filthy and cracked hands could hurt her—and his taking up of a large knife and heading, still weak and disheveled, in search of the man who had informed on him. His daughter had wanted to hold him back, but she didn’t dare.
Rafael came out to meet him, armed as well and accompanied by his family. They didn’t exchange a single word; they knew what was at stake and why. The men goaded each other, their arms and knives extended, the weapons mere extensions of their bodies. Rafael did it with strength and agility, keeping his hand firm. Melchor’s trembled slightly. They spun around each other as their family members remained silent. Few focused their attention on Melchor’s trembling knife; most watched his face, his bearing, the anxiousness and decisiveness his entire body displayed. He wanted to kill! He was going to kill! His weakened state didn’t matter, orhis wounds, his shabby clothes, his filth or his shaking. Melchor would kill Rafael: that much was clear.
That certainty was what led Antonio García, Rafael’s uncle and then head of the council, to come between the contenders before either of them launched the first stab. Ana, with Milagros in her arms, held tight against her chest, sighed in relief. After Antonio García’s gesture, the elders intervened; the men of the Vega family were warned to deal with the matter before it came to blood. The council, despite opposition from the Vegas and the representatives of two other families who lived in the settlement on the Carthusians’ grounds, ruled that there was no proof that Rafael had informed on Melchor, so if he killed Rafael, they would come out in defense of the Garcías and start a war against the Vegas. In addition, they decided that if Melchor killed Rafael, any gypsy could take vengeance and kill another member of the Vega family; in that case gypsy law wouldn’t punish him, the council would stay out of it.
As night fell, Uncle Basilio Vega headed over to Melchor and his family. Milagros was sleeping in her mother’s arms.
“Melchor,” he said after telling him of the council’s decisions. “You know that we will all support whatever you decide. No one can make us back down!”
And he handed him the girl, who woke up when placed into her grandfather’s arms. Milagros remained still, as if aware of the significance of that moment.
Smile at him!
begged Ana in silence, her hands crossed, stiff, but the girl didn’t do it. A few
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